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1.08.1 - Let's all be Malicious
With British land and naval forces spread far and wide throughout the nineteenth century world, it was an important duty of English landowners, such as Sir Marcus of Mardlingham Hall to stand-to on the home defence front. Consequently all able bodied men not otherwise excused or recruited to the National Forces were expected to join the Local Militia.
The Militia was not altogether popular, and numerous villagers made their displeasure known. Jarge refused to join, but undertook to provide them with gratis burials in the event of a French, Dutch or Spanish invasion. Stan, being Parish Clerk, was exempted, and Rosamunda's cousin Gregory, who held minor rank in Sir Marcus small company, penned the following song, which I have rendered in the dialect as sung by Jimma at its one public performance:
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The Mardlingham Militia
We are th'men a'Mardl'am,
A martial lot are we,
But nOo mark we'll make,
Nor shullin' take,
Fer sogers we'll nut be.
We are th'men a'Mardl'am,
Fighting fit are we,
But we wunt nOo pike,
Nor marlin spike,
Fer marr'ners we'll nut be.
We are th'men a'Mardl'am,
Husbandmen an' free,
But ter leave thus land,
Thet we understand,
Tis nut fer th'likes a'we.
We are th'men a'Mardl'am,
Yew an' him an' me,
But if th'foe come hare,
We'll show nOo fear,
Fer defeated they will be!
We are th'men a'Mardl'am,
We've set aside th'plow,
Wi' Sir Marcus' thanks,
We've joined hiz ranks,
And we are Malicious now.
Copyright The Mundesly Hermit ©2007
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The Militia or as Jimma put it, the Malicious, had a somewhat disruptive effect on village life. Every so often a Muster was held which all Militia members were required to attend, although those that could afford it, arranged for paid substitutes to take their places. Squads were regularly required to turn out in support of Law and Order, and whenever Sir Marcus wanted an excuse to dress-up and show off with a parade or procession.
An unfortunate side effect of all this was that the combination of military shouting, the thud of dusty male boots and clouds of excited sweat, both from men and horses, seemed to do something strange to the more susceptible members of the fairer sexes, of which more anon ...
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1.08.2 - Don't Miss This News
In many ways a deeply rural village like Little Mardlingham was isolated from the British Empire's military adventures. Certainly, men went off to to join the Army, Navy or Marines. Just as others left the village to look for work in Norwich, London, or the industrial midlands. All around them agriculture was changing, folk crafts were being supplanted by powered machinery, and communications were improving.
Of course, in the Vicarage and at The Big House, newspapers were read and the international situation discussed with much enthusiasm and a modicum of understanding. However, in the cottages, mostly everything of that nature was rumour and speculation. After a few pints in the taproom of the Crossed Arms, you could hear just about any ‘news’ you liked:
“Hev'yer hard th'nuws frum th'war?” say Stan.
“Wot war is thet?” say Jarge, hew wunt'ha knowd if thar wuz wun.
“Dunt say wot war!” say Stan, “Say wot nuws?”
“Nuws frum ware?” say Jarge.
“Frum th'war,” say Stan, “Arsk me woss th'nuws frum th'war.”
“Orrite,” say Jarge “Woss th'nuws frum th'war?”
“Wot war?” say Stan, fallin' abou'loike a stuck pig.
“Blast Bor,” say Jarge, “Thas nOo joke!”
“NOo Bor,” say Stan, swyp'n hiz fearce wi'a dwile, “Oi meenta say ...”
“Wot?” say Jarge, “Quit yer snort'n, an' spitt'ut owt.”
“The Dutch hev tearken Holland,” say Stan, “Thas th'nuws.”
“Thas th'nuws?” say Jarge, “Frum th'war?”
“Frum th'war” say Stan, “Fresh in terday.”
“Wull, thas nut how Oi hard it,” say Jarge.
“Whutt'd yew hare then?” say Stan, wi' sum corshun.
“Thet wuz th'Netherlands,” say Jarge, “Thet wuz tuk by th'Dutch.”
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1.08.3 - The Price of Gin
I have already mentioned the unfortunate side effects of military shouting, the tramp of dusty male boots and the pheromone laden atmosphere surrounding the Mardlingham Militia. Obviously not as heady as that from a full unit of cavalry or a detachment from the Brigade of Guards, nevetheless when produced in sufficient quantity, enough to turn the head of any village lass, whether spoken for or not:
“Huzzar an' Steady th'Buffs!” say Jarge with a large dollop of false enthusiasm, as a patrol of th'Militia straggle by t'wards th'tarnpike.
“Marn'n Jarge,” say Buxum Bea, blushing at the sudden eyes-right of the passing troop.
“Marn'n Bor,” say Jarge in a sarky voice, “Hare ter wotch th'dawn-patrol?”
“Bit leart fer dawn,” say Bea, “If thar orf ter 'Olland.”
“NOo,” say Jarge, hew cud niver let an ol'joke die, “Th'Netherlands.”
“Yis,” say Bea, “Wot wuz yew orl orn about yisterd'y?”
“Wot,” say Jarge, “Holland an' th'Netherlands?”
“Ummmmm?” say Bea, eye'n th'troopers wi'sum pleasure.
“Dunchew know?” say Jarge, “Th'plearce ware th'gin come frum.”
“Ooh!” say Bea, “Is thet ware th'war is?”
“Dunt arsk me,” say Jarge, “Thet wuz ol'Stan hew started th'rigmarole.”
“Morning Miss Beatrice,” says the corporal, calling a halt.
“Oi hope yer nut gawn to spile the price of gin,” say Bea, to the poor lad's confusion.
“So do I,” says the corporal, “I merely wanted to wish you a good morning.”
“Then a gud Marn'n it shull be, Corpr'l,” say Buxum Bea, primp'n har hare so har chest stick owt.
“Marn'n Jarge,” say Jimma wi' a glare frum th'sec'nd rank, ware he wuz stand'n in fer sum bluk.
“Silence in the Ranks,” say Jarge, since the corporal was obviously too smitten to do it himself.
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1.08.4 - Satan in a cloud of steam
Few people in the village of Little Mardlingham had seen Satan, fewer still had seen a steam engine or read about them in the Times. The Vicar, naturally was well informed on both phenomena, as was his sister.
In the adjacent and considerably larger village of Great Mardlingham there were several chapels, in some of which, when people mentioned the Thunderer, Satan was what came to mind rather than that leading national newspaper of the times, The Times.
The chapels were the product of popular movements and rang with spiritual songs and strong sermons. Little Mardlingham's church had been built by the wool trade, tended towards a somewhat appropriate spiritual woolliness, and rang mostly with bells:
“There's a rumour round the village that war has broken out in Holland,” says Rosamunda, flipping the pages of the Times, “But as yet is not reported here.”
“If the Thunderer fails to speak on the matter,” says the Vicar, “Then the matter is not worthy of note.”
“True they have yet to mention any of your fervent sermons,” laughs his sister, “Or the appreciative snores of the congregation.”
“What do you mean?” chokes her brother, “I heard no snoring.”
“Nor did I,” says Rosamunda, “My little nap was too, too refreshing.”
“You slept through my sermon?” gasps her brother, who knew very well that she had.
“What happened to that youthful enthusiasm,” says Rosamunda, “The gimlet eye, the accusing finger, the swirl of vestments and the clerical collar springing free of its stud?”
“I used to be like that?” says the Vicar, in sure and certain doubt.
“No but you might have been,” smiles his sister, “If you'd stopped gazing at the scenery, sketching the cottages and mixing with doubtful characters like George and Stanley.”
“It's my parish. I need to record it,” says the Vicar, “The world is changing. There are Militia camped on the hill. Telegrams speeding by on flying wires.”
“You forget,” grins his sister, “This is Norfolk, I'd say you had at least a hundred years before you need to worry.”
“Nevertheless,” says the Vicar, “There's real news on it's way, and it will probably arrive in a cloud of steam.”
“Then there's your theme to stir us all next Sunday,” grins his sister, “Satan in a cloud of steam.”
“Splendid! That other Thunderer, the Railway!” he laughs, “Iron Saint or Fire-breathing Dragon?”
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1.08.5 - Just a Pair of Turnips
It was an earthshaking evening in the taproom of the Crossed Arms. Buxum Bea was not in her usual place behind the bar, where Stan was doing duty as a stand-in. Instead she was sitting on a settle in the alcove beside the inglenook with her elbows on the table gazing up into the face of a certain elegant young corporal attached to the Mardlingham Militia:
“Wotteva shull Oi dew?” say Jimma, nodd'n hiz hed a'th'lite a'hiz'loife an' har new beau.
“Git yersel' anutha wun,” say Stan, lick'n spilt beer orf th'bakka hiz hand.
“Thar hint ena abowt,” say Jimma, “Nut wot Oi fansa, thet is.”
“Thar's thet fine young mawtha ware yew wuk a'Dorsen's Farm,” say Stan, “Wot abowt har?”
“Jinny?” say Jimma, “Nah, shiz nut my sort.”
“Ah,” say Jarge, “Yew dunt gOo fer th'tall skinna wuns, then.”
“NOo, thet hint th'gal. Thas thet ol'dawg a'harn thet put me orf,” say Jimma, “Lollop'n gret hairy lurcher, wi'a long tongue.”
“Hint Bea gotta long tongue?” say Jarge, “Stick a paira tarnips dun Jinny's boddice an'wiv' har an'th'dawg, yew'd nivver know the diffrunce.”
“Oi'm nut wun ter give bluks a ding a'th'lug,” say Jimma, “But fer yew, Oi plan ter mearke a'nexcepshun.”
“He wuz rite, wen he giv'us thet song,” say Stan, “We are orl malicious now!”
“Wull, yew hint!” say Jimma, beginning to lose his rag, along with his logic.
“Wen Oi wuz ov'r th'hills an'far away, bee'n a soger,” say Jarge, “Thar wuz a lot yew cud dew wi'a long pike an'a handy root ter trip ov'r.”
“Oi'm in th'hay-rake brigade,” say Jimma, “We dun't hev pikes.”
“Scratch th'pig-stick'n then,” say Stan, “Oi spuz we cud git'im skew-wiff an'dump'im in wi'th'hogs.”
“Look owt,” say Stan, “Thar a'come'n ov'r ter th'bar.”
“Then Oi'm orf,” say Jimma, “Case Oi mearke a prarpa fule a'm'self.”
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1.08.6 - The Rumpus That Never Was
In the taproom of the Crossed Arms, although it is now approaching Stan's time for wandering off home to bed, for others, the coming night is one of great potential. Jarge, for instance has already left with certain nefarious nocturnal misdemeanours in mind, but that's a story for another chapter:
“Orl rite?” say Bea, teark'n ov'r frum Stan a'th'bar.
“Spuz'sOo,” say Stan, “Th'rumpus wuz quell'd, ena'wayz.”
“Oi dint nOotuss nOo rumpus,” say Bea, leen'n in ter sniff hiz breth, then pick'n up th'brandy flask and giv'n't a shake.
“Thas coz it wuz quell'd,” say Stan, “Fine lad thet Jimma, wen thet come ter a rumpus.”
“Jimma quell'd a rumpus?” say Bea, giv'n Stan wun a'har looks.
“Un a manna a'speak'n,” say Stan, “He dud.”
“Oi see,” say Bea, “A rumpus wot dint git start'd coz Jimma dint start'un.”
“Yew shun't git him riled, loike thet,” say Stan, “Hiz a gud lad.”
“Carn't a gal mardle wi'a frend, wen she wunt?” say Bea, wav'n a sartin empta finga afrunt a'hiz nose.
“Oi thort,” say Stan, “Yew an'Jimma hed an agreemunt, ring or nut.”
“Wull!” say Bea, “Yew know wot Thort thort.”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
