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2.01.1 - Wringing the Sheets
Coarse soap, clouds of steam, red hands and sopping aprons, it must be wash-day for the scullions up at The Big House:
“Thas nun a'moi biznus,” say Tottie, “But thet dunt'arf nagg'a'cher.”
“Carn't hev thet,” say Tilly, stirring th'wash-cawppa.
“Wot?” say Tottie, “Me bee'n nagg'd at?”
“NOo,” say Tilly, “Thet'ut hint yor biznus.”
“Yew say'n Oi'm nosey?” say Tottie, in har dangerous sorta voice.
“NOo,” say Tilly, “Oi'm say'n, if yew got sum muk, yew shud spred'ut abowt.”
“Thet hint muk,” say Tottie, “Jus'curious, thas orl.”
“'Bowt wot?” say Tilly pull'n a sheet outa th'wash-cawppa an' slamm'n'ut in th'sink.
“'Bowt th'sogers,” say Tottie, “Arf the toime th'willage is fulla sogers, then thet hint.”
“Thas th'way'ut wark, wi'millisha” say Tilly, “When he wunt sogers he say ‘Let thar be sogers’ 'an they orl come runn'n, then he say ‘Git orf hum’ an' orf they gOo.”
“SOo they hint sogers orl th'toime?” say Tottie.
“Twist me th'end a thet sheet,” say Tilly, “An' less wring th'bugga's neck.”
“SOo hews `he` wen he's a'tum,” say Tottie.
“Thas a sheet,” say Tilly, “Ar'yew gorn blind?”
“NOo, him wot tell'um ter come runn'n,” say Tottie.
“Moi fudda say thas th'Lard Leften'n't,” say Tilly, “But, far's'Oi kin see, thas Sir Marcus wot dew orl th'tell'n.”
“Hint thet allus?” say Tottie.
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2.01.2 - Springtime in the Scullery
With a grand household's worth of bedsheets slopped in the sink, the linen was about to be separated. The housekeeper and her team taking charge of the larger, finer squares of linen to be lightly starched, ironed smooth and religiously folded for the use of the master and his guests, while the rest of the sheets were hurried through the mangle and out onto the kitchen-yard lines in the chapped red hands of the scullions:
“Gawn, git th'nex'wun up thar,” say Tilly, “So's Oi kin git a purchase onn'ut wi'th'rollers.”
“Wull, dunt be s'sudden wi'ut,” say Tottie, “Yew fare hed moi por lil'dannies wi'th'las'wun.”
“We hint got orl day,” say Tilly, “Cook'll be arta har wedgetubles, afore yew know'ut.”
“Hev yer hard frum Josh?” say Tottie, meaning the soger-plowboy from the chimney incident.
“NOo rearz'n Oi shud, is thar?” say Tilly, cranking the mangle with a touch of venom.
“Cook reckon thar might be,” say Tottie, risking a finger to straighten the draw of the currently frothing sheet.
“Cook'll say enna'th'n fer a larf,” say Tilly, “Yew shud hare wot she say 'bowt yew an' th'stable lads.”
“She kin say wot she loike 'bowt me an' Ted,” say Tottie.
“Tipp'n yer cap, then?” say Tilly, “Nice strong lad, yew cud dew wuss.”
“Wot mearke me think thas Spring?” say Cook, frum ware she'd bin lissn'n in th'doorway.
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2.01.3 - Fresh Eggs and Joshua
If you leave The Big House scullery via the stable-yard, go round the barn and behind the main buildings that make up Home Farm, sometimes known as Dorsen's Farm, you'll find that it too has a scullery. At this time of day, between breakfast and 'levenses, it will be full of eggs, all neatly sorted into straw lined baskets by young Ginny and set out ready for collection:
“Whoah thar!” say Tottie, as Ginny's ol'dawg Raggs slap hiz tongue acrorst har fearce.
“If he bother yew,” say Ginny, “Bite hiz ear.”
“Dew thet dew enna gud?” say Tottie, hold'n up wunna Ragg's hairy flaps an' picking orf a coupla burrs.
“Cummear boy,” say Ginny, “Set yar hot raggedy bum on th'cold pamments, an' storp orl thissear lollop'n abowt.”
“Hev yer got th'eggs?” say Tottie, “Cook's feeling like a bit'uv a scramble.”
“Dew he loike thet?” say Ginny, “Th'marsta?”
“Dunno,” say Tottie, “But Fribbins dew.”
“Fort he wuz long ded,” say Ginny, refer'n tew th'ol'butler.
“He ony look thet way,” say Tottie, “Wuss th'latest wud, roun'hare?”
“We gorn ter git a fresh carter,” say Ginny, “Now thet Jimma's gorn orf ter Norridge.”
“Hew's thet?” say Tottie, “Enna'wun we know?”
“Dunno 'bowt ‘we’” say Ginny, “But Ol'Dorsen call him Joshua.”
“Ustta be a'prentice plow-boy in th'malisha?” say Tottie.
“Thas th'wun,” say Ginny, “Dew yer know him?”
“Thet mite be Tilly's Josh,” say Tottie, “Yew know, th'soger we pull'd owta th'chimbly.”
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2.01.4 - Wigs, Lobes and Kedgeree
Beneath the silver covers on Sir Marcus sideboard, kedgeree and scrambled eggs were but two of the choices he had avoided on his way from dressing-room to stables. For our handsome young Lord of the Manor, a gallop along the river path and across the fields to the vicarage were much more interesting. In any case, Miss Rosamunda would, no doubt, be pleased to offer him a bite at her own more intimate breakfast table, the better to be enjoyed when the ride had given him an appetite. The breakfast dishes at The Big House, although spurned by the master, would not be so treated by the staff:
“A porsh'n a'scramblies?” say Tilly, from the door of the butler's pantry.
“Thank'ee,” say Fribbins, setting aside the wig he was brushing, “A portion would please, I'm sure.”
“Thar yer gOo,” say Tilly, dolloping it onto a warmed plate, “Sum a'thus an' sum a that - ter gOo with'ut?”
“Of course,” say the butler, “And pass me that bottle, while you're handy.”
Back in the servant's hall, Tilly shares the final remainder of the remains of the breakfast leftovers between Tottie and herself:
“Port wine?” say Tilly, waving the water jug.
“Bet Fribbin's dunt hev to pr'tend,” say Tottie.
“Yew'd be rite,” say Tilly, “Cort th'ol'bugga wi'out hiz wig.”
“Fort yew wuz a bit pale,” say Tottie.
“Hev yew eva nOotussed hiz ears?” say Tilly.
“Oi nivva look abuv hiz watch-chain,” say Tottie, “Kase Oi ketch th'evil eye or summat.”
“Yew hint seen th'lobes, then?” say Tilly.
“Wut abowt th'lobes?” say Tottie.
“Thar hint ena,” say Tilly, “Seem ter hev gawn miss'n or nevva grow'd.”
“Thass funna,” say Tottie, “Wunt Jarge an' Stan arsk'n bowt lobes?”
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2.01.5 - Poetry and Toothache
Curiously, the Stable-Yard horse-trough with its tall cast-iron pump is almost exactly the geometrical centre of the complex of buildings that make up The Big House, otherwise known as Mardlingham Manor. It also seems to be the node around which many of the social interactions take place: On one side is the predominately female population of house-servants, on the other the almost exclusively male groups of stable and farm-servants; It is there that Sir Marcus deals with his horses, until recently the major driving force in his self-indulgent lifestyle, and prefers to instruct his minions. It is also from whence he dispatches gifts to his most recent interest, Miss Rosamunda, the vicar's pretty sister:
“Arternune Jarge,” say Ted, as he walk by wi'a fine filly bound fer th'wicarage.
“Arternune Ted,” say Jarge, admir'n th'oss.
“Fer Miss Rosamunda, frum Sir Marcus,” say Ted, “SOo's they kin go riding in th'brite dorn lite.”
“Dunt give me ena a'yer brite dorn lites,” say Jarge, “Po'tree stuff gi'me th'tooth-eark.”
“Got a messidge f'yer,” say Ted, “Frum Tilly.”
“Wuss thet, then?” say Jarge.
“Fribbin's hant got no lobes,” say Ted, “Thas orl - dunt know wot'ut meen.”
“Fribbin's hant got no lobes?” say Jarge, “Wull Oi nivva.”
“Hare come Stan,” say Ted, “Oi bes'be orf, can't stand 'roun'mardl'n orl day.”
“Arternune Stan,” say Jarge, “Ted jus'gi'me a choice morsel.”
“Arternune Jarge,” say Stan, “Wuss thet, then?”
“Fribbin's hant got no lobes,” say Jarge, “Wudga reckon?”
“Fribbins, th'ol'butler?” say Stan, “Leap'n abowt loike a randy 'prentice?”
“Oi know,” say Jarge, “Mebbe thar's anutha connexshun.”
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2.01.6 - Fiddle-Faddle-Saddle
The Mardlingham afternoon has reached its climax, a fine filly has been delivered and now graces the loosebox behind the vicarage coach-house. ‘Temperance’ the silver teapot is on the tray, in company with its little friends ‘Sweet Lumps’ and ‘Dairy Queen’ - as they are known to the strange girl, who "duz fer th'wicarage" in kitchen matters. Ted is sitting in the vicarage kitchen waiting for the maid to return and, hopefully, add a slice of walnut cake to the flaggon of home-brewed ginger-beer she has already provided. In the parlour, Rosamunda is glaring at her brother:
“Don't you dare say that again,” says Rosamunda, “Brother or not...”
“I speak as the vicar,” says her brother, “And the vicar says ‘Fiddle-Faddle’ to a Spanish saddle and ‘Fiddle-Faddle’ again.”
“I'll return the filly,” says Rosmunda, “If that will make you happier.”
“It's not the filly,” says the vicar, “I have long thought you needed a nice hack for riding.”
“Hack? Hack?” says Rosamunda, “I only wish it was a blazing black stallion, so I could trample you under foot.”
“You don't mean that, my dear,” says the vicar, “I'm sure. Two little words do not really deserve such approbrium.”
“Two little words?” says Rosamunda, rising from the table and pointing a sharp fingernail at her brother's nose, “When those words are ‘Fiddle-Faddle?’”
“Well really, my dear,” says the vicar, “A side-saddle would surely be the most appropriate?”
“Why should a side-saddle be so appropriate?” says Rosamunda, “Because I have the misfortune to be the vicar's sister, I suppose?”
“A fine lady should display discretion,” says the vicar, “Uphold the mores of her class.”
“A hot blooded young schoolmistress galloping the meadows with a handsome squire,” says Rosamunda, “Has little need of such antiquations.”
“Wull thet be orl, miss,” says the maid, frozen by the table with teapot still in hand.
“Er, yes,” says Rosamunda noticing her for the first time, “No, get my brother the smelling salts, while I loosen his collar.”
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2.01.7 - Innocents in the Vicarage
One can never tell, with the Mardlingham Vicar, whether he completely fails to see the problem, misses the point entirely or let's things pass out of tolerance and the desire for a quiet life. Where his sister is concerned, there is a constant conflict between how he sees her in his mind, and how she really is. So I think we'd better leave them to it and follow the maid back to the kitchen:
“Thar yew are,” say Ted, as th'wicar's kitchen maid close th'door on th'ruckshuns in th'parler.
“SOo Oi am,” say the maid, “Fansa anutha slosh frum th'belly-jug?”
“Dew yew hev funna nearmes fer evvath'n?” say Ted.
“Thas best ter be frends wi'things,” say th'strange gal, “Speshla in a plearce loike thus, sa'nere th'grearve-yaard.”
“Dunt hev'n th'wicar aroun' pr'tec'yer?” say Ted.
“A hinnacent,” say th'maid, “Thas him.”
“Th'cake look tasty,” say Ted, play'n wi'hiz empta pleart.
“Thas fulla devils,” say th'maid, “Try a bit an'see.”
“Taste like rum an'brandy ter me,” say Ted, teark'n a bite, “Hew mearde'ut?”
“Miss Rosamunda,” say the maid, “But she used th'winegar bottle.”
“Wull, if thas winegar,” say Ted, “Oi'll teake a quart.”
“She keep'ut locked away,” say the gal, “Oi hevta use th'malty stuff in th'stunware jar.”
“How'd yew know thas winegar in Miss Rosamunda's bottle?” say Ted.
“Oi KIN read,” say th'gal, “thet say so on th'learble.”
“Blust me,” say Ted, “Th'wicar hint th'ony hinnacent round hare.”
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2.01.8 - Droit de Seigneur
When the vicar took over the living at Little Mardlingham, the Vicarage had been well supplied with drapery, furnishings, kitchen and tableware. There was little essential to be added to household, gardens, conservatory or coach-house, save perhaps servants, livestock, cake and other perishables. This had well suited the state of his purse, but begun a series of long suffering sighs from his sister Rosamunda.
By way of transport, a simple governess cart had been included, but sadly, no pony to go with it. The previous vicar having had an arrangement with the adjoining dairy for the loan of a suitable hay-burner when required. The tack room, however boasted a single lonely side-saddle of sturdy, but antiquated design. Miss Rosamunda, finding herself itching with impatience in the bright dawn light, and therefore unable to wait for the delivery of her new Spanish saddle, had thrown it over the new filly and set off for her first tryst with Sir Marcus. A little later in the day, deliveries start to arrive in the village:
“Marn'n Jimma,” say Stan, as th'brewery dray come owta th'pub yard, “Ar'yer hed'n past th'wicarage?”
“Oi am,” say Jimma, “Hop yew up hare, bor.”
“Wuss in th'parcel?” say Stan, “Pic-nic lunch?”
“Thas a Spanish saddle fer Miss Rosamunda,” say Jimma, “Oi'm save'n th'carrier a trip.”
“Loos'n him a tip, more like!” say Stan, “Enna'kearse yew hint sune anuff.”
“Sune anuff?” say Jimma, “NOo budda sed enna'thi'n 'bowt been ‘sune anuff’ - ony ‘sune as yer kan’.”
“Saw har th'smarn'n,” say Stan, “Side-saddle! Oi wuz try'n nut ter larf, when she arsk me a funna quest'n.”
“Wuss thet, then?” say Jimma.
“Wuss ‘Droit de Seigneur’?” say Stan, “Bin read'n sum funna buks, Oi reckon.”
“Sumth'n 'bowt Spanish saddles, is'ut?” say Jimma.
“Sumth'n 'bowt Spanish practices, more loike,” say Stan, “Ancient rites, Lords a'th'Manor, chaste maidens an' gitt'n fust bite a'th'turnip.”
“Ah! Thet ‘Droit de Seigneur?’” say Jimma, “Dew we hev thet in Mardl'n'um?”
“Oi'd ha' sed nOo,” say Stan, “But then she arsk me if Oi knew Sir Marcus hint nut got nOo lobes ter hiz ears.”
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2.01.9 - Architecture - Avian or Angellic?
To save Jimma the job, Stan has delivered the Spanish saddle to The Vicarage and at the disgruntled vicar's request dumped it on the bench in the tackroom adjoining the coach-house and loosebox.
Stan had then shared his concern about Miss Rosamunda's tryst with Sir Marcus and her bombshell about his earlobes, after which he and the vicar had hurried across to the churchyard for a consultation with Jarge:
“Marn'n Wicar, marn'n Stan,” say Jarge, “Be down inna minut.”
“Wuss he dew'n on th'porch ruff?” say Stan, “Fort thet wuz dun wi'mend'n las'week.”
“Thwarting an attempt at avian architecture,” says the vicar, “Bird's nest in the water-spout.”
“Wull sa'long as thas avian, nut angellic,” say Stan, with a grin.
“Certainly wouldn't want to discourage them,” says the vicar, having his first laugh of the day, “Angel's nests being so rare this season.”
“Now, wuss thus orl abowt?” say Jarge, slid'n down th'ladder wi'a sart'n applum.
“Blust Bor,” say Stan, “Yew cud dew yersel'a'ningery, loike thet.”
“Tell him what you told me,” says the vicar, “About Sir Marcus.”
“He's anutha wun wi'nOo earlobes,” say Stan, “Thet giv'us tree parsable culpr'ts.”
“Young Silky, the travelling dudman; Fribbins, the decrepit butler and Sir Marcus, the Lord of the Manor,” says the vicar.
“Oi'll bet a pint a'horse-feathers thet hint Fribbins,” say Stan.
“And I'll cap that with the same weight in angel-feathers,” says the vicar.
“Oi'd reely luv th'buth'a'yer ter be'n error,” say Jarge, “But Oi happen ter know Fribbins an'th'dudman ar'relearted.”
“Poor old Fribbins just had to be the skeleton in somebody's cupboard,” says the vicar.
“Why dunt th'wicar jus'gOo a'narsk th'changel'n mothers?” say Jarge.
“Or Stanley could put it to Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “As part of his duties as the parish clerk.”
“Or we cud orl jus'weart fer Miss Rosamunda ter git back frum har ride,” say Jarge.
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
