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1.12.1 - Dragon for Breakfast
“Saint George's day,” announces the vicar, stirring his breakfast tea, while waiting for his oatmeal to cool.
“Then why have you chosen porridge?” asks his sister, “A meal more suited to St. Andrew of Scotland, than St. George of England.”
“You forget our village church is also dedicated to St. Andrew,” says the vicar, “So porridge will always be appropriate - or bacon, naturally, his symbol being a pig.”
“Or ham, I suppose,” says Rosamunda, “But tell me, dear brother, what would be properly appropriate for a Saint George's breakfast? - Dragon perhaps?”
“Mardlingham is particularly short of dragons,” smiles the vicar, “Unless you count Sir Marcus among their number.”
“Roast beef?” says his sister, blushing at the mention of Sir Marcus.
“Not for breakfast,” says the vicar, “I'm content to praise St. Andrew in the morning, perhaps we should celebrate St. George this evening?”
“The cook has planned a vegetable hot-pot,” says Rosamunda, “I fear your stipend doesn't stretch as far as beef, even for Saint George.”
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1.12.2 - Lugs Like a Jug
Little Mardlingham church has a spate of christenings, five in a week, a most unusual event in a population of little more than 400 villagers. After the first of the ceremonies, Jarge, Stan and the vicar meet in the church porch:
“Lugs loike a jug,” say Stan, with his head on one side staring at Jarge's left ear, “Ar'they a pair?”
“Moind yer'own biznus,” say Jarge, “Wot if they arn't?”
“Nutt'n,” say Stan, “Jus'summat Oi nOotuss'd.”
“Wuss thet, then?” say Jarge, “Mardl'num lugs?”
“Now yew menshun'ut,” say Stan, “Eva'budda roun'hare seem ter hev a fare size a'lobes ter'th'ears.”
“It's true,” say th'wicar, “I have even made a note of it in my journal.”
“Sep'thus'marn'n,” say Stan, “At Hannah's leartus' chrustn'n.”
“Hannah hev big lobes,” say Jarge, “So dew har man.”
“That's true as well,” say th'wicar, “Quite prominent.”
“So wot'yer orn abowt?” say Jarge.
“Th'bebbie hint,” say Stan, “NOo lobes a'torl!”
“Ne'moind, eh?” say Jarge, “Look'd a pitcha wi'orl thet lace an' silk ribb'ns.”
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1.12.3 - Warp in the Weft
Jarge is sitting on the ancient stone mounting block by the corner of the churchyard wall:
“Marn'n,” say Stan, “Wut way ar'yer gawn?”
“Wun ar'tutha,” say Jarge, “Thet depend.”
“Oi just binta th'chrustn'n,” say Stan, “Martha's lit'lun.”
“Wuz thet tree-sprite a'troll,” say Jarge.
“Wuss th'dif'runce?” say Stan.
“Lobes,” say Jarge, “Sprites dunt hev'em.”
“Cud hardly see,” say Stan, “Fer orl th'lace shawls an'ribb'ns.”
“Trickalear'shuns agin!” say Jarge, “Ware'd she git th'munna?”
“Tree-sprite,” say Stan, “In cearse yew wuntta know.”
“Thass a warp in thus weft,” say Jarge, “Mark moi wuds.”
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1.12.4 - Piddle in the Font
At St. Andrew's Church, Little Mardlingham, the third christening of the week has recently finished and the party dispersed, Stan and the vicar are standing by the font, where Stan has just fished out an expensive baby's lace cap with a blue silk ribbon:
“Pore lil'thing,” say Stan, “Lorst hiz hat.”
“Not all he lost,” says the vicar, “I have never seen such a large tantrum in such a small child,”
“Oi reckon yew'll nede frush worta, an'orl,” say Stan, smell'n hiz hand.
“Wull?” say Jarge, bustling in, “Hev'ut got lobes, or nOo lobes?”
“Curiously none,” says the vicar, with a smile “But it doesn't seem to have spoilt his temper.”
“Yew'r rite thar,” say Stan, “Got orl th'tempa he'll eva hev call fer.”
— • —
1.12.5 - With and Without
In the shade of the only palm tree in Mardlingham, a light lunch has been laid out in the Vicarage conservatory:
“Perhaps I should instigate a policy of total immersion for christenings,” says the vicar, “To discourage this sudden fashion for acres of lace and dozens of ribbons.”
“Is this the babies or the mothers?” asks his sister Rosamunda.
“Both, but mostly the babies,” says the vicar, “And this morning it was Flora's twins, so everything was doubled.”
“I have a message from Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “Just one word with a question mark.”
“Lobes?” says the vicar.
“You read my mind, brother,” says Rosamunda.
“Now that would be a monumental feat,” says the vicar.
“I never think of monumental feet,” laughs Rosamunda, “Too too indelicate.”
“Tell Stanley, yes and no,” says the vicar, “Non-identical twins.”
“I see,” says Rosamunda, “You know Jarge thinks they are changelings.”
“I know Jarge likes to propose such things to annoy me,” says the vicar, “I'm making a list of them.”
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1.12.6 - Squirmy as an Eel
The final christening of the week has been completed. The Church and parish have welcomed six new members to the community, three boys and three girls, one child with earlobes and five without. Six tiny individuals ready and willing to make their marks on the book of life, the school-yard wall, a tree in the woods and anyplace else they can reach or wriggle into:
“Only yesterday, I was saying to Miss Rosamunda,” says the vicar, “That I should instigate immersive baptism.”
“And thar yew gOo an'dew'ut,” say Stan, “Haxadentla orn parpus.”
“How was I to know that however well Sarah had sewn all her dratted ribbons to her swaddling?” says the vicar, “She had failed in every way to fix the swaddling to the child.”
“Swaddl'n gen'rully dew thet itself,” say Stan, “Thas wot meark'ut swaddl'n.”
“Swaddling does not normally have a baby sized gap in the bottom,” says the vicar.
“Wudda bin orl rite,” say Stan, “If th'lit'lun hant bin a squirmer.”
“Exaaactly,” says the vicar, “Squirmy as an eel.”
“A lobeless eel,” say Stan, “Gud jarb thet wuz frush worta.”
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1.12.7 - A Hairy Suprise
Suddenly there was a clatter in the lane as a fine pair of greys swung past the five mothers airing their babies and turned into the yard of the Crossed Arms. It was not the coach of some fine nobleman, but the glorious sight of heavy horses pulling a most elegantly painted brewer's dray.
Beatrice, the landlord's daughter stormed into the yard; it was the wrong day for deliveries and the sign over the driver's head said ‘Patteson's Brewery’ instead of the usual ‘Bullards’ - But the young man in drayman's leathers, a full beard and wide-brimmed hat seemed familiar:
“Dunt Oi know yew?” say Bea, shad'n har eyes agin th'lite.
“Oi hope so,” say the young man, “Or Oi'm wearst'n m'toime.”
“Jimma?” say Bea, “Oh, moi garwd. Yew rat!”
“Blast Gal,” say Jimma, “Is thet ennaway ter greet yer lorst love?”
“Oi fort yew wuz gorn fer a matelot,” say Bea, “Yew cudda sed!”
“Jarge, he say ter leave nOo traks,” say Jimma, “So Oi just sloped orf in th'nite, quiet as a moonbeam.”
“Oi'd hev gawn wiv'yer,” say Bea, “Tew th'far'orizons.”
“Wull thas a gud jarb yew dint,” say Jimma, “Cuz Oi ony went as far as Norridge, grew a beard an' tuk a new jarb.”
“Owd Dorsan is arter yew,” say Bea, “as a runaway 'prentice carter.”
“Dunt worry 'bowt Dorsan,” say Jimma, “Him'n'me gotta deal.”
“Wull, wot abowt me?” say Bea, “Yew hint gotta deal wi'me.”
“Oi thort yew hed a deal wi'th'corporal,” say Jimma.
“A gal kin gOo t'market wi'owt buy'n a new hat,” say Bea.
“Nut so sure abou'thet,” say Jimma, “An' thet wunt hats Oi wuz worry'n abowt.”
— • —
1.12.8 - Nine Month Wonder
“Fore-warned is fore-armed,” says the briskly striding vicar, “There is trouble brewing.”
“There is always trouble brewing in a village,” replies his sister, matching him, stride for stride.
“If George and Stanley can see the problem,” says the vicar, “Sooner or later the whole village will see it. I'm amazed they've not already done so.”
“It's only ears,” says Rosamunda, “There are many variations.”
“I just wish the parents shared the same ones as their babies,” says the vicar, “But apart from one of the twins, the little lobes are loveless.”
“You mean the little loves are lobeless,” says Rosamunda, “Perhaps they are like baby-teeth - not yet grown.”
“My dear, I suspect the point I am trying to make is passing you by,” smiles the vicar, “There must be a lobeless father at large in the village.”
“But all the babies have perfectly good fathers all ready,” says Rosamunda, “....OH!”
They reach the end of Vicarage Loke and turn into Low Street. There is a long terrace of cottages along the north side, but the south is open to the river and marsh. Next past the terrace, outside a larger cottage, Jarge is leaning on Stan's gate:
“Hare come th'wicar,” say Jarge, “Musta hard th'nuws.”
“Hev'n a wark ter blow th'cobwebs away?” say Stan ter th'wicar, hews a'hold'n hard ornta hiz'at.
“Just hoping the wind doesn't blow away any more earlobes,” grins the vicar.
“Ah, thet!” say Stan, “Jarge say th'trickaleart'ns are th'key.”
“Oi dew,” say Jarge, “Thar wuz tew menna ribbons an'bitsa learce.”
“Mothers always like to dress their babies well for christening,” says Rosamunda.
“Look'ut thus way,” say Stan, “As parrush clark, Oi've a fare idea a'how much munna th'willagers hev, an' thet dunt run ter sa'much trickaleart'n.”
“So thet hev ter hev bin paart a'th'deal,” say Jarge, “Buy a pretta ribb'n, git a lobeless sprog fer narth'n.”
“Or tuther way abowt,” say Stan, “An' ware wuz orl th'hubbies nine munth ago?”
“The Muster,” says the vicar, “They were all at the encampment.”
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1.12.9 - Not in Front of the Vicar
Stan, Jarge, Rosamunda and the vicar are mardling away outside Stan's cottage in Low Street. There is a blustery wind off the marshes, but they have their conversation to keep them warm. The concensus so far is that the five mothers of lobeless offspring fell to the combined temptations of yards of bright new ribbons, acres of intricate lace and satisfyingly sordid sex on the kitchen table - all while their husbands were away at the militia camp.
“So what connections can we make?” says the vicar, clasping his hat.
“Ribbons, lace and no earlobes?” says Rosamunda, “Of course, the dudman. You remember, I bought that lace for the maid's new cap.”
“Owd Bunce, you mean?” say Stan, “Two pack-mules an'a bundle a'silks?”
“Lobes loike stun'sails, hev Bludda Bunce,” growls Jarge.
“Jarge!” say Stan, “Nut in frunt of Miss Rosamunda an'th'wicar.”
“Wull, Oi'pollajyze,” say Jarge, “But he mearke me raw!”
“Your Bunce doesn't sound like the man I dealt with,” says Rosamunda, “Mine had a piebald pony and dog-cart.”
“Not a pair of greys,” says the vicar, “And a dray?”
“Ware's thet?” say Stan, looking round, “Whoo hey! Thas Jimma Boy.”
“Wull met, willagers orl,” say Jimma, wuffl'n hiz new beard an' pretend'n ter be summon else.”
“Are yew Adam?” say Jarge, “Cuz yer sed Oi'd nut know yew frum him wen nex'we met.”
“If thet pretta gal a'th'Crorst-Arms is Eve,” say Jimma, “Then Oi'll be Adam.”
“Splendid,” smiles the vicar, “Shall I post the banns?”
“I suppose,” says Rosamunda, “You haven't seen a piebald pony and trap on your travels?”
“Yew mus'meen Silky,” say Jimma, “'Prentice habb'dasha.”
“How big are his ears?” asks Rosamunda.
“Funna quest'n,” say Jimma, “Nut big, hardly any ears a'tall, if Oi 'member rite.”
“Cud be him,” say Stan, “Ware's he come frum?”
“Magl'n Streart, Norridge,” say Jimma, “He allus gOo roun' th'willages arta eva quarta day.”
“When the housemaids have their wages,” says Rosamunda.
“An'sart'n'ousewives seem ter hev hed thar fun,” say Stan.
“Oi wunt be sa'shure,” say Jarge, wagg'n hiz hed, “Thas orl tew glib fer me.”
It was then that Rosamunda remembered where she'd seen another set of ears without lobes, but decided to keep it to herself.
(The Saga continues in Book 2)
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.