— • —
2.06.1 - Steam, Tea and Caravans
Among the procession descending the cliff path to deliver the necessaries for the making of tea, as ordered by the gentleman-angler, is our Boy Jarge.
When the villagers had first arrived in Cromer, Jarge had made his excuses to the vicar, and set off to look for a relative he had not seen for some while. His cousin had been somewhat elusive, but Jarge had finally tracked him down to a small workshop near the top of the West Cliff, used by craftsmen when maintaining the promenade.
After the normal round of familial greetings, the cousin had taken him across to the cliff-top Lees to view Cromer's latest wonder, a steam powered caravan. They had then shared an enjoyable half-hour orbitting the machine, oh-ing and ah-ing, pointing, peering and wishing it was alive and running not merely basking in the sun. Eventually, they had plucked up enough courage to approach the tall young man in a buttoned tunic and peaked cap, who seemed to be in charge of the beast.
Standing by the rail overlooking the beach, the three of them had then mardled happily about governers, safety valves, double-acting pistons, flywheels and the art of triple expansion. After a half-hour of this, they had been suddenly dazzled from the direction of the beach, and their youthful mentor had departed rapidly in the direction of a nearby hotel.
“Look'zif thas some a'moi lot down thar,” say Jarge tew hiz cuzen, “Mebbie Oi'd betta git back tew'um. Gawdnose wut they'll ha'bin gitt'n up tew wi'owt me ter whip'um in.”
With farewells complete, Jarge's relative wanders off for a last poke around the caravan just as the chauffeur returns with a hamper laden pair of hotel waiters and, to Jarge's suprise, followed by Ted with a folding table:
“Blust Boy,” say Jarge, “Hev'yer gotcha'sel'a'new jarb?”
“Nut sOoz Oi'd noOtuss,” say Ted, “Jus'been a'gud Smarritan.”
“Wudga think a'th'steam-enjun, then?” say Jarge, look'n him up'n'down, “State yur in, Oi bet'chew hint even notuss'ut? Hev'yer?”
“Jus'met a new gal,” say Ted, wi'a faraway look, “If thas wut'chew meen?”
“NOo, yer fule,” say Jarge, “Oi meen thet gret lump ov'a wehicle ahint yer.”
“Ware?” say Ted, wake'n up a bit, “Oh thet. Ware'd they put th'oss?”
“That dunt hev nOo hoss,” say Jarge, “Thas'orseless.”
“Orseless?” say Ted, “Howd they draw'ut along?”
“Thet draw'ut'self,” say Jarge, “Snort'n like a dragon, he say.”
“Wut? Th'bluk in th'funna uniform?” say Ted, “Hey, ware's he gawn?”
“Down th'cliff,” say Jarge, “Hint yew spOos'ter gOo wiv'im?”
“Oi spuz Oi am,” say Ted, “Thas orl in aid a'hiz marsta's picnic tea.”
“Wull thars'nuff ov'ut,” say Jarge, “Dew he plan ter hintertain half th'town?”
“If jus'carry'n a tearble got me enwhyte'd,” say Ted, “Why'unt yew grab a few a'them deckchairs an'folla me down.”
— • —
2.06.2 - Not a Polite Question
The afternoon on Cromer west beach is now maturing into teatime. The gentleman-angler has completed the reading of his article from the somewhat damp and crumpled page of newsprint drawn from Dolly's boot. Ginny and the ragamuffins, are suitably awed at being read a newspaper article by the actual author, but this has not diverted them from the matter of converting the spotted dogfish into cash, or at least a prize for catching it.
“Wut Oi dunt git,” say Ragamuffin, “Is ware yew git ser'many a'har?”
“Her?” says the gentleman, “Who do you mean by ‘her?’”
“Hew you sed,” say Ragamuffin, “Th'foive Jinnies fer fust prize.”
“Jennies?” says the gentleman, “As in spinning Jennies, you mean?”
“He meen me,” say Ginny, “An'Oi dunt reckon thar's more'un wun a'me.”
“I would never doubt it,” says the gentleman with a smile.
“But,” say Ragamuffin, “Yew sed them aglers wun a prize a'foive Jinnies.”
“Guineas,” says the gentleman, drawing a gold coin from the change pocket of his waistcoat, “Such as this.”
“Oh!” say Dolly, “Hint nivver sin wun a'them afore.”
“Oi sin a sarv'ren,” say Ragamuffin, “Iz thet th'searme?”
“A sovereign is worth one pound,” say the gentleman, “A guinea is one shilling more, twenty-one shillings in all.”
“Then thus hare dawgfush mus'be wuth foive pun'an'a bit oOver,” say Ginny.
“Unfortunately, the value of the prize in an angling competition,” says the gentleman, “Is not related to the value of the fish, only to its being the biggest catch of the day.”
“Wut happen t'th'prize fush?” say Ginny, “Dunt thet git sold?”
“I expect the winner took it straight to the taxidermist,” said the gentleman, “That's often the fate of winning fish.”
“Kin we sell'ut ter him then,” say Dolly, “Th'wostsi-damist.”
“Unfortunately not, young lady,” says the gentleman, as the chauffeur arrives with the hamper, “However, Evans here could offer it to the'otel for you.”
“Rite,” say Ragamuffin, “Less git gorn.”
“Evans can deal with that,” says the gentleman, watching the waiters set out their kit and light a spirit stove under the kettle, “While we have our tea.”
“Now, young lady,” says the gentleman, grinning at Dolly, “Tell me why you keep your library in your boots.”
“Wull,” say Jarge, drarp'n wut he wuz carry'n, step'n owt frum ahint th'wearters an'put'n his hand on Dolly's shoulder, “Thas nut such a p'lite question, as yew think'ut iz.”
— • —
2.06.3 - Let Neptune Tickle your Keel
With Jarge squaring up to the gentleman-angler in the matter of poor Dolly's enormous brown boots, and as the incoming tide inundates its lower reaches, we leave the Cromer west beach.
By taking the steps up onto the promenade, we can continue our stroll, first passing the Jetty, now with a full complement of Mardlingham village mothers and schoolchildren, stopping a moment to tut-tut at two of the older boys who are playing a hopeless version of ‘Pooh-sticks’ involving spit, and take a stand in front of the famous seawater bath-house to survey the east beach.
After the calm of the low-tide, the east beach too is receiving a series of ever rising waves. Each sweeping a little further in across the broad almost flat area that has spent the last few hours as donkey racetrack, picnic place, sandcastle building and shrimping zone.
In the middle distance, several crab-boats have been left ready for the turn of the tide, poised and waiting for all who dare to take a little trip upon the briny sea:
“Oi reckon thas toime fer th'butt-trip,” say Cook, “Oi orlredda bin blest wi'a salty bum, sOo thet wunt hart ter wett'ut sum'more.”
“Yew wunt use wuds loike thet in ar'kitchin,” say Tottie, looking a bit shocked.
“Wut wuds?” say Cook, “Oi spuz yer meen ‘Bum’”
“Yew tell me nut ter say'ut,” say Tottie, “Sorce fer th'goose shud be sorce fer th'gander.”
“Thet,” say Tilly, “Shud be sorce fer th'goose an'sorce fer th'gosl'n, less yew'r call'n Cook a gander.”
“Oi wunt wanna be th'gosl'n hatched under Cook,” say Tottie.
“Wull, yer crack't a'nuff,” say Cook, jump'n back frum th'swish ov'a'nincom'n wave, “An tew sorcy by'arf.”
“Shull we git abord?” say Fust-fushermun, hold'n th'crab-butt stedda, “Afore th'tide wash'us orl away.”
“Blust,” say Cook, jump'n back agin, “Thet tide muve awful quick.”
“Thas a flat beach owt hare,” say Sec'nd-fushermun, “Thet giv'ut a gud run at'cher.”
“SOo'ut seem,” say Cook, stomp'n up th'ramp an'sett'n harsel' a'th'gunn'l, “Now, them bewtes a'mine nede a lift, if yew pleese.”
“Ol'Neptoon seem ter be eager ter tickle ar'keel, s'arternune,” say Fust-fushermun, “Ar'yer orl abord wut's come'n abord? - Give'ut a shuv Boys.”
Illustration from Coastwise Craft by T. C. Lethbridge
Like Cook's humour, there's very little sublety about a Norfolk Crab Boat, just clean geometric lines based on the way wood bends. A point at each end, so as to present the same profile to the sea whether it's coming or going. The gunnel, raised by one plank to keep out the surf, is pierced with small neat leather padded holes for four or six oars. In one of the forward thwarts, a mount is provided for a short mast with an easily handled lugsail. There's plenty of room for a crew of anything from two to seven depending on the strength of the sea and loads of space for crab and lobster pots, nets, buoys and floats. Oh yes, I almost forgot: And the most amazingly overpowering stink of decaying fish:
“Phew! Wotta pong,” say Tottie, “Fare tearke yer breff away.”
“Be orrite wen th'seabreeze blow,” say Fust-fushermun, “Nut thet Oi notuss'ut me'sel'”
“Kin Oi hevva gOo wiv'an oar?” say th'boot-boy, “Or suff'n?”
“Yew kin orl hevva gOo,” say Sec'nd-fushermun, “Sune as we're parst the breakers.”
“Blust,” say Tilly, “Oi dunt'arf feel kweer.”
“Thet seem ter gitcha in th'stummick, dunt'ut” say Cook, as she an'Tilly giv'each other a queasy look.
— • —
2.06.4 - The Colliers Nuts
There is a certain motion, a stomach slopping, belly flopping, unsteadying, lifting and dropping motion, only available in an open boat braving the surf as it sets out from the beach. First the boat rushes forward, then hesitates as its stem cuts into the breaking wave. Alongside, the foaming peak of the wave rises to almost overtop the gunnels, but the boat has been designed for this, and at the critical moment the entire hull begins to lift, cocking the bow into the air. As the boat breasts the wave, the hull levels off with a heave, then the stern rises to release the turbulent heap of broken water in its rush to the shore. At precisely the wrong moment, from a stomach's point of view, the stem strikes the next breaker and the whole thing repeats, this time at a slightly different angle that adds a nauseating sway to the motion.
Some people are susceptible to such motion which throws them into a state of extreme discomfort and their last meal into the scuppers, others sail blithely on with no effect whatsoever. Of Cook's party of day-trippers, it is only Cook, herself and Tilly who discover the mal-de-mare, the others just look on with various expressions of concern or disgust. The fishermen slip the sufferers a sip of neat brandy and drape them over the side.
With the boat past the breakers, the motion changes to a slow rise and fall as they row over each long swell, then they turn parallel to the coast, ship the oars and raise the lug-sail. Immediately the motion is calmer as the wind lays the boat over a few degrees and holds it there.
On the cliff-top Stan and the vicar have borrowed a small brass telescope from a bowler-hatted coal-merchant, with which they've been watching the small flotilla of crab-boats. They have been keeping a particular eye on the one containing Cook and her gang:
“My turn with the glass,” says the vicar, shading his eyes, “They seem to have raised a sail.”
“They hev,” say Stan, pars'n th'glarse, “Dirty ol'red rag ar'a thing.”
“I see Cook seems to be perking up,” says the vicar, adjusting the telescope, “But not as yet, the scullery girl.”
“Iz thet th'lil'wun,” say Stan, “Or th'bossy wun.”
“The one they call ‘Tottie’ seems to be taking a turn at the rudder and the footmen are waving oars out of the side,” says the vicar, “But poor Tilly is still hanging her head over the sea.”
“Wuss thet flag thar send'n up the mast?” say Stan.
“That's no flag,” says the vicar, “The boot-boy is playing monkeys again.”
“Tide seemta be rise'n fast,” say Stan t'th'collier, “Dew thet dew'ut like thet evra day?”
“Faze a'th'Mune,” say th'collier, “Thas wot'ut depend orn. Know yer Mune, know yer tide.”
“Wut abowt th'blow,” say Stan, “Dunt th'wind mearke a diffrunce.”
“Oi spuz thet dew,” say th'collier, “Now yew come ter menshun'ut.”
“Looks like your coal-bark is afloat,” says the vicar, “I do hope they'll not collide with any of our village Armada.”
“Funna thing, th'sea,” say Stan, “SOo they say.”
“Funna thing, thet cook a yorn,” say th'collier, “Dudger see me an'har arlier?”
“Wuz thet arter th'dicka ride?” say Stan, “Owt by th'cole-butt?”
Cook bartering with the coal merchant
“Th'brig,” say th'collier, “She hed a deal in mind.”
“She orf'n hev a deal on har mind,” say Stan, “Thas nut s'orf'n she hev suff'n in har mind.”
“She say ‘Wut price kitchin nuts?” say th'collier, “But she dunt wunt'em d'liver'd.”
“Wut she wunt wi'kitchin nuts,” say Stan, “Thas th'bailiff's jarb.”
“SOo Oi giv'har a price,” say th'collier, “An'we batt'ut abowt a bit, an'settle. Then she say‘Wut if Oi pay in cyder?’ and Oi say ‘Mebbe,’”
“So are you then agreeable to that?” says the vicar, passing the glass to Stan.
“Oi mite be,” say th'collier, “Thas wut Oi wunt t'arsk yer. Kin Oi trust har an'thus dray-man she menshun?”
“Goodness,” says the vicar, “However do I answer that?”
“Tearke nOo nOotuss a'Wicar, hare,” say Stan, “Orl yew'll git owtta th'chuch is a parable a'tew. They dunt teech'em to tork streart.”
“Wull,” say th'collier, “Dew Oi gOo'long wiv'em ar'nut?”
“Wen der yew nede t'know?” say Stan, “Oi'll nede ter arsk abowt, see wut's garwn orn.”
“Wull'ut be afore yer set orf fer hum?” say th'collier.
“Dunt spoz'ut will,” say Stan, “Tell yer wot, gi'me vorpence an'Oi'll send yer a tellagrum.”
— • —
2.06.5 - Outbreak of Class-war?
I suppose, in Mardlingham, the middle of the nineteenth century might be seen as a pregnant interregnum between the era of peasant's revolts and the striking effects of unionisation. Pregnant, because at that time the social womb was already begining to swell with those terrible twins ‘Industrialisation’ and ‘Rural-depopulation’ - a pair whose teenage angst culminated in the Great War, 1914 to 1918.
If there is any one person in the village, who might be seen as the representative of the peasantry, in which I include the ‘below-stairs’ elements of The Big House, it is our George, Jarge to his friends. Conversely, while Sir Marcus is the only true capitalist in the village, by extension that mantle is likely to fall on any person who exhibits a certain sort of control over their own lives, such as the Gentleman-Angler.
It is not that Jarge has an agenda, he is not politically active in any way, and wouldn't recognise himself in the role he is about to play. He's just a child of the times whose sense of justice has been tweaked, by a kindly person's attempts to gently tease an urchin with surprising accomplishments:
“My pardon,” says the gentleman, “I'm not sure I heard what you said.”
“Oi sed,” say Jarge wi'a frown, “Thas nut such a p'lite question, as yew think'ut iz.”
“I merely enquired why my young friend here keeps a library in her boots,” says the gentleman, “It seems a valid question, based on the evidence.”
“Thas nut p'lite t'draw attenshun ter th'chil's parv'ty,” say Jarge, “If har bewts wuz a prarpa fit wi'gud soles, she wunt nede ter stuff'em wi'pearpa.”
“Wuss parv'ty?” say Dolly, “Kin yer eat'ut?”
“Prey child, may I ask your name?” says the gentleman.
“Dolly, an'thus har's moi brudda,” say Dolly, “He dunt loike hiz nearm, sOo ar'maw call us buth ‘Muffuns’.”
“Well Dolly, poverty may mean having to keep your library in your boots,” says the gentleman, “But hopefully, having the skill to use that library will see you clear of that state in no time.”
“Blust me,” say Jarge, “Yew soun'loike a lawyer. Hint'chew garn ter'pollajyse?”
“In my family,” says the gentleman with a wan smile, “Calling me a lawyer would be even less polite than accusing somebody of poverty.”
“Oi see,” say Jarge, feel'n a tad owtta hiz depth, “Oi hevta admit'ut, moi famla wud ha'tearken th'searme view.”
“You must see,” says the gentleman, “That I meant no harm.”
“Hum,” say Jarge, look'n at Ted and shrugg'n, “Oi spuz nut.”
“Yew wuz larf'n a'har bewts, yersel',” say Ted, “Back a'th'mill.”
“Dunt'chew start,” say Jarge, nut know'n wut way ter tarn, then look'n th'gentlmun in the eye, he say “Oi spuz we cud agree orl thet wuz unsed, an'leav'ut a'that?”
“I suppose we could,” says the gentleman, “May I offer you some tea?”
“NOo thank'ee,” say Jarge, needing time to think over what had just happened, “Oi hint bin orn th'jetta yit, an'toime's a'fly'n.”
— • —
2.06.6 - Silver Not Gold
On the west beach the tide begins to wash against the foot of the steeper more shingly upper reaches, the paraphernalia of the gentleman-angler's picnic tea is being packed away by the two hotel waiters. The chauffeur has returned from his fishmongering expedition to the hotel kitchen and passed a quiet word to his master at the foot of the cliff path. The gentleman-angler returns to the group of three children with their dog:
“Evans has persuaded the'otel cook to purchase your splendid dogfish,” says the gentleman, “But only on condition I undertake to dine on ‘rock-salmon’ as she calls it, at least three evenings in a row.”
“Rock-salmon?” say Ragamuffin, “Yew dunt say thet in th'pearpa.”
“Cooks invariably take things the fancy way,” says the gentleman, “It makes for a more elegant menu.”
“Why'unt they call'ut dawgfush,” say Ragamuffin, “An'hev dun wiv'ut.”
“I'm surprised your first worry is the nomenclature,” says the gentleman, “Rather than the yeild.”
“How much dud'we git fer'ut?” say Dolly, who hadn't understood the words, but caught the drift.
“I'm authorised to distribute three guineas between you,” says the gentleman, taking three gold coins from his waistcoat pocket.
“Oi dunt wunt'ut,” say Dolly, as har brudda gaze in awe a'th'lil'gold disc in th'parm a'hiz hand.”
“It's yours to spend or keep,” says the gentleman, “Honestly earned and well deserved.”
“NOo, they'll ony say Oi stole'ut,” say Dolly, “Reckon Oi'll stick wi'parv'ty, wut'eva thet iz.”
“Shud Oi look arter'ut f'yer?” say Ginny, “Oi gotta lil'pocket in me pettacote. Thet'll be searfe thar wi'mine.”
“Oi'm gonna put thus'un in me bewt,” say Ragamuffin, “Save'ut fer a rainy day.”
“Dunt matta ware yew put'ut,” say Dolly, “Sune as yew shew'ut, they'll say yer stole'ut. Thas nOo gud hev'n munna if yew kin nivver spend'ut.”
“I see,” says the gentleman, “That is certainly a problem, I hadn't considered. What if you had it in shilling coins?”
“In a flat purse?” say Dolly, “So thet'll fit in me bewt.”
“The very solution,” says the gentleman turning to the chauffeur, “Evans, you heard the lady, time to test your skills as a money-changer, I think.”
“Of course, Sir,” says Evans with a grin, “A splendid task.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
