— • —
2.02.1 - View from the Tower
When in ancient times, the villagers of Norfolk chose the places to build their churches, one factor was the provision of a panoramic view from the top of the tower. An eerie from which early warning could be had of the approach of Danes, drovers and dragons, rascals, rustlers and Royalty, carriers of plague, pox and postal packages, Satanic beasts or tax collectors. They are also rather useful for spying on trysting couples in the bright dawn light and at whatever time later in the morning the idea occurs to sombody:
“Kin yer see'em?” say Stan, peer'n thru hiz glarses.
“Summat on th'muve on Brikl'n Hill,” say Jarge, point'n a long arm.
“I do believe you have them,” says the vicar, “Yes indeed. Sir Marcus on his bay mare and my sister on the chestnut filly.”
“Still karnt see'em,” say Stan, sheard'n hiz eyes.
“Acrorst th'river, ter th'left a'th'ford,” say Jarge, “Gaze along th'pasture, jus'blow Pit Covet.”
“Look's like they're exchanging mounts,” says the vicar.
“Thet dew, tew,” say Jarge, “Thow Oi karnt see Sir Marcus been werra happa onna side-saddle.”
“Whoops,” says the vicar, “There goes the side-saddle, straight into the pit.”
“Oi fort yew wuz in fearver a'side-saddles?” say Stan.
“I'm changing my mind,” says the vicar, “There is, it seems, a practical advantage in the prey being able to at least equal the speed of of the predator, if not outrun it.”
“Ar'yew shur yew know which is which?” say Jarge.
“Thar orf,” say Stan, “Miss Rosamunda on th'bay iz in th'lead, bu'th'bare-back filly is comm'n up farst along th'rail.”
“An'thas neck'n'neck at th'fust fence,” say Jarge, “She's over.”
“An'so's he,” say Stan, “Sir Marcus hev th'inside line at th'next bend.”
“But the bay's put on a spurt,” says the vicar, “And cut him off.”
“Wooh Hey!” say Jarge, “Th'filly hev stumbl'd, see him fly.”
“Sir Marcus is down,” say Stan, “An'he's up agin.”
“My sister's wheeling back, but he's waving her off,” says the vicar.
“She'll be gawn ter round up th'filly,” say Jarge, “Wile Sir Marcus dew th'searme wi'hiz dignity.”
“I think I'll harness the governess cart,” says the vicar.
— • —
2.02.2 - Tavern or Teashop
It took Jarge half an hour to find a pony for the vicar's governess cart. The usual source, a neighbouring dairy, had two, but they were out on their rounds and not expected to be available until the evening. That left the night-soil collector, who had to be awoken and was reluctant to risk his pony in the vicar's service after the recent chaos at the crossroads.
So when the three men in the cart finally arrived at the covert on Brick Kiln Hill, there was nothing to be done but salvage the side-saddle from the brambles at the bottom of a defunct claypit and cast around for clues. At the vicar's insistance, Stan braved the open maw of the half collapsed kiln, but it was obvious from the spider's webs that nobody had been in there for months.
They then decided to return to The Vicarage, from whence Jarge made his way to the Crossed Arms, arriving just as Jimma, now on the return leg of his deliveries, is finishing his drayman's lunch:
“Arta'noon, Jimma,” say Jarge, “Enna a'thet left fer me?”
“Thas orl gorn,” say Bea, “Jimma hev hed th'last ov'ut.”
“Yew'll hetta nip up ter Gret Mard'lum,” say Jimma, “Thar's a prarpa Tea Shop in th'hi'streart now.”
“Hew wuntta goo tew a plearce loike thet?” say Jarge.
“Miss Rosamunda fer a start,” say Jimma, “Nut t'menshun Sir Marcus.”
“Wull Oi'll be blow'd,” say Jarge, “So thas ware they went t'ground.”
“Oi wuz jus' pass'n th'mark't wen they came owta Back Lane,” say Jimma, “Lead'n th'orses. Then Sir Marcus try ter gittem inta th'Wellin'tun Tavern, but orl she let him dew wuz stable th'orses.”
“Then wot?” say Jarge, “Dans'n round the Maypole?”
“She haul'd him orf inta th'Corranearshun Tea Shop,” say Jimma.
“Corranearshun?” say Jarge, “Which wun?”
“Thar's ony wun,” say Jimma, “Th'wun on th'corner.”
“So far,” say Bea, “Oi hare thas two more leddies wot hev'ut in moind.”
“Hev wot,” say Jimma, “Gitt'n corranated?”
“Oop'nun a Tea Shop,” say Bea, “Werra refined, mite ev'n gOo thar m'self.”
“So how long wuz they in thar?” say Jarge, “Th'tryst'n couple.”
“Oi spec thar still thar,” say Jimma, “Larst Oi saw wuz th'leddie gitt'n thus gret owd cake owta th'winda.”
— • —
2.02.3 - Rosamunda Returns
Stan has just returned the muck-cart pony to its stable without waking the owner and is kindly running a damp cloth over the vicar's governess cart, when Sir Marcus and Rosamunda arrive at The Vicarage gates. Since The Vicarage coach-house, tack-room and loose-box are located in a wing running forward from the kitchen block at the right of main facade, Stan has a view through the shubbery to the gate. After helping her down from the bay mare, Sir Marcus does the sort of bow that is often described as ‘making a leg’ and passes her the reigns of the filly he has been riding bareback. At which point Miss Rosamunda plants an enthusiastic but carefully controlled kiss on his cheek and trips gaily down the driveway leading her filly:
“Ah Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “Is something wrong with the governess cart?”
“Nuth'n a horse wunt fix,” say Stan, “Wi'summer come'n orn, Oi spek th'Rev'runt'll wunt ter be putt'ut ter more use.”
“I expect he will,” says Rosamunda, “Only the other day he was talking of arranging a village outing or two.”
“Werra furrard look'n, he iz,” say Stan, “Highjeer bee'n a heath'n saint an'orl.”
“Ah yes! Hygeia, Goddess of Health, wife of Asclepius and daughter of Eros,” says Rosamunda, “The improving effects of spa-waters and the bracing air of the seaside.”
“Yew hev'ut zactly,” say Stan, “Wicar's taking thet orl ter hart fer hiz perrishers.”
“Parishioners,” says Rosamund, giving him a funny look.
“Wicar's hev'n tea in th'consarvatry,” say Stan, “If yer wunt him.”
“I've taken tea, thank you,” says Rosamunda, “At that fine new afternoon venue in Great Mardlingham, and very pleasant it was.”
“Dew they hev gud cakes?” say Stan, “Mebbe charklutt?”
“They certainly do,” says Rosamunda, with a satisfied smile, “Lots of chocolate.”
“Shull Oi rub down the filly?” say Stan, “Thars oats in a nosebag an'worta in th'troff.”
“No thank you, Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “I was brought up to groom my own horses. It's the best way of thanking them.”
“Wull, then, If yer shur,” say Stan, “Oi'll leave yew tew'ut.”
— • —
2.02.4 - Chocolate Cake not Droit de Seigneur
Another Mardlingham day has passed. All that's left to be done is sink a few ales and enjoy a gossip in the taproom at the Crossed Arms:
“Wott'ud she hev ter say?” say Jarge, “Ware'd they gOo orf tew?”
“Hint yer sin'ut,” say Stan, “Th'Corunearshun Tea Shop?”
“Gret Mard'l'm?” say Jarge, “On th'corner by th'Wellin'tun Tavern.”
“Thas th'plearce,” say Stan, “Seems loike Sir Marcus treat'd har ter th'charklutt kearke.”
“Thas a sarri'us biznuss then?” say Jarge, wi'a gret ol'grin acrorst hiz fizog.
“Sart'nly look loike'ut,” say Stan, wi'a larf.
“She dint say ena'th'n'bowt ears, Oi spoze?” say Jarge, “Or dratted seanyers?”
“Droit de Seigneur?” say Stan, “NOo, but Oi reckon we'd ha'know'd if he'd put a foot owta line.”
“Powerf'l young leddy, is Miss Rosamunda,” say Jarge, “Nut wun ter crorse lite'ly.”
“Wicar say he need a new boy fer th'oss,” say Stan, “Dew a bit a'gard'nun an'orl.”
“Wot abowt th'Ragamuffin?” say Jarge, “He's abowt grow'd owta hiz kid's butes.”
“Tew sharp,” say Stan, “He'd be orf wi'th'filly afore moonrise.”
“He iz a bit wild, Oi grant yer,” say Jarge, “But hiz wuds gud.”
“Wull Oi moite tearke hiz wud onna bag a'spuds,” say Stan, “But nut onna'norse.”
“Then thettle hetta be wun a'th'Pratt sprats,” say Jarge, “Frum th'mill.”
“I wuz hope'n,” says Bea frum ahint th'bar, “Thet Sir Marcus wud be th'wun gawn orf wi'th'filly afore moonrise.”
“Ripp'n orf har saddle, chears'n har bareback, then prostreat'n hi'self acrorst th'turf, hint a'nuff, then?” say Stan.
— • —
2.02.5 - London in the Spring
With Whitsuntide looming, Sir Marcus is preparing to spend some time persuing his less rural business interests and indulge in the pleasures of springtime in London. Naturally, with Miss Rosamunda planning to accompany him, this year's social round will be rather different. Up at The Big House this breaking news has just reached the foot of the back stairs:
“Hev yew hard?” say Tilly, “They're orf ter Lunn'n.”
“Cook wuz jus' say'n,” say Tottie, “Th'Tweeny hev fetched orl th'trunks and chests frum th'attic, an' she an'th'up-stare maid ar'pack'n hiz bests, second bests, an'bes'seconds.”
“Fribbins reckon thas orl a'cawze a'hiz toilet bee'n bruk,” say Tilly, “Them china po ar'tew chill fer th'Masta's bum of a'marn'n.”
“Moind yar tongue,” say Cook, “Th'Marsta's bum iz nOo biznus a'yorn.”
“Hews gOo'n wi'em?” say Tottie, “Ena ov'us gals?”
“NOo charnce,” say Tilly, “They hev a full set a'th'Lunn'n'ouse.”
“Jus'th'Marsta an'th'Steward, Oi spuz,” say Tottie, “Nut Fribbins a'th'Cook?”
“Thas how'ut seem t'be,” say Tilly, “An'th'Wicar's suster, a'corse.”
“OOh!” say Tottie, “Wi'nOo chaperone?”
“Thar's a leddy's cumpanion meet'n'em at Norridge,” say Cook, “Now tizzy vu, an' git orn wi'cleen'n th'fish.”
“Wos ‘Tizzy Vu’ meen,” say Tottie, look'n confus'd.
“Thas ‘Howd yer jaw’ in Frunch,” say Tilly, “Dun'chew know nuff'n?”
“Hey, thus fish hint ded,” say Tottie, “Thas still wriggl'n.”
“Moindja hand,” say Cook, whang'n orf th'hed wi a cleaver.
“Ta!” say Tottie, “Oi dunt loike'ut when they muve abowt.”
“How long a'they gawn ter be away fer?” say Tilly, wyp'n silva scales orl down har frunt.
“Fribbins reckon that'll be 'bowt a munth,” say Cook, “Thas usual a'thus toime a'yare.”
— • —
2.02.6 - The Moment of Departure
Trunks and chests are packed and stacked in and about Sir Marcus Haugh-Wells' fine carriage, his estate steward and the coach driver from the the London house are on the box, armed with a scattergun against footpads. Miss Rosamunda has said her farewells and stands on the steps of The Big House awaiting her beau:
“Charles will drive us in the brougham,” says Sir Marcus, “Tis considerably more comfortable than the carriage on these country roads.”
“Will it not be crowded when Miss Roberts joins us at Norwich?” asks Rosamunda.
“She can follow in the carriage with the steward,” says Sir Marcus, “Keep all the baggage in one place.”
“That's no way to talk of poor Miss Roberts,” says Rosamunda, “She has a sweet nature.”
“As sweet as the length of her nose,” says Sir Marcus, “I dare say.”
“Perhaps you dare too much,” says Rosamunda, “I am beginning to wonder if I shall be able to overcome my sadness at not spending Whitsunday in my own brother's delightful little church.”
“We cannot delay,” says Sir Marcus, “I have Saturday business in both Norwich and Newmarket.”
“Then pray refrain from such talk about my new friend Miss Roberts,” says Rosamunda, “If her nose ever needs to be criticised, I shall make it my duty to do so.”
“Then I shall confine my remarking of noses to the the delightful example that adorns your lovely face,” smiles Sir Marcus.
“See that you do,” says Rosamunda, “Now shall we set forth?”
“Forth with!” exclaims Sir Marcus, sweeping her up and depositing her on the fine soft leather of the brougham's seat.
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
