‘So, you’m a highwayman, am yer?’ I said, looking the figure up and down. The dusk was turning to dark, and my breath condensed in the October cold.

‘That I am, sir,’ replied the figure, ‘Now hand over whatever riches you possess.’

‘You see,’ I said, reaching for my Woodbines, ‘That’s where we have a problem. Do you want one of these?’

The highwayman assented with a surly grunt, and stuck the fag behind his ear. ‘Saving it for later, eh? Thrifty.’ Tommy Ocker and Seb Sands accepted too, the latter with a rather shaky hand.

I lit up. ‘Times must be hard, I suppose, in your line of work…?’

‘I get by,’ said the highwayman defensively.

‘Do you? We didn’t pass many coaches on the road.’

‘Cut the chit-chat,’ he snapped, waving his pepperbox pistol. ‘I said “Stand and Deliver”. You’ve stood, now deliver.’

‘Deliver what? I’ve got about four bob in me pocket and I ay paid the rent yet. Car imagine my mates are in much brighter shape.’

‘You didn’t buy this with four bob,’ said the highwayman, pointing the pistol at our means of transport, ‘And you don’t keep a driver if you pay your rent in shillings.’

‘She’s a fine thing, isn’t she? Designed by Colonel Charles Thorneycroft. Young Seb here did the current livery, I believe.’

‘And I’ll lose me job if anything happens to her,’ mumbled Seb, nervously, ‘I didn’t have permission to take her out.’

Through the failing light, I thought I saw some recognition pass across the highwayman’s face. I let the silence ride out.

‘Your clothes betray you,’ he said finally, by now more from memory than sight, ‘They are not the tattered and oft-repaired vestments of a working man.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. A crow called in the distance.

He came closer, and tested the lapel in his thumb and forefinger. ‘That is a really nice suit,’ he said.

‘You have to make an effort. I’m not going to the football dressed in overalls like some Stafford Road supporter.’

‘What is football?’

More suspicious silence followed. Finally he said, ‘What is football?’ Seb Sands let out a little gasp of astonishment.

‘Football?’ I said, with a draw on my Woodbine, ‘Football is the wonder of this or any other age. It is our passion, and our consolation. It makes Saturday bristle with wondrous energy, as it makes Monday tolerable. It is an ever-fresh conversation with old friends, and the first conversation with new ones. It is pride in your town, and the people of your town. It seasons beer, and smooths the rough edges of a working life. It is a celebration, when all around is smoke and toil. It is a dream, and a reason to be humble. It is something human that doesn’t meet the fate of all men. It is the air that we breathe, and the air that inflates this big ball we call the earth. It is, without the merest suspicion of a doubt, the best penny ha’penny that you or I will ever spend.’

‘But what is it? Is it a game, entertainment… ?’

‘It’s both. But why are we talking about it out here in the cold? There must be a pub nearby where we could chat in comfort. Let me buy you a pint.’

‘Hmm. There’s the Shepherd and Shepherdess up the road, but it’s an old coaching house. They don’t like highwaymen there.’

‘Are there many highwaymen in these parts?’

‘Just me, I think.’

‘And they know you?’

‘I come from a long line of highwaymen. My great-great-grandfather was George Davenport.’

‘You realize you are certainly the last in that long line?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Come on. I’m sure we can sort this out. ‘Y’am all right to drive, Seb?’

‘Ar, Gonby,’ said Seb. He was looking a bit more himself, having doubtless entertained notions of becoming a gentleman of the road himself rather than facing the consequences of returning a damaged coach to Tettenhall Towers.

‘Where’s your hoss?’ I asked.

The highwayman paused. ‘I sold it,’ he said.

The inn lay in a village called Newton Burgoland, and had been renamed the Belper Arms.

‘Might be better to leave the pistol in the coach,’ I suggested, as Seb applied the brake.

‘Never,’ he replied, ‘I go nowhere without the Lady of Bocheston’

Leaving Seb to tend the horses, we headed for the public bar, where the highwayman’s renown was soon confirmed.

‘Why, it’s Freddie the Footpad! Saved up for that horse yet?’

‘Dick Turnip walks again!’

‘Stand me a pint and deliver!’

Despite this inauspicious start, the evening proceeded quite well. We secured rooms and stables for the night and the Everards went down very well. Freddie wasn’t bad company, though he declined to give many details of his life of crime and drank only what was purchased by others. He didn’t appear to be the sharpest of rapiers and struggled greatly with the offside rule, but said he would try to come along the next day ‘if the devil doesn’t take me first.’ He was talking to the landlord about the price of a twenty-five year-old piebald mare when a serving wench showed us to our rooms.

□ □ □ □ □

I awoke at nine, penniless and without a suit. I headed straight for the bar where the landlord was replenishing stock.

‘I don’t know which gentleman you’re referring to, but I keep a clean house of good repute.’

‘The robber in question was well known your clientele.’

‘I saw you enter with the three who took rooms. I’ve no idea about any highwayman.’

‘He was speaking to you at closing time!’

‘Sir, you are mistaken. And I believe it is high time you left this house.’

‘I went back upstairs and woke Seb, whose suit lay untouched on the dresser. ‘Check the hosses, Seb; the Davenports is off!’

When Seb returned, ten minutes later, his face bore the serenity of a sleeping child. I was smoking with Tommy (from his pack; Freddie had taken mine). The drag was untouched, the horses well rested. The lads left me to make some enquiries in the village and though nobody was willing or able to share information regarding my clothes, they did manage to procure me a set of overalls from a retired Measham miner. We got to Filbert Street early, sank a few pints and watched the Wolves lose to goals by Wilcox and the talented winger Durrant.

All in all, not a bad day out, albeit a bit cold and humiliating. We returned to Wolverhampton safe and sound and Seb’s master, Mr Thorneycroft, visiting his brother in Berkshire, never learned of the adventures his coach and four had encountered in the wilder parts of west Leicestershire.