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1.04.1 - Jarge's Cottage
“So,” says the vicar, “You're telling me that your great-great-grandfather built this cottage of yours using only a ball of twine, a few sticks and something akin to an average pikestaff?”
“Thas abowt th'length ar'ut,” say Jarge, “Least t'start with. Thet git a bit more tangled learta'orn.”
“Wud thet be orn account a th'ball a'twine?” say Stan, nudg'n th'wicar wi'hiz elba.
“Uh! And then?” says the vicar, casually removing himself from the range of Stan's elbow.
“Dun't fergit yew'd'a need'd a bill'ook an' scythe,” say Stan, “If th'steart a'th'plearce terday iz ena'thin' t'gOo by, Oi reckon thet wud ha'bin fulla weeds.”
“He wudn't ha'picked th'plearce if thet hant bin predews'n a fare ol'crarwp a'bramm'les an'such,” say Jarge, “Show'd thet wuz feartile land. Gi'yer suffin' ter barn orf fer potash.”
“Gret b'leeva in tradit'n, yew ar' Oi see,” say Stan, pick'n a few noice blak'berras, “Yew'l heva'nuff a these fer a larda fulla jam, an' we kin hev a few barr'ls a nettle tea, ter gOo with'ut.”
“So,” says the vicar, trying again, “Prey let us assume the land has been cleared, the turf is burned orf and all the necessary tools and impedimenta are to hand. How then did George the ancient proceed?”
“Oi reckon the ol'boy tuk a few pearces in frum th'loke an' stuck hiz fust pin in th'mould jus' hare,” say Jarge.
“Now I arsk yew,” say Stan, wotch'n th'wicar owt th'corner a'hiz eye, “Cud he ha'dun thet wi'th'arris a'a gret ol'flint wall in th'way?”
“There would have been no...” says the vicar, then notices the grins on both their faces. “Ah! Yes. For a moment I had forgotten who I was dealing with.”
“Dealin' serjest wages,” say Jarge, “I dunt know abou' Stan, bu' Oi fansa a glarse a'tew a'wages as sune as yer loike.”
“Thassa gud jarb,” say Stan, “Thet th'Crorst Arms iz on'y tew poles, four rods and a parch down th'rud.”
“Wull, Oi neva nOot'st thet,” say Jarge, “Hint thet a bitta luck?”
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1.04.2 - Right Angles and Fallen Angels
“Levenz'z a'th'inn?” say Bea, hurryin' t'th'bar as Jarge an' Stan clump inta th'tap-rum, “th'wicar mus'be standin' a treat.”
“They merely claim their wage,” says the vicar, following them in, “This day, 'tis I who sit at the feet of the prophet.”
“Which wuns th'proffut?” say Bea, “A'r'izzut arf'n'arf.”
“Today,” says the vicar, giving Bea a delighted smile, “You proceed me in wisdom, as always. One as it'twere for the price of two.”
“Oi'll hev moi proffut in a full pint glarse,” say Jarge, “Oi dunt how'd wiv'arves.”
“Ar' we jus' gorn'ta tork squit an' gargle ar' proffuts,” say Stan, “Or tork abou' yer gret-summat-gran'fudda an hiz ol'carttage?”
“Wull, wunse he'd stuck hiz fust four pins in th'mould,” say Jarge, “Orl a pole apaart and orl noice an' flush wi'wun'a'nutha. He hed to mearke a roight-angle.”
“How'd he know thet wuz roight?” say Stan, “Hed he gotta set-square?”
“Would not a setsquare be too small?” asks the vicar, imagining the one in his school teacher sister's geometry set.
“Dint need wun,” say Jarge, “He hed sum twine.”
At this point Jarge pulls out a ball of string and wraps several turns of string round his elbow and thumb. Then he lays it out on the bar, neatens the loops and marks two of them with some dottle from his pipe-stem, leaving him with a length of string irregularly marked in ells.
“How'd th'ends,” say Jarge, handin'um to Stan, hew stick hiz thumb on'um a'th'edge a'th'bar.
“An' Oi how'd thus bit hare,” say Jarge stret'chun three ells wuth a twine 'long th'counter.
“Now Yer Rev,” say Jarge, “Yew crook yer finger thru'th'loop and pull thet owt sOo yew hev'ut a'th'last mark.”
“Ah! Pythagoras divides, three, four and five,” says the vicar, “And Lo a pair of angles is created, one being of almost saintly rectitude.”
“A'nangellic sorta angle?” say Bea, “Then dew yew reckon th'utha's a wrong angle?”
“NOo sich thing as a wrong angle,” say Stan, “Jus' lotsa diff'runt wuns.”
“There are those,” says the vicar, “Who believe the Devil can hide in any angle. Some have even been known to built cylindrical houses to avoid it.”
“A'corse a round'ouse is ideal fer swinging a cat,” say Stan, “Nut ev'n Ol'Nick wunt a fearce full a thet.”
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1.04.3 - Wild Dogs and Guard Cats
“Torkin' a' cats,” say Jarge, as Ginny's ol'dawg stik hiz hed roun'th'door.
“That hint a cat,” say Stan, “Nor dew yew hev wun at'tum.”
“Oi dew,” say Jarge, “Thas jus' yew dunt see'ut tew orft'n.”
“Perchance it prefers the hospitality of others,” says the vicar.
“Thet dunt wander far,” say Jarge, “Thas got dewties ter p'form.”
“Have you aquaint'nship with this dutiful feline?” asks the vicar, looking at Stan.
“Oi s'puz Oi hev,” say Stan, “Shall'w' shew hiz Rev. Jarge 'bor?”
“Reckon Ginny wud moind us use'n har ol'dawg, Bea?” say Jarge, “Thet shud stir'ut up a bit.”
“Dunt'spuz thet'd worra har much,” say Bea, “An' thar's nutt'n he loike betta'n tree'n a cat.”
“He'unt git thiss'n up a tree,” say Stan, “Thet Oi'll warrant!
With Ginny's red lurcher leaping wildly about on the end of Jarge's bit of twine, the three men return to the cottage. Jarge leads them round the back to the door he uses most. The door itself is well worn but obviously newer than the frame, which is made of three sturdy chunks of oak crudely morticed, tennoned and pegged. Below the door is a sturdy stone threshold, the only piece of non-flint stone in the place.
“How'd yew hard,” say Jarge to the dawg, putting a firm hand on its rump and pushing hard, “Set yew down boy.”
“So,” says the vicar, “Here we are gazing in expectation. Shall we knock and see the cat answer?”
“Yew can't see'ut then?” say Jarge, “Bu'th'dawg kin.”
“He's certainly looking at something,” says the vicar, “Could it just be the door, like the rest of us?”
“Dew yew open thet door, Stan boy,” say Jarge, “An' gOo warm th'kittle fer us.”
Stan duly opens the door and passes through into a small lobby between the door and the side of the massive whitewashed chimney-breast. Jarge releases the dog and tells it to follow Stan, which it starts to do.
“GOo'orn boy,” say Jarge ter th'dawg, “Get in thar an' help Stan wi' th'tea.”
“From the way it's growling, there's something in its way,” says the vicar as the dog crouches facing the doorway with hackles raised.
“Wull,” say Jarge, “Thas wun cat, thus ol'dawg wunt chearse up'a tree.”
“I don't understand,” says the vicar, “I see no cat, but you're saying the dog does?”
“Thas thar or'rite,” say Jarge, “Oi found'ut unda th'stun when Oi tarned th'thrash'le worn side down. Thet lie thar, fresh as th'day th'gaards wuz set.”
“Ah,” says the vicar, “The old ways. I should have guessed.”
“Nuth'un wild git past him wi'owt my say-so,” say Jarge, “If Bea's ol'dawg wuz betta trained, thet wunt a' nOotuss'd.”
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1.04.4 - Mardle Pits and Duck Ponds
“It constantly amazes me how many ponds there are in the village,” says the vicar, admiring Jarge's flotilla of not quite white ducks as he finishes his second cup of tea.
“Yew'll foind a pit,” say Jarge, “By evra stun caartage, bu' nut th'brick'uns, 'less thassa n'axident.”
“Thas wun way ter win a'nargament,” say Stan, “ A n'axident, Oi arsk yer?”
“Come'n handa fer wortr'n th'garden" say Jarge, “Bu' Oi hev th'well fer meark'n tea.”
“So tell me,” says the vicar, “Why should you only expect to find mardle pits by flint cottages.”
“Ony inland,” say Stan, “Or fer split-flint dug owta th'marl.”
“My fudda an'afore him usta reckon lime-flints wuz bes'set in clay,” say Jarge, “But cobbles in prarpa mortar.”
“Cobbles,” say Stan, “Are roun'stuns mustly frum th'beach along by Sher'num gap.”
“And the clay came from the mardle pit?” says the vicar.”
“Thars nOo gitt'ut parst yew,” say Jarge, “Is thar, Wicar?”
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1.04.4 - Rats in the Wall
“Oi see th'rats ar' gittun in under th'wall,” say Stan, “ Thar by th'worta-butt.”
“Rare ol'loada throw-owt 'arf-bak'd bricks in th'foot'ns,” say Jarge, “ Owta sight, owta moind, thet iz 'til th'rats found'ut.”
“Wull, yew hant dun tew baddla,” say Stan, “ If they wearted thus long ter dew'ut. How owd iz thus plearce?”
“Forgive me such a question,” says the vicar, “ But shouldn't your spectral feline have something to say about the rats?”
“Ah!” say Jarge, “ Them warmints jus' arn't wild a'nuff ter be a'fear't a'har.”
“He's rite thar,” say Stan, “ Giv'um t'ree walnut shells an' a farth'n an' they'll hev th'wearges orf yer by suppa toime.”
“Humm,” says the vicar, “ I'm only just beginning to realise what a devil's dinner this village is putting on my plate. Cottages protected by the old ways, gaming rats that live up to their name, and a pair of old curmudgens determined to drive their Vicar to drink.”
“Oi niver thort he'd git aroun' tew'ut,” say Jarge.
“Roun'ter whut?” say Stan.
“Oi hevta say, Wicar,” say Stan, “Jarge an' me ar' a'bleeged.”
“No, no, Stanley,” says the vicar, “The bewt, as you call it, is on the other foot.”
“Wuss orl the fuss?” say Jarge, “If th'wicar wunt ter stand us a few ales an' a dish a'Bea's ordinaries, he's jus' meak'n up fer th'owd revern't skinflint whut went afore him.”
“You must thank my sister Rosamunda,” says the vicar, “She said that if I was to write a history of the parish, I would, no doubt, have to pay for it in many ways.”
“Yew shud ha' staarted wi' th'glebe,” say Stan, “Thas th'key tew'ut.”
“Th'land,” say Jarge, “Thet orl come down ter th'land.”
“Dun't git him staarted on th'land,” say Stan, “He reckon thas orl hiz arter noightfall.”
“Humm,” says the vicar, “I think the less said about that the better.”
“They say,” say Stan, “Thet Sir Marcus is gitt'n a new gearmekeeper.”
“Pr'aps Oi'll put m'neame in fer'ut,” say Jarge.
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Notes:
“A dish a'Bea's ordinaries” = a simple meal consisting of whatever the innkeeper has handy at the lowest possible price.
“Glebe” - land belonging, or paying rent, to the ecclesiastical part of the parish or district. An element of a vicar's living (income) related to tythes.
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
