— • —
1.01.2 - Discerning Spirits
In the tap-room of the Crossed Arms, the oil-lamps seem to brighten as the daylight fades. Behind the bar, a well built, but middling sized young amazon flexes a nicely turned bicep as she pulls a pint from the middle of three long-handled beerpumps. In front of the bar, two villagers contemplate their first pints of the evening, behind them the pub gradually fills as all around the village the days work grinds to a halt. Among the new arrivals, the most noticable is the village parson, a slim youngish man from some “furrin' parts” like Oxfordshire:
“Eve'nin Wicar” say Jarge, scratch'n hiz bald patch, “Woteva happ'n tew yer rosie cheeks?”
“If Oi know Rosie” say Buxum Bea frum ahint th' bar, “She'll still be sett'n orn 'em.”
“Thas Rosamunda t'yew” say Stan, “She dun't nev'r arnser t'Rosie.”
“Oi'm referrin' t'th' Wicar's cheeks” say Jarge, slapp'n a coin on th' bar, “Not hiz sister's.”
“A droppa sperrits, Wicar?” say Bea, “Thas fav'rit fer pale cheeks.”
“Oi'll goo alonga thet” say Stan, addin' a silver thrup'ny bit, “Meake thet three.”
“Muss be payday!” say Bea, “Three brandies thet is then.”
“Talking of Spirits” says the Vicar, collapsing onto a barstool, “I think, perhaps, that I have just seen a ghost.”
“Lotta'em abowt” say Jarge, parsin' th' parson a brandy, “Nut thet they eva krearz me.”
“Jus' show wotta di'sarnin' lotta' sperrits we hev aroun' hare.” say Bea, primpin' har hare.
“I wish” says the Vicar, “That your local spirits would decide to discern against me.”
“Oi allus thort sperrits wuz th' proppa prov'nce a'th' parson, Wicar” say Jarge, quoff'n hiz brandy in wun goo, “Speshla roun' hare.”
“So they are” says the Vicar, “but I prefer them to remain, as it were, in the third party.”
“Politics?” arsk Bea. “Trinity” say Jarge, wi' a wink.
“Yew hint told us waur thet appeared thus toime” say Stan, sippin' quietly.
“This time?” exclaims the Vicar, who is relatively new to the parish, “ Does this happen regularly?”
“Pritta regla” say Jarge, “ Dew yew set awhile on th' Chuch-yaard wall an' tearke a long look a'wunna them owd stuns ...”
“Or stand in th' sacr'sty a'tarnin' th' leaves a'th' parish register” say Stan, “Thassa gud toime.”
“Things” says the Vicar, “That a man of my calling can seldom avoid.”
“Yew set orn thet owd wall an' orl yew'll get's a mossy bott'm” say Bea.
“Thas look'n a' th' ritin, thet duzz't” say Jarge, “Seem loik they wuntta read't ov'r yer shulder.”
“P'raps thas th' ded'uns pleased t'be r'member'd” say Stan.
“A comforting thought, Stanley” says the Vicar, “Most comforting!”
“More loik a hul buncha our descendants, wundren waur th' heck they come frum” say Bea.
“I pray that the deceased have better things do than return to haunt us” says the Vicar, “Rather let us hope, as Beatrice so wisely avers, that these are but the manifestation of our descendants, gazing back at us in curiousity.”
“Wicar say thassa 'festation a'descendants” say Stan, “Hev'yer got traps fer thet Jarge?”
“Oi got traps fer eva'thin'” say Jarge, lookin' a'th' Wicar, “Hint thet yor round, yer rever'nd?”
“Well you certainly trapped me there, George” says the Vicar, looking rather flustered.
“Thas nut werra respec'ful, 'bor” say Stan, “Yew wunt ha' treat'd th' owd Wicar so raw.”
“Th'owd Wicar wuz too scary to be treat'd” say Jarge, wi' a big grin, “Nor wud he be sin in th' pub, 'less Black Shuck hisself wuz on hiz heels.”
“Then I shall take your disrespect as a compliment” says the Vicar, “But perhaps in future we should leave the spirits in the graveyard. It will be easier on our purses.”
“I'll tell'em, when I see'em” say Jarge, “Oi've sum greave-yaard mould tew tarn t'morra, fer th'owd leddy up a' The Big House.”
“Boy Jimma's borrow'n thet gret ol'black 'oss from th' colonal a'Militia” say Bea, “To fetch th' hoss harse frum Gret Mardl'um.”
“Thet'll be a rare ol'sight” say Jarge, “Hope thassa' nuff black crape to goo round.”
— • —
1.01.3 - Shovel Shuffle
There's a burying due. The female mourners are “trickalat'n” their hats with black crepe and deciding just what grade of veil will do the best for their complexion or lack of it. The males are vigorously shaking the smell of mothballs out of their best clothes. Jarge, as usual, has got himself into a hole:
“Woah boy!” say young Jimma, su'pris'n hisself as much as th' hoss.
“Morn'n Jimma” say Jarge, wotch'n half hiz cobbles spill orf th' back a'th' tumbril. “Hev'yer brung moi dinna, 'bor.”
“Nut less' yew fansa flint stun rowly-powly” say Jimma, wi'a grin, kickin' wun th' sizer'ra cann'nball inta th' greave.
“Thassa 'nuff a'thet” say Jarge, chuckin'ut owt agin, “ Did yer call by th' smithy?”
“Oi did” say Jimma, “An' thas nut redda.”
“Wudga'meen nut redda? say Jarge, “Thas bin thar since las' Thuzd'y.”
“Smith say yew plum wor owt thet owd shovel” say Jimma, “He say f'thet waur ena thinna he cud shearve wi'ut, but he dint, 'cuze hiz rearzas bigger.”
“Wull, Oi carnt git th' Owd Leddy's las'rest'n plearce hoiked owt, wi'owt it” say Jarge.
“Oi hint th' fule in moi famla” say Jimma, “Th' prize fer thet goo t'wun th' uncles.”
“Thass'a gud jarb yer fadder got six bruthers” say hiz uncle Jarge, “Oth'wise Oi might tearke offence. Now git thet tumbril tumbled an' go tell th' smith t' hev moi shovel hare by noon, or we wunt be hevin' no fune'rel.”
“Oi sed Oi wunt a fule” say Jimma, “Oi brung yew wun a th' new Barmin'um shovels frum th' farm.”
“Wunt thet leave'em short?” say Jarge, “Oi 'spect they gotta lotta muck a'thar own t'shift.”
“Nut wi' a hul harfduzz'n, t'chuse frum” say Jimma.
“Wull Oi hope yew brung us a gudd'n” say Jarge.
“Thar orl th' searm” say Jimma, “Carn't tell'em apart.”
“Hum” say Jarge, heftin' th' Barmin'um shovel, “Built loike a cart'oss.”
“Thas a digg'n shovel” say Jimma, “ Dew evathin' wi' wun a'them. So they tell me.”
“They'll tell yew enathin' up at Home Farm” say Jarge, “Bu' mind wot Oi tell yew. A gud shovel dunt weigh noo more than wot yew kin lift on it. Yew wunt t'dig, yew use a spade, or charp owt th' clay wi' a longhandle spud. A spade hev a straight blade an' need a bitta weight t'give it bite, but a spud need a keen edge an' a nice point.”
“Ol' Darsen frum Hum Farm, say they know best in Barmin'um” say Jimma, “An' th' hull harfduzzen oony corst'im th' searmuz wun frum th' Smith.”
“ Dunt yew liss'n to Darsen, 'less he's jus' shifted a ton a'beet wi' wun a'hiz barmy shovels” say Jarge, “Now git yew orf t'th' Smith fer a prarpa shovel, while Oi spud owt th' owd Leddy's bott'm.”
— • —
1.01.4 - Maybe the Hermit
The village children, armed with sacks and forked sticks are fighting over the steaming piles of hearse-horse manure. In the more genteel houses brandy is being sipped, below that in the social ladder, sloe-gin and such cordials are savoured and discussed. In other places small beer and ale is being drunk. The Vicar and his sister Rosamunda have a little sherry in fine glasses up at The Big House, but not everybody can afford the luxury of time off just because they've been to a fine family funeral:
“Eve'nin Jimma 'bor” say Jarge “Oi dew 'njoy a gud fune'rl.”
“Eve'nin Jarge” say Jimma, teark'n a swat a' th' shimma a'mozzies twurlin' roun' hiz hed, “Sune be dark. Hev yer dun?”
“Pretta much” say Jarge, tampin' down th' lass' a' th' grearve mowld wi' th' brite new blade a'hiz fav'rit shovel.
“Th' new railin's be up betimes” say Jimma, “Smith say t'tell'e.”
“Wraught railin's!” say Jarge, “Pity thet waur a Barmin'um corfin.”
“Howd' yew reckon thet?” say Jimma, “Wunt thet wunna Stan's?”
“Stan niver screw'd a handle orn thet straight in hiz loife” say Jarge.
“ Dew 'e teark't bad” say Jimma, “Nut bein' arsked t'dew th' corfin?”
“Thas The Big House. A lor unta'emselves” say Jarge, “Mind yew, Stan'll be moost upset if he dunt git to dew yorn.”
“Thas no way t' tork inna chuchyaard” say Jimma wi' a shudder.
“Hev yer sin enna a'th' Wicar's sperrits yit?” say Jarge.
“ Dint know he hed enna” say Jimma.
“Wunt yew in th' Crorst Arms, wen 'e come flapp'n in, tuther nite?” say Jarge.
“Thet Oi wuz, bu' Oi dint know wot 'e waur a'drink'n” say Jimma.
“Nut drink'n” say Jarge, “Bein' 'ornted!”
“In th' Crorst Arms?” say Jimma, “Niver, Bea wunt hev thet. Nut noohow.”
“Nut a' th' pub, yer duzzy fule, roun' th' chuch” say Jarge, wav'n hiz shov'l as a cowled shadda parst atwinn 'th' junipers. “Blas' boy! Wossat ov'r thar?”
“Thas rude t' point” say Jimma, wi' sum trepidaysh'n, “Hint thet th' Wicar?”
“Mebbe” say Jarge, “Or mebbe th' owd Harmit's a'keep'n hiz eye onyer. Hew kin tell.”
— • —
1.01.5 - Highway to Heaven
Jimma boy and the village blacksmith are enjoying themselves clanging the new railings through the lytchgate. Jarge has aready laid a smart new cobbled covering over The Old Lady and her neighboring ancestors. The Family's grave plot is now full, so to round things off, the square is about to be surrounded by an elegant wrought-iron pallisade:
“Blast Boy” say th' smith, admir'n Jarge's cobbles, “That look jus' loike a bit a Room'n rud.”
“Woss thet, wen thas a'tum?” say Jimma, “I hint sin noo Room'ns roun' hare sin' East'r Fare.”
“Nut travellin' folk” say th' smith, “Them ol'sogers wot didfa Bo'dicka.”
“Bo' dicka?” say Jimma, “Hint thet the wun thet goo fer Jarge's hat, eva'toime he go poach'n acrorse th' Common.”
“Th' ol'grey dicka?” say th' smith, “Hint thet orn a chain?”
“Thar allus muv'n'ut abowt” say Jarge, “ Dew'ut orn parpus, Oi reckon.”
“I may be in error, James” says the Vicar, appearing from behind a sturdy juniper, “But I fear you may be confusing our great warrior queen, Boadicea of the Iceni, with a donkey.”
“Moi hart alive,” say Jarge, “Ware'd'yew spring frum, Wicar.”
“Just on my way to the church” says the Vicar, “Things to do, George. Things to do.”
“Sett'n moi eye on Jarge's cobbles” say th' smith, feelin' th' need to shew hisself in a gud lite a'frunt'a th' Wicar, “Brung t'mind yor Room'n rud.”
“Ah! The visiting antiquarian and Mardlingham's version of the street called straight” muses the Vicar, “You helped in the digging, I believe?”
“Las'yare y'r Rev” say th' smith, “Wi' yor pretta susta, horga'niz'n us orl.”
“That is her way. Ah yes - 'tis her way” says the Vicar with a wan smile, “But, returning to the Romans, I do believe you have it. Our George's handiwork certainly has the air of such a road.”
“Thas crarfsm'nshup, nut 'andi-wark” say Jarge, “ Darnsite betta'run thet loda'rol Room'n rubble.”
“Forgive me George, I spoke in haste. If my sister Rosamunda was here, she would, no doubt, contend that this was but our tiny portion of the Highway to Heaven.”
“Iz thet soo” say Jarge, hew took th' orpuz't vew, “Thassa Gud jarb thas paved wi' stuns then, nut gud 'ntenshuns.”
— • —
1.01.6 - Thyme for Thought
The Vicar, despite or perhaps because of being the eldest son in a severly clerical family, is a somewhat reluctant recruit to the trade. He prefers Bardic words to those more Biblical. One of these great sources of wisdom he knows by heart, the other he is constantly required to read. Some times he gets them mixed up, but this is not one of them:
“I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows” quoth the Vicar, drawing spiritual sustinence from the view across the meadows behind Mardlingham Church.
“Howdga mean?” say Jarge, “Thas jus' a'lotta ol'green stuff, thet need a gud goin' ov'r with a scythe an' a hayrake.”
“ Dunt be so ockard” say Stan, “Wicar mean thas nice roun' hare, hint it?”
“Why'nt he say so, then?” say Jarge, pick'n a dodman orf th' chuchyaard wall an' chuckin' it at' an owd crow.
“Oi thought he did” say Stan, “Hev thet treat'd yer orl'rite, th' las' week?”
“Thet hint ov'r yit” say Jarge, “T'morra we hetta teark toime orf t'goo t'chuch an' liss'n t'th' Wicar.”
“I could be bound in a nutshell” says the Vicar, spreading his arms, “And still count myself king of infinite space.”
“Now wuss he gorn orn about” say Jarge, “Summat tellma we hint gornta git much a'ar use'l shuteye wen he start sermonizin'.”
“N'thet kearse” say Stan, “Reckon Oi'll git m'sel' a gud reas'n ter wisit Itt'r'num.”
“Kin Oi join yer?” say Jarge, “If thas a gud'nuff reason?”
“ Dunt see why nut” say Stan, “He'll be tew bizza tork'n ter dew any lookin'.”
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
FunkyFarmer
Excellent. I enjoyed that. That vicar gets about a bit don't he.