— • —

1.12.1 - Dragon for Breakfast

“Saint George's day,” announces the vicar, stirring his breakfast tea, while waiting for his oatmeal to cool.

“Then why have you chosen porridge?” asks his sister, “A meal more suited to St. Andrew of Scotland, than St. George of England.”

“You forget our village church is also dedicated to St. Andrew,” says the vicar, “So porridge will always be appropriate - or bacon, naturally, his symbol being a pig.”

“Or ham, I suppose,” says Rosamunda, “But tell me, dear brother, what would be properly appropriate for a Saint George's breakfast? - Dragon perhaps?”

“Mardlingham is particularly short of dragons,” smiles the vicar, “Unless you count Sir Marcus among their number.”

“Roast beef?” says his sister, blushing at the mention of Sir Marcus.

“Not for breakfast,” says the vicar, “I'm content to praise St. Andrew in the morning, perhaps we should celebrate St. George this evening?”

“The cook has planned a vegetable hot-pot,” says Rosamunda, “I fear your stipend doesn't stretch as far as beef, even for Saint George.”

— • —

1.12.2 - Lugs Like a Jug

Little Mardlingham church has a spate of christenings, five in a week, a most unusual event in a population of little more than 400 villagers.  After the first of the ceremonies, Jarge, Stan and the vicar meet in the church porch:

“Lugs loike a jug,” say Stan, with his head on one side staring at Jarge's left ear, “Ar'they a pair?”

“Moind yer'own biznus,” say Jarge, “Wot if they arn't?”

“Nutt'n,” say Stan, “Jus'summat Oi nOotuss'd.”

“Wuss thet, then?” say Jarge, “Mardl'num lugs?”

“Now yew menshun'ut,” say Stan, “Eva'budda roun'hare seem ter hev a fare size a'lobes ter'th'ears.”

“It's true,” say th'wicar, “I have even made a note of it in my journal.”

“Sep'thus'marn'n,” say Stan, “At Hannah's leartus' chrustn'n.”

“Hannah hev big lobes,” say Jarge, “So dew har man.”

“That's true as well,” say th'wicar, “Quite prominent.”

“So wot'yer orn abowt?” say Jarge.

“Th'bebbie hint,” say Stan, “NOo lobes a'torl!”

“Ne'moind, eh?” say Jarge, “Look'd a pitcha wi'orl thet lace an' silk ribb'ns.”

— • —

1.12.3 - Warp in the Weft

Jarge is sitting on the ancient stone mounting block by the corner of the churchyard wall:

“Marn'n,” say Stan, “Wut way ar'yer gawn?”

“Wun ar'tutha,” say Jarge, “Thet depend.”

“Oi just binta th'chrustn'n,” say Stan, “Martha's lit'lun.”

“Wuz thet tree-sprite a'troll,” say Jarge.

“Wuss th'dif'runce?” say Stan.

“Lobes,” say Jarge, “Sprites dunt hev'em.”

“Cud hardly see,” say Stan, “Fer orl th'lace shawls an'ribb'ns.”

“Trickalear'shuns agin!” say Jarge, “Ware'd she git th'munna?”

“Tree-sprite,” say Stan, “In cearse yew wuntta know.”

“Thass a warp in thus weft,” say Jarge, “Mark moi wuds.”

— • —

1.12.4 - Piddle in the Font

At St. Andrew's Church, Little Mardlingham, the third christening of the week has recently finished and the party dispersed,   Stan and the vicar are standing by the font, where Stan has just fished out an expensive baby's lace cap with a blue silk ribbon:

“Pore lil'thing,” say Stan, “Lorst hiz hat.”

“Not all he lost,” says the vicar, “I have never seen such a large tantrum in such a small child,”

“Oi reckon yew'll nede frush worta, an'orl,” say Stan, smell'n hiz hand.

“Wull?” say Jarge, bustling in, “Hev'ut got lobes, or nOo lobes?”

“Curiously none,” says the vicar, with a smile “But it doesn't seem to have spoilt his temper.”

“Yew'r rite thar,” say Stan, “Got orl th'tempa he'll eva hev call fer.”

— • —

1.12.5 - With and Without

In the shade of the only palm tree in Mardlingham, a light lunch has been laid out in the Vicarage conservatory:

“Perhaps I should instigate a policy of total immersion for christenings,” says the vicar, “To discourage this sudden fashion for acres of lace and dozens of ribbons.”

“Is this the babies or the mothers?” asks his sister Rosamunda.

“Both, but mostly the babies,” says the vicar, “And this morning it was Flora's twins, so everything was doubled.”

“I have a message from Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “Just one word with a question mark.”

“Lobes?” says the vicar.

“You read my mind, brother,” says Rosamunda.

“Now that would be a monumental feat,” says the vicar.

“I never think of monumental feet,” laughs Rosamunda, “Too too indelicate.”

“Tell Stanley, yes and no,” says the vicar, “Non-identical twins.”

“I see,” says Rosamunda, “You know Jarge thinks they are changelings.”

“I know Jarge likes to propose such things to annoy me,” says the vicar, “I'm making a list of them.”

— • —

1.12.6 - Squirmy as an Eel

The final christening of the week has been completed.  The Church and parish have welcomed six new members to the community, three boys and three girls, one child with earlobes and five without.  Six tiny individuals ready and willing to make their marks on the book of life, the school-yard wall, a tree in the woods and anyplace else they can reach or wriggle into:

“Only yesterday, I was saying to Miss Rosamunda,” says the vicar, “That I should instigate immersive baptism.”

“And thar yew gOo an'dew'ut,” say Stan, “Haxadentla orn parpus.”

“How was I to know that however well Sarah had sewn all her dratted ribbons to her swaddling?” says the vicar, “She had failed in every way to fix the swaddling to the child.”

“Swaddl'n gen'rully dew thet itself,” say Stan, “Thas wot meark'ut swaddl'n.”

“Swaddling does not normally have a baby sized gap in the bottom,” says the vicar.

“Wudda bin orl rite,” say Stan, “If th'lit'lun hant bin a squirmer.”

“Exaaactly,” says the vicar, “Squirmy as an eel.”

“A lobeless eel,” say Stan, “Gud jarb thet wuz frush worta.”

— • —

1.12.7 - A Hairy Suprise

Suddenly there was a clatter in the lane as a fine pair of greys swung past the five mothers airing their babies and turned into the yard of the Crossed Arms.  It was not the coach of some fine nobleman, but the glorious sight of heavy horses pulling a most elegantly painted brewer's dray.

Beatrice, the landlord's daughter stormed into the yard; it was the wrong day for deliveries and the sign over the driver's head said ‘Patteson's Brewery’ instead of the usual ‘Bullards’ - But the young man in drayman's leathers, a full beard and wide-brimmed hat seemed familiar:

“Dunt Oi know yew?” say Bea, shad'n har eyes agin th'lite.

“Oi hope so,” say the young man, “Or Oi'm wearst'n m'toime.”

“Jimma?” say Bea, “Oh, moi garwd.  Yew rat!”

“Blast Gal,” say Jimma, “Is thet ennaway ter greet yer lorst love?”

“Oi fort yew wuz gorn fer a matelot,” say Bea, “Yew cudda sed!”

“Jarge, he say ter leave nOo traks,” say Jimma, “So Oi just sloped orf in th'nite, quiet as a moonbeam.”

“Oi'd hev gawn wiv'yer,” say Bea, “Tew th'far'orizons.”

“Wull thas a gud jarb yew dint,” say Jimma, “Cuz Oi ony went as far as Norridge, grew a beard an' tuk a new jarb.”

“Owd Dorsan is arter yew,” say Bea, “as a runaway 'prentice carter.”

“Dunt worry 'bowt Dorsan,” say Jimma, “Him'n'me gotta deal.”

“Wull, wot abowt me?” say Bea, “Yew hint gotta deal wi'me.”

“Oi thort yew hed a deal wi'th'corporal,” say Jimma.

“A gal kin gOo t'market wi'owt buy'n a new hat,” say Bea.

“Nut so sure abou'thet,” say Jimma, “An' thet wunt hats Oi wuz worry'n abowt.”

— • —

1.12.8 - Nine Month Wonder

“Fore-warned is fore-armed,” says the briskly striding vicar, “There is trouble brewing.”

“There is always trouble brewing in a village,” replies his sister, matching him, stride for stride.

“If George and Stanley can see the problem,” says the vicar, “Sooner or later the whole village will see it.  I'm amazed they've not already done so.”

“It's only ears,” says Rosamunda, “There are many variations.”

“I just wish the parents shared the same ones as their babies,” says the vicar, “But apart from one of the twins, the little lobes are loveless.”

“You mean the little loves are lobeless,” says Rosamunda, “Perhaps they are like baby-teeth - not yet grown.”

“My dear, I suspect the point I am trying to make is passing you by,” smiles the vicar, “There must be a lobeless father at large in the village.”

“But all the babies have perfectly good fathers all ready,” says Rosamunda, “....OH!”

They reach the end of Vicarage Loke and turn into Low Street.  There is a long terrace of cottages along the north side, but the south is open to the river and marsh.  Next past the terrace, outside a larger cottage, Jarge is leaning on Stan's gate:

“Hare come th'wicar,” say Jarge, “Musta hard th'nuws.”

“Hev'n a wark ter blow th'cobwebs away?” say Stan ter th'wicar, hews a'hold'n hard ornta hiz'at.

“Just hoping the wind doesn't blow away any more earlobes,” grins the vicar.

“Ah, thet!” say Stan, “Jarge say th'trickaleart'ns are th'key.”

“Oi dew,” say Jarge, “Thar wuz tew menna ribbons an'bitsa learce.”

“Mothers always like to dress their babies well for christening,” says Rosamunda.

“Look'ut thus way,” say Stan, “As parrush clark, Oi've a fare idea a'how much munna th'willagers hev, an' thet dunt run ter sa'much trickaleart'n.”

“So thet hev ter hev bin paart a'th'deal,” say Jarge, “Buy a pretta ribb'n, git a lobeless sprog fer narth'n.”

“Or tuther way abowt,” say Stan, “An' ware wuz orl th'hubbies nine munth ago?”

“The Muster,” says the vicar, “They were all at the encampment.”

— • —

1.12.9 - Not in Front of the Vicar

Stan, Jarge, Rosamunda and the vicar are mardling away outside Stan's cottage in Low Street.  There is a blustery wind off the marshes, but they have their conversation to keep them warm.  The concensus so far is that the five mothers of lobeless offspring fell to the combined temptations of yards of bright new ribbons, acres of intricate lace and satisfyingly sordid sex on the kitchen table - all while their husbands were away at the militia camp.

“So what connections can we make?” says the vicar, clasping his hat.

“Ribbons, lace and no earlobes?” says Rosamunda, “Of course, the dudman.  You remember, I bought that lace for the maid's new cap.”

“Owd Bunce, you mean?” say Stan, “Two pack-mules an'a bundle a'silks?”

“Lobes loike stun'sails, hev Bludda Bunce,” growls Jarge.

“Jarge!” say Stan, “Nut in frunt of Miss Rosamunda an'th'wicar.”

“Wull, Oi'pollajyze,” say Jarge, “But he mearke me raw!”

“Your Bunce doesn't sound like the man I dealt with,” says Rosamunda, “Mine had a piebald pony and dog-cart.”

“Not a pair of greys,” says the vicar, “And a dray?”

“Ware's thet?” say Stan, looking round, “Whoo hey! Thas Jimma Boy.”

“Wull met, willagers orl,” say Jimma, wuffl'n hiz new beard an' pretend'n ter be summon else.”

“Are yew Adam?” say Jarge, “Cuz yer sed Oi'd nut know yew frum him wen nex'we met.”

“If thet pretta gal a'th'Crorst-Arms is Eve,” say Jimma, “Then Oi'll be Adam.”

“Splendid,” smiles the vicar, “Shall I post the banns?”

“I suppose,” says Rosamunda, “You haven't seen a piebald pony and trap on your travels?”

“Yew mus'meen Silky,” say Jimma, “'Prentice habb'dasha.”

“How big are his ears?” asks Rosamunda.

“Funna quest'n,” say Jimma, “Nut big, hardly any ears a'tall, if Oi 'member rite.”

“Cud be him,” say Stan, “Ware's he come frum?”

“Magl'n Streart, Norridge,” say Jimma, “He allus gOo roun' th'willages arta eva quarta day.”

“When the housemaids have their wages,” says Rosamunda.

“An'sart'n'ousewives seem ter hev hed thar fun,” say Stan.

“Oi wunt be sa'shure,” say Jarge, wagg'n hiz hed, “Thas orl tew glib fer me.”

It was then that Rosamunda remembered where she'd seen another set of ears without lobes, but decided to keep it to herself.

(The Saga continues in Book 2)

— • —

LAST   ←   INDEX   →   BOOK 2

— • —

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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— • —

1.11.1 - Malicious Charges

To the distant accompaniment of Raggs defending the the ford, the militia sergeant had received the news of the overnight disappearance of his corporal.  From that moment, the Gallows Hill encampment had begun the slide that within the hour would destroy its entire cohesiveness as a pseudo-military force.  The sergeant, a noisy but inherently lazy man had relied heavily on the corporal to control his motley rabble of unwilling village labourers.  After a moment or two of very little thought, he had dispatched a messenger to The Big House and they'd all settled down to await further instructions.

In the master bedroom at The Big House, Sir Marcus was still asleep, and as he had retired in a towering rage, would probably arise in much the same mood.  It was therefore, extremely unlikely that any member of his household would disturb him before he had called for his breakfast bottle of claret.  Having two poacher-assassins banged up in the nearest cell, a tiny cellar beneath the Great Mardlingham Market Cross, had not been enough to salve the lost dignity of the previous night's debacle in the woods.

The sergeant's messenger was received by Fribbins, Sir Marcus's butler, who parked him in the servants' hall.  There the ploughboy-militiaman promptly struck up an animated conversation with the flirtatious scullions, Tilly and Tottie.  Not to be outdone, the boot-boy produced the musket he had purloined the previous night along with the corporal's ammunition pouch:

“Oooooh!” say Tottie, “Dun'chew come in hare wi'thet dutty ol'thing.”

“Big gun fer a little boy,” say Tilly, dissolv'n inta giggles.

“Wot'chew got thar, bor,” say th'soger-ploughboy, nearm a' Josh.

“Brown-Bess,” say the boot-boy, “Gudd'un, an'orl.”

“Thet is tew,” say Josh, teark'n th'musket an' look'n'ut over.

“Kin yer meark'ut gOo?" say th'boot-boy, hand'n him th'corpr'l's pouch.

“Yew wunt ter charge'ut up?” say Josh, hope'n tew himpress th'gals, “Giv'ut a try wi'sum powder an'ball?”

— • —

Meanwhile back at the encampment, a mere two fields away from a certain crossroads, the growing boredom of inaction is suddenly disrupted by the sound of a village muck-cart colliding with a bailiff's tumbril, accompanied by the combined choir of Raggs, Dobbin and the muck-boys pony with the bailiff providing the bass on vox-humana.

Had the corporal been there, the men would have turned to him for orders, but he wasn't.  The sergeant could have steadied them, but at the critical moment he was too busy wondering what Sir Marcus would expect him to do about it.  In any case the decision was taken out of his hands:

“This way!” said a voice from among the militia crowding the field boundary and like cows to the milking, they crowded towards the gate, the first men to get there shouldered it aside and they spilled into the lane.

“Woohay!” said the voice, “Smartly lads, smartly!”

“Woohay?” said a second voice, “Dunt'chew meen... CHARGE!” and the Mardlingham Militia, Second Troop, took off like hares in the direction of the excitement.

“Wai...” said the sargeant, then decided he was in less trouble straying with his men, than staying without them.

— • —

1.11.2 - Crossroads in Chaos

Put yourself in the shoes of a bystander, and there were several already there, with more arriving all the time.  You are at the front of the pack, but far enough back from the scene to save your nose from the worst stinks of the spilt night-soil.

In front of you, Ginny, the muck-boy and the bailiff, have set aside any differences they may have had regarding the behaviour of Ginny's dog Raggs and his part in the collision.  It is equine welfare that has brought about the truce and all three are attempting to untangle Dobbin and the pony.

The vicar has crossed the road and is about to enter the church, while his sister Rosamunda stands by the Vicarage gate holding a lavender handkerchief to her nose.  No sooner are you settled in your spot to await developments, then you're pushed aside by Bea from the Crossed Arms:

“Beatrice!” calls Rosamunda, “Over here.”

“Wotteva's gawn orn?” says Bea, “They sed Jimma wuz hare.”

“Hush now, my dear,” says Rosamunda, “Keep your voice down, for his sake.”

“But...” says Bea, then in a whisper, “Woss he dun now?”

But Rosamunda doesn't get the chance to reply, as a flood of excited militia-men erupts from the avenue of elms in Gallows Lane.  Ginny and Raggs leap back from the tangle of broken carts, just as it is surrounded.  Within the minute, the experienced hands of these ploughboy soldiers rescue the horse and pony, gather and throw aside the broken drawbars and harness, swing the muck-cart and tumbril onto the verge, hoist the manacled corporal onto their shoulders and, with a triumphant cry, make an orderly retreat the way they had come.

“Wai...” orders the sergeant arriving in front of his men, only to have them rush past him like a river round a rock, and head back up Gallows Hill.

“Oh God my help in ages past,” prays the corporal, whose unexpected rescue has been the unintended result of the militia's little escapade.

“Stop!” shouts the bailiff, who has managed to retrieve and load his sporting gun.  There is no response so he fires in the general direction of the retreating mob.

This is the first of two fateful shots to be discharged in the village during the course of the morning.

— • —

1.11.3 - Hellfire and Damnation

At the back of Sir Marcus's grand Georgian bedchamber, is a spacious dressing room, behind which, down a few steps is a room that once formed part of the original medieval Mardlingham Hall.  Here in solitary splendour sits a fine example of a porcelain and mahogany throne, known to the more technically minded as a Bramah water-closet.  It is also here that we find Sir Marcus, nightgown raised to the waist, posterior planted on the seat and a distant look of concentration in his eyes.

Below, in the servant's hall, also a remnant of the older house, ploughboy-militiaman Josh is showing the boot-boy and scullions how to load their purloined musket.  Tottie is leaning against the brickwork of the wide fireplace, idly kicking at a half-burnt log lying among the cold ashes.  Tilly is standing beside her, with a hand on the excited boot-boy's shoulder to restrain him from too close a contact with the horn of priming powder, cartridges and musket balls:

“See hare,” say Josh, thump'n the gun-butt hard down on th'pamment floor, “Thas jus'abou'redda ter fire.”

“Yuck!” say Tottie as a gret dollop a'bud-shit come down th'chimbly an splatter orl ov'r th'log.

“Dratt'd dowe's!” say Tilly, look'n up the flue, “Gud in a pie, but a pest in a chimbly.”

“Wull,” say Josh, neel'n in th'harth wi'th'musket raised, “Oi kin sune dew summat abou'thet.”

“Izzut still thar?” say Tottie, hew rath'r hoped thet wunt.

“Oi kin see'ut,” say th'boot-boy, pointing up the flue, “Giv'ut a gOo.”

Like most of its medieval kind, the chimney is a tapering brick box over three stories high, with room to roast an ox at the base and a considerably smaller opening to the sky at the top.  With a flutter of wings, the dove is joined by another and together they bob and duck flirtatiously along the sooty brick parapet of the flue.  It's a difficult shot to take against the light, but Josh takes it anyway.

After a somewhat disappointing pop as the musket discharges.  The ball strikes a loose brick halfway up the flue and dislodges it.  The brick is vital to the stability of that part of the structure and its loss causes a sizable chunk of the ancient brickwork to give way.  The boot-boy and scullions scatter as the servants' hall is filled by a thunderous rumbling, followed by an avalanche of sooty rubble.  In the room above...

“Hellfire and Damnation!” exclaims Sir Marcus, leaping up in suprise as a cloud of old plaster and whitewash erupts past his ear; followed by “God's Teeth!” as the mahogany box of the toilet tilts slowly backwards and disappears through the ragged hole in the chimneybreast.

— • —

1.11.4 - Squeeze in the Squinch - (see footnote)

In Mardlingham, time seems to be moving forward in short bursts, each one a minor disaster in its own right but all connected by the logic of cause and effect.  A starburst of misfortune expanding from a simple case of jealousy.

Of course, if Jarge had kept his big ideas to himself, the whole thing would have fizzled out like a damp squib, but he never did like to miss out on the chance of a few fireworks.

As it is, we have Josh the ploughboy-soldier buried under a heap of rubble in a collapsed fireplace; Sir Marcus, covered in plaster dust stamping down the back-stairs with an unwiped bottom and a purple face; a militia corporal, still in manacles reporting to a sergeant whose complexion rivals that of Sir Marcus; a Bailiff, horse, muck-boy and pony who may never again view their jobs with equanimity; and the vicar about to confront a fugitive seeking sanctuary in his church:

“Marn'n Yer Rev'runt,” say a worr'ut look'n Jimma, “Oi...”

“Peace, James,” say th'wicar, “I understand the situation perfectly.”

“But...” say Jimma, feel'n th'need t'splain hisself.

“You are a fugitive?” say th'wicar, “Seeking sanctury, Yes?”

“Oi s'puz so,” say boy Jimma, “Cord'n ter Jarge.”

“Then that is all I need to know,” say th'wicar, “The rules are quite explicit and I shall uphold them.”

“Ahah!” say Jarge slipp'n inta th'chuch thru'th'vestry, “Th'tarnkey hev arriv'd.”

“Yew hint brung th'bailiff in hare?” say an ev'n more worr'ut Jimma.

“NOo, y'fule,” say Jarge, “Bit a brass an'a bag a'tewls,”

“Will you be able to strike off the irons?” say th'wicar.

“Dunt'chew worra, Wicar, sune hev'im free.” say Jarge, drarp'n the bag onna pew an' gitt'n owt a small file.

“It seems to me,” say th'wicar, “That those are very study irons for such a very small rasp.”

“Rasp?” say Jarge, “Oi hint a chippy loike Stan, thissear's a bast'd rat's tail.”

“How many times do I have to say ‘Peace’ in this place,” say th'wicar, “Such language is better used in other places.”

“NOo,” say Jimma, “Thas nut lan'wuge, thas a file wot's harf flat an' harf round.”

“I see,” say th'wicar, “But however mixed its parentage, it's still not big enough.”

“Hare,” say Jarge, hew'd bin bizza wile they wuz tork'n, “Try thet.”

“A pennyweight of brass with two small spikes on the edge,” say th'wicar, looking at Jarge's little present.

“Now yew look'ut th'irons,” say Jarge as Jimma raze hiz hands 'zif'n prayer.

“Ah!” say th'wicar, “Two little holes in the end of the locking barrel.”

“NOo need fer gret ol'files,” say Jarge, “Bit a gud ol'Narf'k crarft'mansh'p's orl yew need.”

“I'm amazed that such a simple lock should suffice,” say th'wicar unscrewing the manacles.

“That dint,” say Jarge wi'a larf, as Jimma rub hiz rists a'nankles, “Now ware we gornta hide th' lil'bu...”

“Jarge, how many...” say th'wicar, “Oh never mind.”

“Wot abowt th'tower?” say Jimma, “Or th'westry?”

“Tew easy,” say Jarge, “We need summat foxy.”

“Foxy, sneaky...?” say th'wicar look'n round, “Of course, I have it, the squinch.  We'll squeeze him in the squinch.”

— • —

1.11.5 - Spiflicated Scullions

The sight of the boot-boy pulling on the arm of a person otherwise buried in a heap of soot and rubble, immediately takes the edge off Sir Marcus's anger.  He stumbles across the brick strewn floor of the servants' hall and starts to dig away at the heap in the inglenook fireplace.  Fortunately the bressemer is still in place and the brickwork of the fireplace itself is still sound.  However, there is light shining in from above through a huge hole into the room above, and the heavy mahogany box of the Bramah toilet is hanging dangerously into the flue:

“Come on boy,” says Sir Marcus, to the now petrified boot-boy, “Shift some of these bricks.”

“Oi'll gi'yer a hand,” says Tilly, the elder of the two Scullions, “Tottie hev gorn fer Ted an'th'cutchmun.”

“Gawd,” says the boot-boy, finding his tongue, “Oi wuz rare spiflicearted thar, fer a mOomunt.”

“Yew wun't th'oOny wun,” says Tilly, “We wuz orl stammerd.”

“Well” exclaims Sir Marcus, whose presence they seem to have forgotten, “If we don't get this fellow out soon, we'll all be 'stammered' - by a fine example of a'la'mode sanitary furniture.” - they all glance up the flue as their master laughs - “An a'la'mode commode, by Jupiter.”

“Ooooooh, gagh!” says Josh from under the rubble, now a considerably smaller heap than before.

“Ware iz he?” says the coachman, scrambling in from the stable-yard.

“Here,” says Sir Marcus as Tilly and the boot-boy try to brush the soot from the trapped man's face.

“Moind th'way,” says Ted as he and his father, the coachman, pull Josh from the remaining rubble.

“Gott'im!” says the coachman, sliding Josh out of the fireplace.”

“Oi suggest a min'ut under th'pump,” says th'cook from the kitchen door, “Fer orl ov'yew.”

“A fine idea,” says Sir Marcus, frightening the life out of her by rising from the soot clad only in his nightshirt.

“Moi hart alive!” says the cook, “Sir Marcus...”

“Broach the cyder, Mrs Peasholm,” exclaims Sir Marcus, suddenly feeling rather pleased with his household, despite the rude interruption of his toilet, “The best stuff, if you please.”

“Fribbins will cope wi'thet,” says Cook, “Wile Oi tend th'wunded.”

“Oi know,” says Tilly, heading for the kitchen range, “Hot worta.”

“An' yew kin call th'tweeny ter fetch an'ol sheet fer bandages,” says Cook, “Thet way we'unt git nOo soot in th'linen chest.”

It is at this moment that Sir Marcus pulls the Brown-Bess musket out of the rubble and sniffs suspiciously at the flintlock.

— • —

1.11.6 - Litany in the Library

There are stiff leather bindings enclosing erotica from the far east, painstakingly done and elegantly bound watercolours of birds of prey and paradise, sturdy treatise on fish and fowl, meticulous instructions on the proper management of water-meadows and how to include turnips in the rotation of crops.  There is also a stiff line of servants, militia and other witnesses in the Mardlingham Hall Library.

Fribbins, the butler, rests a hand on the back of a green leather chair behind the modest desk of warm brown oak with its dark green tooled-leather top.  As yet the chair is empty, but all eyes are drawn to it as if the master of the house is already there, enjoying the embrace of its elegantly carved arms.

Sir Marcus, when he is present, uses the room as a study, to which end he has had alternate bays in the arcades of bookshelves removed to accommodate his sporting trophies.  Behind the waiting cook and her scullions, a stuffed salmon stares out of its case with dead eyes, while above it a suprised looking boar appears to have stuck its head through the wall.

Next to them, against a backdrop of books, stands Josh and the boot-boy, both with a hand on the Brown-Bess musket held in the grounded position.  The next alcove sports a similar case to that of the salmon, but containing a half model of a clinker-built yacht hull.  The space above being taken up by an extremely lifelike golden eagle, it too, is staring at the empty chair, but with a heart of straw, is not likely to do anything about it.

Extending the line, the bailiff stands behind the vicar's sister Rosamunda, prim and upright in a damask chair.  Then in front of a large stuffed bear, the sergeant and his corporal add a military note.  Across the end of the room, in front of the main window, the two footmen fidget and whisper.  An activity suddenly curtailled as Sir Marcus enters the room from the far end.  He is dressed for riding and has a crop in his hand, which he immediately stikes on the desk:

“Boy,” says Sir Marcus, pointing his crop at the boot-boy, “Bring me that gun.”

“Er,” says the boy, looking up at Josh, who relinquishes the gun with an encouraging grin.

“Er?” says Sir Marcus, “I assume that's your bucolic way of saying 'Yes Sir' eh?”

“Collick?” says the boy, “Oi spuz'sOo. Yes'r.”

“You found this gun in the woods?” asks Sir Marcus, “Not in the hands of the corporal?”

“Um,” says the boy, “In th'wood, yes'r.”

“Did the corporal have it?” asks his master.

“Nut th'corpr'l,” says the boy, “NOos'r.”

“The corporal was dead drunk?” says Sir Marcus, turning to the footmen, who he'd already questioned, “When you arrested him in the woods.”

“In th'plantearshun,” says the first footman, glancing at his collegue.

“Dead ter th'wurld,” says the second footman, “Yes'r.”

“Who, then, discharged the shot?” asks Sir Marcus, looking at the boot-boy.

“Wull thet wun't me!” exclaims the lad, fear giving way to foolhardiness.

“Ha!” says his master, “A lad with spirit, but if not you, who?”

“Sumbudda else,” mutters Tilly, not realising she is speaking aloud.

“You,” says Sir Marcus, glancing at the girl but pointing elsewhere with the crop, “Corporal, did you discharge your piece?”

“He has no recollection of it, Sarr!” says the sergeant, who felt that if he did the speaking, he might steer the questioning onto safer ground.

“Corporal?” asks Sir Marcus, and the corporal nods to affirm the sergeant's statement.

“Mrs Peaseholm,” says Sir Marcus, addressing the cook, “Does the girl know anything or is she just stating the obvious?”

“Jus' obliv'yus, sir,” says Cook, “As Oi hev orlredda hexplain'd, th'chimbly wuz a'naxadunt.”

“We have not yet reached the matter of the chimney,” says her master.

“Oi reckon them's buth axadunts,” says the cook, “Sum guns let orf a'th'rong moment, thass orl, lotta squit, Oi say.”

“No,” says Sir Marcus, “They knew I was after them and they ambushed me in the woods.  One took a shot at me and the other dropped on me out of the tree.”

“But neither assailant was the corporal,” says the sergeant.

“It seems not,” says Sir Marcus in a disappointed voice, “You'd better take him away.”

At this point, the room is filled with considerable shuffling as the sergeant and corporal make to leave the room.  The sergeant stops at the door and asks if he can also reclaim his messenger, Josh and his squad's single musket.

“I suppose so,” says Sir Marcus, “If any punishment is required in his case, then let it be that already served by the falling chimney of fate.”

“Ahem!” a small noise from Miss Rosamunda, calls his attention to the damask chair.  The vicar's sister, sitting slim and upright with hands clasped in her lap, has so far remained silent with a disapproving look on her pretty face.  Seeing that his last actions have somewhat brightened her expression, Sir Marcus moves on to the next part of the case.

“Now, Bailiff,” says Sir Marcus, “Explain to me why only half your task has been accomplished.”

— • —

1.11.7 - Fall of an Iron Tongue

The second loudest sound to be heard in Saint Andrew's Church, Little Mardlingham, is the latch of the south door.  The two venerable oak-planked leaves of this door reside in a deep porch open to the churchyard opposite the lytchgate.  There are stone seats on either side of its flagged floor, which as an extension of the main path across the churchyard, stops at the worn oak threshold across the foot of the Norman inner arch.

Except when the congregation is entering or leaving the church, the left hand leaf of the south door is held closed by large wrought-iron bolts and the right hand leaf closes against it, held in place by a latch.  It is the rise and fall of the long heavy tongue of this latch that makes the all the noise.  With acoustic amplification provided by the arcaded nave, this iron tongue clacks against its restraining staple like a four-pound maul on a five-hundredweight anvil.

Normally, the sound of the latch is twofold, there is a minor click as the tongue rises on the cam of the wrought-iron ring handle, followed by the reverberating shock as it falls back.  But today, when the Bailiff, followed by Sir Marcus, his footmen and Miss Rosamunda, twists the ring, it is with such force that the tongue remains stuck at the top of its staple.

“Where is he?” demands the bailiff, “The assassin!”

“This is a house of God,” says the vicar, sounding rather calmer than would be betrayed by his white knuckles, if he hadn't got them clasped behind his back, “Pray enter peacefully and speak with moderation.”

“Yes, yes,” says the bailiff, a half-tone lower, “Now where is he?”

“Who?” asks the vicar, not feeling particularly helpful at this stage of the game.

“That miscreant of an escaped prisoner,” says the bailiff, motioning the footmen to spread out and make a search, “He was in my custody on his way to Norwich Gaol, and I intend to complete my task.”

“You understand the concept of sanctuary?” asks the vicar.

“If he'd claimed that, he'd be there by the altar,” says the bailiff.

“And just what would you do if he was there?” asks the vicar.

“Arrest him,” says the bailiff, who was a Baptist by religion, and not likely to feel any guilt from spurning some antiquated tradition of the Church of England, or even worse, the Church of Rome.

“By force?” asks the vicar, having had the forethought to hopefully prevent that precise action, by hiding Boy Jimmy in a wall cavity behind a large embroidered text.

“If necessary,” says the bailiff, “I've a job to do and I'll do it.”

“Th'man hint hare,” says the first footman, returning from his search of the tower.

“Nut hare, neetha!” says the second footman, from the vestry door.

“He's here somewhere,” mutters the bailiff, “I know it. Open the parish chest, he must be in there.”

“Ahem,” says Sir Marcus, taking the bailiff by the arm, “Perhaps I should handle this.”

“Reverand,” says Sir Marcus, “I assume you will open the chest, if I request it?”

“Of course, Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “It contains the parish records and the communion silver. As you well know.”

“What then, of this fugitive?” asks Sir Marcus, “Will you present him for inspection.”

“Once the sanctity of this church and the man's right of sanctuary are established under your guarantee,” says the vicar, “Then I will consider it.”

“You have my word,” says Sir Marcus, who then directs the bailiff and footmen to leave the church and stand guard on each of the three doors.

“Now,” says the vicar, “I should like to hear facts of the case as you see them, Sir Marcus.”

“The man leapt on me out of a tree,” says Sir Marcus, “Just as his fellow assassin shot at me with a musket.”

“What did he say?” asks the vicar, “when you spoke to him afterwards.”

“I didn't,” said Sir Marcus, “I simply had them arrested and delivered to the cell in Great Mardlingham, then I sent a message to the bailiff to keep them locked up 'til dawn then cart them off to Norwich Gaol.”

“You didn't inquire into the case?” asks the vicar.

“What was there to inquire about?” says Sir Marcus, “Night time, poachers in the woods, sudden shot, poacher leaps out of tree, Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“Or ‘oper edei deixai’ as Euclid may have said,” mutters the vicar.

“What?” says Rosamunda, who had remained silent while the men played their games, “What evidence do you have that the man in the tree was poaching, I can think of a dozen reasons for a man to be in such a place on a fine moonlit night.  The view alone would be enough for me.  And as for leaping on you, why could he not have been trying to save you from the musket shot?   Perhaps he's a hero.”

Earlier, in the thump and spuffle of their entrance, none of the invaders had noticed the acoustic forbearance of the latch.  So in the silence that follows Rosamunda's outburst, its sudden fall has much the same impact as a mortar bomb.  The vicar dives behind the choir stalls, Jimma erupts from behind the tapestry, and Rosamunda flings herself into the arms of Sir Marcus.

“Ooof!” gasps Sir Marcus, losing his balance along with his equanimity.

“My goodness!” says the vicar rising from the safety of his pew.

“Yipe!” says Boy Jimma, not knowing which way to turn.

“Ooooh,” says Rosamunda, blushing, but not attempting to rise.

“Now that,” says Sir Marcus, getting up and bringing the girl with him, “Is rather better than being leapt on by poachers.”

“Maybe we should talk?” says Rosamunda, in her most breathless sort of voice.

“What a good idea,” says the vicar, “I suggest a large pot of tea in the Vicarage.”

“Wot abowt me,” says Jimma, nervously backing off towards the altar.

“Wait until they all go home,” whispers the vicar, “Then do the same.  With Rosamunda, a prayer, a bit of luck, and a pot of Darjeeling with a large slice of butter-cream sponge cake, I think Sir Marcus may soon forget you ever existed.”

— • —

Footnote:  What is a Squinch?

A squinch is a sort of angled wall tunnel intended to provide a squint at the high altar from a secondary altar in a church's side aisle.  It can also mean an arch bridging a corner at forty-five degrees.  Often one leads to the other.

“How would you build such squinching?” says the vicar.
“Yew mite say,” say Jarge, “Yew hetta dew'ut orn th'huh.”

— • —

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— • —

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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1.09.1 - Stratagems of Love

The course of young love never runs true.  So when a handsome young corporal of militia ensnares Bea the buxum barmaid, who until then has been the light of Jimma's life, things are apt to get out of hand.

On the evening in question, Jarge, as soon as he had appreciated the trend of events, had left the Crossed Arms.  Now, after nipping into his cottage to fetch a few things, he has taken a short cut across the churchyard and is awaiting Jimma in the moon-shadows beneath the elms of Gallows Lane:

“Pssst!” say Jarge, “Zatt yew Jimma?”

“Shaddup Jarge,” say Jimma, stumbl'n atwin th'pot'oles, “Oi dunt need nun a'yor squit.”

“How menna a'yew hed?” say Jarge, “Sprawl'n abowt loike a searler.”

“Thas nut ales in the hed,” say Jimma, “Thas 'oles in the rud.”

“Ri'chew are,” say Jarge, “If thas nut wun sort a'pot, thassa'nutha.”

“Whutchew gawn on abowt now?” say Jimma, “Oi need yer squit loike Oi need an'ole in th'hed.”

“Trew Luv,” say Jarge, “Tactuss an' stratajumms.”

“Wot stratajumms?” say Jimma, “Come ter thet, wot luv?”

“Wull,” say Jarge, “Fer stratajumms, Oi suggest gittin har back by meark'n a fule a th'corpr'l.”

“Sown'gud ter me,” say Jimma, “So how dew Oi dew thet?”

“A stratajumm iz nOo gud wi'owt tactuss,” say Jarge.

“Oi spuz nut,” say Jimma, “So wuss th'fust tactuck?”

“Thus,” say Jarge, wav'n a quart-size stone jar in a handy moonbeam.

— • —

1.09.2 - A Peaceful Man at Heart

The scene in Gallows Lane is one of stark contrasts.  The avenue of young elms stands tall in the moonlight, their crisp shadows seeming to bar the way for creatures of both light or night.  Fortunately, Jarge and Jimma, whose moral spectrum is currently locked on grey, are immune to these effects.

Jarge has in his hand a quart of strong ale laced with laudanum (a tincture of opium), sweetened with sugar and disguised with cloves and limes.  He has just waved this stoneware jar in Jimma's face:

“Fwoof!” says Jimma, “Dunchew tempt me wiv'more drink, Bor.”

“Thas nut fer yew, Bor,” say Jarge, “Thas fer th'fust tacktuk in ar'stratajumm.”

“Stata-wot?” say Jimma, “Yew meen gitt'n even wi'th'corpr'l?”

“Thas rite,” say Jarge, “Fer steal'n yor tru'luv Beatr'ce.”

“Th'corpr'l?” say Jimma, “Dew Oi just ketch'im a wallop wiv'ut?”

“Wull, yew cud,” say Jarge, “But thet wunt git yer gal back'n yer arm.”

“Yer rite,” say Jimma, “She orf'n say she loike a peacefu'man at hart.”

“Wudda she meen by gawn arta a sojer, then?” say Jarge, “Can't trust'em.”

“Dunchew wag ya'jaw at moi gal,” say Jimma, whose peacefulness was under considerable pressure.

“Jus'howd yew hard,” say Jarge, “Shut yer gob an'open yer lugs.”

“Oi'm orl ears,” say Jimma, begin'n ter tarn sarky, “Th'congregeart'n ar'in th'pews, orl we need now is th'sermon.”

— • —

1.09.3 - Whispers in the Night

With Jimma keeping a tactical look-out, Jarge has infiltrated the scullery yard at the back of The Big House, hoping to enlist the aid of his old flame, Sir Marcus's Cook.  He is about to tap gently on the door, when an upper floor window scrapes open above his head:

“Hew izzut?” say Tottie, th'smallest a'th'Scullions, leen'n owt in har nite-cap an' shift.

“Nivva yew moind,” say Jarge, “Lissen, Oi got a message fer Sir Marcus.”

“Oi'll git th' Butler,” say Tottie, “Mr Fribbens teark orl th'messajez.”

“Jus'lissen,” say Jarge, “Th'Militia ar'plann'n tew dew sum poach'n.”

“Oooh!” say Tottie, delighted at being the first in the house to hear such choice gossip, “Ware an'bludda wen?”

“Ternite,” say Jarge, slightla teark'n aback at har cuss'n, “Up by th'plantearshun.”

“Tilly, T-i-l-l-y,” say Tottie, rush'n orf up th'back-stare ter th'upper attics.

“Whuttizut?” say Tilly, hew'd bin wull away in th'land a'nod.

“Them blink'n Militia ar'poach'n up by th'plantearshun,” say Tottie, “Th'buggas.”

“If Cook ketch yew cuss'n, loike thet” say Tilly, “Yew'll git a sting a th'bum.”

“Jarge say ter tell th'Marsta,” say Tottie, “But Oi hint gawn tew.”

“We cud tell th'Cook,” say Tilly, “She'll know wot ter dew.”

“Cook, C-o-o-k,” say Tilly, rush'n orf down th'back-stare, “Poachers...”

“Wot poachers?” say th'Cook, “Ware an'bludda wen?”

“Ooh er,” say Tilly, taken aback by th'site a'th'Cook sett'n up in bed wi'no teeth in har hed.”

“Malicious wuns,” say Tilly, hew's mind hed stopp'd wark'n.

“Thar orl malicious,” say Cook, gobbl'n har teeth frum a jar by th'bed, “Thas betta!” she grunt, “Now tell me ware they gonna gOo an'dew orl thus hare poach'n?”

“Up a'th'Plantearshun,” say Tilly, “Thar's hunnard's ovem, they say.”

“Hunnards, yew say? Then yew betta git moi shawl,” say Cook, “Cuz Oi'll hetta gOo tell Fribbins.”

— • —

1.09.4 - Advance and be Recognised

Up at The Big House, the scullions told the cook, the cook told the butler and the butler told the master.  The story having grown more dramatic with each telling, has finally been reduced to something nearer the truth by Sir Marcus's close questioning of a terrifed but spirited mini-scullion.  He now knows that the poachers are out and is considering his tactics.

Meanwhile, up on Gallows Hill, the corporal's detachment of militia has settled down for their second night under canvas, and their temporary ‘mother hen’ is sitting on a log by the remains of the campfire (petty hofficers for the use of) for a moments dreaming on the subject of love, before turning in.

Below the encampment, two shadowy figures are approaching along Gallows Lane under cover of the hedge.  Jarge is carrying a stoneware jar containing a quart of ale doctored with laudanum, and Jimma is hopping from foot to foot in nervous anticipation of the coming events:

“Fer Gawds'ake dunt keep leap'n abowt loike thet,” say Jarge, “Come hare an' git a'holt a'thus penknife.”

“Wot dew Oi wunt thet fer?” say Jimma, “Oi thort Oi wuz gonna wallop'im wi'th'jar.”

“NOobudda's gonna dew ena'wallop'n,” say Jarge, “Thas ter cut yer way threw th'bakka thet thar Corpr'ls tent so's yew kin elope wi'hiz Brown-Bess.”

“Then Oi lode'ut up,” say Jimma, “An' shewtta'nole in th'seat a'hiz britches.”

“Gimme strength!” say Jarge, “Yew hint dew'n ena shewt'n neetha. Jus'git th'musket as sune as Oi hev hiz back tarned, an' meark yersel'skearce.”

“Rye'chew are,” say Jimma, “Jus'purloin th'musket an'run - gott'ut.”

“Quietly,” say Jarge, “Werry quietly, thas nut just th'corpr'l thet we hetta worra abowt. Thar's a hull camp a'th'buggas.”

“Then wot?” say Jimma, “Wottle yew be up tew?”

“Oi'll be busy,” say Jarge, “Jus'dew wot Oi sed an' Oi'll meet'cher by th'plantearshun.”

“Who goes there?” exclaims the corporal, “Advance and be ... Oh tis George, ain't it?”

“Th'searme,” say Jarge, “By way a'been a herald.”

“Dispatches, what?” says the corporal, “Where away. my fine fellow?”

“A sartain young leddie a'yor aquaint'nce,” say Jarge, “Has sent yew a nite-cap.”

“Never wear'em, good sir,” says the corporal, “Overheats the brain, don't you know.”

“Thus wuns inna jar,” say Jarge, handing him th' stoneware jar, “Now just yew drink'ut orl down ter pleeze th'leddie.”

— • —

1.09.5 - Brown-Bess and the Pheasants

One of the few compensations of being in service at The Big House was the view from your attic bedroom.  From there, godlike, you could survey the world.  Unfortunately you were very rarely up there when there was anything worth surveying, except for tonight, that is.

From the highest dormers many eyes are watching Sir Marcus, as firmly seated in the saddle of his black stallion he sallies forth in search of poachers, followed by a straggling file of stablehands and footmen.  They are heading up across the parkland towards the Gallows Hill Plantation, where in a few minutes time, they will pass in among the trees at the end furtherest from the Militia Camp:

“Hare they come,” say Jarge, a freshly snared brace a'fezzunts swing'n at hiz belt.

“Wot dew we dew wi'thus?” say Jimma, hefting his burden, a sartain snoring Militia corpor'l.

“Sett'im down agin thet tree,” say Jarge, “We'll sett'im up inna minnut.”

“Dew Oi load th'musket yit?” say Jimma, “Thar's a cupla ball an'charges in'iz pouch.”

“Just yew leeve thet ter me,” say Jarge, “Orl we wunt izza gud sharp crack.”

“Ware dew Oi shute frum, an' at hew?” say Jimma, hew wuz still feel'n bull-igerunt.

“How menna toimes dew Oi hetta tell yer,” say Jarge, “Yew dun't! Now git'chew up thus hare tree with thus hare stick an' weart fer Sir Marcus to gOo by.”

“Dew Oi haffta?” say Jimma, “Oi might miss the fun.”

“Wull,” say Jarge, giv'n him a leg up, “So long as yew dunt miss hiz hat wen Oi fire the gun.”

“Shussh,” say Jimma frum the tree, “Thar come'n inta th'wood.”

“Rite,” say Jarge, runn'n acrorst to hang th'fezzunts round th'corpr'l's neck an'then slipp'n ahint th'tree wi'hiz musket.

“Did you hear something?” hisses Sir Marcus to the nearest stableboy, then swings his horse in under Jimmy's tree.

“N-n-n-now!” squark Jimma, swip'n orf Sir Marcus's hat an' fall'n out a'th'tree.

“Blust!” say Jarge frum hiz hid'n place, as hiz Brown-Bess let orf wiv'a crack'n gret fart, “Oi'm gitt'n owtta hare.”

— • —

1.09.6 - Ambush at Gallows Hill

The bridleway through Gallows Hill Plantation separates the latest dense planting of fir trees from the more open stand of original beech and chestnuts; the subsoil there being of a chalky nature best suited to those species.  However, the species currently attempting to plant themselves between the trees, are not really suited to that task.

Sir Marcus, with the help of a falling Jimma and a startled horse, is the first to take to the soil, ploughing a neat furrow in the leafmould.  His example is immediately followed by the two footmen and the boot-boy, as they attempt to take cover from what sounds like a small cannon being discharged over their heads.

The stable hands, who are made of sterner stuff, then make a misguided attempt to charge the guns.  Plunging in among the shadows, brambles and tree-roots, they capture their supposed assailant by sprawling all over him.

At this moment of melodramatic chaos, the corporal jerks awake and rends the woodland canopy with a terrible and unearthly cry, sending woodpigeons crashing though the leaves and pheasants through the undergrowth.  A sound that also reaches the scullions, staring out across the park from their attic eerie:

“Didja hare thet?” say Tottie, shading her eyes against the brightness of the moon.

“Thas a kill, noiz loike thet!” say Tilly, “Thas a kill, fer sure.”

“Oooh er,” say Tottie, in har waill'n voice, “Are they orl ded?”

“Dunt bee'sa sulla,” say Cook, nudging the Housekeeper, “Thet'll ona be th'boot-boy.”

Meanwhile at the Plantation, the echoes are fading, the startled wildlife has gone to ground, and a passing breeze is clearing the air.

“Hellfire and Hades!” exclaims Sir Marcus, tightening his grip on Jimma's collar, “Am I surrounded by imbeciles?”

“Splfff-fft!” says Jimma, clogged with leafmould but otherwise in broad agreement.

“As for the rest of you,” says Sir Marcus, “Pull yourselves together and get out here in the moonlight where I can see you.”

While his small household brigade is sorting itself out and taking proper charge of the two prisoners, Sir Marcus rises to his feet, dusts off his hessian boots and looks round for his horse, of which there is no sign.  The boot-boy, who has been lucky enough to avoid fulfilling Cook's prediction, gives fate a second chance by taking proud charge of the musket and ammunition pouch.  As the boy slips back into the shadows, his master decides to impose his will on those in more immediate view.

“You,” he orders, wagging a finger at the stablehand contingent, “Retrieve my horse.”

“And You,” he says, stabbing a digit at the footmen, “Bring the prisoners.”

— • —

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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:

— • —

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

— • —

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 ...

— • —

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.”

— • —

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.

— • —

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?”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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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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.

— • —

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.”

— • —

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!”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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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— • —

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— • —

1.06.1 - Crock of Soup

One of the more lasting legacies of the considerable improvements to the estate carried out by Sir Marcus's long deceased father is the system of water-meadows.  Protected from the frost by winter flooding, these provide much earlier grazing than unmanaged pasture.  Later in the year, judicious flooding produces superlative yields of sweet hay.  So much, in fact, that it becomes a saleable crop in its own right.

In the generally horse-drawn economy of the time, anybody with large amounts of surplus hay would have been in much the same position as one who in later centuries owned a small oil-field.

The seasonal irrigation, by the flooding, or as it was often called, the "floating" of the Mardlingham water-meadows relied largely on the actions of the miller.  Under the lax regime of the late Old Lady, he had got into the habit of optimising his sluices for the convenience of the waterwheel, with only a passing thought for the hay crop.  Sir Marcus, with the oncoming winter in mind, has already confronted him with this matter in no uncertain terms, but there are other factors which neither have taken into account.

Of course, being Norfolk, when Tottie refers to a ‘crock a soap’ she means a bowl of soup.  This should not be taken as culinary criticism, Cook's soup is without peer, and she's waving the trophy that proves it:

“Oh my!” say Tilly, “Ware hev yew bin.  Cook's got har master-size wudd'n spune stand'n by t'gi' yer a crack'a'th'skull.”

“Wull Oi wunt be gawn ena'ware nare har,” say Tottie, “Oi be abowt ter tearke a crock a soap back hum wi'me, an' Cook kin wistle fer'ut.”

“Yew'll ketch'ut wuss'n a crack'a'th'skull, if yew dew thet!” say Tilly, “Thas a'angin' a'fence, thet iz!”

“Thar orl sick ter dyin' a'tum,” say Tottie, storming owt wi' a large crock a'stew wrapped in wun a' Cook's biggest pudden clorths, “Oi hetta dew'ut, nobudda else iz a'gornta, ar'they?”

“Ware's thet gal a'gawn now?” say Cook, comin' in from th'butler's pantry.

“Hum ter feed th'sick,” say Tilly, “An' dunt yew durst cuss har, or yewl be screarpin' yer own wegetables fer th'Marsta's dinner.”

“Wot sick?” say Cook, igorin' th'uppity scullion, “Mill Cottages agin', Oi s'puz?”

“Tew dead las'noight,” say Tilly, “'Cordin' t'th'tweeny.”

“Thet dun't s'prize me,” say Cook, “Hevin' ter live in a stinkin' fludd 'arf th'toime.”

“Thet wunt fludded s'mawnin,” say Tilly, “Sumbudda rearz'd th'sluice.”

— • —

1.06.2 - Where's My View?

The Cottages in Mill Lane, Little Mardlingham are of much the same age and construction as Jarge's Sexton's Cottage, except that the same floor area has been divided up into four single room dwellings with dormered sleeping space in the lofts.  Traditionally the inhabitants of these decaying cottages have drawn their water from either the mill pond or the leat on the far side of the lane from their front doors.

The leat, which acts as a bypass to the mill pond and the upsteam portion of the river held back by the mill dam, has a water-level about six foot below that of the mill pond.  It is supposed to drain the lower-lying areas to the east of the dykes that channel the flow of the river towards the mill.  To pass the mill dam it dives through a culvert under the lane where it approachs the mill.  Unfortunately this culvert is badly built, even worse maintained and more than half filled with silt, rubbish and night-soil from the cottages.  If there's a stink in that part of the village, this is the spot where it really takes your breath away.  A similar situation is about to be noticed from the upper floor of The Big House:

“What in Hades has happened to my view!” roars Sir Marcus, gazing across the lawns at the reeking expanse of mud where his tamed and ornamental river should be.  “Gawd's teeth and little fishes, but the miller will swing for this!”

“Ooooooo!” says th'up-stare maid as she drops th'breakfast tray and runs from th'room.  She has no intention of being th'one “Ketchin'ut frum th'Marsta,” in lieu of th'miller.

“Wut'teva got inta yew?” say th'tweeny, as th'up-stare flup inta th'rum.

“Thet wunt moi faut!” says th'up-stare, “Can't trust th'Marsta wen hiz got a raw on'um.”

“Wuss meard him raw, then?” say th'tweeny, “th'speed yew run?”

“Sum squit abowt hiz silla owd river,” say th'up-stare, “Thas nut th'fust toime, neetha.”

“Steward!” calls th'Master, jangling th'bell, “Saddle my horse.”

“Oi can't see th'stu'rd dewin' that,” say th'tweeny, “Oi betta get down t'th'stearble and pass th'wud fer th'grum.”

— • —

1.06.3 - Bodies on the Common

“Wuz they orl ded?” say th'Grum, “th'gypsa a'th'bak a' th'common?”

“Th'blewbortle's seem ter think sOo,” say Ted, “Oi dint gOo tew nare.  Wun orn'um was 'arf in th'bruk.”

“Marsta wunt hiz'oss,” say th'tweeny, harpin' acrorse th'yaard wavin' harsel' abowt loike a buttafloy, “Sune as yisterd'y.”

“Bit learte fer thet,” say Ted, bein' tew literal fer hiz own gud.

“Dunt yew durst duck wen Oi wunt t'gi' yer a ding a th'skul,” say th'tweeny.

“Come yew orn, Ted,” say th'Grum, “Pass th'tack and howd har hed.”

“Nut mine, fule,” say th'tweeny, “Oi hint yor hoss.”

“Well!” says Sir Marcus, storming into the stable, “Is she ready?”

“Jus' th'girth,” say th'Grum, suprisin' th'mare wi' a knuckle so he cud teark'ut in anutha notch.

“Wot kill'd'um? Oi meen th'gypsa up by th'common,” ask th'Grum, as th'Marsta canters owt a'th'stearble-yaard.

“Jimma say thas th'cholera,” say Ted, “Thas wot they hed 'n th'willage ware they las' come frum.”

— • —

1.06.4 - He Went and Did It

Mardlingham mill has an undershot wheel mounted in a separate wheelhouse that adjoins the east side of the main building.  The head of water at the mill dam is just over six feet, which if managed with care allows the mill to work once or twice in a week.  The Miller is very jealous of his head of water and watches the river flow and the effects of rainfall with close attention.

The upper reach of what is, in effect, the upstream extension of the mill pond passes through the grounds of The Big House.  There it forms an ornamental feature in the landscape.  Unfortunately with the flow reduced by the backing-up effect of the mill dam, this broad decorative stretch of water has silted up to within a foot of its ornamental banks.  Even a modest lowering of the water-level converts this idyll into a stinking mudflat.

When Stan surreptitiously opened the sluice, he did not do so to enrage Sir Marcus by spoiling his view, but to flush away the detritus that was stinking up the Mill Lane end of the village.  This was an idea equally surreptitiously planted in his head by Jarge who'd had it from the farm bailiff.  The idea itself had originated in that telegram from Rosamunda's cousin Gregory, the antiquarian, the one that had so annoyed Sir Marcus.  How the Bailiff got hold of the telegram is not known, but the man is renowned for the length of his nose:

“Yew sed Oi'd gawn an' dun'ut,” say Stan, “An' yew wuz roight.  Oi seem ter hev fare dun'ut in a rare ol'way.”

“Wull,” say Jarge, “Yew wunt ter know thet th'hull culvert wud gOo.”

“Did th'jarb, rare prarpa,” say Jimma, “Nare tuk 'arf'a th'Mill Lane wi'rut.  Nut ter menshun th'Wicar an' hiz cuz'n.”

“Wot wuz they dewin' thar a'thet toime a noight?” say Stan.

“Burnin' orl th'owd bedd'n an' stuff,” say Jarge, “In th'muddle a' th'rud.”

“Hev th'Wicar's susta still got orl th'cottage famlas in th'mill house?” say Bea.

“Thas wot Oi hard,” say Jimma, “Along'a missus Darsan frum Hum Farm, har darter, an' tew a'th'Scullies frum The Big House.”

“Wot abowt yew, Jimma?” say Stan, hew'd bin buzy wi' corfin wuk, “Dunt they still wunt yew down thar pullin' yar wate?”

“Oi dun moi bit, an' sad'nuff thet wuz tew,” say Jimma, “Deliv'run'um t' Jarge.  We bin dewin' th'chuch-yaard wuk.”

“Look like thet maybe th'las' a'th'diggin',” say Jarge, “Leastways, a'th'chuch end a' th'willage.”

— • —

Author's Note - Too Many Cowled Figures

It was at this point in the saga, that The Hermit's trans-temporal spectre found itself unwelcome around the village.  This was largely because some of the main characters felt unable to play their normally comedic roles, blaming the baleful influence of cholera and the Angel of Death.  Hopefully, at a time of more favourable spectral influences, this part of the village history will be completed.

— • —

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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.”

— • —

“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.

— • —

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.

— • —

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.

— • —

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.”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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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— • —

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?”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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.”

— • —

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?”

— • —

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.

— • —

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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1.03.1 - More Scully Wobbling

At The Big House, breakfast, for those with time for such luxuries, is long past.  So cook has taken a few moments off to share a small pot of fortified tea with the butler - fortified with what, he won't say - leaving the scullions, Tilly and Tottie, like mice without a watchful cat:

“Thas a gud jarb we hetta set orn a hard pew a'th'backa th'chuch,” say Tottie, “th'way th'owd Wicar gOo rant'n orn.  Else we'd b'def as a pust, th'smarn'n.”

“Dunt yew gOota chuch ter larn t'be gud?” say Tilly, wi' har arms akimbo.

“Oi gOota hev a gud sing" say Tottie, “Hint thet a'nuff?”

“Depends,” say Tilly, “Wot yew dew yer sing'n fer.”

“Oi dunt dewut fer nuth'n 'bor,” say Tottie, “Wull nuth'n much.”

“Yew hev a'nawfull lotta nuth'n much,” say Tilly “Thet yew dew!”

“Wull, wot Oi got, Oi sing abowt,” say Tottie, “Oi wuz brung'up Baptist.”

“Dunt let th'cook hare yer tork'n thet way,” say Tilly, “Else yew'll git sent hum.  She unt hev chap'lites in har kitchen.”

“Oi hint a chap'lite,” say Tottie, “Oi'm buttered on th'utha side now.”

“A skrearp a dripp'n on yer crust is abou' orl yer wuth!” say Tilly, “Near'st yew git t' butter is lick'n yer fingers after cutt'n th'Marsta's toast.”

“Wuss orl thet abowt, owt in th'yaard,” say Tottie, “Ol' Jarge an' them uth'rs?”

“th'Marsta hev'em lined up fer a quick slap a th'hed,” say Tilly.

“Wadda he wuntta dew thet fer?” say Tottie, “He'll ony gitt'em raw.”

“They hint gorn'ta be raw a'th'marsta,” say Tilly, “Nut so's he'd nOotuss ena'how.”

“Hare he come now,” say Tottie, “Duck ya'hed, or he'll slap thet an'orl.”

“Dunt yew cheek me,” say Tilly, “Or Oi'll tell orn'yer ter th'cook.”

“Blas' me, bu' hiz hoss dunt 'arf stink,” say Tottie hol'd'n har nOoze.

“Dunt blame th'oss,” say Tilly, “Yew'd stink, if he'd hed yew across th'medda at a gallop.”

“Toime ter dew th'carrotts,” say Tottie, go'n red as a roosta's comb.”

“Oi'll gi'yer a hand,” say Tilly, “Thet meak'yer fare hot ter think abou'tut.”

— • —

1.03.2 - Mark my Words

Sir Marcus sits tall on his fine roan mare.  She is still excited from their morning gallop across the water meadows.  The groom steadies her with whispered promises of cool pump-water and warm oats.  Sir Marcus turns in the saddle to inspect the short rank of what he thinks of as his peasantry: Road-mender Jarge, the so called sexton; Carpenter Stan, the parish clerk, and Teamster Charles, who had always driven the Old Lady's well worn carriage:

“Harummph!" says Sir Marcus, tapping his saddle with his crop while looking them up and down.

“Begg'n yer par...” says Jarge, but Sir Marcus gestures him to silence.

“Ha!” says Sir Marcus, dismounting with much aplomb, “Like making bricks without straw, H'rumph!.”

“Dew yer Ludshi...” says Stan, but Sir Marcus has gone, striding across the stableyard and through the small door into the walled garden on his way to the gunroom.

Two mobcaps appear round the scullery door.  “Dint they git a slap a'th'hed, ar'ta orl?” say Tottie, “Did Oi miss'ut?”

“Dunt look loike'ut,” say Tilly, “Nut less Oi miss'tut an'orl.”

“Wot wuz thet orl abowt?” say Jarge, “Humff'n an' Harr'n loike thet.”

“Bricks wi'owt straw,” say Stan, “FearOo's pun'shm'n' a'th'Hisralites.”

“Yew dew tork alotta squit,” say Jarge, “Fare Hew?”

“He meen" say Charles, “Thet yew'r jus' a block a parch't mud that'll fall aparrt, sune as thet git th'charnse.”

“He dunt know me verra well,” say Jarge, “Dew he.”

“Dunt s'puz he wun'tew,” say Stan, “Nut much, ena'how.”

“Wot abou' me?” say Charles th'Teamster, as th'groom leads th'mare away.”

“Wot abowt yew?” say Jarge, giv'n him a funna look.

“Jus' thort Oi'd arsk,” say Charles, r'tarn'n th'glare”

“Wull dunt,” say Jarge.

“Leav'um allun,” say Stan, “Look loike he still got a jarb t'dew, like th'resta'rus.”

“Dew Oi larf or cry?” say Jarge, kick'n a gret ol'chunk a'orse-drarp'n acrorse th'yaard.”

— • —

1.03.3 - Cook and Bull Story

The Cook, who has been making her presence felt in the more elevated portions of the house, thumps down the last few wooden steps of the back-stairs and announces her choice of gossip for the day.

“Thet hoity-toity up-stare maid ha'tearken a rare fansa t'th'New Marsta.  She stare-up a'tum eva'charnce she git.” say Cook in an attempt at levity, “Oi dunt hold wiv'ut.”

“Reckon har nick'rs got tew much starch 'num wen she las' r'nsinum thru,” say Tottie.

“Dew she ware nick'rs?” say Cook, “Oi allus reckon thas bet'ta t' let th'eare git t' yer.”

“If Oi hed ter dew-owt th'marsta's bedr'm,” say Tilly, “Oi'd git ol' Stan ter saw me orf sum wudd'n wuns.”

“Come'yew orn yew gals,” say Cook, assessing the state of preparation for the master's luncheon, “Yew're orl behyn' loike th'cow's tearle.”

“Wull, yew're in luck,” say Tottie, as Jarge clump hiz way ov'r th'thrashel frum th'stearble-yaard, “Har come th'bull.”

“Duntchew vex me na'maw,” say Cook, “Thass nOo stahp'n me wen Oi'm raw.”

“Thas po'try ta hare yew tork,” say Jarge, hew wunt afear'd a'ena'budda.

“Tha'tint po'try jus' corze thet ryme,” say Stan, folla'r'n him in, “Jus'as rymes hint allus po'try.”

“Wot ryme?” say Jarge, “Yew meen when she say na'maw an' raw?”

“Now Oi am gitt'n vexed!” say Cook, “Wen yew'lotta'rabowt, thass maw squit aroun' than th'parr-yard at milk'n toime.”

“Stan hare,” say Jarge, “Hev a moind to tork t'th'New Steward.”

“Oi' D'rutha tork tew th'ol'bayliff,” say Stan, “Oi ha'bin torked at by him, afore.”

“Wull, he unt th'wun t'tork at yer now,” say Jarge, “th'Steward hev chaarge ar'a'torl.”

“Sartenl'y,” say Cook, “th'marsta's St'urd is th'wun thet'll wunt tew tork at yer.  He loike ter tork at eva'budda.”

“Tork tew much,” say Tottie, “If yew arsk me.”

“Wull, we'unt dew thet then,” say Tilly, “Hew wunt'ta liss'n t'yew?”

— • —

1.03.4 - Fribbin's Cheese

In the stables behind The Big House, the Teamster, Charles, is concerned that The Master's roan mare has cast a shoe.  For young Ted, the groom it will be a day's trudge leading the horse to the Farrier and back:

“Come yew orn, Ted m'boy.  Stir yer'stumps,” say Charles, “Toime yew wuz orf.”

“Durst Oi see th'Cook?” say Ted, on'y 'arf way redda t'fearce th'day, an' still with th'Marsta's mare t'see tew, “Thas a long trudge wi'owt brekfust.”

“Durst Oi, neither,” say Charles, “Oi 'spec' them mawthas wull see tew'ut, but nut 'til yew meark a proper job a'th'roan mare.”

— • —

“Izzut redda?” say Tilly, jump'n up'ta gawk owt th'kitchen winda, “th'boy's wittles?”

“Corse a'tis,” say Tottie, hew hed tuk a fansa to Ted, sune as she'd clap eyes on'im, “Bottla cowl'tea, doorstep, an' a chunk'a ol' Fribb'n's cheese.”

“Yew'l be orf hum in a rare ol'steart, if he ketch yer wiv'iz cheese,” say Tilly.

“Wull he wunt ketch me 'less'n yew tell'um,” say Tottie, wi' har mowf full, “Oi got'chew a bit an'orl.”

“He'll see ware yew cut'tut,” say Tilly, now wi' har mowf full, an'orl.

“Cut'tut orf th'bott'm,” say Tottie, “Yew'd niver know.”

“Oi hope yer'rite,” say Tilly, “Dew thet'll be yer bott'm thet git a cut.”

“'Lo Ted,” say Tottie, as th'boy stick hiz hed roun' th'door-pust.

“Starp gawp'n a'tum loike a strump't,” say Tilly, “An' gi'him hiz wittles.”

“Hev Oi gotta'nuff?” say Ted, “Thas gotta las'orl day.”

“Count yer lucka'stars yew got ena'a'tall,” say Tilly, still suck'n at th'lump a cheese in har cheek.

“Ta,” say Ted, start'n t'leave, “Oi'll r'memba yew in moi will.”

“Thet kearse,” say Tilly, “Oi hope yew dunt git yar hed kick't orf 'til yew've made yer fortune.”

“Moind how yer'gOo,” say Tottie, shak'n owt har hare an' wav'n har mob-cap.

“Cover yer hed,” say Tilly, “Yew know wot Cook say about nekkid heds.”

“Cook got sum funna ideas abou' nekkid parts,” say Tottie, “She on'y allow'um ware yew can't see'um.”

— • —

1.03.5 - Bubble and Squeak

Stan and Jarge have had their meeting with the Steward.  The upshot being that they have a cucumber frame to build for the kitchen garden and numerous small repair jobs to do around the estate.  Apparently Sir Marcus prefers craftsmen from Norwich and Lynn when it comes to the refurbishment of the more classical portions of his country seat:

“Thet went orf betta then Oi 'spect'd,” say Stan, “Thattle keep us bizza fer a week'a'tew.”

“Yew pleeze tew easa,” say Jarge, tearkin them threw th'geart inta th'kitchen gard'n, “We wunt'ta hed ena'thin if thet wunt fer me an' hiz bewtes.”

“Wull, thet whur a bit'tuv'a tarn-up,” say Stan, gaz'n at th'plearce laid owt redda fer th'col'frearm, “Him need'n a bit'a cobbl'n, an' yew hev'n th'rite sorta' 'ammer 'nyer belt.”

“Thas moi ratt'n 'ammer,” say Jarge, “Wunt be roun' a farm-yaard wi'owt'tut.”

“How dew thet work, then?” say Stan, “Yew hetta be rite quiet t'git nere'nuff tew a rat t'kill'ut wi'a'ammer.”

“Oi dunt hetta be thet close,” say Jarge, “Nut wi'thus 'ammer.”

“Gotta 'lastic 'andle, hev'ut?” say Stan.

“Betta'un thet,” say Jarge, tapp'n th'wudd'n end'a th'handle on a bit a'brick and driv'n an owd nail inta a bit'a'wud wi'wun stroke.

“Nice shot,” say Stan, in gen'win adm'rayshun “Swung frum th'shulder wi' a lock't rist.  Ena'budda wud'a thunk yew wuz a carp'nta.”

“Oi hint jus'a pritta fearce,” say Jarge, thus toime tapp'n th'hed end a th''ammer on th'brick, “Now teark a look at'tut thus way.”

“Dunt see nOo dif'runce,” say Stan, “Wun nail, wun 'ammer.”

“Yew wun'ta hol' th'nail?” say Jarge, “See Oi dunt cheat.”

“Git orn wi'ut,” say Stan, putt'n hiz hands 'n'hiz porkets.”

“SOo,” say Jarge, teark'n th'same kinda swing a'th'nail.

“Blast me,” say Stan, stepp'n back in s'prise, “th'hed floi'orf.”

“Thas how'ut work,” say Jarge, “Git th'ol'rat eva'toime.”

“Pitta terday's rat is a cabbage,” say Stan, look'n a' th'flatten'd wedgtable.”

“Oi'll git'cha a'nonion next,” say Jarge, “An' yew kin dew us a bubble'n'squeak.”

Author's Note:

This story is based on an amazing stroke of luck that befell my grandfather.  One day in the 1950s I was watching him mending his old brown boots in the back garden, using the coal bunker as an anvil.  Suddenly this huge rat shot out from under his feet and scarpered off down the garden path.  Grandfather tried to throw the hammer at it, but before he could let go, the head flew off and killed the rat, which by then was about twenty feet away and going like the clappers.  The hammer in question is still in use by the current generation.  It is a beautiful wide headed leather-worker's hammer with the original handle.  The head still comes loose when you tap it on the wrong end.

— • —

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— • —

1.02.1 - The Road Menders

Give a man a beautiful new shovel.  Stand him next to a pile of nicely rounded beach or river flints and a heap of gravel with a firm mix of shingle, marle, sharp sand and clay.  Then point him at a hole, rut or ‘grup’ in the road and watch him whirl into action like a dervish of the highway:

“Wot ar'we a'dew'n hare?” say Jarge, consida'r'n a gret ol'grup, “Thissear ol'rud mebbe Room'n if yew dig forrut, bu' ter me, thas jus' a dutty ol'track thet ware owt'yer bewtes.”

“Shove sum a'them stuns in thet grup,” say Jimma, pok'n hiz bewte a'tut, “Oi gotta'nutha lode a'rum in th'cart.”

“Oi hint dun wi'th'las' lot yit,” say Jarge, lean'n on hiz shov'll, “Yew dunt 'arf git carried away wen yew git gOo'n.”

“Th'chuch clock's wotch'n yer,” say Jimma, gentl'n th'nose a'hiz ol'hoss, “Wen thet ring fer noon, thet'll be yor fewn'rul.”

“Blast boy,” say Jarge, shift'n hissel' at last, “Nobudda sed ena'th'n ter me abou' bells.  Wuz thet th'bailiff?”

“Hint yew come acrost th'new steward yit?” say Jimma, “Rud in frum Lynn yisterd'y.  He say the New Marsta's nut far ahind, be hare b'noon an' he dunt 'spek' t'hev no bruk'n wheels orn account'a yor grup.”

“Thet'int moi grup,” say Jarge, “Namorr'n yorn.  Thet wuz th'ol'Leddy's.”

“Wull, thar's 'nutha wun ov'r thar,” say Jimma, “Oi spec' she'd ha'let yew hev thet'un if yew'd ha'arsk'd afore she went.”

“Thissear New Marsta,” say Jarge, shad'n hiz eyes, “Dew he hev a gret ol'carr'age, wi' for'i'nand an' a roaring jarvey wi' a long whip?”

“Hent sin wun,” say Jimma, “He int hare yet.”

“Woss thet then?” say Jarge, wav'n hiz shov'll a'th' approach'n clowd a'dust, “Th'Apok'a'lips?”

— • —

1.02.2 - Tall Tales Taken Short

The vicar, having drunk several too many pots of tea, arrived at the top of the tower stairs with a sudden realisation.  His bladder was too full and it wouldn't take no for an answer.

“Kyuh blast boy!” say Jarge, “Did yew see thet? Oi dint know he'cud muve sa'farst.”

“Yew meen th'wicar?” say Stan, “Wi' th'skart a'hiz cassock hoiked'tup ov'r'iz arm?”

“Sart'nl'y Oi meen th'wicar,” say Jarge, “gOo'n up them stairs loike a rat'tup'a drearnpipe.”

“Dew he 'spec'us ter dew th'searme?” say Stan, “'Cuz Oi hint in th'mude for'ut.”

“Dunt s'puz he 'spec' mucha'rus 'n th'fust plearce,” say Jarge, “Come yew orn boy.  Bes'fut froward.”

“Ah, aha, ummm?” says the vicar, who has just emptied the bucket out of a handy lancet window as his two helpers arrive in the clock room.

“Yew'll hetta be more careful, Wicar,” say Jarge, see'n th'flush in th'wicar's fearce, “Them narra wind'n stairs ar'apt to wind yer.”

“What?” asks the vicar in confusion, “Oh yes, yes, of course.”

“Now,” say Stan, “Wot ar'we dew'n up hare?”

“Ummm, ah,” says the vicar, hiding the bucket behind his back with one hand whilst pointing with the other, “It's this inscription.  Here on the clock mechanism.”

“Presented to This House of The Lord and in the Name of Saint Andrew,” say Stan, teark'n a squ'ntat'ut, “By The Scions of Haugh and Wells on the Birth of their First Son Marcus.”

“Moi wud,” say Jarge, “Yew soun' jus' loike Wicar hare, wen yew reeda'lowd.”

“Oi jus' reed'ut how thas rit,” say Stan, “Woss orl thet abowt 'scions' ena'way?”

“A scion is an heir,” says the vicar, having recovered his poise, “Both Haugh and Wells are heirs, as of course, in his turn, is their son Marcus.”

“Thass a'nutha lessen larned,” say Jarge, “They'll meark yew ar' parrush claark, 'f'yew'nt careful.”

“Oi am th'parrush claark,” say Stan, “As i'fyew dint know.”

“The problem,” says the vicar, “is that it's his clock and it doesn't work.”

“That gOo roun',” say Jarge, kick'n th'gret ol'wudd'n frearm a'th'thing, “Oi sin'ut.  Thas gOo'n roun' now.”

“Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “Lord of all Manors of Mardlingham, our new master, will not be pleased if his clock is clever enough to go round, but not sufficiently so to keep good time.”

“Best nut t'tell'em thas hiz, then,” say Jarge.

— • —

Author's Note:

“Haugh,” - often pronounced “Huff,” or “'Uff,” and sometimes “Huv,” - paternal family name of Sir Marcus Haugh-Wells, who will be generally known in Mardlingham as “Sir Marcus 'Uff'ells,” (hint yew hard uff'um?)

— • —

1.02.3 - Scully Wobbles

It's one of those days when the clouds fly by, dropping sudden showers.  Behind The Big House, a blackbird sits on the highest twig of the the paddock hedge and disconsolately runs his flight feathers through his beak.  Beyond, in the stable yard sodden sparrows mooch around the meager spills of waterlogged oats and slowly disintegrating piles of horse muck.  In the loose boxes, the producers of said muck stamp and snort, disturbed by twirling dust devils as the wind blusters through:

“Blessus orl! They got thet puddle gOo'n agin,” say Tottie Scully, giving the stearble hands a taste a'har best scowl.

“Thas nut them,” say Tilly Scully, hoik'n har hem up owtta th'flood, “Thas Him up thar a'tipp'n Hiz chamb'r pot owt th'winda in th'sky.”

“Th'New Marsta, yew mean?” say Tottie Scully, “Dew he dew thet?”

“Dew wot?” say Tilly.  - “Yews a pot?” say Tottie.

“Th'New Marsta? Corse'e dew,” say Tilly, “Bu' Oi wunt tork'n 'bout 'im.”

“Hew wuz yer tork'n about' then?” say Tottie.

“Th'New Marsta, dew he hev a winda in th'sky? say Tilly.

“Dunt arsk me,” say Tottie, “Yew'll hetta'rarsk th'up-stare maid 'bou'thet.”

“Tew hoity-toity ter come roun' these paarts, she is,” say Tilly, “Thars nOo tork'n ter har now she'gotta man's bed to make.”

“Wull th'tweeny, then,” say Tottie, nut wunt'n t'be beat.

“Oi'm tork'n 'bou' Him!” say Tilly, “HIM in th'sky.,”

“Oh, Him,” say Tottie, “He dunt hev a winda in th'sky.  He tip hiz owt thet squitty little wun in th'corner a' th'chuch belfrey.”

“Hew tol'dyew thet?” say Tilly, “Them stearble boys?”

“NOobudda tol'me,” say Tottie, “Oi wuz gorn parst th'chuch yisterd'y, an' Oi sin'ut fer m'self."

— • —

1.02.4 - Rosamunda's Runic Bells

The Smith, Stan, the vicar and his sister Rosamunda are gathered in the clock-room, one floor beneath the bell-chamber in Mardlingham Church tower.  Normally the clock would be filling this space with its distintive ticking; just too slow to be cheerful, just too fast to be restful.  Unfortunately, below them in the tower alcove at the west end of the nave, a rather too vigourous Jimma Boy is working the single bellrope:

“Keeping time, time, time.  In a sort of Punic rhyme,” proclaims Rosamunda, with her hands placed rather elegantly over her ears.  Then continues into the sudden silence with “To the tintinnabulation that so un-musically wells, from the bells, bells, bells, bells,”

“Runic my dear, Rrrrunic!” exclaims the vicar, who had received her proclamation in his left ear while the bell assailed his right.  “Edgar Allan Poe, penned that as 'Runic rhyme' and contrarywise to you, sweet sister, he thought them musical as well.,”

“Only when they were 'Keeping time, time, ti' ...  Oh!” says Rosamunda, stepping back with a start.

“Oi've hedda'nuff a'thet,” say Jimma, erupt'n frum th'squitty li'l twust'y stare thet getcha up'th'chuch't'ar, “Did thet dew'ut?”

“Thet'ut did,” say the Smith, hew'd had hiz eye on th'clock th'hul toime, “Cord'n ter thus, yew bin a'haurl'n orn thet ol'roop fer nigh'orn 'arf'n'ar”

“Oi hev nut,” say Jimma, “Thet dunt teark 'arf'n'ar to dew a duzz'n pulls.”

“It does by this clock,” says the vicar with a smile.  “If you bellringers lived your lives by this clock you would all be centenarians by now.,”

“Thas thus bit hare,” say the Smith, “Thet dew whut thet shud, then afore thet shud, thet dew'ut agin.”

“An escapade of the escapement?” says the vicar, “A wreck of the ratchet.  A pawl appalling.”

“Thet hant 'scaped,” say th'Smith, raising an eyebrow, “Thet jus' set orf wun way and then go parst itsel' orn the way back.”

“Yes, yes!” says the vicar, staring at the offending part, “Shall you take in hand the necessary repair?”

“S'puz Oi shall,” say the Smith, “Nobudda ells ter dew'ut, nut roun' hare.”

“Can we not send to Norwich for a clock-smith?” asks Rosamunda, “I mind there's one in Magdalen street.”

“Tis this Sunday that Sir Marcus plans his ascent of the tower,” says the vicar, “So there's no time for clock-smiths.”

“Wull, thar sartinly int by this clark!” say Jimma.

— • —

1.02.5 - The Covers are Off

There is a New Master at The Big House.  Forgotten rooms are being resurrected.  In the library, dust sheets have been removed and heaped in the wash-house.  The ranks of leather book-spines have been spit'n'polished, somewhat to the detriment of their gilding.  Furniture has been moved and the oriental carpets rolled and dragged into the kitchen yard where they have been thoroughly beaten by the cook.  The heavy curtains draping the tall windows have been rudely shaken by a sneezing Tweeny and the fallout swept away by the Scullies.  The gloom of years has been banished and the heavily carved chair behind the massive leather-topped mahogany desk is no longer empty.

Sir Marcus sits behind a palisade of bills, books and papers, over which he glares at the farm bailiff.  A man, now much deflated, who until recently had been acting as steward to the Mardlingham Estate:

“My mother's burial?” says Sir Marcus, shuffling papers from one pile into many, “was that not ...  er ...,” He shuffles more paper, “ahem ...  the duty of the demn'd sexton?”

“Twas, Sir Marcus,” says the farm bailiff.

“Eh ...,” says Sir Marcus, riffling one of his heaps, “A certain Mister Bunce, I believe?”

“Dunt rightly know 'f he's a mister,” says th'bailiff, “Nor if he's a Bunce.”

“Was it not the sexton my carriage splattered with mud?” says Sir marcus, “You named him to me on my arrival ...  George, I believe? 'Though who he was burying in the Kings highway, I shudder to think.”

“Jarge, Sir Marcus,” say th'bailiff, “Jarge dun th'chuch-yaard wark.  He mend th'rud an'orl.”

“George Bunce?” mutters his master, running the feather of his quill along a line in the opened ledger, “The sexton's listed here as William.”

“Jarge, t'wuz wot dunnut.  Buried th'Owd Leddy.  Har Leddysh'p, thet is,” say th'bailiff, “Nut no Bunces 'roun' hare.”

“This George,” says Sir Marcus, “Bunce or not.  I'll see him on Monday.  Tell him to be in the stable yard when I return there from my morning gallop.”

“Th'stearbl'yaard Mund'y marn'n,” say th'bailiff, “Sart'nly Sir Marcus.”

“I shall also require the attendance of the parish clerk and the teamster,” says Sir Marcus, slamming one ledger and opening another, “Now prey return to your duties.”

— • —

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1.01.2 - Discerning Spirits

In the tap-room of the Crossed Arms, the oil-lamps seem to brighten as the daylight fades. Behind the bar, a well built, but middling sized young amazon flexes a nicely turned bicep as she pulls a pint from the middle of three long-handled beerpumps. In front of the bar, two villagers contemplate their first pints of the evening, behind them the pub gradually fills as all around the village the days work grinds to a halt. Among the new arrivals, the most noticable is the village parson, a slim youngish man from some “furrin' parts” like Oxfordshire:

“Eve'nin Wicar” say Jarge, scratch'n hiz bald patch, “Woteva happ'n tew yer rosie cheeks?”

“If Oi know Rosie” say Buxum Bea frum ahint th' bar, “She'll still be sett'n orn 'em.”

“Thas Rosamunda t'yew” say Stan, “She dun't nev'r arnser t'Rosie.”

“Oi'm referrin' t'th' Wicar's cheeks” say Jarge, slapp'n a coin on th' bar, “Not hiz sister's.”

“A droppa sperrits, Wicar?” say Bea, “Thas fav'rit fer pale cheeks.”

“Oi'll goo alonga thet” say Stan, addin' a silver thrup'ny bit, “Meake thet three.”

“Muss be payday!” say Bea, “Three brandies thet is then.”

“Talking of Spirits” says the Vicar, collapsing onto a barstool, “I think, perhaps, that I have just seen a ghost.”

“Lotta'em abowt” say Jarge, parsin' th' parson a brandy, “Nut thet they eva krearz me.”

“Jus' show wotta di'sarnin' lotta' sperrits we hev aroun' hare.” say Bea, primpin' har hare.

“I wish” says the Vicar, “That your local spirits would decide to discern against me.”

“Oi allus thort sperrits wuz th' proppa prov'nce a'th' parson, Wicar” say Jarge, quoff'n hiz brandy in wun goo, “Speshla roun' hare.”

“So they are” says the Vicar, “but I prefer them to remain, as it were, in the third party.”

“Politics?” arsk Bea. “Trinity” say Jarge, wi' a wink.

“Yew hint told us waur thet appeared thus toime” say Stan, sippin' quietly.

“This time?” exclaims the Vicar, who is relatively new to the parish, “ Does this happen regularly?”

“Pritta regla” say Jarge, “ Dew yew set awhile on th' Chuch-yaard wall an' tearke a long look a'wunna them owd stuns ...”

“Or stand in th' sacr'sty a'tarnin' th' leaves a'th' parish register” say Stan, “Thassa gud toime.”

“Things” says the Vicar, “That a man of my calling can seldom avoid.”

“Yew set orn thet owd wall an' orl yew'll get's a mossy bott'm” say Bea.

“Thas look'n a' th' ritin, thet duzz't” say Jarge, “Seem loik they wuntta read't ov'r yer shulder.”

“P'raps thas th' ded'uns pleased t'be r'member'd” say Stan.

“A comforting thought, Stanley” says the Vicar, “Most comforting!”

“More loik a hul buncha our descendants, wundren waur th' heck they come frum” say Bea.

“I pray that the deceased have better things do than return to haunt us” says the Vicar, “Rather let us hope, as Beatrice so wisely avers, that these are but the manifestation of our descendants, gazing back at us in curiousity.”

“Wicar say thassa 'festation a'descendants” say Stan, “Hev'yer got traps fer thet Jarge?”

“Oi got traps fer eva'thin'” say Jarge, lookin' a'th' Wicar, “Hint thet yor round, yer rever'nd?”

“Well you certainly trapped me there, George” says the Vicar, looking rather flustered.

“Thas nut werra respec'ful, 'bor” say Stan, “Yew wunt ha' treat'd th' owd Wicar so raw.”

“Th'owd Wicar wuz too scary to be treat'd” say Jarge, wi' a big grin, “Nor wud he be sin in th' pub, 'less Black Shuck hisself wuz on hiz heels.”

“Then I shall take your disrespect as a compliment” says the Vicar, “But perhaps in future we should leave the spirits in the graveyard. It will be easier on our purses.”

“I'll tell'em, when I see'em” say Jarge, “Oi've sum greave-yaard mould tew tarn t'morra, fer th'owd leddy up a' The Big House.”

“Boy Jimma's borrow'n thet gret ol'black 'oss from th' colonal a'Militia” say Bea, “To fetch th' hoss harse frum Gret Mardl'um.”

“Thet'll be a rare ol'sight” say Jarge, “Hope thassa' nuff black crape to goo round.”

— • —

1.01.3 - Shovel Shuffle

There's a burying due. The female mourners are “trickalat'n” their hats with black crepe and deciding just what grade of veil will do the best for their complexion or lack of it. The males are vigorously shaking the smell of mothballs out of their best clothes. Jarge, as usual, has got himself into a hole:

“Woah boy!” say young Jimma, su'pris'n hisself as much as th' hoss.

“Morn'n Jimma” say Jarge, wotch'n half hiz cobbles spill orf th' back a'th' tumbril. “Hev'yer brung moi dinna, 'bor.”

“Nut less' yew fansa flint stun rowly-powly” say Jimma, wi'a grin, kickin' wun th' sizer'ra cann'nball inta th' greave.

“Thassa 'nuff a'thet” say Jarge, chuckin'ut owt agin, “ Did yer call by th' smithy?”

“Oi did” say Jimma, “An' thas nut redda.”

“Wudga'meen nut redda? say Jarge, “Thas bin thar since las' Thuzd'y.”

“Smith say yew plum wor owt thet owd shovel” say Jimma, “He say f'thet waur ena thinna he cud shearve wi'ut, but he dint, 'cuze hiz rearzas bigger.”

“Wull, Oi carnt git th' Owd Leddy's las'rest'n plearce hoiked owt, wi'owt it” say Jarge.

“Oi hint th' fule in moi famla” say Jimma, “Th' prize fer thet goo t'wun th' uncles.”

“Thass'a gud jarb yer fadder got six bruthers” say hiz uncle Jarge, “Oth'wise Oi might tearke offence. Now git thet tumbril tumbled an' go tell th' smith t' hev moi shovel hare by noon, or we wunt be hevin' no fune'rel.”

“Oi sed Oi wunt a fule” say Jimma, “Oi brung yew wun a th' new Barmin'um shovels frum th' farm.”

“Wunt thet leave'em short?” say Jarge, “Oi 'spect they gotta lotta muck a'thar own t'shift.”

“Nut wi' a hul harfduzz'n, t'chuse frum” say Jimma.

“Wull Oi hope yew brung us a gudd'n” say Jarge.

“Thar orl th' searm” say Jimma, “Carn't tell'em apart.”

“Hum” say Jarge, heftin' th' Barmin'um shovel, “Built loike a cart'oss.”

“Thas a digg'n shovel” say Jimma, “ Dew evathin' wi' wun a'them. So they tell me.”

“They'll tell yew enathin' up at Home Farm” say Jarge, “Bu' mind wot Oi tell yew. A gud shovel dunt weigh noo more than wot yew kin lift on it. Yew wunt t'dig, yew use a spade, or charp owt th' clay wi' a longhandle spud. A spade hev a straight blade an' need a bitta weight t'give it bite, but a spud need a keen edge an' a nice point.”

“Ol' Darsen frum Hum Farm, say they know best in Barmin'um” say Jimma, “An' th' hull harfduzzen oony corst'im th' searmuz wun frum th' Smith.”

“ Dunt yew liss'n to Darsen, 'less he's jus' shifted a ton a'beet wi' wun a'hiz barmy shovels” say Jarge, “Now git yew orf t'th' Smith fer a prarpa shovel, while Oi spud owt th' owd Leddy's bott'm.”

— • —

1.01.4 - Maybe the Hermit

The village children, armed with sacks and forked sticks are fighting over the steaming piles of hearse-horse manure. In the more genteel houses brandy is being sipped, below that in the social ladder, sloe-gin and such cordials are savoured and discussed. In other places small beer and ale is being drunk. The Vicar and his sister Rosamunda have a little sherry in fine glasses up at The Big House, but not everybody can afford the luxury of time off just because they've been to a fine family funeral:

“Eve'nin Jimma 'bor” say Jarge “Oi dew 'njoy a gud fune'rl.”

“Eve'nin Jarge” say Jimma, teark'n a swat a' th' shimma a'mozzies twurlin' roun' hiz hed, “Sune be dark. Hev yer dun?”

“Pretta much” say Jarge, tampin' down th' lass' a' th' grearve mowld wi' th' brite new blade a'hiz fav'rit shovel.

“Th' new railin's be up betimes” say Jimma, “Smith say t'tell'e.”

“Wraught railin's!” say Jarge, “Pity thet waur a Barmin'um corfin.”

“Howd' yew reckon thet?” say Jimma, “Wunt thet wunna Stan's?”

“Stan niver screw'd a handle orn thet straight in hiz loife” say Jarge.

“ Dew 'e teark't bad” say Jimma, “Nut bein' arsked t'dew th' corfin?”

“Thas The Big House. A lor unta'emselves” say Jarge, “Mind yew, Stan'll be moost upset if he dunt git to dew yorn.”

“Thas no way t' tork inna chuchyaard” say Jimma wi' a shudder.

“Hev yer sin enna a'th' Wicar's sperrits yit?” say Jarge.

“ Dint know he hed enna” say Jimma.

“Wunt yew in th' Crorst Arms, wen 'e come flapp'n in, tuther nite?” say Jarge.

“Thet Oi wuz, bu' Oi dint know wot 'e waur a'drink'n” say Jimma.

“Nut drink'n” say Jarge, “Bein' 'ornted!”

“In th' Crorst Arms?” say Jimma, “Niver, Bea wunt hev thet. Nut noohow.”

“Nut a' th' pub, yer duzzy fule, roun' th' chuch” say Jarge, wav'n hiz shov'l as a cowled shadda parst atwinn 'th' junipers. “Blas' boy! Wossat ov'r thar?”

“Thas rude t' point” say Jimma, wi' sum trepidaysh'n, “Hint thet th' Wicar?”

“Mebbe” say Jarge, “Or mebbe th' owd Harmit's a'keep'n hiz eye onyer. Hew kin tell.”

— • —

1.01.5 - Highway to Heaven

Jimma boy and the village blacksmith are enjoying themselves clanging the new railings through the lytchgate. Jarge has aready laid a smart new cobbled covering over The Old Lady and her neighboring ancestors. The Family's grave plot is now full, so to round things off, the square is about to be surrounded by an elegant wrought-iron pallisade:

“Blast Boy” say th' smith, admir'n Jarge's cobbles, “That look jus' loike a bit a Room'n rud.”

“Woss thet, wen thas a'tum?” say Jimma, “I hint sin noo Room'ns roun' hare sin' East'r Fare.”

“Nut travellin' folk” say th' smith, “Them ol'sogers wot didfa Bo'dicka.”

“Bo' dicka?” say Jimma, “Hint thet the wun thet goo fer Jarge's hat, eva'toime he go poach'n acrorse th' Common.”

“Th' ol'grey dicka?” say th' smith, “Hint thet orn a chain?”

“Thar allus muv'n'ut abowt” say Jarge, “ Dew'ut orn parpus, Oi reckon.”

“I may be in error, James” says the Vicar, appearing from behind a sturdy juniper, “But I fear you may be confusing our great warrior queen, Boadicea of the Iceni, with a donkey.”

“Moi hart alive,” say Jarge, “Ware'd'yew spring frum, Wicar.”

“Just on my way to the church” says the Vicar, “Things to do, George. Things to do.”

“Sett'n moi eye on Jarge's cobbles” say th' smith, feelin' th' need to shew hisself in a gud lite a'frunt'a th' Wicar, “Brung t'mind yor Room'n rud.”

“Ah! The visiting antiquarian and Mardlingham's version of the street called straight” muses the Vicar, “You helped in the digging, I believe?”

“Las'yare y'r Rev” say th' smith, “Wi' yor pretta susta, horga'niz'n us orl.”

“That is her way. Ah yes - 'tis her way” says the Vicar with a wan smile, “But, returning to the Romans, I do believe you have it. Our George's handiwork certainly has the air of such a road.”

“Thas crarfsm'nshup, nut 'andi-wark” say Jarge, “ Darnsite betta'run thet loda'rol Room'n rubble.”

“Forgive me George, I spoke in haste. If my sister Rosamunda was here, she would, no doubt, contend that this was but our tiny portion of the Highway to Heaven.”

“Iz thet soo” say Jarge, hew took th' orpuz't vew, “Thassa Gud jarb thas paved wi' stuns then, nut gud 'ntenshuns.”

— • —

1.01.6 - Thyme for Thought

The Vicar, despite or perhaps because of being the eldest son in a severly clerical family, is a somewhat reluctant recruit to the trade. He prefers Bardic words to those more Biblical. One of these great sources of wisdom he knows by heart, the other he is constantly required to read. Some times he gets them mixed up, but this is not one of them:

“I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows” quoth the Vicar, drawing spiritual sustinence from the view across the meadows behind Mardlingham Church.

“Howdga mean?” say Jarge, “Thas jus' a'lotta ol'green stuff, thet need a gud goin' ov'r with a scythe an' a hayrake.”

“ Dunt be so ockard” say Stan, “Wicar mean thas nice roun' hare, hint it?”

“Why'nt he say so, then?” say Jarge, pick'n a dodman orf th' chuchyaard wall an' chuckin' it at' an owd crow.

“Oi thought he did” say Stan, “Hev thet treat'd yer orl'rite, th' las' week?”

“Thet hint ov'r yit” say Jarge, “T'morra we hetta teark toime orf t'goo t'chuch an' liss'n t'th' Wicar.”

“I could be bound in a nutshell” says the Vicar, spreading his arms, “And still count myself king of infinite space.”

“Now wuss he gorn orn about” say Jarge, “Summat tellma we hint gornta git much a'ar use'l shuteye wen he start sermonizin'.”

“N'thet kearse” say Stan, “Reckon Oi'll git m'sel' a gud reas'n ter wisit Itt'r'num.”

“Kin Oi join yer?” say Jarge, “If thas a gud'nuff reason?”

“ Dunt see why nut” say Stan, “He'll be tew bizza tork'n ter dew any lookin'.”

— • —

FIRST — INDEX — NEXT

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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  INTRODUCTION - New readers start here:

  Jarge does some Digging - (Book 1, Chapter 1)
  Episodes:
  1.01.1 - The Mardlinghams
  1.01.2 - Discerning Spirits
  1.01.3 - Shovel Shuffle
  1.01.4 - Maybe the Hermit
  1.01.5 - Highway to Heaven
  1.01.6 - Thyme for Thought

  Arrival of a New Master - (Book 1, Chapter 2)
  Episodes:
  1.02.1 - The Road Menders
  1.02.2 - Tall Tales Taken Short
  1.02.3 - Scully Wobbles
  1.02.4 - Rosamunda's Runic Bells
  1.02.5 - The Covers are Off

  Scullion Scallywags - (Book 1, Chapter 3)
  Episodes:
  1.03.1 - More Scully Wobbling
  1.03.2 - Mark my Words
  1.03.3 - Cook and Bull Story
  1.03.4 - Fribbin's Cheese
  1.03.5 - Bubble and Squeak
  Author's Note - Family Hammer

  Sextons Cottage - (Book 1, Chapter 4)
  Episodes:
  1.04.1 - Jarge's Cottage
  1.04.2 - Right Angles and Fallen Angels
  1.04.3 - Wild Dogs and Guard Cats
  1.04.4 - Mardle Pits and Duck Ponds
  1.04.5 - Rats in the Wall

  A Spate of Telegrams - (Book 1, Chapter 5)
  Episodes:
  1.05.1 - Poles Apart
  1.05.2 - Cheap Telegram
  1.05.3 - Generosity
  1.05.4 - Chastity gets a Hat
  1.05.5 - Disturbing the Peace
  1.05.6 - What a Man's Gotta Do

  Disaster at Mill Cottages - (Book 1, Chapter 6)
  Episodes:
  1.06.1 - Crock of Soup
  1.06.2 - Where's My View?
  1.06.3 - Bodies on the Common
  1.06.4 - He Went and Did It
  Author's Note - Too Many Cowled Figures

  Miraculous Flying Ragamuffin - (Book 1, Chapter 7)
  Episodes:
  1.07.1 - Unlucky for Some
  1.07.2 - No Miracle, Just Chickens
  1.07.3 - Rosamunda's Dominions
  1.07.4 - Back at the Churchyard
  1.07.5 - By Ale or By Whale
  1.07.6 - Chicken Finale

  The Mardlingham Militia - (Book 1, Chapter 8)
  Episodes:
  1.08.1 - Let's all be Malicious
  1.08.2 - Don't Miss This News
  1.08.3 - The Price of Gin
  1.08.4 - Satan in a cloud of steam
  1.08.5 - Just a Pair of Turnips
  1.08.6 - The Rumpus That Never Was

  Poachers in the Plantation - (Book 1, Chapter 9)
  Episodes:
  1.09.1 - Stratagems of Love
  1.09.2 - A Peaceful Man at Heart
  1.09.3 - Whispers in the Night
  1.09.4 - Advance and be Recognised
  1.09.5 - Brown-Bess and the Pheasant
  1.09.6 - Ambush at Gallows Hill

  Raggs and Tatters - (Book 1, Chapter 10)
  Episodes:
  1.10.1 - Laudate Laudanum
  1.10.2 - Raggs Keeps his Head
  1.10.3 - Raggs Loses his Head
  1.10.4 - Blacksmith Bracelets
  1.10.5 - Mucky Momentum
  1.10.6 - Sanctum Sanctorum

  Muck and Bullets - (Book 1, Chapter 11)
  Episodes:
  1.11.1 - Malicious Charges
  1.11.2 - Crossroads in Chaos
  1.11.3 - Hellfire and Damnation
  1.11.4 - Squeeze in the Squinch
  1.11.5 - Spiflicated Scullions
  1.11.6 - Litany in the Library
  1.11.7 - Fall of an Iron Tongue
  Authors Note

  Man With No Lobes - (Book 1, Chapter 12)
  Episodes:
  1.12.1 - Dragon for Breakfast
  1.12.2 - Lugs Like a Jug
  1.12.3 - Warp in the Weft
  1.12.4 - Piddle in the Font
  1.12.5 - With and Without
  1.12.6 - Squirmy as an Eel
  1.12.7 - A Hairy Suprise
  1.12.8 - Nine Month Wonder
  1.12.9 - Not in Front of the Vicar

  INDEX to Book Two.

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