AND ANOTHER THING
Carriage folk and chauffeur persons
PAUL JOHNSON
or over two centuries, the great divid- ing-line between those who were really well off and the rest was whether you kept your carriage. You were either 'carriage folk' or you were not. Moving into the carriage- keeping minority was the most obvious sign that you had arrived. There is a neatly con- trived moment in Jane Austen's detective- story, Emma, when Frank Churchill, who has been secretly corresponding with Jane Fairfax, inadvertently lets slip the news that Mr Perry, the well-to-do apothecary of Highbury, is about to `set up his carriage' — an important social event for Perry and his neighbours and an item of information Churchill, the second he is aware of his slip, is at a loss to explain how he came by: 'It must have been a dream.'
We are not told what kind of carriage Perry sets up. A barouche, let alone a barouche-landau, as owned by Mrs Elton's rich sister, would have been too grand. Phaetons, gigs and especially curricles were for fast young men, or sporty gents like Admiral Croft, who did not mind the odd smash or two. It might have been a socia- ble, with two seats facing each other. More likely it was a chaise, the standard family carriage, which held three (the post-chaise was a faster version, carrying only two). The important thing about owning your own carriage, however, was not the cost of the vehicle. It might indeed be enormous, if you had a big barouche built by a smart London coachmaker to your own specifica- tions, with a travelling library, table, col- lapsible bed and a close-stool. On the other hand, you could buy one second-hand cheap, and have it repainted.
, The real expense was running it. A size- able carriage needed two horses, and four for long journeys (you `went post' after the first stage, meaning you hired horses from inns; if you hung onto your own, they had to be rested every two or three days, which slowed you down). So to begin with you required a sizeable stable, with spare hors- es, as well as a coach-house. That meant a groom, possibly two. Then again, no gentle- man, let alone a lady, drove his own coach, so you needed a coachman. He was a digni- fied sort of fellow, an `upper servant', and correspondingly expensive, in vittles and livery as well as cash, and of course he was much too grand to do the work of the grooms or stable lads, In town, too, you had to have a footman (the very rich had two), who mounted up behind, elegantly swaying from foot to foot as the carriage drove round corners. His job was to jump down when the carriage stopped, dash round and lower the outside steps, then open its door with a flourish (a proper coach had no inside handles as the gentry were not accus- tomed to opening doors for themselves). If the lady inside were going shopping, obvi- ously at an establishment which catered to `the carriage trade', its proprietor would already be outside on the pavement, bow- ing a welcome. If, on the other hand, the lady was 'calling', the footman's job was to run up the steps of the private house and deliver a sharp `rat-a-tat-tat' with the knocker. Everyone could recognise the footman's knock, and knew what to expect. Hence, being carriage folk brought defer- ence but it was endlessly expensive. And having to lay up' your carriage or, worse, sell it, was an unmistakable sign of dimin- ished means, if not outright failure. Every- one knew.
The distinction today between the rich and the rest of us is more subtle, though it still has a great deal to do with transport. I am not talking about the tycoon class (in the 18th century their carriages were drawn by six horses mounted by outriders, and they had an escort of equerries). A typical tycoonish movement was executed by Robert Maxwell on his fatal last journey. He took his private lift to the pad above his flat in Maxwell House, got into his heli- copter which buzzed him to Heathrow, and slipped into his jet which flew him to Gibraltar; then straight onto his waiting yacht. The joy of it all for Maxwell was that it didn't cost him a penny; everything was stolen.
No, the category which has replaced the old carriage folk is not the helicopter-jet owners: it is the chauffeur folk, those who never have to touch a steering-wheel. Own- ing a car is nothing. Many working-class families can muster three or even more.
`We've had a suggestion that Peter Clowes should share a cell with Mike Tyson.' They command more horse-power than the richest duke ever did in the days of clinking harness and hoofbeats. The real distinction is between those who have to wriggle their car through the traffic, find a parking-space (or not), feed meters, argue with police- men, car-park attendants, meter-maids, doorkeepers, garage mechanics and all other enemies of the self-respecting private motorist, and those who simply get out at their destination and say, `Thanks, Freddy. Be back at 2.30 sharp.'
How many people fall into the class of `chauffeur folk'? Ten thousand, perhaps. They include company chairmen and chief executives, and others high enough up the business pecking-order to warrant their firm spending about £30,000 a year on set- ting them up with a car and driver. Then there are government ministers, recognis- able by the red dispatch-box besides them on the back seat. Judges, generals and the like, ex officio; a few rich lawyers, a very few rich doctors; television executives and newspaper editors, advertising bigshots and showbiz. It isn't the make or cost of the vehicle which matters; it's having the faith- ful Jehu in front to do for you all the hard and tiresome things which take the plea- sure out of car travel. There, indeed, is our new privileged class.
But of course none of it is paid for out of anyone's private pocket. It is all on the firm, part of the 'service contract', a perk. That is the delightful part of it, but also the danger. What comes with one turn of for- tune's wheel can go with the next. Malcolm Muggeridge once gave me some wise advice: 'As you get older, dear boy, try and make do with less. Learn to do without pleasures and comforts before they are taken away from you. Oh, and never take a job with a car and driver — when you lose it, that's what you'll miss most.' Sound counsel, which I have followed. Outside the big hotels you see the long line of large, dark cars lining up, bored drivers at the wheel, waiting for the lunch-hour to draw to a close. But those who are sauntering out, buttoning coats, tossing away a cigar, are not necessarily the same as last year's crop, or the next. Firms come unstuck, jobs are lost, governments fall, there's blood all over the boardroom walls and, suddenly, Jehu is no longer waiting, and the tube beckons. Even more inexorably looms retirement and the bus-pass. All things con- sidered, better to stick to taxis.
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