— • —
2.04.1 - An Early Start
As the sun rose from the horizon, so did Jimma from his kipping place in the hayloft over the stable behind the Crossed Arms Inn. Bea, being his intended, but normally living under her father's roof at the inn, emerged yawning from her temporary bed in the hay beside him. Meanwhile in the main-building, parental snoring should be considered indicative rather of a liberal attitude, than ignorance of such nocturnal wandering.
With the ostler and Jarge's help, Jimma soon had the converted dray harnessed to its handsome pair of dapple-greys; the pride of the Norwich brewery from which the vehicle had been hired. After which, they helped Bea load the necessary crates of pale-ale in crown-cork bottles and the same number of screw-top quarts containing home-brewed cyder, and climbed aboard.
Ten minutes later they were parked in the stable yard behind The Big House and the charabang was sporting a motley gang of general housemaids, footmen and grooms, not forgetting the boot-boy. All that is left to load is the kitchen crew:
“Ooh er,” say Tottie, look'n up a'th' dray-turned-charabang, “Thas tew nere th'sky fer me.”
“Git'chew up a'tha'cart, moi gal,” say Cook, “Thet unt weart orl day.”
“Ted'll gi'yer a lift,” say Tilly, tarn'n ter yell acrors'th'yaard, “Oy! Ted, Git'cher pitchfork, thar's wun more stook hare fer th'stack.”
“Git'cher toe orn thar m'dere,” say Jarge, pointing to the hanging step at the side of the cart, “An'gi'me yer arm.”
“Oy!” say Tottie, in har sqwarky voice, “Wotch moi bum.”
“How'd yar tung, thas ony me,” say Tilly, putt'n har shoulder ter Tottie's rump, “Now gi'me a pull, an' we'll orl be abord.”
“Sep'Jarge an th'cook,” say Tottie, “Reckon she'll hetta grow wings ter git up hare.”
“Jus'yew stand hare orn th'mount'n block,” say Jarge tew th'cook, “An'Jimma'll ketch yer as he floi parst on th'way owt.”
“Ar'yer redda?” say Jimma, eye'n up th'big stun mount'n block frum the driv'n seat a'th'sharrabang.
“Git orn wi'ut,” say Jarge, “Wot ar'yer weart'n fer, a folla'n wind?”
“Thar Missus Peasholm,” say Jarge, help'n the cook aboard th'cart as thet dock along side th'stun block, “Thet wuz easy'nuff, wunt'ut?”
“Thank yer kindly, yung sur,” say Cook, dew'n a wobbly kurtsy an'subside'n on th'fust bench ahint th'driver.
“Now thas toime fer th'capting ter jine th'shup," say Jarge, settl'n his hat farmly orn hiz hed, stepp'n acrorst an sett'n aside Jimma.
“Blust! He dud'ut orn hiz own," say Ted, lugg'n owt a bag a'oots, “Oi hope'd he wuz gornta nede a prod frum moy pitchfork.”
“We'll hev lessa yor cheek, terday, if yer pleeze,” say Jarge, “Dew yew chuck'us thet gret ol'bag, bor, an'less be orf.”
So, with The Big House contingent aboard, a huge hamper from Cook's kitchen, oats for the horses, and Ted riding the leader, the charabang heads for its second stop at the Vicarage.
— • —
2.04.2 - Bursting with Daytrippers
The seaside day-trip, organised by the vicar, is open to any children, servants or apprentices, domiciled within the Little Mardlingham parish boundary, and extends to such parents or other supervisors as might be appropriate. So, as the two horse charabang arrives at the Vicarage end of Little Mardlingham High Street, there is a small crowd of eligible villagers ready and waiting.
Stan waves the charabang in beside the milk-churn loading platform in front of the dairy. The day-trippers start to fidget restlessly, but are confined to the grass verge by Ginny's friend Raggs, who being a dog, has naturally assumed the task of crowd controller.
The several benches fitted to the bed of the dray, some already taken by The Big House contingent, are soon bursting with villagers. Unfortunately, there are no seats remaining to accommodate the tardy arrival of a certain five mothers clutching their elfin-eared babes-in-arms. With the promise of an instant bally-hoo in the offing, something must be done:
“Stan,” says the vicar, wiping his forehead, “I would be much obliged if you and Ted shall disembark and harness my sister's filly to the governess cart.”
“Roight, Wicar,” say Stan, “That shud dew'ut.”
“Meanwhile,” says the vicar, “Raggs and I will marshall our main force for the assault on Ford Lane.”
Now it is the way of community groups, such as that aboard our charabang, to have periods of quiet anticipation, broken only by muttered remarks and occasional quips:
“Wot ar'we weart'n fer?” say Jarge,
“Chrus'mus?” say Jimma.
“Niver fort Oi'd see Fribbins by daylite,” say Tilly,
“Reckon he'll be aw'rite if th'wind dunt blow,” say Tottie.
“Are we thar yit?” say th'boot-boy,
“D'pens ware yer wunt ter be,” say Cook.
“Kin Oi drive?” say Ragamuffin,
“Now thars a gud quest'n,” say Jimma.
“When dew we broach th'amper?” say Dollymuffin,
“Wen Oi say so,” say Cook.
“Hare they are!” say Jarge,
“Smart rig, wi'thet filly in th'shafts” say Jimma.
“Come orn, git gawn,” say Ragamuffin,
“Hew put yew in charge?” say Fribbins.
“We're orf, there gOo Wicar,” say Jimma,
“Bowt toime tew,” say Jarge.
“Hey! weart fer Stan,” yell Ted runn'n ter mount'n th'lead'oss.
— • —
2.04.3 - Wagon Load of Mothers
The trouble with the vicar's governess cart is that, being a sort of wickerwork tub on wheels, it only has seats along the sides. Sitting face to face, naturally enough, is ideal for Hannah, Martha, Maria, Sarah and Flora whose main aim in life is communication. However, as the driver is also forced to sit sideways, long journeys can result in a nasty crick in the neck. It's the vicar who is doing the driving, but today, an awkward sitting position may not be the only source of pain and his neck not the only target.
Now when I say communication, I don't mean conversation, the five young mothers of Mardlingham use a much more effective system than mere conversation. They all speak at once, an unending stream of everything they have in (or on) their minds. Obviously this eliminates the need to ask questions, because eventually all possible answers, both actual and speculative, will be included.
There being five mums but because of Flora's twins, six babies, the vicar has acquired an involuntary lapfull of his own. At least it gives him somebody to talk to:
“So, young fellow,” says the vicar, “What do they call you?”
“Blug!” says the child, squirming in delight at the attention.
“Blug, huh?” says the vicar, “I suppose you think I've forgotton what name I baptised you with?”
“Glup!” says the child, “Blup blup bup.”
“Goodness,” says the vicar, “Such epigrams at your time of life.”
“Blugugg,” says the child, waving its arms.
“This is the ford,” says the vicar, “Despite the pretty splashing noises, the proper seaside is still far away.”
“Phfssstp,” says the child, waggling its legs.
“My thoughts exactly,” says the vicar.
— • —
2.04.4 - Slack in the Reigns
After crossing the river at the ford, they face an uneventful climb up the rutted track to the turnpike. Thanks to estate money and tolls, this has a fine metalled surface of the type known as - Macadam -, not to be confused with our modern equivalent, tarMacadam (tarmac).
Viewing the passing countryside has little interest for countryfolk, at least it doesn't until they strike properly ‘furrin’ parts such as the next parish but one, and bucolic wit is almost the only in-vehicle entertainment system:
“Oi kin hare worta,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we thar yit?”
“Thas th'ford, Rat-fearce.” say Dollymuffin.
“Oi know thet,” say th'boot-boy, “Twuz spuz t'meark yer larf, Carrot-top.”
“Woss rong wi'carrot hair?” say Ragamuffin, standing up in defence of his sister.
“Howd yew hard, childer,” say Fust-footman, “Searve orl thet fer th'beach.”
“Fight'n alowd, iz'ut - orn th'beach?” say Second-footman.
“Whoy?” say Fust-footman, “Fanca yer chanses?”
“If yew tew ar'look'n f'extra duties,” say Fribbins, “Oi got plenna t'spare.”
“Luvla reach a'rud, thus hare tarnpike,” say Jarge, “Reckon yew cud tickle'em up a bit, dunchew?”
“An'hew dew we hetta thank fer thet?” say Jimma, “Oi'll gi'yer tew guesses.”
“Hare, Ted!” say Stan, razin hiz voice ter reach th'boy on th'lead horse, “Ketch thus.”
“Wottiz'ut?” say Ted, pluck'n'ut neetla outta th'eare.
“Moi little owd horn,” say Stan, “Yew'll hetta give Wicar a toot, if we're garn ena more fleet.”
“Yor little owd horn?” say Jarge, “Ar'yer shur yew kin spare'ut?”
“Oi gotta nutha wun a'tum,” say Stan, “Th'wife loike to keep thet handa wen Oi'm away.”
In the governess cart, there is a sudden silence, all eyes turn to the rear and glare at Ted:
“Wuss he toot'n hiz lit'lowd'orn fer?” say Hannah, “Meark'n me ferget wot Oi wuz abowt ter say.”
“They wunt us on the trot,” say Maria.
“Hed enuf a'thet wi'moi twins,” say Flora.
“Whip'ut up, Wicar,” say Sarah, “Starr up sum dust, gi'um summat t'squit abowt.”
“Dew thus thing dew a gallap?” say Martha.
“Hold onto your hats, and your babies too,” say Wicar, boldly slackening the reigns by which he had been holding back the filly.
— • —
2.04.5 - Fourpence for the Cow
With fast spinning wheels and flying manes, their teamster's eyes alight for ruts and potholes, strewn flints or fallen branches, the governess cart and charabang of Mardlingham's daytrippers bowl along the turnpike. This is the second such road that they have covered this day and now its terminal draws near. The final Tollgate, before they enter the narrow lanes that will take them down to the coast. There is, however, a more irritating obstacle to pass, a gatekeeper more notorious than Turpin himself:
“Stand, stand, Oi say!” cries the gatekeeper, his sturdy frame reinforcing the gate across the road.
“Good day, Friend,” says the vicar, reigning in the excited filly and bringing the governess cart to a swaying halt.
“Wot hev we hare,” say th'geartsmun, “A chuch-wurth a'pence, or Oi'll be blow'd.”
“Come come, my man,” says the vicar, “State your price, but prey, do so with charity in mind, for we travel only in aid of our common health.”
“Now wot if Oi tell thet ter ar'willage rector, wen he next pass th'pleart,” say th'geartsmun, “‘Come come Rector,’ Oi'll say, ‘Oi'm ony hare fer me helf.’”
“Then, as did the people of the Holy Land, shall we have to render unto Caesar,” says the vicar, “State your price, as it please you sirra, and stand not upon such ceremony.”
“Sixpunce fer a wun'oss cart,” say th'geartsmun, “Shillun fer wun wi'tew ...”
“Here, then ...” says the vicar, offering the required coins.
“Oi hint funnsh'd yit,” say th'geartsmun, “... then thar'll be fi'pence a score fer the sheep an'calves, wi'an'haddishunal vorpence fer th'fat cow on the dray.”
“That's nothing but highway robbery,” exclaims the vicar, “Where's your sense of charity, sirra?”
It is fortunate for even such a massive bucolic as the gatesman, that Cook prefers talking to listening. Having missed his obvious reference to her somewhat rotund nature and the extent of her maternal balcony, she now sits wondering why everybody is staring at her:
“Wot?” she say, “Is my'att awry?”
But nobody cares to enlighten her. Ginny, the Ragamuffins and Ginny's dog, however, drop down from the rear of the dray and take to the fields behind the hedge:
“Ware ar'we gawn?” say Dolly in har wispr'n voice, “An'why dew yew keep hussh'n me up?”
“Hush,” say Ginny, “Just folla me an'keep th'dawg quiet.”
Once past the gate and with much silent gesticulating, the war-party agree a course of action. Ginny and the Ragamuffin creep in and carefully draw back the arm of the gate-latch. Dolly and the dog Raggs slip under the gate and approach the rear of the gate keeper. Dolly carefully positions Raggs and makes him sit, then sidles round the gatesman and tugs at his sleeve:
“Ere Mista,” say Dolly wi'gret tereful eyes, “Hev yew sin moi darwg?”
“Wot?” say th'geartesmun, “NOo, bugga orf!”
“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” say Dolly in har must annoy'n voice, “WOooooo!”
“Gitt'im Raggs,” say Ginny, “Thas'ut!” as Raggs sink hiz teeth in th'geartesmun's trowsers, “Thas the way, boy! Gud darwg.”
“Goodness!” says the vicar, tossing two coins to the road, “The gates open.”
“Fix bayonets,” shouts Jarge, “An'charge!”
“Tru'nuff,” say Stan, “But nut as much as he wuz gawn tew, th'bugga.”
“Leddies present,” say Jimma, “Less giv'them a charnse ter dew sum swear'n, fer a change.”
— • —
2.04.6 - Red Cabbage in Cider
There comes a certain moment in every coast-bound journey, when you breast that last rise and the view opens up before you. Do you rush on, plunging headlong to your destination, or tarry awhile in anticipation? It may depend on what you have in the hamper and how long you've been travelling:
“Moi stumik hurts,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we thar yit?”
“Woss'ut sic a'empta?” say Dolly, “Moinz empta.”
“SOoz moin,” say Tottie, “Dew enabudda r'memba brekfust.”
“Larst yare at learst,” say Tilly, “Hint thet toime fer levensez?”
“Tharz'am in th'amper,” say Tottie, “An'byl'd eggs, an'fresh bred, an'Cook's pott'd-meat, an'cowl'p'taters, red-cabbudge in cyder, leg'a'lamb, an'... Blust, Oi fergit wot else.”
“Now yer meark'n me hungra,” say Cook, “Hint thet 'leven'a'clark yit?”
“Thet unt be 'leven til we see th'sea,” say Stan, “So keep a gud look owt.”
“Oi'll tell moi wotch,” say Jarge, heft th'gret lump ov'ut frum hiz parket, “SOoz thet kin keep up.”
“Yew call thet a wotch,” say Jimma, “Oi'd call'ut a tarnup.”
“Yew git mor toime in a wotch loike thus,” say Jarge, “Hew wunt their toime ter be tew skinny?”
“Yew meen loike Cook and th'syzza har hamper?” say Tottie, “Yew wunt want wun frum a skinny cook, wudja?”
“Iz thet summa yor cheek?” say Cook, “Or an arse-ter-fearce cumplimunt?”
“Iz thet th'sea,” yell Ted, frum th'lead'oss, “Thet bitta blew a'th'bartum a'th'hill?”
“Thet sartinly iz,” say Stan, “Giv'Wicar a toot, an'we'll set hare awhile ter sarmple thet thar'amper.”
“Ware's th'ale?” say Jarge, as they swing acrorst th'verge, “An sum oots fer th'osses?”
2.04.7 - Cromer in View
In the planning of any campaign, before the first attack, it is wise to feed the forces. It is now officially the eleventh hour and The Mardlingham Expeditionary Force, poised on the hill above their objective, are in the midst of their Elevenses:
“Suffun smell funna,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we'thar yit?”
“Thas wunna th'orses,” say Ted, “They loike a gud blow-orf wi'thar oots.”
“NOo, thas nut 'orse,” say th'boot-boy, “Thas diffrunt, 'orses smell th'searme.”
“Thas the sea,” say Jarge, “Sum say thas ozone, but Oi recon thas th'fishamun.”
“Ozone?” says the vicar, from the other side of the pic-nic rug, “You follow the high sciences, then?”
“Ony if thar gawn ter th'pub,” say Jarge, “Red'ut inna buk.”
“Healthful Emanations,” says the vicar, “By Sir Lesgoe C. Baything?”
“Thas th'wun,” say Jarge, with a chuckle “Or thet mite'a bin ‘Murder on Cromer Cliffs’ price wun penna a'th'pust-orfuss.”
“Ar'they suffun ter skeer yer?” say Tottie, “These hare CrOoma Cliffs?”
“Sartainly,” say Stan, “Th'hulla CrOoma iz frit by'em.”
“Why'z thet?” say Jarge, hew knew wut wuz come'n.
“CrOoma wuz milez away an'part a'Yorkshire,” say Stan, “Afore th'cliff start a'fall'n in.”
“Dew they tork diffrunt?” say Tilly, “Karnt abide thet.”
— • —
2.04.8 - Half full of Cider
The horses are refreshed and showing some excitement at the salt in the air as random gusts of sea breeze overcome the day's gentle south-easterly wind. Jarge, being experienced in the ways of the Norfolk weather, had predicted such a wind, despite it being somewhat against the normal weather pattern, and the vicar had prayed that he'd be right.
Naturally, a southerly wind is preferable on a north facing coast because it keeps the colder sea-air at bey, or if you prefer, out of the bay. Not that Cromer is in a bay, despite the ironical use of that term by certain locals. But enough shilly-shally, the horses are not the only one's getting restless:
“Orl aboard,” say Jimma, checking the brakes, axels and harness of both rigs, while Ted does a round of the hooves, “Ar'yer redda, Wicar?”
“Certainly, certainly,” says the vicar, regarding the freshly loaded contents of the governess cart with some distast, “But where is my little flock of mothers?”
“We fort yew cud dew wi'a change,” say Stan, “Jarge an'me.”
“Us an'orl,” say Dolly, spek'n fer har sel', har brudda, th'boot-boy, Ginny and Raggs.
“Thar orf,” say Ginny, “Thet gret ol'cart'll git thar fust if we dunt git a muve'on.”
“Wi'yor p'mishun, Wicar,” say Stan, grabbing the reigns, “Can't let th'brew'ry beat th'chuch, now? Kin we?”
“Oi'll stand by th'brake,” say Jarge, “Thar's a gud ol'drop on th'rud frum hare on in.”
“Goodness,” says the vicar, “Surely not a race?”
“Thar 'arf way thar a'redda,” say th'boot-boy, “Dew Oi nede ter git owt an'push?”
“Thas'nuff a'yor cheek,” say Jarge, “Stan hev'ut orl in hand. He usta rearce tarnips.”
“However do you race turnips,” says the vicar, “Roll them down hill?”
“No nede ter git cumplicearted,” say Stan, “Thas easa'nuff.”
“I didn't expect it to be simple,” says the vicar, “Knowing you two.”
“Yew rearla wunt ter know?” say Stan, watching the vicar nod in resignation, “Tell'im Jarge.”
“Jus'sew th'seed, worta'em an'weart,” say Jarge, “Then they raise 'emslves.”
At this point the filly, unaccustomed to towing a cart full of laughter downhill at speed, decided to slow down, necessitating a certain amount of panic in the cart and a lot of loud swearing from Jarge working the brake. As equilibrium is restored, the vicar has a thought:
“You realise there's no need to rush?” he says, “Not with the dray being half full of women and the women being half full of cider.”
“Nut ter mention th'footmen and th'ale,” say Jarge, “Sumbudda's tarnips is gawn ter git wortered!”
— • —
2.04.9 - Nettles are for Sprinkling
If there's one profession that enjoys a good grind, it's that of the miller. From the high land behind the town, our trippers can see that Cromer has two windmills, of which that nearest them on the south western approach is the lowest, a wooden post-mill of trestle construction (click - HERE - for picture) with four sails and a long tail-pole to steer it into the wind. Nearby is a secluded paddock with an unkempt hedge and open gate, ideal for day-trippers suddenly in need of a little privacy:
“How nice to be right,” says the vicar, who had predicted such a stop, “James is reigning in by the mill.”
Normally, the vicar's sister Rosamunda would have had charge of the trip's small contingent of school children, but she is away in London. So far, the kids have simmered away in the middle two rows of the charabang under Miss Beatrice's watchful eye, but as they slow to a stop, her attention is momentarily turned towards Jimmy, the handsome drayman:
“Blust Boy,” say Jarge, frum th'gov'ness cart, “Skewls owt! See'em gOo.”
“Wull Oi hope thar nut gawn t'worta th'mill-pust,” say Stan, “We wunt wunt th'rot ter set in.”
“Town-folk often do that to nettles, thinking to kill them,” says the vicar, “Not realising tis a fine aid to fertility.”
“SOo, in th'kearse a'th'mill,” say Stan, “Thet'll eetha hit th'clowds or th'mould, but wi'luck, we'll be hum by then, so that unt matta.”
“Thet seem t'me thet'd be a betta mill,” say Jarge, “If thet did grow itsel'a bit more depth.”
“By ‘depth’ you mean ‘height’ I take it?” says the vicar.
“Thas depth wen yew'r clumb tew'th'crown,” say th'boot-boy.
“Oi wunt moind a closer look,” say Jarge, “But thet'int urjent.”
“Shull we reign in,” say Stan, “Thar's them amung us thet might nede ter give th'nettles a drink.”
“Dunt look a'me,” say Ginny, “Little boys are wuss'n gals.”
“Wull then,” say Stan, “Apart frum Lil'Boy-Jarge, ar'thar enna tearkers?”
“We should await the others,” says the vicar, “In any case.”
“But gett'n set redda fer a swift start,” say Ragamuffin, “Oi got moi tuppence on th'chuch in thus hare rearce ter CrOoma.”
“I'm sure,” says the vicar, “That the Church appreciates your little sin on its behalf.”
“Wot sin iz thet?” say Dolly, “Tell'n fibs abowt hev'n tuppence?”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
