— • —
2.12.1 - Knocking off Saint Andrew
Quentin Charamy, gentleman-angler, his artist niece Amelia, and Evans the chauffeur of the steam caravan, are stuck at the foot of a certain notorious hill just south of Holt. They have negotiated the bend in the lane descending from Edgefield to the Glaven river at the foot of the ridge. There they have dipped Blodwyn's wheel-rims in the chuckling water of the shingly ford and gained the level ground beyond, which is where they are currently halted.
From the steering platform, the view of a rutted and patched gravel road stands in their way like an almost vertical wall. This is mostly illusion, because the road that ascends the steep face of the scarp is only 1 in 8. However there are parts where erosian has made it considerably steeper.
As far as Blodwyn is concerned it might as well be a wall, because she has a direct drive and considerable gearing would be needed to convert her speeding pistons into sufficient torque for such a climb; not to mention the problem of grip with her narrow steel-tyred cartwheels.
The hill is notorious, not only with those rare steam engineers that might attempt it, but for every horse-drawn wagoner and coachman who needs to pass that way. In daylight hours, a team of horses is kept by the ford expressly for the purpose of assisting would be climbers. When the Charamys had arrived, there were already eight horses producing their own steam on the hill, hauling a half loaded timber-jill, so it may be some time before Blodwyn gets the help she will need:
“Patience is a virtue, Evans,” says Miss Amelia, “How virtuous shall we need to become?”
“The teamster estimates an hour at least, Miss, probably more,” says Evans, having just returned from a half trudge, half scramble up the hill, “There is still the second half of their load to raise and haul.”
“Then bring me the Gazetteer,” says Amelia, “There must be a byway to this highway.”
“Will you then forgo your plan to sketch the sundew hunting in its native range?” says Quentin, “It's not like you, Amelia, to turn aside from a task.”
“Watching a honey-dropped sundew decoy its chitinous victim is not a task,” says Amelia, “But a pleasure, and pleasures can always be deferred.”
“If you say so, my dear,” grins her uncle, “However it's not a view I share.”
“On the other hand,” says his niece, “A task brought forward, is a better way to virtue than the patience of waiting in line.”
“I see,” says her uncle, “And what task can be brought forward by a look in the Gazetteer?”
“Why the addition of a new work to my collection of commissioned drawings,” says Amelia, “There must be a church that is both nearby and on my list.”
“Forgive my anticipation, Miss Amelia,” says Evans, “But Saint Andrew, Little Mardlingham is the nearest of those you've yet to visit.”
“Show me,” says Miss Amelia, flipping the pages of the Gazetteer at the chauffeur.
“There Miss,” says Evans, removing his coal-dusty gauntlet and jabbing the page with a surprisingly clean fingernail.
“Admirable, admirable,” says Miss Amelia, “What say you, Uncle?”
“My solution would be to camp here on the Lowes beside the Glaven,” says her uncle, “Then while you do a fine painting of hill-climbing horses, I could try the waters for a fish supper.”
“No, Uncle, a delightful and most tempting thought,” says his niece, “But I've made up my mind. If we cannot knock Saint Andrew of Holt from our little list, we shall knock him off somewhere else.”
“Very well, my dear,” sighs her uncle, “Evans, throw the reversing lever and take the tiller, while I feed the fire.”
“Let me Sir,” says Evans.
“There are times, Evans,” mutters Quentin, “When exercise is good for the temper.”
— • —
2.12.2 - Fishing - Fly and Sly
Below the mill dam at Mardlingham the waters hurry away in shallow channels between drifts of shingle. A total contrast to the deep serenity of the long pool above the mill. The lane chosen by Miss Amelia Charamy for the steam caravan's approach to Little Mardlingham runs along this divide. To the right the pent waters lie still, reflecting the line of chestnuts that grace the bank, a sure sign of Estate planting. To the left a six foot drop to the pasture, scrub and brambles of Low Common.
Ahead of the softly chuffing Blodwyn, the lane narrows as it runs along the back edge of the dam between the mill and the low brick parapet above the outfall. The way itself is blocked by a wagon beneath one of the two lucams. Every so often a sack rises, flapping through the trap in the lucam floor:
“Shall I pull off onto the verge, Colonel?” calls Evans from the tiller platform.
“What for, Evans?” replies Quentin from the stoking space.
“The way is impeded, Sir,” says Evans, “More trouble with millers, I suspect.”
“Trouble?” says Miss Amelia, rising from her couch in the saloon and disembarking from the caravan, “I'll soon have that dealt with.”
“For Gawd's sake Evans,” says Quentin Charamy, a retired colonel who suddenly wishes he hadn't, “Never say that word.”
“What word, Sir?” says Evans, drawing the van into a gap between the chestnuts and closing the regulator.
“You know what word,” says his master, “Trouble!”
“Oh dear, Colonal,” says Evans, joining him next to the firebox and playing with the valves, “We seem to have lost our head of steam.”
“Goodness,” says the colonal, “How careless of you, Miss Amelia will be furious.”
“I shall explain that we need to take on water,” says the chauffeur.
“Splendid,” says the colonal, “But will we not need permission from the miller?”
“Shall I follow Miss Amelia to the mill?” says Evans “Perhaps she will include our request in her conversation?”
“A delightful notion, Evans,” says the colonal, changing his stoker's hat for one suitably furnished for fly fishing, “But first put out my rods.”
“Of course, Sir,” says Evans, “Should I also ask about fishing rights?”
“This is Haugh-Wells land I believe,” says the colonal, “I'm sure Sir Marcus would want to indulge me, were he at home.”
“An absentee landlord, then, Sir?” says Evans, following Quentin along the bank to a suitable gap between the tall young chestnuts.
“Not normally, I understand,” says his master, “But wagging chins say he's currently gallivanting around London with two fine women.”
“Here comes your niece, Sir,” says Evans, “I should go.”
“Yes, Evans, an ideal moment,” says Quentin, “Do remember to make our peace with the miller.”
“Peace, Sir?” says Evans, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“In the matters of water extraction and fishing rights, of course,” says Quentin, with a wink, “I trust there is a spare guinea in the placation fund?”
“Of course, Colonal,” says Evans patting the breast pocket of his uniform.
— • —
2.12.3 - Baffled by Injectors
Had Blodwyn been able to continue across the mill-dam, she would have been able to turn right into Mill Lane, an almost straight track of about three miles in length with the watermill at one end and the village inn at the other. Along the way the lane passes Mill Cottages, now being rebuilt after the cholera and subsequent cleansing effects of Stan's flood; rises gently between Estate forestry and hill pasture; threads its way across High Common, home territory of the Ragamuffins; passes the back end of Home Farm, tenanted by The Dawsons, their family, household servants, farm labourers, Ginny and Raggs; then undulates between fields of Estate arable until it crosses Church Lane, often referred to as Mardlingham High Street and winds down past the inn.
Turning right at the crossroads will, after half a mile, bring you to another crossroads by the church and a quarter mile beyond that will bring you back to the river, but beyond Plantation Hill and the water-meadows upstream from the Big House grounds. This would have been the course of Blodwyn, the caravan, had she completed her task of delivering Miss Amelia and her artist's impedimenta to The Church of Saint Andrew, Little Mardlingham. Blodwyn however, is conveniently out of steam and parked back there by the mill-pool:
“Ten minutes,” says Amelia, striding up to Quentin then noticing the fishing gear, “What's all this?”
“Sorry, my dear,” says her uncle, “We're out of steam.”
“There was plenty when I left,” she says, accusingly.
“You know very well, my dear, a stationery engine uses steam to maintain a draft in the smoke-box,” says her uncle, “Now there's not enough water for the injector.”
“I see,” says Amelia, baffled but still suspicious, “And what is Evans doing about it?”
“He has gone to ask permission for us to draw from the river,” says Quentin, “But as the master of the estate is absent, we may have to wait until they can locate the bailiff.”
“How annoying!” says Amelia, “We might as well have sat it out on Holt Hill.”
“Perhaps the miller can provide you with a horse,” suggests her uncle.
“Harrumph!” says his niece, while mentally reprising her recent conversation with the miller, “The miller did not strike me as a cooperative person. Perhaps I shall walk, Evans can act as my porter.”
“Here is Evans now,” says her uncle, “Complete with transport.”
“I'll say,” says his niece, in an altogether more convivial tone, “A boat, a most splendid mahogany skiff!”
— • —
2.12.4 - Wobbly Ladder
Much of the new construction and refurbishment in Mardlingham is carried out by one or more small builders working separately or together. Mostly these are small family concerns with relatives and close connections providing the necessary slew of skills.
However, it is indeed, a very rare building project that does not, at some time, involve Jarge and Stan. In the case of the rebuilding of Mill Cottages, Jarge has been called in to sort out the drainage and Stan's skills with wood are currently expressing themselves in the ornamental barge-boards to the front porches. Sir Marcus having decreed an Estate Style in such things, to be applied as opportunity arises, and today being such an opportunity:
“Hey 'Bor,” yell Stan frum th'tarp a'hiz ladder, “Kin yer see wot Oi see?”
“Hew yer yell'n at?” say Young Rattle, wun a'th'lads a'Rattle an'Burgoyne, Builders.
“Oi hint yell'n a'nOobbuda,” say Jarge frum hiz hole in th'groun, “Thas Stan dew'n th'yell'n.”
“Fruk'ut then,” say Young Rattle frum nex't'th'sand pile, “Dun't spec meeta pass orn yer messajuz.”
“Yew tellum, Boy,” say Buggie Burgoyne, Young Rattle's brother in law, hiz voice sound'n hollow as he bosh plaster orn th'bedrum wall.
“Jarge!” yell Stan, “Ar'yew deef?”
“Blast Boy, Stan,” say Jarge rising frum th'pit, “Wutizz'ut now?”
“If yew wuz up hare,” say Stan, “Yew'd hev no need ter arsk.”
“Wull Oi hint,” say Jarge, “So Oi dew. Wut kin yer see?”
“Thas yor Steamer,” say Stan, “Wi'orl th'fire blow'd owt.”
“Hint gotta steamer,” say Jarge, “Let alone wun ter sail orn a mill-pond.”
“Thet hint orn th'mill-pond,” say Stan, “Thas t'other side, on th'bank.”
“Thet hint a steam boat then?” say Jarge.
“NOo,” say Stan, “Tha'riz a row-boat, but thas afloat.”
“Wut? Ware?” say Jarge climb'n th'ladder aside Stan.
“Blust Bor,” say Stan, “Quit yer wobbl'n, will yer?”
“Now Oi see,” say Jarge, “Thas th'caravan party.”
“Happy?” say Stan, “Now git orf moi ladder.”
“Hew's thet in th'skiff?” say Jarge, “Hint thet th'woman giv'us a rollik'n a'Corpusty?”
“Look loike'ut,” say Stan shad'n hiz eyes, “A'longa thet Shuvver Evans.”
“Wunda ware they're orf tew?” say Jarge, “Thar hint menna plearsez ter gOo orn a mill-pond.”
“Fush'n?” say Stan, “Hexersize'n th'shuvver?”
“Blust,” say Jarge, “Oi hint finish'd thet drain yit.”
“Wunt thet wearte?” say Stan, “Oi jus'run owtta nails.”
“Thas funna,” say Jarge, “SOo hev Oi!”
“Wull Oi'll be....” say Buggie, “Thar skyv'n orf, lazy sods.”
“Orrite fer sum,” say Young Rattle, tarn'n anutha plarsta mix.
“Bludda subbies,” say Buggie, “Karnt trust'em!”
— • —
2.12.5 - Opposites Attract
The middle first-floor window in the Regency front elevation of Little Mardlingham Vicarage is the only one with a view of the church. The rest on that side of the house are screened by the beech trees and tall privet hedges, only the landing window coincides with the clear line of sight between the gateposts and across the road. Even then the roof of the lytch-gate hides much of the church's south wall.
The Reverend Cedric W. Jimpson, having spied strangers while glancing out through the upper landing window, trips down the staircase and opens the front door. From there he can see through the lytch-gate to the main door in the church's south porch, or he would be able to, if two people had not been blocking the view. A medium to tall man in a dark grey uniform with a peaked cap is setting up what looks like an easel for a substantial, but shapely, female of about the same age as himself dressed in what can only be described as a Bohemian manner.
The vicar's first thought is to stride across the road and welcome his visitors, chide them gently about not seeking his permission, which would naturally have been given accompanied by an invitation for a later visit to the vicarage for tea and, “Yes,” thinks the vicar, “They could well deserve the butter-cream walnut cake.”
Cedric is used to female fashions, having Rosamunda for a sister, but there is something about this girl, or should he think of her as a woman? that is different. Something that appeals to some deeper more private part of his soul; something fresh and dare he think it? Rebellious. Whatever it is, the result is a hesitation just long enough to lose him the initiative:
“Helloo!” calls Miss Amelia, spying the distant but unmistakeable shape of its incumbent standing in the Vicarage porch, “I say, there, is this St. Andrew's?”
“Will you need me any more? Miss,” says Evans, his adjustments to the easel complete.
“No, no,” says Miss Amelia, and adds with a laugh, “With any luck I'll have the entire parish at my command by nightfall.”
“Yes Miss,” says Evans, thinking that many a true word can be spoken in jest.
“Off you go then,” says Miss Amelia, “Tell the Scales of Justice, I'll see him here when he's weighed his day's catch and found it wanting.”
“Certainly Miss,” says Evans, “I'm sure the Colonel will be happy to oblige.”
— • —
2.12.6 - INK - Chinese or Indian
The artwork commission which has brought Miss Amelia Charamy to Little Mardlingham Church, is for one of her uncle's publisher friends. The book, when completed, will be a collection of essays, histories and anecdotes with each chapter based on a particular village church. This particular volume, covering Norfolk, will eventually be part of a country-wide series aimed at the antiquarian traveller, both home-grown and continental.
The fact that the Mardlingham Vicar is in the throes of writing a comprehensive treatise on the history of the Mardlinghams, is not really much of a coincidence - a high proportion of his fellow clerics are doing much the same thing for their own parishes. It goes with the territory, as they say. It is also unsurprising that it's something he works into their conversation at the earliest possible moment:
“Splendid,” says Miss Amelia, “I wonder if uncle's friend has an author for this chapter?”
“There is very little of the village history generally available,” says the vicar, “That is, of course, why I decided to dedicate my pen, however unworthy, to the task.”
“I'm sure you do yourself a disservice,” say Amelia, “From what you have already told me, I have no doubt of your competences.”
“Do you think so?” asks the vicar, “Perhaps I could presume further on your good nature to peruse a page or two over a pot of tea? say about three of the clock?”
“I shall look forward to it,” says Amelia, “Now, is there a nearby source of potable water? I need a little to clean my nibs and dilute the Indian.”
“Ah, Ink!” says the vicar, “You prefer the permanent tinctures, a brave choice. I durst only use the kind rubbed from a Chinese stick.”
“There are those that say the misplaced lines are those that make the sketch,” says Amelia, “If one starts with tentative strokes, it is easy to harden them as the picture forms.”
“Is it a fault to want to wash away ones drafting sins?” asks the vicar.
“If you're not careful,” laughs Amelia, “I shall be forced to do you a portrait - ‘Priest on a Tight-rope’ - now about that water?”
“Ah yes,” says Cedric, trying to be as un-priestlike as possible, “I'll send some across with the garden boy.”
“Most kind,” says Amelia, “I'd hate to have to steal some from the font, or the altar flowers, like I usually do.”
— • —
Stan and Jarge are strolling along the lane past the spot where Evans has parked Blodwyn, ostensibly because she was out of steam. Of course, if he had operated the valves in a different order, this would not have occurred. However, Evans knows where his duty lies and making convenient mistakes is part of them.
If steam had been maintained, Blodwyn would have boringly delivered Miss Amelia to Saint Andrew's Church, and his master, retired colonel, steam buff and fishing enthusiast, would not have had the opportunity to flip a fly or two across the idyllic waters of the mill-pond.
So while Evans is rowing Miss Amelia up-river to the church, her uncle Quentin, having launched a steel and silk mayfly out over the still green waters, is watching it carefully. The lure drifts on the ponderously moving current, then rotates gently into a lazy whorl where the flow is distracted by a subaquatic swathe of water-weed. It's a spot where, a few moments earlier, he'd noticed a fish breaking the surface to investigate the nutritional qualities of a floating twig. He waits a while but the fish has either moved on or prefers twigs to mayfly. He starts to reel-in.
“Oi'd drop wun jus'west a'thet weed,” say Jarge, addressing Stan.
“Wut weed?” say Stan, “Thet bit hang'n orf th'tree?”
“Wut tree?” say Jarge, “Th'wun wi'low branches?”
“Yis,” say Stan, “Fush loike a bitta shadda.”
“Yew cud be rite,” say Jarge, “Thas tew plearces, he'int tried yit.”
“Yew know th'fush'roun'hare?” say Stan, “Parsonal loike?”
“Nut parsonally,” say Jarge, “Nut since Oi give up th'poach'n.”
“Oi nivver knew yew did,” say Stan.
“Did wut?” say Jarge.
“Give up!” say Stan, “Hint thus poach'n, wut we hev hare?”
“Yew meen thus hare gent,” say Jarge, “An hiz gret ol'steam caravan.”
“Oi sartainly dew,” say Stan, “Dew th'bailiff know, d'y'think?”
“I may seem to be in my dotage,” says ex-colonal Quentin, having completed the recovery of his fly, “But my hearing is in no way impaired.”
“Art'nune, Colonal,” say Stan, “Gud day fer carst'n a line.”
“S'long as th'bailiff dunt ketch yer,” say Jarge.
“Good day, friends. If such you are?” says Quentin, “And just for the record, the bailiff is aware of my presence.”
“Wut brings yew t'Mardl'm?” say Jarge, “Thar's nuth'n speshul'bout th'wortas roun'hare.”
“It's the church,” says Quentin, “Not the waters.”
“Nut a lotta por fush thar,” say Jarge, “Leastways nut 'til th'wicar giv'em a sermon.”
“My sister is commissioned to prepare its likeness,” says Quentin, “In pen and ink. She's on her way there now.”
“Blust 'Bor,” say Jarge, “Wut if she meet Wicar?”
“NOo way she kin miss dew'n thet,” say Stan, “Nut no how.”
“Is that a bad thing?” says Quentin, “Should I have warned her? If so of what?”
“We're in th'rong plearce,” say Jarge.
“Oi rutha think we are,” say Stan, “Blust Boy, wut a turn-up!”
— • —
2.12.8 - Last of the Coal
With the sun about to drop behind the tree cover on Gallows hill, Blodwyn steams into view of the Crossed Arms. On the rear platform by the firebox, Evans is conserving the last of the coal and wondering if there's a supply available in the village. On the steering platform at the front, his master is mardling with Stan and Jarge; they have already covered a plethora of local trivia and it is time for the conversation to complete the circle:
“You were wrong about the quality of Mardlingham's fishing water,” says Quentin, wearing his ‘Scales of Justice’ persona, “I shall be writing up my most enjoyable afternoon's sport for the Norwich papers as soon as I have the time.”
“Wull,” say Stan, “They sartainly got ter bite'n arter yew changed yer fly.”
“Nivver used an'ook,” say Jarge, “Jus' a net and a lanthorn.”
“Bet yew'd hev gawn hungra fush'n thet way, s'arternune,” say Stan.
“Poacher's mune,” say Jarge, “Thas th'toime.”
“Does he lift much of Sir Marcus's game?” says Quentin, looking at Stan, but nodding sideways at Jarge.
“Did hare tell he got a coney, wunse,” say Stan, “But sum say thet hed alredda died a'oldage.”
“All talk, then?” says Quentin, “There's no chance of a moonlight adventure with the militia on our tail?”
“Yew hard abowt thet?” say Jarge, “Thet wunt me.”
“Thas nut how Oi hard'ut,” say Stan with a frown in Jarge's direction, “Gal Beatrice wudda bin well married by now, if'ut hadn't bin fer yew.”
“Mebby so,” say Jarge, “But hew tew?”
“Who is this lady Beatrice,” says Quentin, “Not her of Dante's fame?”
“Oi reckon thas time ter set th'Colonel up wi'a quart pot a'Bea's best,” say Stan.
“S'long as yew're th'wun flash'n th'coinage,” say Jarge, “Oi hint burried ena'wun fer a week.”
“Thas th'plearce,” say Stan, “Th'Crorst Arms, bes'pub in th'willage.”
“Oony pub in th'willage,” say Jarge, “Less yew count Maggie's Stew.”
“Oi thort th'bailiff hed closed har down,” say Stan.
“So did he,” say Jarge.
“Fascinating,” says Quentin, “I never expected to find such an underworld in a village like this.”
“Yew were th'wun,” say Jarge, “Tork'n abowt munlite adwentchurs.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
There's no chance of a moonlight adventure with the militia on our tail?"
Genius