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1.05.1 - Poles Apart
Jarge is furious. While he's been busy discussing his cottage with the vicar, a large gang of men has passed through the village, digging holes as they go, erecting heavily creosoted poles and stringing them with shiny new copper wire. The telegraph has arrived, entirely without the help of our expert with the shovel.
While the main purpose of the line is to connect Whitehall, London with the more important North Norfolk ports, a pair of wires swoops down to the front wall of the Great Mardlingham Post Office, itself a recent innovation. This is inconvenient for Jarge and Stan, who both live in Little Mardlingham, because Sir Marcus lives in the middle. This is convenient for him, but because of the size of his country estate, means an extra mile's walk for everybody else.
“Ar' we gornta teark a look a'tut then?” say Stan, “th'telegruffer thing.”
“Dunt know as Oi wun'ta” say Jarge, “Thas a long trudge either way.”
“Oi allus go by th'ford,” say Stan, “Thet way I git t'wash m'feet.”
“Pitta yew dunt gOo thet way more orf'n,” say Jarge, “Oi wund'd wot th'niff wuz.”
“Wull,” say Stan, ignor'n th'hinsult, “We kin allus gOo by th'watermill. Thet way Oi cud flour moi wig, if Oi hed wun.”
“Thet'll tearke a fare ol'mardle ter git parst the miller,” say Jarge, “Got a lotta jaw, thet bloke.”
“We unt hev toime fer thet,” say Stan, “Yew'll hetta pu'tim orf.”
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“Wull hare we ar'then,” say Jarge, “Dint teark s'long as Oi thort.”
“Thas a rum ol'site,” say Stan, “Orl them pusts an' copper twine.”
“Drawn wire,” say Jarge, “Git'ut gud'n'hot. Pull'ut owt loike taffy.”
“Howd'ut wark?” say Stan, “If yew'r s'clever?”
“'Spec' they twang'ut like a fiddle-string,” say Jarge.
“Fiddlesticks,” say Stan, “Jimma say they start'ut orf wi' a spark. Like a flintlock pistol.”
“He tol' me,” say Jarge, “Thet they keep th'sparks in a bottle.”
“So,” say Stan, “Whoy orl th'squit about fiddle strings?”
“Jimma'll tell yer ena'thin',” say Jarge, “Jus' like th'rest'a'um up at Hum Farm.”
“Dunt'chew hev a gud wud fer ena'budda?” say Stan.
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1.05.2 - Cheap Telegram
I did warn you that time was apt to slip about in the virtual villages of Mardlingham. Therefore the fact that they are getting connected to the telegraph network a decade or two before everybody else should come as no suprise. The fact that there is anywhere else in the network for them to send telegrams to, is also a bit of a suprise, but then that's the magic of fiction:
“Th'smawnin',” say Jimma, ketch'n Bea's eye along th' bar, “Oi wuz owt in frunt a'th'pustorfus, wen hew shud come along bu' Stan an' Jarge.”
“Gawp'n a'th'new telegruf poles. Oi'll bet,” say Bea, sidel'n down t'hiz enda th'bar.
“Liss'n,” say Jimma, as they lean thar heds tergither, “Oi'm tell'n yer wot Jarge had t'say.”
“GOo'orn then,” say Bea, “Oi'm orl ears.”
Then Jimma, he say “So Jarge say ter me ‘Wot say Jimma?’ an' Oi say, ‘Nuff'n much, 'ow abou' yew?’ - then Stan, 'e say ter me ‘Jarge tell'ma hiz aunt's sick. Bu' he dunt wuntta tork about it.’ - then Jarge, 'e say ter me ‘Thas nuth'n t'say. Oi'm jus' send'n har sum jollop inna telagrum’ - ‘Blast 'bor’ say Oi ...”
“Yew can't git jollop inna telagrum,” say Bea, “Thet unt gOo down th' wire.”
“Thas jus' wot Oi tell'um,” say Jimma, “Why d'yer allus krearze me wi' intarupshuns.”
“Wull,” say Bea, giv'n him wun a har best smiles, “So wot?”
“Wull 'bor,” say Jimma, “Jarge, 'e tipped hiz cap, sOoz 'e cud scritch hiz hed, an' he say ‘Jollop is med'cin, boy. An' th' best med'cin is a cupla gud larfs! Wull wuth weart'n fer.’”
“An' thas nut jus' sick aunts as ar' weart'n fer'um, neether,” say Bea.
“So I arsk'im wot wuz he gOo'n t'put in th' telegrum,” say Jimma, “and he say ‘Ha ha!’”
“I dun't get'ut,” say Bea.
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1.05.3 - Generosity
On the way back from the Post Office, they take a short cut through Sir Marcus's grounds. Jarge, being the most experienced at slipping through the shrubbery, is far ahead of Stan. Stopping in the shadow of the tall wall of the vegetable garden, he waits for him to catch up:
“Ware'd yew git tew?” say Jarge, “I bin swett'n hare fer ages.”
“Cort a scrumper,” say Stan, hand'n Jarge a'napple.
“Thet wunt me,” say Jarge, gitt'n owt hiz gret ol' parkut nife.
“Ar'yer shure?” say Stan, “Thas th'sorta thing yew tend t'dew, giv'n arf'a charnce.”
“Wull, Oi dint scrump this'n,” say Jarge, “Yew sed so yerself.”
“Yew shunt b'leeve evath'n yew hare,” say Stan, “Yew eat'n orl thet?”
“Oi thort yew wunt me t' eat it,” say Jarge, weild'n hiz blade.
“Oi thort yew'd cut'ut in'arf, fust,” say Stan, hew wuz now regrett'n nut hev'n a nife a hiz own.
“Wull, Oi hev cut'ut in'arf,” say Jarge, “Now Oi'm gornta eat buth orn'em.”
“Thas nut werra greartful,” say Stan, “Nut arter Oi gi' yer a'napple.”
“Shud'a got tew,” say Jarge, “Yew think too meen, thas yor trubble.”
“Oi did,” say Stan, “T'utha wuz near big as yer hed.”
“Wull ware iz'ut, then?” say Jarge, “Oi s'puz yew et'tut.”
“Oi giv'ut tew th'ol'oss,” say Stan, “The Marster's mare.”
“Moi hart alive!” say Jarge, “If yew've sin The Marster, we betta run ferr'ut.”
“Dunt fuss yer'sel',” say Stan, “He wunt look'n thus'way.”
“Wot way wuz he lookin?” say Jarge, dragg'n Stan thru th'shubbery.
“Howd yew hard, boy,” say Stan, “He wuz gawp'n at hiz river.”
“Hent he sin wun afore?” say Jarge.
“Nut wen thas 'arf empta,” say Stan.
“Wull, wud dew he 'spec'?” say Jarge, “Wen th'worta-mill's a turnin'.”
“Oi reckon th'Miller's gornta catch'ut,” say Stan.
“Betta'im than'us!” say Jarge, as they scrum under th'hedge an' owt onta th'lane.
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1.05.4 Charity gets a Hat
The arrival, for the first time, of a telegram at the Little Mardlingham Vicarage has Rosamunda bouncing around in glee. Naturally she wouldn't exhibit such unladylike conduct if her brother was at home, or when standing in front of her small but adoringly attentive Sunday school pupils, but the quiet sobriety of the Vicarage parlour was just asking for it.
So while the aspidistra wilts at the tinkle of her laugh and the dark green velvet drapery draws back its gilded tassels to avoid the flood of exuberance, Rosamunda folds the telegram into a neat little hat and sits it jauntily on the figure of Charity that adorns one end of the mantelpiece. At the other, Faith and Hope can do no more than express a glint of envy in the polished bronze of their piggy little eyes.
Later, hearing him arrive and rather losing her nerve, Rosamunda unfolds the telegram and sweeping regally through into the vicar's study, tucks it into the corner of her brother's blotter. Seeing that the ink pot is low, she refills it from the big bottle in the cupboard. Wondering as she does so, if she dare add a little extra vinegar for the pleasure of seeing his face when the ink fails to cling to the nib.
“And what, prey are you gurgling about?” says the vicar, striding into the study.
“Gurgling, my dear?” says Rosamunda, “I do NOT gurgle! It must have been the ink bottle.”
“I think not,” says her brother, “I know the look on your face when you simultaneously wish to both gurgle and preserve your poise.”
“I'll gurgle if I want to, brother,” says Rosamunda, “Today, I choose not to.”
“Very civilised of you my dear,” says the vicar, “The gardener tells me we have received a telegraphic communication. Is that the case?”
“Why yes. 'Tis here, upon your desk,” smiles his sister, trying to smooth out her earlier creasing.”
“What a curious way they fold these things,” says the vicar, holding it up to the light.
“As a means of communion altogether a-la-mode,” says Rosamunda, “Who knows what strange rituals they must perform to achieve its electrical transportation.”
“Who knows indeed?” grins the vicar, refolding it along the creases, “I see now how it works. Some little imp must wear it as a hat while dancing along the wires.”
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1.05.5 - Disturbing the Peace
If you've followed the Mardlingham Saga from the beginning, you might just remember some mention of antiquarians excavating Roman roads and Rosamunda's enthusiastic involvement in organising the villagers. Perhaps it should be added that her motivations in this matter are not altogether aimed at knowing more about Romans, but more about romance.
“It seems,” says the vicar, “That we shall be receiving a guest.”
“And who might that be?” asks Rosamunda, nervously adjusting the frill of lace about the neck of her pale green satin gown.
“Are you telling me you made the telegram into a little hat without reading it?”
“Oh!” says Rosamunda, “Did I do that?”
“You know you did,” says the vicar, “Just as you know it is our cousin Gregory we are expecting.”
“Will he want to dig for Romans again?” asks Rosamunda, “Like last year.”
“No doubt he will inform us in due course,” says the vicar, “But when I spoke with Sir Marcus, this forenoon, he told me he also has recieved a telegram, on quite a different subject.”
“Cousin Gregory also sent a telegram to Sir Marcus?” says Rosamunda.
“So it seems,” says her brother, “And it has quite disturbed the peace up at The Big House.”
“Are they to quarrel, then?” asks Rosamunda, “Antiquarian and Aristocrat?”
“The Mill Lane Cottages were mentioned,” says the vicar, “And Bramah Closets. But in what connection I failed to understand.”
“A water closet for the use of those cottagers would be a fine act of charity,” says Rosamunda, “They are the worst in the village for foul airs and the sickness they cause.”
“The water there stands high in the ground,” says the vicar, “Stanley tells me it always has. 'Tis the mill dam that holds it back.”
“Then pierce the mill dam,” says Rosamunda, “Is that not the solution?”
“In truth, the miller would dispute that,” says the vicar, “As he loves to dispute everything.”
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1.05.6 - What a Man's Gotta Do
Sometimes, in a small community there are some tasks so obvious that they never get done. Mostly because everybody thinks that somebody else is going to do them. It takes a decisive man to break the deadlock:
“Thas nOo gud,” say Stan, hed'n fer th' door, “Oi hetta dew'ut. An' Oi'm gawn t'dew'ut.”
“Gawn ta dew wot?” say Jarge, as he parss Stan in th' doorway.
“Wot he sed,” say Bea, “Wot'eva thet wuz.”
“Oh thet!” say Jarge, “Oi dunt reckon hiz got'tut in'um.”
“Dunt be s'ard on'im,” say Bea, “Yer allus torkin'im down.”
“Ony wen he need'ut,” say Jarge, “Oi dunt like t'see'im meark'n a fule a'imself.”
“Oi dun'ut,” say Stan, com'n back inta th' bar, “Dint teark tew long, did'ut?”
“A'most back afore yer staart'd,” say Bea.
“Told yer....” say Stan, wi' a big grin.
“So? Wut a'zactly didga dew?” say Jarge.
“Wut Oi sed afore,” say Stan, “Oi sed thet wuz nOo gu...”
“Le'ss nut gOo threw orl thet agin,” say Jarge, “Jus' spit'tut owt.”
“Orl ov'ut?” say Stan, “Oi thort yew new orl abowt'ut.”
“Wull Oi dunt,” say Jarge, “Thas a myst'ry tew me.”
“Dunt giv'me thet,” say Stan, “Thet wuz yew thet sed thet orta be dun.”
“Wot ho, Stan,” say Jimma, com'n inta th'bar wi' a grin like a hayrake, “Yew bin an' dun'ut, now, orl rite.”
“Reckon sOo,” say Stan “Sed Oi wud, an' Oi did.”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
