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1.03.1 - More Scully Wobbling
At The Big House, breakfast, for those with time for such luxuries, is long past. So cook has taken a few moments off to share a small pot of fortified tea with the butler - fortified with what, he won't say - leaving the scullions, Tilly and Tottie, like mice without a watchful cat:
“Thas a gud jarb we hetta set orn a hard pew a'th'backa th'chuch,” say Tottie, “th'way th'owd Wicar gOo rant'n orn. Else we'd b'def as a pust, th'smarn'n.”
“Dunt yew gOota chuch ter larn t'be gud?” say Tilly, wi' har arms akimbo.
“Oi gOota hev a gud sing" say Tottie, “Hint thet a'nuff?”
“Depends,” say Tilly, “Wot yew dew yer sing'n fer.”
“Oi dunt dewut fer nuth'n 'bor,” say Tottie, “Wull nuth'n much.”
“Yew hev a'nawfull lotta nuth'n much,” say Tilly “Thet yew dew!”
“Wull, wot Oi got, Oi sing abowt,” say Tottie, “Oi wuz brung'up Baptist.”
“Dunt let th'cook hare yer tork'n thet way,” say Tilly, “Else yew'll git sent hum. She unt hev chap'lites in har kitchen.”
“Oi hint a chap'lite,” say Tottie, “Oi'm buttered on th'utha side now.”
“A skrearp a dripp'n on yer crust is abou' orl yer wuth!” say Tilly, “Near'st yew git t' butter is lick'n yer fingers after cutt'n th'Marsta's toast.”
“Wuss orl thet abowt, owt in th'yaard,” say Tottie, “Ol' Jarge an' them uth'rs?”
“th'Marsta hev'em lined up fer a quick slap a th'hed,” say Tilly.
“Wadda he wuntta dew thet fer?” say Tottie, “He'll ony gitt'em raw.”
“They hint gorn'ta be raw a'th'marsta,” say Tilly, “Nut so's he'd nOotuss ena'how.”
“Hare he come now,” say Tottie, “Duck ya'hed, or he'll slap thet an'orl.”
“Dunt yew cheek me,” say Tilly, “Or Oi'll tell orn'yer ter th'cook.”
“Blas' me, bu' hiz hoss dunt 'arf stink,” say Tottie hol'd'n har nOoze.
“Dunt blame th'oss,” say Tilly, “Yew'd stink, if he'd hed yew across th'medda at a gallop.”
“Toime ter dew th'carrotts,” say Tottie, go'n red as a roosta's comb.”
“Oi'll gi'yer a hand,” say Tilly, “Thet meak'yer fare hot ter think abou'tut.”
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1.03.2 - Mark my Words
Sir Marcus sits tall on his fine roan mare. She is still excited from their morning gallop across the water meadows. The groom steadies her with whispered promises of cool pump-water and warm oats. Sir Marcus turns in the saddle to inspect the short rank of what he thinks of as his peasantry: Road-mender Jarge, the so called sexton; Carpenter Stan, the parish clerk, and Teamster Charles, who had always driven the Old Lady's well worn carriage:
“Harummph!" says Sir Marcus, tapping his saddle with his crop while looking them up and down.
“Begg'n yer par...” says Jarge, but Sir Marcus gestures him to silence.
“Ha!” says Sir Marcus, dismounting with much aplomb, “Like making bricks without straw, H'rumph!.”
“Dew yer Ludshi...” says Stan, but Sir Marcus has gone, striding across the stableyard and through the small door into the walled garden on his way to the gunroom.
Two mobcaps appear round the scullery door. “Dint they git a slap a'th'hed, ar'ta orl?” say Tottie, “Did Oi miss'ut?”
“Dunt look loike'ut,” say Tilly, “Nut less Oi miss'tut an'orl.”
“Wot wuz thet orl abowt?” say Jarge, “Humff'n an' Harr'n loike thet.”
“Bricks wi'owt straw,” say Stan, “FearOo's pun'shm'n' a'th'Hisralites.”
“Yew dew tork alotta squit,” say Jarge, “Fare Hew?”
“He meen" say Charles, “Thet yew'r jus' a block a parch't mud that'll fall aparrt, sune as thet git th'charnse.”
“He dunt know me verra well,” say Jarge, “Dew he.”
“Dunt s'puz he wun'tew,” say Stan, “Nut much, ena'how.”
“Wot abou' me?” say Charles th'Teamster, as th'groom leads th'mare away.”
“Wot abowt yew?” say Jarge, giv'n him a funna look.
“Jus' thort Oi'd arsk,” say Charles, r'tarn'n th'glare”
“Wull dunt,” say Jarge.
“Leav'um allun,” say Stan, “Look loike he still got a jarb t'dew, like th'resta'rus.”
“Dew Oi larf or cry?” say Jarge, kick'n a gret ol'chunk a'orse-drarp'n acrorse th'yaard.”
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1.03.3 - Cook and Bull Story
The Cook, who has been making her presence felt in the more elevated portions of the house, thumps down the last few wooden steps of the back-stairs and announces her choice of gossip for the day.
“Thet hoity-toity up-stare maid ha'tearken a rare fansa t'th'New Marsta. She stare-up a'tum eva'charnce she git.” say Cook in an attempt at levity, “Oi dunt hold wiv'ut.”
“Reckon har nick'rs got tew much starch 'num wen she las' r'nsinum thru,” say Tottie.
“Dew she ware nick'rs?” say Cook, “Oi allus reckon thas bet'ta t' let th'eare git t' yer.”
“If Oi hed ter dew-owt th'marsta's bedr'm,” say Tilly, “Oi'd git ol' Stan ter saw me orf sum wudd'n wuns.”
“Come'yew orn yew gals,” say Cook, assessing the state of preparation for the master's luncheon, “Yew're orl behyn' loike th'cow's tearle.”
“Wull, yew're in luck,” say Tottie, as Jarge clump hiz way ov'r th'thrashel frum th'stearble-yaard, “Har come th'bull.”
“Duntchew vex me na'maw,” say Cook, “Thass nOo stahp'n me wen Oi'm raw.”
“Thas po'try ta hare yew tork,” say Jarge, hew wunt afear'd a'ena'budda.
“Tha'tint po'try jus' corze thet ryme,” say Stan, folla'r'n him in, “Jus'as rymes hint allus po'try.”
“Wot ryme?” say Jarge, “Yew meen when she say na'maw an' raw?”
“Now Oi am gitt'n vexed!” say Cook, “Wen yew'lotta'rabowt, thass maw squit aroun' than th'parr-yard at milk'n toime.”
“Stan hare,” say Jarge, “Hev a moind to tork t'th'New Steward.”
“Oi' D'rutha tork tew th'ol'bayliff,” say Stan, “Oi ha'bin torked at by him, afore.”
“Wull, he unt th'wun t'tork at yer now,” say Jarge, “th'Steward hev chaarge ar'a'torl.”
“Sartenl'y,” say Cook, “th'marsta's St'urd is th'wun thet'll wunt tew tork at yer. He loike ter tork at eva'budda.”
“Tork tew much,” say Tottie, “If yew arsk me.”
“Wull, we'unt dew thet then,” say Tilly, “Hew wunt'ta liss'n t'yew?”
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1.03.4 - Fribbin's Cheese
In the stables behind The Big House, the Teamster, Charles, is concerned that The Master's roan mare has cast a shoe. For young Ted, the groom it will be a day's trudge leading the horse to the Farrier and back:
“Come yew orn, Ted m'boy. Stir yer'stumps,” say Charles, “Toime yew wuz orf.”
“Durst Oi see th'Cook?” say Ted, on'y 'arf way redda t'fearce th'day, an' still with th'Marsta's mare t'see tew, “Thas a long trudge wi'owt brekfust.”
“Durst Oi, neither,” say Charles, “Oi 'spec' them mawthas wull see tew'ut, but nut 'til yew meark a proper job a'th'roan mare.”
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“Izzut redda?” say Tilly, jump'n up'ta gawk owt th'kitchen winda, “th'boy's wittles?”
“Corse a'tis,” say Tottie, hew hed tuk a fansa to Ted, sune as she'd clap eyes on'im, “Bottla cowl'tea, doorstep, an' a chunk'a ol' Fribb'n's cheese.”
“Yew'l be orf hum in a rare ol'steart, if he ketch yer wiv'iz cheese,” say Tilly.
“Wull he wunt ketch me 'less'n yew tell'um,” say Tottie, wi' har mowf full, “Oi got'chew a bit an'orl.”
“He'll see ware yew cut'tut,” say Tilly, now wi' har mowf full, an'orl.
“Cut'tut orf th'bott'm,” say Tottie, “Yew'd niver know.”
“Oi hope yer'rite,” say Tilly, “Dew thet'll be yer bott'm thet git a cut.”
“'Lo Ted,” say Tottie, as th'boy stick hiz hed roun' th'door-pust.
“Starp gawp'n a'tum loike a strump't,” say Tilly, “An' gi'him hiz wittles.”
“Hev Oi gotta'nuff?” say Ted, “Thas gotta las'orl day.”
“Count yer lucka'stars yew got ena'a'tall,” say Tilly, still suck'n at th'lump a cheese in har cheek.
“Ta,” say Ted, start'n t'leave, “Oi'll r'memba yew in moi will.”
“Thet kearse,” say Tilly, “Oi hope yew dunt git yar hed kick't orf 'til yew've made yer fortune.”
“Moind how yer'gOo,” say Tottie, shak'n owt har hare an' wav'n har mob-cap.
“Cover yer hed,” say Tilly, “Yew know wot Cook say about nekkid heds.”
“Cook got sum funna ideas abou' nekkid parts,” say Tottie, “She on'y allow'um ware yew can't see'um.”
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1.03.5 - Bubble and Squeak
Stan and Jarge have had their meeting with the Steward. The upshot being that they have a cucumber frame to build for the kitchen garden and numerous small repair jobs to do around the estate. Apparently Sir Marcus prefers craftsmen from Norwich and Lynn when it comes to the refurbishment of the more classical portions of his country seat:
“Thet went orf betta then Oi 'spect'd,” say Stan, “Thattle keep us bizza fer a week'a'tew.”
“Yew pleeze tew easa,” say Jarge, tearkin them threw th'geart inta th'kitchen gard'n, “We wunt'ta hed ena'thin if thet wunt fer me an' hiz bewtes.”
“Wull, thet whur a bit'tuv'a tarn-up,” say Stan, gaz'n at th'plearce laid owt redda fer th'col'frearm, “Him need'n a bit'a cobbl'n, an' yew hev'n th'rite sorta' 'ammer 'nyer belt.”
“Thas moi ratt'n 'ammer,” say Jarge, “Wunt be roun' a farm-yaard wi'owt'tut.”
“How dew thet work, then?” say Stan, “Yew hetta be rite quiet t'git nere'nuff tew a rat t'kill'ut wi'a'ammer.”
“Oi dunt hetta be thet close,” say Jarge, “Nut wi'thus 'ammer.”
“Gotta 'lastic 'andle, hev'ut?” say Stan.
“Betta'un thet,” say Jarge, tapp'n th'wudd'n end'a th'handle on a bit a'brick and driv'n an owd nail inta a bit'a'wud wi'wun stroke.
“Nice shot,” say Stan, in gen'win adm'rayshun “Swung frum th'shulder wi' a lock't rist. Ena'budda wud'a thunk yew wuz a carp'nta.”
“Oi hint jus'a pritta fearce,” say Jarge, thus toime tapp'n th'hed end a th''ammer on th'brick, “Now teark a look at'tut thus way.”
“Dunt see nOo dif'runce,” say Stan, “Wun nail, wun 'ammer.”
“Yew wun'ta hol' th'nail?” say Jarge, “See Oi dunt cheat.”
“Git orn wi'ut,” say Stan, putt'n hiz hands 'n'hiz porkets.”
“SOo,” say Jarge, teark'n th'same kinda swing a'th'nail.
“Blast me,” say Stan, stepp'n back in s'prise, “th'hed floi'orf.”
“Thas how'ut work,” say Jarge, “Git th'ol'rat eva'toime.”
“Pitta terday's rat is a cabbage,” say Stan, look'n a' th'flatten'd wedgtable.”
“Oi'll git'cha a'nonion next,” say Jarge, “An' yew kin dew us a bubble'n'squeak.”
Author's Note:
This story is based on an amazing stroke of luck that befell my grandfather. One day in the 1950s I was watching him mending his old brown boots in the back garden, using the coal bunker as an anvil. Suddenly this huge rat shot out from under his feet and scarpered off down the garden path. Grandfather tried to throw the hammer at it, but before he could let go, the head flew off and killed the rat, which by then was about twenty feet away and going like the clappers. The hammer in question is still in use by the current generation. It is a beautiful wide headed leather-worker's hammer with the original handle. The head still comes loose when you tap it on the wrong end.
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
