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1.02.1 - The Road Menders
Give a man a beautiful new shovel. Stand him next to a pile of nicely rounded beach or river flints and a heap of gravel with a firm mix of shingle, marle, sharp sand and clay. Then point him at a hole, rut or ‘grup’ in the road and watch him whirl into action like a dervish of the highway:
“Wot ar'we a'dew'n hare?” say Jarge, consida'r'n a gret ol'grup, “Thissear ol'rud mebbe Room'n if yew dig forrut, bu' ter me, thas jus' a dutty ol'track thet ware owt'yer bewtes.”
“Shove sum a'them stuns in thet grup,” say Jimma, pok'n hiz bewte a'tut, “Oi gotta'nutha lode a'rum in th'cart.”
“Oi hint dun wi'th'las' lot yit,” say Jarge, lean'n on hiz shov'll, “Yew dunt 'arf git carried away wen yew git gOo'n.”
“Th'chuch clock's wotch'n yer,” say Jimma, gentl'n th'nose a'hiz ol'hoss, “Wen thet ring fer noon, thet'll be yor fewn'rul.”
“Blast boy,” say Jarge, shift'n hissel' at last, “Nobudda sed ena'th'n ter me abou' bells. Wuz thet th'bailiff?”
“Hint yew come acrost th'new steward yit?” say Jimma, “Rud in frum Lynn yisterd'y. He say the New Marsta's nut far ahind, be hare b'noon an' he dunt 'spek' t'hev no bruk'n wheels orn account'a yor grup.”
“Thet'int moi grup,” say Jarge, “Namorr'n yorn. Thet wuz th'ol'Leddy's.”
“Wull, thar's 'nutha wun ov'r thar,” say Jimma, “Oi spec' she'd ha'let yew hev thet'un if yew'd ha'arsk'd afore she went.”
“Thissear New Marsta,” say Jarge, shad'n hiz eyes, “Dew he hev a gret ol'carr'age, wi' for'i'nand an' a roaring jarvey wi' a long whip?”
“Hent sin wun,” say Jimma, “He int hare yet.”
“Woss thet then?” say Jarge, wav'n hiz shov'll a'th' approach'n clowd a'dust, “Th'Apok'a'lips?”
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1.02.2 - Tall Tales Taken Short
The vicar, having drunk several too many pots of tea, arrived at the top of the tower stairs with a sudden realisation. His bladder was too full and it wouldn't take no for an answer.
His salvation came in the form of a leather bucket, which for years had lain lost and forgotton in company with much similar junk in a corner of the clock-room. Once filled, however it proved to be somewhat lacking in the properties he had come to expect from buckets - It leaked!Below, in the nave by the foot of the tower, Stan and Jarge stand gazing at the narrow arched door to the spiral stair through which the Vicar has recently made his exit:“Kyuh blast boy!” say Jarge, “Did yew see thet? Oi dint know he'cud muve sa'farst.”
“Yew meen th'wicar?” say Stan, “Wi' th'skart a'hiz cassock hoiked'tup ov'r'iz arm?”
“Sart'nl'y Oi meen th'wicar,” say Jarge, “gOo'n up them stairs loike a rat'tup'a drearnpipe.”
“Dew he 'spec'us ter dew th'searme?” say Stan, “'Cuz Oi hint in th'mude for'ut.”
“Dunt s'puz he 'spec' mucha'rus 'n th'fust plearce,” say Jarge, “Come yew orn boy. Bes'fut froward.”
“Ah, aha, ummm?” says the vicar, who has just emptied the bucket out of a handy lancet window as his two helpers arrive in the clock room.
“Yew'll hetta be more careful, Wicar,” say Jarge, see'n th'flush in th'wicar's fearce, “Them narra wind'n stairs ar'apt to wind yer.”
“What?” asks the vicar in confusion, “Oh yes, yes, of course.”
“Now,” say Stan, “Wot ar'we dew'n up hare?”
“Ummm, ah,” says the vicar, hiding the bucket behind his back with one hand whilst pointing with the other, “It's this inscription. Here on the clock mechanism.”
“Presented to This House of The Lord and in the Name of Saint Andrew,” say Stan, teark'n a squ'ntat'ut, “By The Scions of Haugh and Wells on the Birth of their First Son Marcus.”
“Moi wud,” say Jarge, “Yew soun' jus' loike Wicar hare, wen yew reeda'lowd.”
“Oi jus' reed'ut how thas rit,” say Stan, “Woss orl thet abowt 'scions' ena'way?”
“A scion is an heir,” says the vicar, having recovered his poise, “Both Haugh and Wells are heirs, as of course, in his turn, is their son Marcus.”
“Thass a'nutha lessen larned,” say Jarge, “They'll meark yew ar' parrush claark, 'f'yew'nt careful.”
“Oi am th'parrush claark,” say Stan, “As i'fyew dint know.”
“The problem,” says the vicar, “is that it's his clock and it doesn't work.”
“That gOo roun',” say Jarge, kick'n th'gret ol'wudd'n frearm a'th'thing, “Oi sin'ut. Thas gOo'n roun' now.”
“Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “Lord of all Manors of Mardlingham, our new master, will not be pleased if his clock is clever enough to go round, but not sufficiently so to keep good time.”
“Best nut t'tell'em thas hiz, then,” say Jarge.
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Author's Note:
“Haugh,” - often pronounced “Huff,” or “'Uff,” and sometimes “Huv,” - paternal family name of Sir Marcus Haugh-Wells, who will be generally known in Mardlingham as “Sir Marcus 'Uff'ells,” (hint yew hard uff'um?)
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1.02.3 - Scully Wobbles
It's one of those days when the clouds fly by, dropping sudden showers. Behind The Big House, a blackbird sits on the highest twig of the the paddock hedge and disconsolately runs his flight feathers through his beak. Beyond, in the stable yard sodden sparrows mooch around the meager spills of waterlogged oats and slowly disintegrating piles of horse muck. In the loose boxes, the producers of said muck stamp and snort, disturbed by twirling dust devils as the wind blusters through:
“Blessus orl! They got thet puddle gOo'n agin,” say Tottie Scully, giving the stearble hands a taste a'har best scowl.
“Thas nut them,” say Tilly Scully, hoik'n har hem up owtta th'flood, “Thas Him up thar a'tipp'n Hiz chamb'r pot owt th'winda in th'sky.”
“Th'New Marsta, yew mean?” say Tottie Scully, “Dew he dew thet?”
“Dew wot?” say Tilly. - “Yews a pot?” say Tottie.
“Th'New Marsta? Corse'e dew,” say Tilly, “Bu' Oi wunt tork'n 'bout 'im.”
“Hew wuz yer tork'n about' then?” say Tottie.
“Th'New Marsta, dew he hev a winda in th'sky? say Tilly.
“Dunt arsk me,” say Tottie, “Yew'll hetta'rarsk th'up-stare maid 'bou'thet.”
“Tew hoity-toity ter come roun' these paarts, she is,” say Tilly, “Thars nOo tork'n ter har now she'gotta man's bed to make.”
“Wull th'tweeny, then,” say Tottie, nut wunt'n t'be beat.
“Oi'm tork'n 'bou' Him!” say Tilly, “HIM in th'sky.,”
“Oh, Him,” say Tottie, “He dunt hev a winda in th'sky. He tip hiz owt thet squitty little wun in th'corner a' th'chuch belfrey.”
“Hew tol'dyew thet?” say Tilly, “Them stearble boys?”
“NOobudda tol'me,” say Tottie, “Oi wuz gorn parst th'chuch yisterd'y, an' Oi sin'ut fer m'self."
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1.02.4 - Rosamunda's Runic Bells
The Smith, Stan, the vicar and his sister Rosamunda are gathered in the clock-room, one floor beneath the bell-chamber in Mardlingham Church tower. Normally the clock would be filling this space with its distintive ticking; just too slow to be cheerful, just too fast to be restful. Unfortunately, below them in the tower alcove at the west end of the nave, a rather too vigourous Jimma Boy is working the single bellrope:
“Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Punic rhyme,” proclaims Rosamunda, with her hands placed rather elegantly over her ears. Then continues into the sudden silence with “To the tintinnabulation that so un-musically wells, from the bells, bells, bells, bells,”
“Runic my dear, Rrrrunic!” exclaims the vicar, who had received her proclamation in his left ear while the bell assailed his right. “Edgar Allan Poe, penned that as 'Runic rhyme' and contrarywise to you, sweet sister, he thought them musical as well.,”
“Only when they were 'Keeping time, time, ti' ... Oh!” says Rosamunda, stepping back with a start.
“Oi've hedda'nuff a'thet,” say Jimma, erupt'n frum th'squitty li'l twust'y stare thet getcha up'th'chuch't'ar, “Did thet dew'ut?”
“Thet'ut did,” say the Smith, hew'd had hiz eye on th'clock th'hul toime, “Cord'n ter thus, yew bin a'haurl'n orn thet ol'roop fer nigh'orn 'arf'n'ar”
“Oi hev nut,” say Jimma, “Thet dunt teark 'arf'n'ar to dew a duzz'n pulls.”
“It does by this clock,” says the vicar with a smile. “If you bellringers lived your lives by this clock you would all be centenarians by now.,”
“Thas thus bit hare,” say the Smith, “Thet dew whut thet shud, then afore thet shud, thet dew'ut agin.”
“An escapade of the escapement?” says the vicar, “A wreck of the ratchet. A pawl appalling.”
“Thet hant 'scaped,” say th'Smith, raising an eyebrow, “Thet jus' set orf wun way and then go parst itsel' orn the way back.”
“Yes, yes!” says the vicar, staring at the offending part, “Shall you take in hand the necessary repair?”
“S'puz Oi shall,” say the Smith, “Nobudda ells ter dew'ut, nut roun' hare.”
“Can we not send to Norwich for a clock-smith?” asks Rosamunda, “I mind there's one in Magdalen street.”
“Tis this Sunday that Sir Marcus plans his ascent of the tower,” says the vicar, “So there's no time for clock-smiths.”
“Wull, thar sartinly int by this clark!” say Jimma.
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1.02.5 - The Covers are Off
There is a New Master at The Big House. Forgotten rooms are being resurrected. In the library, dust sheets have been removed and heaped in the wash-house. The ranks of leather book-spines have been spit'n'polished, somewhat to the detriment of their gilding. Furniture has been moved and the oriental carpets rolled and dragged into the kitchen yard where they have been thoroughly beaten by the cook. The heavy curtains draping the tall windows have been rudely shaken by a sneezing Tweeny and the fallout swept away by the Scullies. The gloom of years has been banished and the heavily carved chair behind the massive leather-topped mahogany desk is no longer empty.
Sir Marcus sits behind a palisade of bills, books and papers, over which he glares at the farm bailiff. A man, now much deflated, who until recently had been acting as steward to the Mardlingham Estate:
“My mother's burial?” says Sir Marcus, shuffling papers from one pile into many, “was that not ... er ...,” He shuffles more paper, “ahem ... the duty of the demn'd sexton?”
“Twas, Sir Marcus,” says the farm bailiff.
“Eh ...,” says Sir Marcus, riffling one of his heaps, “A certain Mister Bunce, I believe?”
“Dunt rightly know 'f he's a mister,” says th'bailiff, “Nor if he's a Bunce.”
“Was it not the sexton my carriage splattered with mud?” says Sir marcus, “You named him to me on my arrival ... George, I believe? 'Though who he was burying in the Kings highway, I shudder to think.”
“Jarge, Sir Marcus,” say th'bailiff, “Jarge dun th'chuch-yaard wark. He mend th'rud an'orl.”
“George Bunce?” mutters his master, running the feather of his quill along a line in the opened ledger, “The sexton's listed here as William.”
“Jarge, t'wuz wot dunnut. Buried th'Owd Leddy. Har Leddysh'p, thet is,” say th'bailiff, “Nut no Bunces 'roun' hare.”
“This George,” says Sir Marcus, “Bunce or not. I'll see him on Monday. Tell him to be in the stable yard when I return there from my morning gallop.”
“Th'stearbl'yaard Mund'y marn'n,” say th'bailiff, “Sart'nly Sir Marcus.”
“I shall also require the attendance of the parish clerk and the teamster,” says Sir Marcus, slamming one ledger and opening another, “Now prey return to your duties.”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
