— • —
2.05.1 - Like a Tipply-Topply Toy
Around the village, the Ragamuffins are usually barefoot, but for the day-trip, their mother has supplied each of them with a pair of brown boots. In doing this, matching boot to foot-size had not been an obvious priority, since a snug fit could be had by padding with rags and newspaper. Of the two children, the contrast between economy of child and enormity of boot, is most striking in the case of the girl, who is at this moment chasing after her Ragamuffin brother, as he lopes across the verge towards the mill-field hedge:
“There seems to be something amiss with her feet,” says the vicar, remarking the awkwardness of Dolly's gait.
“Thas nut har feet,” say Stan, “Thas whut she's got on'em.”
“Hev yew sin th'size'a har bewts?” say Jarge, “If th'breeze blow har over, she'll be up in a flash, loike wun a'them tipply-topply toys.”
“Musta got'em orf Cook,” say th'boot-boy, leap'n down ter jyne th'throng.
“Nut nOohow,” say Stan, “Cook dunt hev bewts, she hev wherries.”
“Now, now,” say Jarge, “Yew'r tork'n'bowt th'leddie Oi luv.”
“Thett'le be th'day,” say Stan, “WE orl know yew nivva got over Nansa Buttass.”
“Miss Nancy Butters? The assistant Postmistress?” says the vicar, “Somehow I don't seem to be part of this knowledgeable ‘WE’ you speak of.”
“Thet wuz afore yor toime, Wicar,” say Jarge, “And yew hetta rarelize, Stan orf'n use th'Royal ‘WE’ on accownt a'hiz ancestry.”
“You have connections in high places?” says the vicar, with a quizical look.
“Ony if moi arli'st relatives clumb th'tree while scrump'n,” say Stan.
“What does he mean by that?” says the vicar, turning to Jarge.
“Whoy, Adam'n'Eve swing'n high in th'appletree, a'corse,” say Jarge wirra chuckle, “We're orl relearted ter them, even Royalty.”
“Rite,” say Stan, “Now Oi reckon thas toime ter muve orn. So gi'chew owt thar, an' git them nettles worter'd, while Ginny an'Raggs help me round up th'strays.”
— • —
2.05.2 - Three Horse Race?
The dray-horses, a fine matched pair of dapple-greys, are mature, well trained and highly experienced. Admittedly they are more used to a payload of ales and spirits, but the sort of steady going that suits the transport of the golden liquor of the barley is also good for people. So, keeping in mind the clemency of the weather, the wending of the roads and their state of repair, the morning's journey from Little Mardlingham has been relatively comfortable for both the drawers and the drawn.
Having watered the nettles and left the mill behind, the trippers are now bowling along a wide length of droving road with well cropped verges and the gradient falling away in their favour. Among the passengers, an air of anticipation is growing like the buzzing of flies round a cow-pat. Is there going to be a race, and why hasn't it already started?
The dapple-greys, knowing Jimma, also know the difference between going out loaded and returning with empties, in more modern but still Imperial terms, it's about five miles an hour in average speed and a good splash in the fords beside the bridges rather than a careful drag over the hump. So when with a subtle change in handling, he tells them that it's time to go home, they immediately respond. Gravel grinds beneath the iron tired wheels, shingle spurts in all directions and a new more vigorous cloud of dust rises around the dray. A pull to the right and a shake of the reigns brings them abreast of the filly in her silly little basket-work cart and they're through.
In the governess cart, Stan is taken by surprise and the vicar by a fit of coughing. The filly, with youthful exuberance, forgets the cart entirely and lengthens her stride in pursuit:
“Whoah, hay,” say Stan, “Teark'ut easa Gal, thus hare's a cart, nut a saddle.”
“Hay? Hay?” say Jarge, hang'n ornta hiz hat, “Thas no gud try'n t'tempt har with hay.”
“Rite,” say Stan, gett'n a firm grip on th'reigns, “Whoah, OOTS!”
“Are we running away?” asks the vicar, in a somewhat nervous voice.
“Wull Oi hint,” say Jarge, “Oi'm just gawn along fer th'ride.”
“Gawd,” say Stan, “She's a rare gOoer, yer susta's lil'filly.”
“Yi yi yi yi yi,” say th'boot-boy, hang'n onta Raggs, “Giddup thar Gal.”
“Dunt fergit moi tuppence,” say Ragamuffin, “We hetta win!”
“Oi still hint sin nOo tuppence,” say Dolly, “Sept Ginny's.”
“Dear oh dear, Virginia,” says the vicar, raising an eyebrow over a broad grin, “Have you been gambling against us?”
“Oi hint got no 'skuse,” say Ginny, “But Oi wuz in th'charabang a'th'toime.”
With three horses thundering down upon them, neck, neck and neck, the first traffic they meet as they approach the outskirts of Cromer, takes to the verges, cottage windows fly open and people run to see the sight. Ahead of the racers, the road is about to narrow, and ‘two into one wont go,’ as every Mardlingham schoolchild can tell you. Of course, in the end it's experience that counts, so it will almost certainly be the next reaction of the dapple-greys that decides the race.
— • —
2.05.3 - Centrifugal Intimacy
It is an interesting thought, that had Miss Rosamunda been in charge of the villager's daytrip to Cromer, things would have been quite different. When she and her brother are in company, they tend to have a steadying influence on each other, but Rosamunda is away with her beau in London, doing the rounds of high society, irritating the tradesmen, delighting the dressmakers and dizzying the milliners. In fact, being a giddy young thing in ways that she would never contemplate within ten miles of her reverand brother.
Certainly, had Rosamunda, as village governess and teacher at both the daily and Sunday schools, been in the charabang, there would have been no riot round the windmill, the boot-boy would not have shinned up its tail-pole and fallen on Cook, the nettles would have been watered in an orderly fashion and ALL the women would have confined their sprinkling to the dandylions and thus reduced the sudden epidemic of intimate nettlerash. Jimma, of course, would never have contemplated the race with the vicar and Ginny will not be about to lose her tuppence:
“Wherever are they going,” says the vicar, as Stan reigns the filly back to avoid a collision.
Earlier in the race, when Jimma had given the dapple-greys their head, they responded because they thought it was time to go home. Naturally for the horses, home is Norwich not Cromer and being creatures of habit, their usual way to Norwich from the point just reached, is to swing left and head for Holt, which is exactly what they do:
“Whooohay!” say Jimma, taken by surprise, “Woah, woah, stedda now.”
In defence of the dapple-greys, it was a magnificent almost-hairpin turn, well worthy of a chariot winning the three-thirty in the Circus Maximus of Ancient Rome. It would probably have been fine if the dray had been loaded with well trussed empty barrels. However, for the current load, a charabang's worth of passengers, it is a rather mixed experience.
For those in the more forward benches the sideways force merely increases their intimacy with the person on their right, particularly with whomsoever is acting as a bookend against the hard wooden armrest. Since this is instrumental in bringing together a lovelorn footman and a rather too willing up-stairs maid, it is not bad news for everybody.
In the middle benches, the school children, who are mostly standing up cheering and jeering, are toppled like ninepins and roll into a heap. Several fall off, but the dray has almost come to a halt, so they're more suprised than damaged. A number of the boys take the opportunity to start a fight and the girls of all sizes join together in a chorus of wails.
On the back row, the five mothers and Cook cling to the babies and scream. The babies cling fiercly to the nearest nipple, which may explain some of the screams. At the final moment just as Jimma brings the dray to rest, Cook's armrest gives way and she overturns like a gale-felled oak into the waiting arms of the four fishermen who have run to help.
“Yew owe me tuppence, Ginny Bor,” say Ragamuffin, frum th'searfty a'th'governess cart.
“Are we thar yit?” say th'boot-boy, “Coz if thus be th'seaside, Oi wunt ter gOo hum.”
— • —
2.05.4 - The Beach at Last
The vicar had intended a nice orderly unloading in front of Cromer's great church, followed by an historical lecture and maybe even a short prayer of thanks for their safe arrival, but it was not to be. Once they were off the dray-cum-charabang and out of the governess cart, the Mardlingham villagers had taken to the Cromer streets and lanes like a plague of rats infesting Hamlin.
Fortunately, he had taken a moment during the picnic to explain the when and where of a homegoing rendevous. So as long as their memories are in working order and they have a view of the church clock, he is reasonably confident of seeing at least a few of them again. One of the more reliable parties has already found the head of the broad cobbled Gangway cutting down through the cliffs, and its leader is about to make an important announcement from the centre of her escorting group of four fishermen:
“Now thet,” say Cook, pointing down the long ramp to the beach, “Is th'seaside.”
“Oh er!” say Tilly, “Thas a big puddle, an nOo mus'teark.”
“Oi fort Cook sed th'beach wuz orl yalla,” say Tottie, “Thus'ere's 'arf black.”
“Thas coal-dust,” say Tilly, scrap'n har bewte acrorst th'cobbles a'th'slope, “Thet start orn th'beach an'trail itsel' orl th'way up ter hare.”
“Thas orl come'n frum thet bludda gret ol'wherra stuck on th'sand,” say th'fust-footman.
“Thas nut a werra,” say sec'nd-footman, “Thas a collier brig, Oi sin'em afore.”
“Wuss thet fer?” say Tottie, hew like ter be ockard.
“Hintchew got eyes,” say Tilly, “Thas ware orl th'coal dust iz come'n frum.”
“Nut jus'dust,” say sec'nd-footman, hew kin be relied orn fer hev'n th'wud orn ena subj't, “Prarpa nuts, an'orl.”
“Wudda they wunt nuts fer?” say Tottie, “Thet hint Crusmus.”
“Nuts a'coal,” say Cook, “Kitchen nuts; yew heft'em abowt eva marn'n ter tickle up th'fire.”
“Thas a lot a truble ter go tew fer ar'kitchen range,” say Tottie, “Gret shupfulls a'th'stuff.”
“We hint th'oOny wuns thet hev kitchen nuts,” say Fust-Footman, “Yer duzzy fule.”
“Wull Oi hint shift'n ena more ov'em,” say Tottie, “Nut if thet spile th'beach loike thet.”
“Thas plenny more beach,” say Fust-Footman, “Yew jus'hefta gOo along a bit.”
“Come orn then,” say Cook, “Thas whut we'll dew, then we'll hev a dicky ride an'a butt trip.”
— • —
2.05.5 - Tuppence will get you nowhere
When the Mardlinghammers hit Cromer like a marauding army, they broke into warparties, thinking thus to outflank and subdue the innocent townsfolk. Unfortunately, the townsfolk were far from innocent and merely smiled and stepped aside as the honey-traps were sprung. Beyond the shops with tea and cakes, with amber beads and jet, boiled lobster and dressed crab, the donkey rides and the dog-cart hire, the promenade and jetty, the beach was wide on a falling tide and the fishermen were ready - Boat Trips Just One Penny! This left the vicar, forgotten by his flock, standing by the churchyard gate:
“Oh what can ail thee, rev'rnd knight,” say Stan, “Alone and palely loitering?”
“I suspect the ozone has gone to their heads,” says the vicar, “And this is why I sojourn here. Alone and palely loitering.”
“Wull,” say Stan, “Oi reckon that leave yew an'me ter gaze at thus hare gret owd lumpa ark'texsha.”
“Should we not invite George to join our party?” says the vicar, “He too, is a man of masonry.”
“Jarge?” say Stan, “He'll put'chew up a new wun, ena'toime, but he dunt put much stock in wuns frum other hands.”
Meanwhile, Jimma and Ted have stabled the horses, the schoolchildren have been marched off two-by-two in the care of the nursing mothers, the footmen, the tweeny and the upstairs maid, leaving Bea to waylay Jimma for a bracing stroll on the jetty followed by a lot of private mardling over a pot of tea and some cakes. Ted, left on his own wanders around the lanes and finishes up being invited into the kitchens of one of the new clifftop hotels by a most attractive young wench. On the beach west of the Jetty, the Ragamuffins, Ginny and Raggs are discussing the race:
“Yew owe me tuppence,” say Ragamuffin, “Wicar wun by default.”
“Thet wuz a null rearce,” say Ginny, “Nunna them git as far as th'chuch.”
“Wicar wudda wun if thet hed gone th'distance,” say Ragamuffin.
“But he dint!” say Dolly, “SOo yew hint owed a penna.”
“Aw!” say har brudda, “Nut yew as well! Kin Oi niver win nuff'n?”
“Wudga wunt'ut fer, ena'ways?” say Ginny, “Tuppence'll gitcher nowhere.”
“Hoky-poky,” say th'boy, “Hint nivver hed ena.”
“Wull,” say Ginny, “If we see ena fer searl, Oi'll share'ut wiv yer.”
“Wut'bowt me?” say Dolly, “Oi hint hed nun neither.”
“Yew tew,” say Ginny, “An'Raggs kin hev th'biskit.”
— • —
2.05.6 - Tale of Two Dogs
A certain tuppence having been spent on hokey-pokey, in this case from an early, and somewhate unhygenic, version of what was later to become the ubiquitous icecream street-vendor, Ginny, her dog and the Ragamuffins find their way down to the sands. Raggs, being in need of a run, has encouraged them out onto the almost empty length of shelving beach running west from the end of the original promenade with its semicircular bastions. There, the first thing they come across is a well organised gentleman angler waiting out the turn of the tide by knocking off a few beach views in watercolour:
“Wuss he dew'n?” say Dolly to Ginny in har wispr'n voice, “Picha pustcards?”
“Wuss more ter th'point,” say Ragamuffin, in hiz outdoor voice, “Iz wuss this hare?”
“Look loike a penny pusse,” say Dolly, “Ware'ger git'ut?”
“Jus'thar,” say Ragamuffin, “Frum thet drift a'muck.”
“Th'tide-line,” say Ginny, hew hed bin ter th'seaside afore.
“Thet come outta th'sea, then?” say Ragamuffin, “Hew wunt a pusse owt thar?”
“Thas spuz ter be a murmeard's pusse,” say Ginny, “But thet dunt look pretta'nuff, ter me. If Oi wuz a murmeard, Oi'd wunt parls on'ut.”
“That's because it's actually the eggcase of a dogfish,” says the gentleman angler, fending off Ginny's dog.
“Come yew hare, Raggs,” say Ginny, “Yew nutty darwg.”
“By ‘nutty’ you mean naughty?” asks the gentleman, with a grin.
“Wut else shud Oi meen,” say Ginny, wi'a funna look.
“Oh, nothing,” says the gentleman, “I'm sure he's a delightful dog when you get to know him.”
“Kin we see yor pitcha?” say Dolly, “Is thet a murmeard tew?”
Meanwhile, as this conversation progresses, Raggs has not ‘come here’ as instructed, but lolloped off up the beach where he discovers a long wooden breakwater or groyne. Naturally, being a dog, his first instinct is to read-the-runes at each vertical post and reply in kind. At a point halfway from the cliff to the sea, he suddenly erupts into frantic barking:
“Blust Bor,” say Ginny, “Wuss got inta him now.”
“Oi'll gitt'im,” say Ragamuffin, become'n bored wi'gen'lmen tork.
“Gotta gOo,” say Ginny, taking Dolly by the hand, “Thas bin noice ter meet yer, mister.”
At the groyne, the tail-waving excitement of discovery has passed. The growling Raggs, is now tail-down, and standing his ground with a nervous look in his eyes. His find, an enormous spotted dogfish is trapped by the gills between the lower planks of the groyne. It has been out of the sea for some time, but there seems to have been enough water flowing down the beach in the channel caused by the groyne to maintain a remnant of life. It has already proved this by wrenching itself round to take a snap at Raggs:
“Gawd,” say Ragamuffin, arrive'n beside th'dawg, “Wuss thet, a whale?”
“Dawgfish,” say Dolly, with considerable assurance.
“How'jew know thet?” say har brudda, “Yew dunt know nuff'n must days.”
“Wull Oi dint til yisterday,” say Dolly, sett'n harsel' on a low part a'th'groyne an'teark'n orf har 'normus bewtes.
“Wuttevva ar'yer dew'n,” say Ginny, “Yew'll git pewmoania in yer feet.”
— • —
It has already been remarked that Dolly, who is small for her age even by mid-nineteenth century standards, is wearing a pair of sturdy brown boots completely out of proportion to her size. At the moment she is sitting on the low end of a hefty wooden strut buttressing one of the groynes on Cromer west beach at a safe distance from a six foot long stranded dogfish.
Bearing in mind the relative proportions, she is not so much removing the boots from her feet as removing her feet from the boots. The first to emerge is well wrapped in layers of old worsted rags, which Dolly carefully unwinds and drapes over a convenient bolt. The foot thus revealed is well tanned and hardened, betraying her normally barefoot lifestyle.
With one foot clear of its cladding, Dolly peers into the boot and pulls out a wad of carefully folded newspaper, the lower layers of which are damp from leakage through the worn-away parts of the sole. As each sheet is removed from the wad, Dolly unfolds it, inspects the pictures, then refolds it and returns it to the boot, thus reversing the order of the layers, which she will later regret as the dampest ones will be uppermost. The others watch in fascination, apart from Raggs, who continues to growl and guard the fish from a safe distance.
With the inspection process complete for her right boot, Dolly starts on the left. The third page of newsprint she removes proves to be what she is looking for, and she proudly displays it to Ginny and her brother:
“Sed Oi larnt'ut yisterdy,” say Dolly, “Thas th'wun, a big pitcha ar'a man wiv'a'fish. See, D, O, G, F, I, S, H, spell darwgfish.”
“Less hevva look,” say Ginny, “Thet say more than thet, dunt'ut?”
“Oi dunt nivver git parst th'fust big wud,” say Dolly, “Thas genrally'nuff ter git wut thar gawn orn abowt.”
“Thet say th'man wuz an angler,” say Ginny, runn'n har finger'long th'line, “An'thet th'fish wuz a waluable ketch cuz thet gottim th'fust prize.”
“Dew waluable meen thas wuth suffen?” say Ragamuffin, gaz'n a'th'dawgfish wiv a broad grin.
“Oi spuz thet dew,” say Ginny, “Or learstways wuth a prize.”
“Praps we kin sell'ut tew th'gen'lman?” say Ragamuffin, “Save him hev'n ter weart fer th'tide afore ketch'n wun a 'hiz own.”
“Thet hint prarp'la ketcht yit,” say Dolly, “Thas still twitch'n.”
“Oi'll git suffen ter giv'ut a wack,” say Ragamuffin, “Bit a wud frum the tide-line.”
“Dunt bother,” say Dolly, hew now hed har bewtes back orn, “Oi'll giv'ut a gud kick.”
“Gawd'elp us,” say Ginny in admireashun, as Dolly nere tearkes th'por fush's hed orf, “Ware'd yer git bewtes loike thet?”
“Moi fudda wuz a Dur'm miner, rest'is pore sole,” say Dolly, “They got a gret ol'plate a metal in th'toecap.”
“Wunda yer kin lift yer feet a'torl,” say Ginny, Oi spuz yer brudda's ware'n yer mutha's bewtes?”
“Oi got moi fudda's bewtes tew,” say Ragamuffin, “An'Oi'm naire growed inta'em an'orl.”
“SOo why'unt yew got th'normus bewtes?” say Ginny, “Thet way buth orn'yer wudda hed a betta fit?”
“Oi'm nut ware'n hiz fudda's bewtes,” say Dolly, “Maw say hiz fudda wuz a skinna lil'runt ov a tinker.”
“An'yorn wuz a pigg'n gret lump, wi'nuffin in hiz skull,” say har (half) brudda.
“Look,” say Ginny, “Ar'we gawn ter sell thus fush or arn't we?”
(to be continued)
— • —
Author's Note:
The boots worn by the two normally barefoot ragamuffins are not, as a modern child might think, a fashion statement, but an expression of social defiance on the part of their mother.
— • —
2.05.8 - The Gentleman Flasher
It is now the moment of lowest tide and a wide expanse of firm damp beach is exposed to the afternoon sun. In the distance, along the water's edge a string of donkeys is jolting along, each carrying a burbling villager. The one at the end of the line having to be bolstered on either side by two burly fishermen. It is Cook's party taking its ‘Dicka-Ride’ prior to joining the other two helpful fisherfolk for a ‘Butt-trip’ in their crabber.
At the point where the flat smooth sand begins to ramp up towards the foot of the cliff, Dolly and the gentleman-angler are about to renew their earlier conversation. Behind her, with a length of bone-white driftwood through the gills, Ragamuffin and Ginny are part carrying part dragging the six foot long spotted dogfish round the seaward end of the groyne. Raggs, the dog, bored with the now deceased fish, is bounding across the beach in a great loop that will eventually bring him up behind the two fishermen and Cook. He ignores a call from Ginny, and she is too puffed from dealing with the fish to do anything about it:
“Thet bludda darwg is orf agin,” she say, “An' Oi dunt care.”
“Owd'nuff ter see tew isself,” say Ragamuffin, “Thas wutt Oi reckon.”
“Rite,” say Ginny, as they approach the angler's tiny camp, “Thet'll dew.”
“Oi told him,” say Dolly, “Mister Painter-man hare.”
“Indeed you did,” says the gentleman, smoothing his small white goatee beard and adjusting the red bow-tie above his mustard coloured waistcoat, “And very well you did it.”
“Thas a prize dawgfish,” say Ragamuffin, “Loike th'wun in th'pearpa.”
“Oh? You read the newspapers?” says the gentleman, “I didn't realise my byline reached into such hallowed halls as thine, my young friend.”
“Oi've gott'ut hare,” say Dolly, “Thas in me bewte, nut a'hallard'all.”
“I see,” mused the gentleman, “Would it be much of a trouble to show it to me?”
“Yis,” say Ginny, “Yew dunt know har bewtes loike we dew.”
“Thas nOo trubble,” say Dolly, “But Oi hev ter set orn suffen.”
“A fishing stool?” says the gentleman, unfolding one and setting it firmly in the sand.
“Jus'rite,” say Dolly, dew'n th'narest thi'n tew a curtsy she cud manage in them bewtes.
“Now, while you're doing that, perhaps I can offer you all a little dargeeling?” says the gentleman.
Then, drawing a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat he opens the back, using it to reflect flashes of sunlight towards the top of the cliff, where a uniformed chauffeur is leaning on the rail. The man waves back and disappears from the cliff edge. By the time Dolly has extricated the newspaper article from her boot and the gentleman has read it out to them in full, a small procession has appeared at the top of the cliff path and begun the descent to the beach.
— • —
2.05.9 - Donkey Derby
Earlier in the day, Cook, accompanied by a party of villagers mostly connected with The Big House, and with the four admiring fisherman as guides, had wandered about on the beaches east of the jetty.
They had gawped at the vast and smelly array of crab-boats drawn up above the tide-line, investigated empty crab-shells, avoided heaps of stinking fish'eads, returned sun-dried starfish to the sea, cut their fingers trying to lever great spikey bunches of mussels off the legs of the Jetty and, having purchased a small net with a handle, caught three of the almost invisible shrimps in a shallow pool left by the tide.
After that, they had pooled their money and done a deal with the fishermen for a long ride on the beach donkies, followed by a short sea-trip in one of the crabbers.
At the moment we rejoin them, they have exhausted the pleasures of dodging around the boats and irritating other holidaymakers on the popular east beach and splashed their way under the Jetty onto the more open expanse of flat wet sand to the west. The footmen are racing the stableboys, who are in turn chasing after the boot-boy who is way out in front, having lost control of his mount. Cook with two of the admirers acting as buttresses is trailing behind, in more ways than one, with Ginny's dog in hot persuit.
“SKEEEEEEEYAWWWWH!” say Cook's dicka, as Raggs shuv a cold nOoze up hiz rear-end.
“Squitt'n Heck!” say th'fust-fushermun as'th'dicka come tew a sudden'alt an'lash owt wi'buth back legs, “Wuss got inta th'beast?”
“Thas a bludda dawg!” say sec'nd-fushermun, as Cook grab'em buth by th'collar, an'th'dicka shute owt frum under loike a greased rocket.
“Wull?” say Cook, “Dunt jus'set thar loike a pairra lewnies, call owt th'lifeboat.”
“Thas only a puddle,” say th'fushermun, “Yew unt drown til th'tide come in.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
