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1.07.1 - Unlucky for Some
There's an unkempt bow-top caravan nestling in the scrubland edging Mardlingham Common. It's home to a mother and two undernourished but annoyingly vibrant youngsters. The village tolerates this ragamuffin family, even secretly welcomes their presence, mainly because an odd coin or two keeps them honest and when they're feeling honest they make an excellent job of minding the animals grazing on the common. On this particular day, the mischevious pair are enjoying a moment to themselves in the rear corner of the church-yard:
“Hint yew afeerd t'dew thet,” say Ragamuffin, “Thas th'thuteenth a'th'munth, terday.”
“Dew wot,” say Dollymuffin, hev'n a larf tew harsel' as hiz fearce go red atween th'freckles.
“Dancin along th'top a'th'chuchyaard wall,” say har elda brutha, stamp'n onna nettle.
“Dew thet 'f Oi wunt,” she say, “Oi hint afeer'd.”
“Wottle yew dew wen yer git tew th'end,” say har brutha.
“Dussappear inta th'blew,” she say, “Loike a bud.”
“Wull, Oi hint gonna look,” say th'boy, “If yew drop orf an' fall onyer hed, thas yor biznus!”
“Oi hint gonna fall on me hed!” say little Dollymuffin, toss'n har carrotty curls as she dew a helgunt twurl on th'verra larst stun.
“Oi hint look'n.” say Ragamuffin, wi' hiz mucky han's ov'r hiz eyes.
Owta site, ahint th'wull in th'wicar's medda, Jimma Boy is a'load'n hiz cart. “Wotchew dew'n up thar, gal,” he say.
“Husshup,” say Dollymuffin, “An' meark rum fer 'nutha stook in thet thar cart, a'yorn.”
“Thas 'nuffa yor cheek,” say Jimma, as she jump abord, “Git outta my cart.”
But Dolly, she hevut orl under control, “Giddup Dobbin.” she say, an' th'ol'cart go carare'r'n acrost th'medda atta gallop, wi'boy Jimma hot-foot arter'ut. Back'n th'Chuchyaard, arta th'owd tum-stuns hev enjoy'd a munn't a'tew a'quiet:
“Now wearz she gorn?” say a wide eyed Ragamuffin, gawp'n ova th'mossy cap-stuns inta th'medda. But thar wuz nobudda thar butt sum chick'ns.
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1.07.2 - No Miracle, Just Chickens
It being the thirteenth of the month does not faze the vicar as he investigates certain strange noises in his Churchyard:
“Prey child,” says the vicar, “Wipe your eyes and tell me what's wrong.”
“Oi hint bawl'n,” say Ragamuffin, putt'n orn hiz must nangelluk fearce.”
“My mistake,” says the vicar, “Then tell me what ails you.”
“Oi lorst m'susta,” say th'boy, “She sed she wuz gonna floie orf loike a bud, then she did!”
“And where did this miracle occur?” asks the vicar, clasping his hands behind the skirt tail of his cassock and looming over the child.
“Oi dunno ...” stutters Ragamuffin, not at all happy about being loomed over, even if it was being done with an amused grin.
“Here in God's little acre, perhaps?” says the vicar attempting to make himself less threatening by stepping back and adjusting his clerical collar.
“Thet' hint an acre,” say Ragamuffin, no longer feeling intimidated in the face of such ignorance, “thas tree an'a'narf.”
“Curiously,” says the vicar, with a smile, “We're both right. Now please tell me more about your sister's little miracle.”
“She sed she wuz gonna floie orf like a bud, then she did!” say Ragamuffin, “But Oi dun't rekon she flew'd verra far.”
“Well, just show me where it happened,” says the vicar, “And mayhap we shall find her nearby.”
“Thet'appen in th'medda,” say th'boy, “Floie'd harsel' orf the toppa th'chuchyaard wall, she did.”
“There's nothing there,” says the vicar as they arrive at the wall and peer over, “Except some chick'ns.”
“Zactly!” say th'boy, “Chick'ns!”
“Well,” says the vicar, “There seems to be no sign of your your flying sister.”
“Oh she's thar awright,” say Ragamuffin, “Oi just carn't tell wot wun a'th'chick'ns iz har.”
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1.07.3 - Rosamunda's Dominions
The warm glow of burning whale oil pervades the parlour at Mardlingham Vicarage. The vicar's sister Rosamunda is not bothered by this fact. She, like most of the citizens of England in the nineteenth century, is confident that her God has given the human race dominion over all animals. It says so in the book upon her lap.
Rosamunda has been Sunday school teacher in Little Mardlingham for over two years and is now appointed governess at the recently completed village schoolhouse. So in addition to her share of the responsibility for dominion over the animal kingdom, she has personal dominion over all those village children of ages five to eleven who can be persuaded to attend. Her most recently enrolled pupils are the Ragamuffins, although Dollymuffin is the only one whose presence can normally be relied upon:
“Rosamunda, my dear,” says the vicar, laying aside his recently arrived copy of yesterday's Times, “I have important news that shall perhaps amuse you.”
“Has the Thunderer so changed its tune?” smiles Rosamunda, “That it can provide amusement for such fluff-heads as I, dear brother.”
“Not so much a roar from that giant of publishing, my dear,” says he, “More an impish squeal from a certain Ragamuffin of your aquaintance.”
“What have they been up to now?” asks Rosamunda, a frown disturbing her otherwise unfurrowed brow.
“The male of the species accosted me in the Churchyard,” says the vicar, “Somewhat tearstained and seemingly under the impression that his sister had miraculously flown away.”
“Humm!” says Rosamunda, “In my experience it's the boy who flys away. Usually at the first sign of anyone trying to improve his school attendance.”
“According to the Ragamuffin,” says the vicar, “His sister had literally flown away, like a bird.”
“Like a bird?” smiles she in disbelief, “What sort of bird.”
“Poultry, apparently,” smiles he in reply, “One of several chickens.”
“And you saw this miracle with your own eyes?” laughs Rosamunda, “And by miracle, I assume you mean that a chicken can properly fly?”
“I saw the chicken,” chuckles the vicar, “But not the flight.”
“And this chicken was the child Dollymuffin.” says his sister, trying to keep a straight face.
“According to the boy, one of them was,” says the vicar, “His particular worry was that he didn't know which of the chickens she had become.”
“He was having you on,” grins Rosamunda, “He may look like a ginger-topped angel, but miraculous flying sisters ... Really!”
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1.07.4 - Back at the Churchyard
While Rosamunda, sweet sister to the vicar and delightfully awesome Village Governess at the Little Mardlingham School, may not have believed in the Ragamuffin's stated plight; the young lad himself did not share her scepticism. His sister Dolly had said she was going to fly from the top of the churchyard wall, “like a bird” and she had immediately seemed to do so.
However, Dollymuffin was not the only one to have disappeared from Church Meadow. Prior to the aforesaid “miracle” of Dolly's flight, Jimma had also been there loading his cart. Now we know how these events were connected, but for the Ragamuffin boy they are still a mystery.
“Blust Boy!” say Jarge, popp'n hiz hed owt th'grearve he wuz digg'n, “Yew look loike yer lorst sixpunce an' found a penna.”
“Hev yer sin my susta?” say th'boy, “She's gorn.”
“Gorn?” say Jarge, tipp'n up hiz ol'cap and hev'n th'usual skritch a'hiz hed.
“Tarn'd inta a bud, she did,” say Ragamuffin, “An'floie orf inta th'medda ter be a chick'n.”
“A chick'n?” say Jarge, “A gal wi'high hambishuns then?”
“Dunno'bout thet,” say th'boy, “Oi shew Wicar th'chick'ns an' he jus' larfed.”
“Oi shudda thort thet wudda bin t'other way about,” say Jarge, “Gawn by wot Oi know about wicars an' chick'ns.”
“Oi wunt moooooie suusssta,” bawl th'child, squirtn' worta outa buth a'hiz eyes.
“Wull,” say Jarge, hopp'n owt th'grearve loike a jack'n'th'box, “Less gOo arsk Jimma.”
“Now thar's a thing,” say Jarge, wen they git ter th'medda an'hinspec' th'available powltry, “She seem ter hev tarned Jimma inta a chick'n, an'orl.”
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1.07.5 - By Ale or By Whale
With Rosamunda discussing things with her brother in the whale oil glow of the vicarage parlour lamps, the enlightement of the lesser mortals, who are now gathering in the village ale-house, is more likely oiled by the sociable effects of fermented barley.
“Hare he come,” say Stan, as Jimma jaunt hiz way inta th'tap-rum a'th'Crorst Arms.
“Oi hare yew bin chears'n arta th'gals agin,” say Buxum Bea, as she hack him sum suppa orf a chunk a'ham.
“Thas why he looks s'pleez'd wi'hiz self,” say Jarge, “Dint ketch ena, though, didja boy?”
“Ketch'd up wi'me cart,” say Jimma, wi'a look a'triumph, “Thet wuz orl Oi wunt.”
“Oony cuz hiz ol'Dobbin tukkut hum,” say Stan, “Loike thet allus dew.”
“How'd yew know thet?” say Jimma, “Oi cudda caught'ut fare'n'square.”
“Oi wuz hev'n a natta wi'ol'Dorsen,” say Stan, “In hiz rick-yaard, wen thet gOo by.”
“Oi see,” say Jimma, “Wuz thet ginger imp still orn th'back?”
“NOo,” say Stan, who'd actually seen her jump off by the end of Common Lane, “Long gorn, Oi shud think.”
“Dint yew hare?” say Jarge frum a settle by th'hinglenook, “She tarn'd inta a chick'n an' spent th'even'n scratch'n fer medda warrums.”
“Nut wile Oi wuz wotch'n, she dint,” say Jimma, “Theev'n little Ragamuffin.”
“Wull thas wot har brutha reckon,” say Jarge, “An' he's got th'wicar on hiz side.”
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1.07.6 - Chicken Finale
er of Mardlingham Common, where the scrub has managed to grow faster than the inhabitants can chop it down for firewood, is a small clearing. Half under the old oak at the back of this dell, a gypsy caravan can be seen in the glow of a cooking fire. There are two people by the fire, a slim dark haired woman and a ginger haired girl. A second child is about to slouch into the circle of firelight.
“Ware yew bin?" say Ragamuffin's mother, "Yer susta's bin hum fer hours.”
“Bin roun'th'snares,” say the boy, eyeing his sister with suspicion, the walk home having somewhat corrected his view of the world.
“Chick'n fer suppa,” say dolly, “If thar's ena left.”
“Bin steal'n frum th'foxes agin?” say the boy, glaring at Dolly as his mother passes him his share, “Ar did thet folla yer hum?”
“Thet wuz in Jimma's cart,” say Dolly, “Orl Oi did wuz sit onnut. Dint know thet wuz thar wen Oi jump in.”
“Orl Oi kin say is,” say thar mother, “Thas a gud jarb yew dint bring hum th'hull cart, an'dunt think Oi dint seeya wi thet Jimma boy rant'n arter yer, cuz Oi did.”
“Huh!” say the boy, “Oi'm rite orf chick'ns.”
“Wull, thas a gud jarb thet dun't seem ter spile yer appl'tite,” say his mother, watching him lick the last of the grease off his fingers.
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
