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2.07.1 - Tick-Tock Where's my Flock
A clockmaker will tell you that with large mechanisms, the stresses change considerably according to the position of the hands. At a quarter to three, the self-weight of the hands exerts the maximum bending effect on what you might call their wrists, and puts the maximum torque on their spindles, one within the other. Now, as the appointed time of rendezvous approaches, the hands of Cromer church clock are almost vertical, indicating a time of six hours after noon. The stresses on the clockwork are therefore at their minimum, but those on Stan and the vicar waiting below at the churchyard gate are about to peak:
“Where are they, my errant flock?” says the vicar, “Surely not all of them can have forgotton the time?”
“Thar's nOo nede ter panic,” say Stan, “Jimma an'th'carts hint put inna shew, as yit.”
“That's another thing,” says the vicar, “James and Beatrice seemed in no hurry, when I asked them to bring round the vehicles, and where's George?”
“Now thar, yew've putcher finger onn'ut,” say Stan, “We hint sin him orl day.”
“Even'n Wicar,” say Ted, trull'n in wi'Ginny an'th'ragamuffins.
“Have you set eyes on Cook and her party?” says the vicar, “Are they due here, or are they playing Jonah to a Cromer whale?”
“Oi sin Cook play'n dragoon on a dicka,” say Ted, “But thet wuz afore moi tea-toime.”
“Blust Boy,” say Stan, “Since wen d'yew hev yer own tea-toime?”
“Wull, thet wunt ritely mine,” say Ted, “But nere as.”
“Ah! At last,” says the vicar, as villagers appear from all directions, “Now all we need are the vehicles.”
In fact, at that very moment Jimma and a groom from the stables are attempting to work the dray and the governess cart into Church Street but their way is blocked by the crowd of villagers, all too busy mardling to notice a pair of large horses snorting down their collars.
Once things have calmed down, and the villagers have climbed aboard, the vicar does a head-count and comes up one missing. Jarge, it seems, is not yet with them. Ted, who had last seen him moping off along the promenade, volunteers to look for him. Meanwhile, the rest of the villagers reopen the picnic hamper and attack the remaining bottles of beer and cyder.
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2.07.2 - Not Squit but Nonsense
When Ted found Jarge sitting on a bench overlooking the edge of the cliff at the highest point above the foot of the Gangway, Jarge was in a truculant mood. He'd already been through various mental states, starting with embarrassment and passing through reget, self-justification, anger and back to regret. Something had got to him and he didn't know what it was. What he did know, is that it probably had very little to do with being polite about peoples brown boots.
“Thar wuz an ol'fule down'n Cromer,” say Jarge, “Hew stood orn wun leg t'rede Homer....”
“Hew wuz 'Omer,” say Ted, “Wen he wuz a'tome?”
“Sum furriner thet usta tell stories,” say Jarge, “Now lissen:
Thar wuz an ol'fule down'n Cromer,
Hew stood orn wun leg t'rede Homer,
Wen hiz leg, thet got stiff,
Chuck'd hisseff'orf th'cliff,
Wut ended hiz life as a roamer.”
“Yew dew tork a'loada'rol'squit,” say Ted, “Why'd he wuntta gawn dew thet, Oi arsk yew?”
“Thas nut squit,” say Jarge, “Thas frum a ‘Buk'a'Nonsense’ by Mister Lear.”
“Oi fort you sed thet wuz 'Omer,” say Ted, feel'n ockard.
“Ol'Ted Lear rote th'werse,” say Jarge, “An'th'werse wuz abowt 'Omer.”
“Ted? Dunt b'leve yer,” say Ted, “NOobudda wi'moi nearme wud wersify as pore as thet.”
“Wull thet wuz ‘Edward Lear’ wut rote'ut,” say Jarge, “Enna'kearse, Oi put a'bit a'extra shine orn'ut.”
“Bruk'ut, more loike!” say Ted, “Oi hard yew spowt werse afore.”
“So, wudga wunt?” say Jarge, “Oi'm nut in nede a'yor cump'na.”
“NOo nede ter git raw,” say Ted, “Thas toime t'gOo hum. Wicar's gottem orl weart'n a'th'chuch, sep'yew an'me, an'he's itch'n t'giddup an'gOo.”
“Wull,” say Jarge, “Jus'gOo yew orf an'tell'em t'git garwn wi'owt me.”
“Yew hint come'n hum?” say Ted, “Oi can't tell'em thet.”
“Thas orl Oi gotta say,” say Jarge, “Oi'll git hum orn me'own, wen Oi'm redda.”
“Thet furrin werse musta gorn t'yer hed,” say Ted, “But if thas wut yew wunt....”
— • —
Author's Note:
Original words from ‘A Book of Nonsense’
by Edward Lear, published 1846:There was an old person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer,
When he found he grew stiff,
he jumped over the cliff,
Which concluded that person of Cromer.
Not one of his best, I must say!
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2.07.3 - Sober as a Buzzard
When Ted got back to the churchyard, the vicar had just finished sorting out who was travelling where. An argument had arisen between several parties all of whom felt it would be nice to join the vicar in the comfort of the governess cart. Eventual peace had been achieved by the vicar deciding to join his flock in the charabang and for Fribbins the butler to take his place in the cart accompanied by the nursing mothers and Stan to handle the brake. The only dissenting voice to this had been Stan's, but as official vicar's sidekick, he was duty bound to follow his leader's instructions.
“We kin gOo,” say Ted, “Jarge reckon he'll git hum wi'owt us wen he feel loike'ut.”
“My pardon, young fellow,” says the vicar, “You say he's not joining us?”
“Thas wut he say, Wicar,” say Ted, “He's jus'sett'n orn top a'th'cliff spowt'n pOotry.”
“Is he inebriated?” says the vicar.
“Dint smell nuth'n,” say Ted.
“I see, and the poetry?” says the vicar, “What sort of poetry?”
“Suffun'bowt 'Omer stood orn wun leg an'chuck'n hisseff orf th'cliff.”
“Humm,” says the vicar, “I don't recall any such passage as that in my copy of the Illiad.”
“Wuss th'wud?” say Stan, getting down from the governess cart, “Iz he come'n a'nut?”
“It seems not,” says the vicar, “Do you think it should worry us? He is a grown man of some wisdom, surely he knows his own mind?”
“Shull Oi hev a wud wi'him,” say Stan, “Ware iz th'ol'buzzard.”
“Nut far,” say Ted, “Jus'down th'lane thar, toppa th'cliff.”
“Prey make it prompt,” says the vicar, “We have a fair journey to make before nightfall.”
“Oi'll tearke him hiz cote,” say Stan, tarn'n ter Fribbins a'th'cart, “Pass me Jarge's bundle, if yer please, mine an'orl.”
“The children are tired,” says the vicar, “You will be prompt?”
“Oi'll hev ter see how'ut gOo,” say Stan, “If Oi'm nut back in foive minits, gitchew garwn and Oi'll ketch th'carrier's cart a'th'marn'n.”
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2.07.4 - Inventions of Satan
The vicar waited the requested five minutes and ten more after that for luck, but there was no sign of Stan or Jarge. So, with a shrug, he climbed onto the crowded charabang-dray and they set off for home, with Fribbins following in the governess cart with the nursing mothers, Ginny and Raggs.
A few minutes earlier, on the cliff-top bench facing out over the sea, Jarge did not look up when Stan dumped his bundle in his lap and sat down beside him:
“Dunt Oi even git a grunt?” say Stan, “Yew shud be pleese'd thas me, nut Wicar.”
“Hum,” say Jarge, “Oi hint wun a'th'skule kids, Bor.”
“If thet tork, thet dunt jump,” say Stan t'hisseff.
“Oi wunt plann'n ter jump,” say Jarge, “Oi kin think a'betta ways ter gOo.”
“Such as....?” say Stan.
“Suffen snort'n loike a dragon, squitt'n smoke frum evra'ole, an'wi'Satan's fire in'uts hart,” say Jarge.
“Yew'r garn ter jump orf a railway enjun?” say Stan, “Wen thas still or muve'n?”
“Oi hint plan'n ter jump orf ena'th'n,” say Jarge, “Ware'jew git thet idea?”
“Suffen yew spowt'd orf a'Ted,” say Stan, “Sum werse'bowt 'Omer chuck'n hisseff orf a cliff.”
“Blast Boy,” say Jarge, “Oi hint gawn tru orl thet agin.”
“Thank th'Lord fer small mercies,” say Stan, “Yew an'pOotry never did mix.”
“Cuss'ut Stan,” say Jarge, “Oi jus'wunt sum quiet fer me'hed ter settle.”
“Wull,” say Stan, “Why'unt yew tellma wut stirr'd'ut up in th'fust plearce?”
“Coz if Oi knew thet,” say Jarge, “Thar wunt be nOo problem.”
“Suffen 'bowt steam trains?” say Stan, “Inwenshuns a'Satan?”
“Question iz,” say Jarge, “Wut dew steam enjuns dew fer th'steart a'yer bewtes?”
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2.07.5 - No Need to Ask
There is some truth in the suggestion that Napoleon built the British Empire, because if he hadn't irritated the English Parliament so much, they would never have built such a grand navy, and without the power of The Royal Navy, there would never have been an empire. Jarge has been a small part of this, admittedly as a simple soldier-boy, but he is a practical man and like all good craftsmen, backs up his manual skills with a thoughtful mind.
Since returning to Little Mardlingham, with its intensly rural and mostly peaceful (at least by empire-building standards) lifestyle, he has been gradually lulled into a sense of security that is largely absent from the real world of the time. Coming face to face with a steam powered caravan and unexpectedly finding himself filled with enthusiasm, not just for the thing itself, but the modernity and innovation of its underlying concepts, has disturbed him to the core of his being. It is, therefore quite understandable, that a certain agressiveness has crept into his dealings with the world:
“See thar,” say Stan, as below them on the tide flooding beach, the collier-brig shows a scrap of sail, “Nete bit a sailor'n.”
“Woss'at?” say Jarge, “Yew meen heal'n har ova ter hold har bartum down?”
“Dunt want ter let har bump,” say Stan, “Nut wi'a hold fulla beach-flint and pit-props.”
“Dew Oi wunt ter know thet?” say Jarge, “Bugga shud git a steam enjun, an'hev dun wi'ut.”
“Steam enjun?” say Stan, “Inna shup?”
“Thet dew happen,” say Jarge, “Thas th'way th'wurld's a'gawrn.”
“Oi see,” say Stan, “Wunt a'thort thar wuz much point, dew'n thet.”
“Lissen ter thet,” say Jarge, as the brig's capstan groans and clicks, drawing the hull out towards the point, half a cable's length beyond the tip of the jetty, where the captain had dropped his best bower anchor on the way in.
“Sweaty jarb,” say Stan, “Despite th'even'n breeze.”
“Nut wi'a steam-winch,” say Jarge, “Jus'throw a gret ol'lever an'dew ten men's wark wi'wun.”
“Wull,” say Stan, “Nut been sailors, thet dunt mearke nOo diffrunce t'russ.”
“Oi wunt rely on'ut,” say Jarge, “Oi know wun caravan'orse thet ha'lorst hiz jarb, an'dun't fergit th'railways.”
“They wunt bother wi'a railway in Mardlum,” say Stan, “Nobudda'rull think ter arsk fer wun.”
“Thas th'thing thet worra me,” say Jarge, “Yew dunt seem ter nede ter arsk!”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
