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2.08.1 - Ales and Spirits
The English language has been so debased by journalism and other common usage, that almost nobody seems to appreciated that there is a difference between ‘complexity’ and ‘complication’ - they do not mean the same thing, for example: A complicated machine is one whose method of action can be discovered by any competent practical person, simply by observation and a little spanner-work; A complex machine is one that cannot.
People and computers are complex, steam engines are merely complicated. Jarge has little trouble understanding steam, however much it rumbles and snorts. Stan, however, has to deal with Jarge where the rumbling and snorting is merely a symptom of underlying complexity:
“Humph!” say Jarge, “Bludda thing, 'orseless bludda thing.”
“Wutcha gorn on abowt now,” say Stan, gitt'n up frum the bench ter undo hiz bundle and don hiz greart-cote.
“Thus bluk wi'a'norseless caravan,” say Jarge, “Orn th'West-Cliff Leas.”
“Dint git thet far,” say Stan, “Spent tew much toime wi'Wicar gawp'n a'th'chuch.”
“Glad ter see yer brung yer cote,” say Jarge, “Thet git chilly when th'tide rise wi'th'wind orn'ut's tearl.”
“NOo nede ter be sarky,” say Stan, “Oi brung yorn, an'orl.”
“SOo yew did,” say Jarge, suddenly notuss'n th'bundle aside him orn th'bench, “Thet wuz thortful.”
“Thank Fribbins,” say Stan, “Thet wuz hiz idea. Oi'd a'let'cher freeze.”
“Hev they gorn wi'owt us?” say Jarge, look'n around.
“Dew yew care?” say Stan, “Thar's draft'ale an'sperruts t'hand, cord'n t'th'letr'n orn thet tavern winder.”
“Draft'ale an'sperruts?” say Jarge, “Wull, less hope thar still use'n barmaids nut steam enjuns.”
“Nemmoind thet,” say Stan, “Hews tarn iz'ut ter git th'fust round?”
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2.08.2 - Vale of Shadows
With Jarge and Stan safely ensconced in a Cromer tavern discussing the impact of steam on their world, we can turn our attention to the villagers as they trot homewards into a romantic, but dazzling, sunset.
The chill that had accompanied the rising tide and driven Stan and Jarge from the clifftop, had very little effect on the far inland hilltop where the villagers are about to lose sight of the westering sun. In the valley ahead of them, the shadows are long and dank woods crowd in upon and overhang the road. Jimma stops the charabang-dray and hangs long canvas stips along each side, closing-off the ends of the benches and proclaiming in large classic lettering that a certain brewery is pleased to announce that the contents of the cart are filled with ales of the highest quality.
By standing up, placing one knee on the seat and firmly gripping the back of the driving bench, the vicar surveys his flock: The last vestiges of food from the hamper and their personal bundles have been eaten; the final sips of ale and cyder have been savoured; the smaller children have created their own little world between and beneath the seats, where numerous thumbs have found their ways into mouths in an untidy nest of horse-blankets and hop-sacks; the older children are getting tetchy and irritating the adults, who have almost exhausted their discussion of who did what on which beach to or with whom and when they did or did not do it; and the apprentices are chatting-up the housemaids to the disgust of the stable-boys and footmen. After a moments reflection, the vicar decides it's time for a bit of singing.
Jimma, who has just remounted the dray, clicks-up the horses and in a strong baritone, begins the first verse of a popular song, but is stopped by the vicar who feels that a psalm might be more appropriate. Unfortunately, the apprentices, footmen and stable-boys have already taken the hint and pick up where Jimma has left off. The vicar, having achieved his ends, sits down with a grin and joins in.
“Ar'we thar yit?” mutters the boot-boy before falling asleep.
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2.08.3 - Driving without Lights
When the charabang-dray stopped at the top of the hill and its occupants burst into song, Fribbins the butler, who has charge of the governess cart takes the opportunity to overtake them and trot on ahead. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is his natural aversion to popular songs and the effects of such a noise on his load of young mothers with their sleeping babies. His other drowsy passengers, Ginny and her dog Raggs, might have preferred to stay with the singing, but they've had a tiring day and the motion of the well-sprung governess cart is quite soporific.
Fribbins, having worked his way up to butlering via just about every job a large country house can offer, both below-stairs and in the stable block, has every confidence in finding the way home. However, the darkness of the woodlands shadowing the length of road they have just entered, the sudden flight of an owl, a frightened mother and the subsequent squawk from her disturbed child cause him a moments inattention. Naturally enough, coincidence, fate or the natural flight-paths of owls, mean that at that moment they reach a fork in the road.
The filly has better night-sight than any human driver and momentarily left to her own devices, chooses the wrong prong of the fork. The butler, who should know better, has not yet bothered to light the carriage-lamps, so the consequence of the filly's choice does not become apparent until they are confronted by the glow of a lantern hanging above a large wrought iron gate.
Ginny holds the reigns, while Fribbins knocks on the door of a nearby farm cottage to ask where they are. He is told by the cottager, who seems to regard such ignorance as akin to heresy, that this is the back end of the Blickling Hall estate and gives them all the choice of going to hell or returning whence they came. As Fribbins turns the cart, Ginny, in her spookiest voice, begins a long rigmarole about Anne Bolyne and the ghostly courtier who rides these woods on a pure white steed, hoping to reach her in time to warn of her impending execution.
Since it must be fairly obvious by now, that owls, cranky cottagers, fate and coincidence have all got it in for Fribbins and his little band, the sudden appearance of a large white horse crashing though the undergrowth into their path is absolutely inevitable.
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2.08.4 - Ghost of Blickling Woods
At the moment the white horse careered into the path of the governess cart, Ginny had her back to it. However, along the sides of the cart, the five young mothers listening to her spectral tale, were facing not only her, but what looked very much like the proof of her story.
It is well past sunset and the deeply shadowed woods seem much darker in the glow of the carriage lamps. In contrast, the sudden flash of the white horse is dazzling to the eye and confusing to the brain. There is a split second during which Ginny thinks the shrieks of her audience are a response to her narrative skills, after which her world dissolves into chaos.
The governess cart's driving forces, namely the filly and Fribbins, react as one, both attempt to turn aside: the squealing filly rears up; Fribbins rises to his feet and wrenches at the slackened reigns; the cart swerves; half the horses legs and a cartwheel slide off the road; the receiving ditch proves to be shallow, dry and half full of leaf-mould; the filly, constrained by the leaf-mould panics; the cart lists violently to the left; Ginny rolls over the sprawled Fribbins and is thrown out of the cart; the remaining passengers from the high side of the cart, collapse among the legs of those on the lower side; and the runaway white horse exits the scene as if it never existed.
The five babies clasped in their mothers arms, wake up and begin to complain. This is not because they are in any way hurt, being so over-swaddled that you could have rolled them down hills like cheeses, but because they sense the anger and anxiety being broadcast by their mothers. Of the mothers two have sustained bruises from the angular frame of the sprawling butler, the rest are outraged at the indignity of it all. Ginny has struck her head on a branch and is lying dazed and out of sight in the adjacent undergrowth with the sixth baby still clasped in her arms.
The first thing Fribbins does on extricating himself from the cart is to release the filly and is attempting to reassure it, when Ginny erupts from the undergrowth:
“Is'ut orl rite?” says Ginny, “Th'babby Oi wuz nurse'n?”
“Hint'chew still gott'ut?” say its maw, “Thet hint hare.”
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2.08.5 - A Hack for the Vicar
Far away from Blickling woods, a pair of not so spectral horses, the brewery's best dapple-greys are happily trotting down the last length of the turnpike into Greater Mardlingham. At the lodge-gates they cheekily swing into the carriage drive at the front of The Big House, this being by far the shortest way from there to their own hamlet of Little Mardlingham. It also has the advantage of being a good place to drop off Cook, her minions, and others in service there.
For the last few miles, the vicar has been confident that the pair of carriage lamps a hundred yards or so behind, are those of the governess cart containing the lesser contingent of his day-trippers. However, when the lamps reach the junction, they carry straight on:
“Wherever are they going?” asks the vicar, “Surely they can't have failed to see our turn?”
“Thet wunt Fribbins,” say Ted, whose younger eyes had detected a chaise behind the lamps, not the much less elegant cart.
“Where, then is Mister Fribbins?” says the vicar, “He should have been close behind.”
“Oi spec he's hed ter starp fer a leak,” say Cook, “Thas an'abit he'hev, pore ol'fule.”
“An Abbot?” says the vicar, in his baffled tone of voice.
“In wun end, owt'tutha,” say Cook, “Sep'fer brandy. Oi orfun wunda ware he put s'much a'thet.”
“You think he may be drunk in charge of a wagon load of mothers?” says the vicar, aghast.
“Milk'n mawthas,” say Cook, “Wi'babbies? NOo, Oi dunt reckon sOo.”
“Then what has happened to them?” says the vicar, “Should we turn back?”
“Why'unt we git round t'th'steable-yaard,” say Ted, “An Oi'll git a lanthorn and gOo back on one a th'bay mares.”
“Oi'll gOo wi'yer,” say Jimma, “Bea kin tearke th'resta'rum hum.”
“I should go too,” says the vicar, “It's my responsibility.”
“Kin yer find a hack fer Wicar?” say Jimma, “Nuth'n too sprightly.”
“Thar's a black geld'n,” say Ted, “An we kin melt sum carpunta's glue ter keep him in th'saddle.”
“Rite,” say Jimma, “Thet shud dew'ut.”
“Please gentlemen,” says the vicar, in his scandalised voice, “This is no time for levity.”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
