— • —
1.10.1 - Laudate Laudanum
In persuading the corporal to drink as much as possible of Bea's supposed ‘night-cap for her beau’, Jarge had taken a few swigs of encouragement. The quart jar which contained a mixture of strong ale, laudanum, lime and cloves, tasted suprisingly innocuous, and Jarge had swigged a little more than was altogether sensible. However, whilst the major share quaffed by the corporal had acted swiftly enough, the effect of Jarge's careful sips had been rather more insidious. So it was not until after he had abandoned Jimma at the fiasco in the Plantation, that the laudanum began to take effect.
Being an old fox by instinct, Jarge had doubled back behind Sir Marcus's anti-poaching patrol and into the big field between the Militia camp and the river. As soon as he slowed down, he knew he was in trouble. The gap in the moonlit hedgerow swirled and swam before his eyes. So it was more by luck than judgement, that he staggered through into the small copse by the ford. There he sank to the ground against a mossy stump, while the Moon, with appropriate suddenness, set behind the hill and darkness descended like a theatrical curtain.
Five hours later, the Sun takes its first steps into the sky, turning the heavens blue and drawing out the cheerful early risers of all local species; among them, a certain long-boned dairymaid from Dorsen's Farm and her great lolloping long tongued, long haired red lurcher, so unloved by Boy Jimma:
“Woo hee!” say Ginny, call'n har dawg, “Hip hip hip, woo hee!”
“Gruff wuff snuffle snaffle,” say th'dawg, wi'hiz nose down a rabba'tole, but unhard by hiz ador'n mistrus.
“Thas a luv-luv-luv'ly day terday,” say Ginny, in har sing'n voice, but nut sa'lowd as ter spile th' peace a'th'marn'n sunbeams. Then, “Woo hee!” she gOo, fer the benef't a'har dawg, “Hip hip hip, woo hee!”
“Snuff snuff,” say the dawg, plung'n in amung th'brier an' bramm'll's in sarch a'more rabba'toles.
Overhead, the Sun takes another careful step up the ladder of the heavens. In the copse, Jarge is sleeping with his head lolling about on top of the old stump, his mouth open to the sky. If there had been rain in the night, he would probably have drowned, as it was, more than one passing bird had considered its potential as a nest site. Ginny's lurcher, having no sense of responsibility passed Jarge by, him being neither a rabbit nor awake, so it was without warning that the girl entered the clearing.
“Gawd blessus an'orl th'little fishes,” say Ginny, nare jump'n owtta har skin, “RAGGS, Raaaagggs.”
“Fffwup?” say Raggs, whose policy was to ignore all calls unless they were obviously tinged with panic.
“Garrgh!” say Jarge, jark'n hisself awearke, “Woss gOo'naarn?”
“Hev yer sin moi ol'dawg,” say Ginny, “Gret lollop'n red thing.”
“Urk,” say Jarge, as best's he cud wi'a dry mouth, “Durg?”
“Yew orl rite?” say Ginny, “Oi fort yew wuz ded.”
“So did Oi,” say Jarge, in his best croak.
“Reckon thas a parch'd throat,” say Ginny, pick'n up hiz owd hat.
“Wot-chew dew'n wi'thet,” say Jarge, “Thas moi hat.”
“Yew rather Oi let Raggs git it?” say Ginny, look'n round fer har dawg.
“Raggs?” say Jarge, but th'gal's orlredda gawn.
A few minutes go by, Jarge closes his eyes and scratches his head. Then Ginny appears from the direction of the river with a hat full of water. As she enters the clearing, a long haired dog draped with brambles careers out of the woods and flings itself at her legs, then begins to weave a figure-of-eight orbit across her path. She stops.
“Wot ar'yew loike,” she say, holding Jarges water filled hat high out of the dog's reach, “Look a'chew!”
“Gawd! Wot a pitcha,” say Jarge, “Wench beset by a bush orn legs.”
“Hebe!” say Ginny, who was a secret reader and was reminded of an illustration in one of her books.
“He wot?” say Jarge, refresh'n hisself frum th'hat.
“Worta carrier tew th'Lympian gods,” say Ginny, taking the pose.
“Limp'n gawds?” say Jarge, “Thas a nue wun!”
“Nem'moind thet,” say Ginny, “Gimme a hand wi'thus dawg.”
— • —
1.10.2 - Raggs Keeps his Head
Reclaiming a long haired dog, such as Ginny's Raggs, from a self-inflicted compost heap of briers and brambles is not a painless operation. Except, that is, for the dog.
“Howd still” say Ginny, “Look a'chew.”
“Gerrorff!” say Jarge, as the dog flings an affectionate tongue across his face.
“Gitta a howd a thus,” say Ginny, unwinding a length of wild rose and thrusting it at Jarge.
“Yowch!” say Jarge, finding a thorn, “Wot now?”
“Giv'ut a gud ol'yank,” say Ginny, “While Oi hang orntta hiz hed.”
“Wunt thet come orf?” say Jarge, giving the trail of wild roses a half-hearted tug.
“Thas th'hull idea,” say Ginny, “Hin'chew bin pay'n attenshun?”
“Wull,” say Jarge, “If yew wunt a hedless dawg...”
“Dunt be sa'silla,” say Ginny, with a laugh, “Jus'git orn wi'ut.”
“Blust me,” say Jarge, “Thas orl come orf a'twunce.”
“Stand ter reez'n,” say Ginny, “If thet 'ook orn gawn furruds, thet'll pull orf gawn backuds.”
“Wull Oi niver,” say Jarge, as Raggs bounds away, “Now ware's he gorn?”
“Fer a dip in th'ford, Oi'spec,” say Ginny, “Ter rid himsel'a'th'itches.”
— • —
1.10.3 - Raggs Loses his Head
It is some time since we heard of Sir Marcus's Bailiff, and when we did it was not the man who now fills that position in the Mardlingham Hall estate. This man is an altogether more effective impositor of his master's will, which today is entirely to do with poachers, caught redhanded and dispatched to Norwich Gaol. Meanwhile Jarge and Ginny are still having a morning mardle:
“If thas th'way thet ol'dawg a'yorn tearke a bath,” say Jarge, as their ears are assailed by wild and continuous barking, “Dunt'spec me ter hand'im a towel.”
“Hent nivv'r gorn thet barmy afore,” say Ginny, grabbing her skirts and loping off in the direction of the ford.
“Blast Bor!” say Jarge, “Thas Jimma's cart, an orl.”
Here we should stop to investigate just what Jarge meant by his ‘and all.’ Raggs, like Horatio at the bridge, is defending the ford against all comers. Plunging and lunging in the shallow water, the demented dog is sending spray in all directions and broadcasting his displeasure both frequently and loudly.
Stalled in the ford is Jimma's horse Dobbin, complete with Jimma's cart and in fact Jimma himself. Although this latter element of the set is not immediately visible to Jarge and Ginny. All they can see as they arrive at the ford, is the Bailiff perched up on the front of a two wheeled tumbril, waving a long sporting gun and matching the dog curse for curse.
“RAAAAAGS!” shouts Ginny in her most imperious manner, “Git'chew ter heel, NOW!”
“Yew wunt git'im ter...” say Jarge as what he is about to say is proved wrong.
“G'dawg,” say Ginny, hugging her waterlogged hound, “Urgh, yew're orl wet!”
“Maze'n,” say Jarge, turning to watch the cart pulling away from the ford.
“Hewza g'dawg?” say Ginny, covering her face as Raggs shakes himself dry.
Of course, it was at that moment that Jarge saw what the cart was carrying. Boy Jimma and the Coporal, sitting there in misery and manacles.
— • —
1.10.4 - Blacksmith Bracelets
What is it about long-haired dogs that makes them so good at soaking you when they shake themselves dry? With a smooth dog, the hair lies flat and feels silky, its skin is relatively tight and it gets its insulation from a layer of subcutaneous fat. It hardly needs to shake to dry itself, a couple of good shrugs will do the job. Rough-haired dogs have short crisp upstanding hair and feel waxy, which is because they are. They may need to shake harder than a smoother species, but its more of a quick buzz and a spray of fine droplets. Long-haired dogs like Raggs have loose folds of skin which the long hair extends. When they shake, the folds of skin rotate from one side of their body to the other and by centrifugal force fling water outwards like a flash flood hitting a windmill.
Ginny, well used to the habits of her dog has turned aside and thrown up an arm to shelter her face. Jarge, who was not expecting it had also turned to watch the retreating cart. Unfortunately this brought him face to face with a wall of water that had him spluttering and reeling backwards into the ford.
“Wot'teva ar'yer dew'n now?” say Ginny, in har chok'n ter death on a larf voice.
“Thet wuz Jimma,” say Jarge, scrambl'n owta th'worta, “An'th'Corpr'l wi'him. Buth ware'n blacksmith bracelets.”
“Cort poach'n,” say Ginny, “Oi hard abowt'ut. Shot th'Marsta, an'orl, they say.”
“Knock'd hiz'at orf,” say Jarge, “Thas orl.”
“Hang'n matter,” say Ginny, “Or wurse!”
“Blust Bor!” say Jarge, wring'n owt hiz coat, “It wuz me thet got'm cort. Oi reckon thas upta me ter gitt'm orf.”
“Wot we gonna dew?” say Ginny, who was, after all, a fellow member of the Darsen's Farm team, along with Jimma, Raggs and of course the horse, Dobbin.
“Kin yew an' Raggs harry th'cart?” say Jarge, “Gi'me toime ter git ahed a'rutt?”
“Dunno,” say Ginny, look'n at har dawg, “Recon we kin giv'ut a gOo.”
— • —
1.10.5 - Mucky Momentum
If there was one class of Little Mardlingham's inhabitants that were satisfied with their lot, it was the horses. This was not true of horses in other places, but from Sir Marcus with his cosseted equine aristocrats, to the boy with the village muck-cart, horses were respected as the essential motive force of all endeavour, and cared for accordingly.
In fact if the muck-cart boy's life had been even half as good as that of his pony, he would have sung like a bird and danced the day away with happy little jigs. As it was he could only manage a half-hearted skip between each verse of the popular tune he was attempting to whistle; a task that required his full attention. Which is why, when he turned his pony, cart and load of nightsoil from Vicarage Loke into Ford Lane, he failed to take note of the obstruction.
During the pull up the gradient from river level, Dobbin, being a patient and experienced animal, had been ignoring the leaping, barking Raggs. Now with the cart on level ground, the horse stopped. The dog planted itself squarely in the way and began to growl. The Bailiff responded with a fine reprise of the invective he had so recently performed at the ford.
There is little doubt, that without this intervention of the great god Coincidence, Jarge might have missed the moment.
“Um!” say th'muck-boy, as hiz pony rare up loike a prize stallion, “Whoah thar. WOo boy, whoaahh!”
“Whoah thar. Blust boy, whoaahh!” say th'Bailiff, as Raggs an'Dobbin join th'fun an' muck gOo eva'ware.
“Hare,” say Jarge, acreep'n up an' dropp'n th'tail a'th'tumbril, “Git yersel's owtta thar, an' folla me.”
“How?” say Jimma, slid'n ontta hiz knees in th'dust, then roll'n ter th'verge a th'lane ter avoid th'slosh a'muck.”
“Ar'yer come'n?” say Jarge tew th'corpr'l, “Thas th'on'y charnse, yer gonna git,” but th'corpr'l say nOo.
“Th'chuch,” say Ginny, gitt'n holda wun a'Jimma's arms an'nodd'n har hed at th'nareby tower, “Hide'im in th'chuch.”
“Blust bor!” say Jarge, gitt'n th'other arm, “Thet'll dew'ut. Hev'tew.”
“Dunt Oi git a say?” say Jimma, feel'n th'wate a'hiz blacksmith bracelets at buth rist an'ankle.
“Hush yer gob,” say Jarge, “An'if yer can't walk, yew'll hetta jump.”
— • —
1.10.6 - Sanctum Sanctorum
The few furlongs of green verged road that serve Little Mardlingham as a high street, consider their work done when, having left the Crossed Arms Inn in the east, they have strolled west as far as the church. At that point an ambitious traveller, on a similar stroll, must choose between three equally unimportant looking cart-ways: Ford Lane, Gallows Lane and The Vicarage Loke.
To the right, Gallows Lane slopes up along the west side of the churchyard. It is a rutted green lane whose first straight length is lent some importance by an avenue of elms. However, this early promise leads only to a winding high-hedged track serving Gallows Hill fields and ending in a confusion of bridleways leading either into or around the Gallows Hill Plantation. It is in one of these fields that a small contingent of the Mardlingham Militia have been encamped for the past week.
On most ordinary days, if the ambitious traveller at the end of the High Street had wanted to advance straight on down Ford Lane, it could have been done. Today, however, the way is blocked.
To the Left, falling gently towards Low Road and the marshes, is Vicarage Loke. Beside this, facing the church is the substantial residence shared by the Vicar with his sister Rosamunda. Their house, of rather more Regency style than Georgian, is set well back behind laurel hedges and shrubberies pierced by a neat shingle carriage drive. At the moment of this snapshot, breakfast is being served and Rosamunda is currently waiting for the tea to brew, before pouring her brother his first indulgence of the day. The serenity of this little ceremony is spoilt by an insistent knocking at the door.
“Visitors?” asks the Vicar, shaking his newspaper into a readable shape after turning the page.
“A wiz'ta, yer rev'rnt,” says the maid as she enters the breakfast room, followed by a breathless girl.
“Why Virginia?” says Rosamunda, “Whatever is the matter?”
“Chuch ... Muck-cart ... Bailiff ... Huff, uff, Sank ...” says Ginny.
“The Bailiff has sunk the muck-cart in the church?” says Rosamunda.
“Wot?” say Ginny, looking astounded, “Sanc'werry! Thass wot Oi meen.”
“The Bailiff has sunk a wherry in the church?” says the Vicar, as much at sea as his sister.
“Um,” says Ginny, “Them poachers, wot hint poachers... um.”
“For goodness sake,” says Rosamunda, steering Ginny to a chair and diverting the Vicar's cup of tea into her shaking hands, “Calm down, take a deep breath and tell us exactly what has happened.”
“Yess miss,” says Ginny, sipping the tea, “Thas sort'uv loike this...”
“She means sanctuary,” exclaims the Vicar, rising from the table to pour his own cup of tea, “The poachers have claimed sanctuary in the church.”
— • —
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
