— • —

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.”

— • —

2.12.7 - In The Wrong Place

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.”

— • —

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— • —

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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— • —

2.11.1 - Any Corpse in a Hurry

Firstly I should explain that the Mardlingham Saga is not a detective story or murder mystery, despite such events occasionally passing through its pages.  It's about landowners and peasants, upstairs and downstairs, and the way language bonds, coordinates or divides them.  Secondly, it will be patently obvious to all husbands, that the fate of Anton, Count Benoni, rake, gigolo and seducer, was richly deserved, and to certain wives the subject of a tragic but fervent sigh and a private tear.

In the count's favour, he still looked quite lively in death, even after a night lying on a board bed in an Aylsham police cell.  Fribbins, Sir Marcus's pallid and craggy butler on the other hand lay rigid with cold on a similar bed in the adjoining cell.  Nobody had bothered to cover Anton's body, but Fribbins had a thin grey blanket pulled up right over his head.  Perhaps that is what confused the woman who arrived in the Monday dawn to lay-out the body.  The sudden uncovering of Fribbins's face was a shock to both of them:

“Gawd'elp'us” say Sergeant Huff'n-Billy Aldis, as a terrible shriek knocks flakes of whitewash off every peeling patch on the charge-room ceiling, “Hew's stick'n pigs, thi'smarn'n?”

“Thas th'ol'witch come ter'dew th'corse,” say Constable Harry Howes, rushing into the cell, “Flat down orn ha'rarse.”

“Seems t'hev quite swoun'd away,” say Huff'n-Billy following him in, “Oi'da fort she'd be usta'rut by now.”

“Ware's th'corse?” say Harry, “Th'cell's empta.”

“Nex'dore,” say Huff'n-Billy, “Thus hare wuz th'prizner.”

“Hev he run?” say Constable Harry, looking under the bed-shelf.

“Blow yer whustle, Boy,” say Huff'n-Billy, “An'blow'ut hard.”

“Wut gud'll thet dew?” say Harry, “Orl a'rus ar'hare a'redda.”

“Hew an'cry, m'Boy,” say Huff'n Billy, “Raise th'town.”

“Oi'd dew betta t'run arta'rim,” say Harry, gallumphing out of the door.

“Now, wut we gawn t'dew abowt yew?” say the sergeant, heaving the woman up onto the bed-shelf and tipping the dregs of the prisoner's water jug over her face.

“Prey hallow me ter dew that,” says Fribbins, in his butlering voice.

“Wut?  Blust Boy,” say Huff'n Billy, “Ware yew bin?”

“Hinspectin' the deceased in the daylight,” says Fribbins, “And I can trufulla say I never seen him afore in my life.”

“Yew wuz thar wen he wuz brung in,” say the sergeant.

“Twas lamplight,” say Fribbins “All I saw then wuz a bundle.”

“Oi spuz'so,” say the sergeant, “Dunt meen yew dint dew for'im, now duzz'ut?”

“Sorra Sarge,” say Constable Harry, coming in through the door, “He got away.”

“Ov'corse he did!” say Huff'n Billy, “Frum yew, thet iz.”

— • —

2.11.2 - Draughts and Saddle-Sores

Sir Marcus had eschewed the stagecoach and opted to travel ‘post-haste’ on saddle and four hooves, changing horses at Chelmsford, Colchester, Ipswich, Thwaite, Scole, Tasburgh, Norwich and such intermediate points as seemed appropriate.  So it was well after midnight, when he woke the ostler at the Black-Boy's Inn, Aylsham.  The ostler woke the landlord, who grunted and woke his wife.  She scolded her husband and woke several servants.  The servants cursed each other and travellers in general.

Half an hour later, Sir Marcus, who had been sipping brandy while soothing his saddle-worn posterior in front of the banked-up fire in the taproom, was able to take possession of a quart of porter, some cold cuts from the day's roast and a four-poster bed, all to himself.  At which point, the ostler's daughter, who had been hovering hopefully ever since toasting the sheets with a warming-pan, muttered a final curse and retired to her attic.

Fribbins, after his rude awakening, had enjoyed a day of sport and leisure.  Huff'n-Billy had been keen to continue thrashing him on the draughts board, although the butler's game had been improving steadily.  Even Constable Harry, had been sufficiently impressed to consider ways he might lay a bet against the sergeant, then distract him enough for Fribbins to sneak in with a win.  If the sports element was playing draughts, then the leisure element was when they locked him away and wandered off to patrol the streets.

Meanwhile, the superintendent had wrapped one piece of evidence in a fold of sacking and tied the other one on the back of his wife's pony and trap.  Thus equipped, he had made a round of the Count's most likely trysting places and conducted various interviews.  Numerous husbands expressed the wish to have been guilty and instantly identified the horse with the ‘AB’ monogrammed saddle cloth, but failed to either recognise the sabre or to have had the opportunity to perpetrate the deed.  The only useful information gained was that the married cousin of one gentleman, visiting from the colonies accompanied by his wife, had left in somewhat of a hurry.

— • —

2.11.3 - Rumours Abounding

Naturally, with such events occurring here and there, news will travel.  The mardlers of Little Mardlingham will hear it and pass it about among themselves.  One item has just arrived at The Big House, via the tradesmen's entrance:

“Kyor! Blust me,” say Cook, flump'n inta th'kitchen, “Thassa rummun, thet iz.”

“Gawd,” say Tilly, giv'n Tottie a rare owd look, “Shuv sum pudden inyer lugs, cuz she's orf agin.”

“Dunt bother wi'pudden,” say Cook, “Yew'll wuntta hare this.”

“Gawn then,” say Tilly, in har sarky voice, “S'prize me.”

“Dunt know whoy Oi lettya be sa cheeky,” say Cook, “Oi mus'be gitt'n parst'ut.”

“Wuss thet yer parst? Cook,” say Tottie, in har must perlite voice.

“Whack'n scrawny scullions on thar bums,” say Cook.

“Sorra Mumm,” say Tilly, “Dint meen no'disrespec.”

“Wosstha wud, then Mumm?” say Tottie, hopp'n frum wun fut t'tother wi'buth feet, wun at a toime.

“Wull,” say Cook, “Praps Oi shudn't say.”

“OOh!  Iz'ut parsonal private?” say Tottie, wi'a gret grin a'tissipearshun.

“NOo,” say Cook, “Thas'bowt th'butler.”

“Fribbins?” say Tottie, “Woss he gorn an'dun?”

“Mista Fribbins, ter yew,” say Cook, “Wudd'd Oi say abowt cheek?”

“Sorra Mumm,” say Tottie, try'n ter contain harsel, “Mista Fribbins.”

“Wull,” say Cook, “He's bin 'rested fer murdr'n a gigglio.”

“Wuss a gigglio, Mumm?” say Tottie, try'n ter be r'specful.

“A bluk,” say Tilly, “Wut git attwin a wife's lillywyte sheets wen har hubby int look'n.”

“Say wut yer meen,” say Cook, “Lillywyte thighs, more like!”

“Are they gornta'ang'im?” say Tilly, look'n rite'orrifried.

“Kin we go'un wotch?” say Tottie, wi'sum glee.

“Fraid nut,” say Cook, “Th'marsta tarn'd up an'settim free.”

“Why'd Sir Marcus hev to gawn dew thet?” say Tilly, “Spyl'n orl th'fun.”

“Praps th'butler dint dew'ut arta orl,” say Cook, “Oi karnt see Fribbins winn'n in a sword fite, wutteva he dew.”

“Blust,” say Tilly, “Yew dint say thet wuz a sawd frite.”

“Wull Oi did now,” say Cook, “On 'ossback an'orl.”

— • —

2.11.4 - Pulling One Off

Yesterday we saw how Tilly is the sort of girl prone to putting one on; Tottie, on the other hand has that unerring instinct for putting one off; Cook just puts up with it.  Today we see that whilst the node of mardling up at The Big House is the Servants' Hall, down in the village itself, nothing can beat the Crossed Arms Inn:

“Kyor! Blust me,” say Say Bea, flump'n inta th'taproom, “Thassa rummen, thet iz.”

“Kyor blust yersel!” say Jarge, “Did Oi detect you dew'n a bit a ‘Flump'n’ wen yew come in jus;now?”

“Tew much pudden,” say Bea, “Dew moi bum look big in thus?”

“D'pend wot yew meen by big,” say Stan, “‘Big’ is as good as ‘tasty’ in moi buk.”

“Thankee kindla Sur,” say Bea, nut look'n kindly a'torl.

“Now wut wuzz'ut yew hed t'say?” say Jarge, “Wen Oi hed th'gall ter hinsult yer.”

“Yew cudn't hinsult me if yer tried,” say Bea, “Yew gret owd pussykat, yew.”

“Karnt argue wi'thet sorta logic,” say Stan.

“Look,” say Jarge, grinn'n a'Bea, “Why'unt yew start agin?”

“Orrite,” say Bea, in har ‘stirr'n up a scandal voice’ - “Sir Marcus is back a'th'Big House wi'out hiz lil'Rosie.”

“Now hew's be'n a pussykat,” say Stan, “An'nut a lil'fluffa kitten, nyetha.”

“Wuss Miss Rosamunda dew'n, then?” say Jarge.

“Teark'n th'Smoke by storm,” say Bea, “Dressmakers, milliners, Lunnon Balls and Royal Excepshuns.”

“Excepshuns?” say Stan, “Dun'tchew meen Recepshuns.”

“Wull thet cud hardly be Concepshuns,” say Jarge.

“Orrite, Recepshuns!  An'now wi'out har beau,” say Stan, “A yung Leddie orn th'loose.”

“They say she hev a shaparone,” say Bea, “Root'n Toot'n Miss Roberts.”

“Wuss ‘Root'n Toot'n’ meen,” say Stan.

“Hint'chew red none a'them penna-dredfuls abowt th'Wild-West?” say Jarge.

“Seems Miss Roberts hev a big gun,” say Bea, “An'shoot'ut orf at orl th'highwaymen she git ter meet.”

“Sound loike moi sorta gal,” say Jarge, “Wull she be come'n back ter th'willage wi'Miss Rosamunda?”

“Look,” say Stan, “Why'unt yew orl shurrup, an'let th'gal pull me a pint.”

“Rite,” say Jarge “S'long as she pull one orf fer me a'th'same toime.”

— • —

2.11.5 - Charity and Mischief

The atmosphere in the library at The Big House, has been somewhat tense, but now that the vicar is coming to the end of his explanations, the metaphoric clouds seem to be lifting along with the corners of Sir Marcus's mouth:

“A droll tale, Reverend,” says Sir Marcus, “And one still unresolved from the magisterial point of view.”

“Prey, in what way is that?” asks the vicar.

“Why concerning the escape of the guilty,” says Sir Marcus.

“You do not refer to poor Mr. Fribbins, I'm sure,” says the vicar.

“The murderer, Reverend,” exclaims Sir Marcus, “The homicidal husband and his flight from these shores.”

“He has taken ship, then?” asks the vicar, “Flown the coup?”

“The news is that despite telegrams being sent to Yarmouth and Lynn, demanding his arrest on sight,” says Sir Marcus, “That he took to the sea at Wells.  His unwilling wife with him and having paid off the fisherman, joined an outbound packet for the Americas.”

“So alls well that ends well,” says the vicar, with a sigh of relief.

“Well, not exactly,” says Sir Marcus, “The murderer has escaped and I have been put to the inconvenience of a post-hast ride from London.”

“My apologies, Sir Marcus, I referred only to the adventures of your villagers,” says the vicar.

“And,” says Sir Marcus, “There's the matter of my bounty to the villagers in granting leave of absences and silver from my purse for their edification.  My charity seems to have been somewhat tarnished.”

“When Lady Charity rides,” says the vicar, being unctuous, “The Imps of Mischief may not always be left behind.”

“That may well be the case,” laughs Sir Marcus, thinking of his horse-race with Rosamunda, “But next time make sure they are.”

“You return to the Great Smoke?” asks the vicar.

“By tomorrow's stage,” says Sir Marcus, “Do I carry your greeting to your sister?”

“Of course, Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “I should be most grateful.  Tell her I shall be writing as soon as I have completed composing my Sunday sermon.”

— • —

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— • —

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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— • —

2.10.1 - Importance of Breakfast

Let us return, for a moment, to the previous evening:  In Cromer Town, Stan and Jarge having mardled themselves with notions of steam, and fuddled themselves with oceans of ale, had found their way to the workman's hut belonging to Jarge's cousin.  There by dint of striking matches, they found a key under a big flint and eventually fiddled open the door.  A decaying chaise-long, a heap of deckchairs and their great-coats provided bedding and a red-eyed road-mender's lanthorn enough light to make themselves comfortable.

Jarge was already snoring by the time Stan had removed his boots and blown out the lamp.  Soothed by the sound of the nearby sea they drifted into the sort of deep sleep that can last til noon, unless that is, there is a steam whistle primed to blast you awake about an hour after dawn:

“Wussat?” say Stan, rolling off the heap of deckchairs, “Gawd, moi hed!”

“Grumph!” say Jarge, as his eyelids fail to obey a command to open.

“Thar wuz a noise,” say Stan, “Like a banshee.”

“Dint hare nuff'n,” mutter Jarge, “Sep'yew clatter'n bludda deckchairs.”

Above and beyond the workman's hut, on the West-Cliff Leas, Chauffeur Evans, having raised enough steam to blow the horseless-caravan's whistle, placed the coffee pot on the hottest ledge of the firebox and peered into the billycan hanging below the fizzling safety-valve.  Satisfied with its gleanings, he stropped his razor then used the near boiling water to soap and scrape the lower half of his face and neck, carefully navigating around the generous moustache and coordinated sideburns required by his profession.

“Thar'ut gOo agin,” say Stan, as Evans celebrates the pouring of coffee with a second blast of his steam whistle.

“Blust me 'Bor,” say Jarge, cradl'n his ach'n skull, “Jus'as Oi wuz tell'n yer las'nite, th'fucher hev arriv'd.”

“Wuss'ut gotta dew wi'us?” say Stan, “As Oi wuz tell'n yew, thet'll nut ketch up wi'us in Mardlum.”

“Wull Oi made up moi mind,” say Jarge, “Oi reckon'ut shud.”

“Yew'r owt a'yer skull,” say Stan, “Orl thus new-fangle squit iz nuth'n but truble.  Th'telegruf f'instance.”

“Wos wrong wi'thet?” say Jarge, “Jus'wot yew nede ter send 'lectric letters orl roun'th'world.”

“Wen wuz the'las'toime yew neded t'dew thet?” say Stan.

“Oi hev sent a telagrum,” say Jarge, “Yew wuz thar.”

“Wull thet wuz a joke,” say Stan, “Oi spuz nex'yew'l be plan'n wun wi'a steam enjun.”

“Oi spuz Oi mite,” say Jarge, “Now less gOo look'n fer thet steam'n gret whistler.”

“An'brekfuss,” say Stan, “Gitcha importances rite.”

— • —

2.10.2 - Raising some Steam

Quentin Charamy (pronounced ‘Shurramie’) was born in April 1792, a determined and intelligent child, ready, like Herakles, to strangle any snakes that might stray into his cot, or at least outsmart them until his nurse arrived with a broom.  Fortunately for the local serpents, his birthplace had been the master bedroom of a West Norfolk farmhouse and not a reptile infested bungalow in the Far East, such as might even then have been found in places like Rollsby, Martham and Scratby Gap.

By the time he appeared in the Ragamuffin's recent fishy adventure, he had become a retired Colonel.  The product of a long and semi-distinguished service career, which had taken him to most parts of the Empire, and where he had taken the maximum number of opportunities to engage in angling and watercolour sketching, and as few as possible that might involve muskets, pikes and pistols.  This is not a reflection on his courage or warrior skills, it's just that he preferred to throw his victims back rather than run them through.

So far in the narrative, he has been referred to as the ‘gentleman’ or ‘gentleman-angler’, but now that he is about to take a firmer grip on a certain thread of the plot, perhaps a handier handle will emerge.  His major initials are ‘Q.C.’ hence, to his military fellows he is known as ‘The Judge’ (Queen's Council) - by a similar but lengthened logic his fishing companions call him ‘Scales’ short for ‘Scales of Justice’.  As for what he'll be called in the narrative, I'm not planning to choose for him.  I've no doubt he will soon get round to introducing himself, which will settle the matter nicely.

On this fine morning, he is just sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, overlooking the leas, where his chauffeur is busy shovelling a breakfast of best Welsh steam coal into the belly of a certain horseless caravan.  An elegant, if noisy, vehicle converted from the chassis and carcassing of a defunct London steam Omnibus.

As the chauffeur had already explained to Jarge at their previous meeting, the builder and original operator of the vehicle, part of a fleet of about ten similar steam carriages, had been Mr Walter Hancock, (see note) Engineer and Omnibus Contractor lately of Stratford, East London, but more recently of The Eastern Counties Railway.  A company in which the gentleman-angler had a significant shareholding, and for which Mr Hancock is currently attempting to build a railway locomotive, which is what Jarge is expounding to Stan as they saunter onto the leas.

— • —

Author's Note:

Walter Hancock was one of the most successful of the early steam engineers.  Between 1824 and 1840 he built about ten steam passenger vehicles, which reliably travelled many thousands of miles around London.   After 1840, steam carriages were forced off the roads by high road tolls, deteriorating roads and sabotage by commercial rivals afraid of their effect on more traditional means of transport.  However, the Locomotive Act of 1861 improved things by cutting the tolls, but imposed a weight limit of 12 tons and a 10 MPH speed limit, reducing to 5 MPH in built-up areas.  The Red Flag Act, which later brought steam powered road vehicles to an innovation standstill, was not passed until after the time period covered by the Mardlingham Saga.

— • —

2.10.3 - Coal Smoke and Coffee

In expounding the subject to Stan, Jarge is surprising himself with the amount of information he has already acquired on the subject of steam power.  Particularly in the matter of coal and its qualities when chosen as a fuel for various purposes.  For Stan, coal is coal, mucky black stuff that despite the cost, dust, clinker and ash is somehow more convenient than wood for winter heating and year-round cooking.

It is early on Sunday morning, they are considerably hung-over from a determined attempt to drink Jarge out of his mental confusion and have spent the night in a workman's hut; what they should be doing is looking for breakfast or attending church; what they are actually doing is following their noses.  In view, despite a few lingering tendrils of sea mist, not yet dispersed by the morning sun, is an elegant horseless carriage, a steam powered caravan, alive and fizzling, steamy, smokey and smelly:

“Wud yew say thet wuz Welsh or Yorksh'r?” say Jarge, inhaling with gusto.

“Stink loike cole-smuk, ter me,” say Stan, “Wi'a tuche a'corfee.”

“Blust Bor,” say Jarge, wi'a grin, “Thet dew hev sum corfee in'ut.”

“Thar wuz tea an'a kittle in th'shud,” say Stan, hew had brekfuss orn hiz moind, “But yew wudn't weart.  ‘Thas whussl'n’ yew say.  ‘Thettle be orf afore we see'ut’ yew say.  Wull we dint git no brekfuss, Oi say.”

“Stop yer mawther'n,” say Jarge, “Hint thet a view wuth mor'un brekfuss?”

“Oi dunt see thet'ut iz,” say Stan, “But Oi spuz Oi'll hetta put up wi'ut.”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” says the chauffeur, “George, isn't it?”

“An a fine marn'n thet iz,” say Jarge, “Thussear's Stan, but he dunt see no point in steam.”

“Nut afor brekfuss,” say Stan, “No offense intend'd.”

“Breakfast, no,” says the chauffeur, “Coffee, yes.  If you don't mind sharing a billy-can.”

“Thas werra civil ov'yer,” say Stan, “We be'en pars'n strangers asa'twere.”

“Well,” says the chauffeur, holding out an oily hand, “Let us introduce ourselves.  I'm Evans and this is Blodwyn.”

“Pleased t'mete yer,” say Stan, “But howger shake hands wi'a caravan?”

“Not a 'van,” says the chauffeur, “Blodwyn's just a steam engine in fancy dress.  She doesn't shake hands but you could give that chain a little tug.”

“Good God,” says the gentleman, arriving with a small train of porters, “Not just a whistle, but bells.”

“It's the church,” says the chauffeur, “Annoyed at the competition.”

“Now now, Evans,” says the gentleman, “Let's not get cynical.”

“May I enquire if Miss Charamy will be joining us? Sir,” Says the chauffeur.

“Not until after morning service,” says the gentleman, “She will be meeting us in Corpusty, this afternoon.”

“Very good, sir,” says the chauffeur, “Shall I stow the luggage?”

“If you please,” says the gentleman, “Then we must be off.”

— • —

2.10.4 - River, Steam or Horse-power?

Once beyond the last few cottages, the chauffeur opens the regulator and Blodwyn responds with a display of steamy exhuberance and a fine drift of smuts from her short funnel.  Stan and Jarge watch them leave, then wander back into Cromer to find themselves a quiet inn with a courtyard where they can discuss travel arrangements and hopefully find some breakfast.  Later, they are directed to another inn, where they are offered a ride with a coachman returning to Saxthorpe with an empty carriage.  Since that is nearer Mardlingham than Cromer, they decide to take him up on the offer and by lunchtime have caught up with Blodwyn refreshing herself in the ford by the side of Corpusty-cum-Saxthorpe Mill.

“Wooah hay,” say Jarge, dropp'n down frum th'pillion seat a'th'carriage, “We meet agin.”

“Dunt bother th'man now,” say Stan, dew'n th'searm, “He's bizza wortr'n th'orses.”

“Oi spuz thas true,” say Jarge, tarn'n tew th'chauffeur, “How menna 'orse-power dew thet hev?”

“Difficult to say,” says the chauffeur, “We've never tested it.”

“James Watt, a pioneer of steam who you may have heard of,” says the gentleman, “Determined by experiment that a horse could do 33,000 foot-pounds of work per minute when drawing coal from a pit.  How that relates to my van is somewhat debatable.”

“Oi spuz yew cud set'ut agin a string a'beasts,” say Jarge, “An'see how menna thet tearke ter stop'ut.”

“That would give you some idea of the Brake Horse Power,” says the gentleman, “For Horsepower itself, you would need to set up a race to determine the number of horses needed to pull the same load at the same top speed.”

“Hev yew tried it fer speed?” say Stan, wi'a grin, “Izz'ut quick?”

“Not allowed,” says the chauffeur, “Ten miles per hour is the limit.”

“Wull, hews t'see?” say Jarge, “Jam th'guv'ner an'let har rip!  Thas wot Oi say.”

“Git thet infernal machine owta moi river,” say th'miller, storm'n owta th'mill-house, “Yew shud know bett'n ter bring thet smutty spark-spitter nere a mill.”

“Oi dunt hare th'wheel tarn'n,” say Jarge, think'n a'th'splosiff effects a'flar dust, “So yew hint grind'n.”

“Nemmoind grind'n!” say th'miller, glar'n a'th'caravan, “Them sort hint requir'd roun'hare.”

“Wot sort'uz thet?” say Jarge, bristl'n loike a dawg.

“Nut yew, them,” say th'miller, “Cole barners and steamers.  Teak'n the bred owtta th'mowth a'honest millers.”

“Oi'll bet,” say Jarge, “Thet sune as th'railway git hare wi'cheap cole, yew'll be begg'n fer a steam enjun.”

“Ha!  Nut him,” say Stan, “NOo tearkers on thet wun.”

“Is the water-tank replete, Evans?” asks the gentleman, “I think it's time to leave.”

— • —

Useful Link:

  Details and photos of Corpusty/Saxthorpe Mill.

— • —

2.10.5 - No Fooling the Dog

When we last saw Ted and Ginny it was by the grey light of the false dawn.  They were mounted on two large bay mares, feeling their way upsteam along the bank of a narrow brook, wondering where they were and what had happened to Raggs.

Of course, it was Raggs who had got them lost by following a false trail.  Being a dog, Raggs was not lost, he had every confidence in his nose's ability to find the scent that would take him where he wanted to go, even false trails added useful data to the olfactory map he was building in his head.

He didn't need his nose to keep track of Ted and Ginny, two mares shouldering their way through the undergrowth made all the noise he needed.  The foxy stink of the woman carrying the human puppy was another thing.  She knew something about tracking and by doubling back and joining a traveller convoy had almost managed to throw him off the scent.  Naturally, now that he had the full picture, false trails and all, it was obvious where she could be found, all he had to do was to track the convoy.

“Sunrise,” say Ted, as all around them the woodland birds set up their stalls and begin calling their wares.

“Cockcrow,” say Ginny, as the chicken-lord of some nearby farm brings it to lowing life, “An'cattle.”

“Chuch tarr,” say Ted, pointing, “Thet way.”

“Rite,” say Ginny, “Iz'ut wun we know?”

“If yew meen iz'ut Mardlum,” say Ted, “Then thet'int, cuz thas th'ony wun Oi know.”

“Wull dew we hed furr'ut, a'nut?” say Ginny, “Wate, wuz thet Raggs?”

“Sum dawg, enaway,” say Ted, “Sou'west, crors th'ling.”

“Wull thas ony heather,” say Ginny, “Plenna a'rabbut parths t'folla.”

“Thar he gOo agin,” say Ted, “Iz thet a ‘Gorn ter ground’ d'yer reckon?”

“Blust nOo,” say Ginny, “More loike a ‘Hurry up’ Oi'd say.”

After a while, with Raggs calls never seeming to be any nearer they reach a place they recognise, the ford at Little London.  From there it's a short ride into the village of Corpusty.  Raggs is waiting for them on the far side, so after letting the horses drink they do the same themselves.

“Now wot?” say Ginny, as Raggs lollops off, snuffles round for a trail then turns to wait.

“He seem ter know wot,” say Ted, “Oi hope ‘wot’ include brekfuss.”

“Thet meake tew a'rus,” say Ginny, “Oi smell wud-smuk.”

“An'rabbut stew,” say Ted, “Or iz'ut wishful think'n?”

“Travellers?” say Ginny, “Gypsies a'rorse-traders?”

— • —

2.10.6 - Humanity and Friendship

Miss Amelia Charamy, niece to Colonel Quentin Charamy, well known for her vigorous watercolours of rural life and fine architectural etchings, blends well with the travellers camped on Corpusty Green.  The browns and russets of her Norwich shawl and the red silk headscarf holding back her dark brown hair are all very much in keeping with the company.  Not so the easel and accompanying tressled box crowded with half-squeezed tubes of watercolour paints, few of the travellers would pose their artistry in such a way, despite the brash eloquence of their vans.

Viewed from Miss Amelia's eagle eye, the tip of her size three sable was about to tickle a certain babies nose.  Viewed from the foxy eye of the woman holding the baby, the distant brush represented a silver thripenny-bit and maybe another to follow.  Viewed by some future art-lover, the square of stretched handmade Watman's paper would have contained an image distilling the very essence of traveller life, that's if the sketch is ever finished and finds its way onto a gallery wall.

A few hundred yards to the north, in the adjoining village of Saxthorpe, her uncle and his chauffeur are about to cross the border at the ford by the watermill and steam up towards Corpusty Green.  Stan and Jarge, rather than cross the border with wet boots, have found a footpath behind the mill that should take them in much the same direction, except that the miller has redeployed himself as a blockage:

“Oi thort yew wuz wiv th'bludda steam enjun,” say th'miller.

“Just 'quaintenses,” say Stan, “Pass'n th'toime a day.”

“Wot if we wuz?” say Jarge, hew wuz still feel'n b'ligerunt.

“Nut as bad as GypOos,” say th'miller, “Them steamers.”

“Peeple iz peeple,” say Stan, “Sum gud, sum nut s'gud.”

“Hefta arsk yersel,” say th'miller, “Dew they add wate t'yer puss, or dew they nut?”

“Thas orl, iz'ut?” say Jarge, “Umanity an'frenshup gOo by th'bord?”

“Oi pay th'pore rates,” say th'miller, “Oi pay fer wuk dun.  Wut more d'yew wunt?”

“Oi thort Oi jus sed,” say Jarge, inspect'n hiz nuckles.

“Nemmoind,” say th'miller, “Justa warn yer, thar's GypOos clutter'n up th'Green.”

“Gud,” say Stan, “Oi nede ter buy me a'norse.”

“Wut abowt yew?” say th'miller, “Yew after a'norse, tew?”

“Karnt tell til Oi git thar,” say Jarge, thump'n hiz lef'parm wi'hiz rite fist, “An'suthun keep gitt'n in th'way.”

“Oi'll be orf, then,” say th'miller as he tarn to gOo, “An'may God rot yer bewtes fer trad'n on a Sunday.”

— • —

2.10.7 - Rain of Barley

As soon as Ginny reaches Corpusty Village Green, she realises the infant at the center of artistic attention is the one stolen from her arms in Blickling Woods.  Not only is she overwhelmed by an instinctive feeling of certainty, but there is the evidence of the baby's swaddling.  Only one of the five strange Mardlingham mothers would wrap her baby in a shawl so heavily be-ribboned with bright silks that it flashes like fairy-lights in contrast with the natural homespun of the Traveller's other children.

Raggs, relying on his nose, bounds across the Green towards Foxy Annie, but is diverted by a scrawny terrier rushing out from under a caravan, and pounced on by a border collie from behind another.  With other defending dogs joining the fray from every direction, he stands no chance of reaching the baby.  In fact, he may stand little chance at all.  However he has one advantage, as a long-haired dog he is difficult to hold on to, mainly because in such circumstances his coat has a tendency to come out in mouthfulls.

Stan and Jarge, who have also just reached the Green, see the dogs before they see anything else:

“Bludda dawgs,” say Jarge, “Allus got summat t'brawl abowt.”

“Thet wuz Ginny's dawg,” say Stan, “Oi'm fare sarten.”

“Thet shure soun'loike'im,” say Jarge, breaking a long branch from a birch, “He hev a yelp, thet split yer skul.”

“Pitta we hint gotta a bullwhip,” say Stan, stripping the leaves and side twigs from the stick Jarge has handed him.

“Rite,” say Jarge, “Now, less sting a few tails.”

“Thas ony fare,” say Stan, “Ter even owt th'yelp'n.”

“Hey! Yew!” say a large man who does have a bull-whip.

“Iz he tork'n t'rus?” say Stan, fend'n orf the collie as Raggs slips out from the bottom of the dog-pile.”

“Yis,” say the man, “Oi am.”

“Wull,” say Jarge, planting his stick in the ground between the fellow's legs, “Moind how yew gOo.”

“Moind yerself,” say the man, stepping back to avoid Jarges stick and tripping over Stan's, “..... Shit!”

“Putcher bewte orn thet whip,” say Jarge, hacking the bloke across the shins and turning back to growl at the dogs.

“Wotch'it,” say Stan, pointing his stick at the bloke's throat.

On the other side of the Green, the scouting party on the pair of bay mares has ridden as far in among the caravans and tents as they can get:

“Hold yer'orses,” say Ted, as Ginny swings down from the saddle and heads for the baby, leaving the horse holding job to him.

It is at that moment that two shots crease the air.  The first is the sharp crack of a small pistol, one of a pair held high by the gentleman standing on the tiller platform at the front of his steam caravan.  The other, a solid thump like a howitzer, comes from behind Stan and Jarge.  It is the miller discharging an enormous scattergun over their heads.  The entire Green fills with the sound of half a pound of barley falling like a squall of rain.  There is a shocked silence, broken by a strong contralto voice:

“And just WHAT do you ALL think you are doing?” says Miss Amelia Charamy, and of all the creatures on the Green, the only ones not cowed into silence are the baby and the terrier.

“You,” says Miss Amelia, pointing at Ginny while tipping her paint-water jar over the dog, “What are you doing with that child?”

“Er...” says Ginny, “Please mumm, thet wuz stolen.”

“Is it yours?” says Miss Amelia, with a seriously disapproving look.

“Thet wuz in moi charge,” say Ginny, “Yisterday.”

“She's tell'n'ut true,” say Ted, getting down from his horse.

“Is it your child?” asks Miss Amelia, with an even more disapproving look.

“NOo mumm,” say Ted, “Th'maw live in Mardlum.”

“Perhaps I wont ask about the pa,” says Miss Amelia, “Let's save that as a treat for later.”

“Now Evans,” says she to the chauffeur, “Instil order into this shambles, and disarm my dear uncle before he starts a war.”

“Now thet,” say Jarge, “Wud hev ter gOo against th'grain.”

“And you are?” says Miss Amelia, crossing her arms.

— • —

2.10.8 - Miss Amelia Dominates

With the woman glaring at him eye to eye, for she is a substantial example of Empire built British female, Jarge introduces himself and Stan then waits for her to reciprocate.  However, Miss Amelia Charamy is not in a reciprocating mood:

“Prey enlighten me,” she says, “What do you know about all this?”

“Werra little,” say Jarge, “Oi'm jus'hare for th'steam.”

“I see,” says Miss Amelia, “One of my uncle's misguided disciples.”

“Maybe,” say Jarge, “An'mebbie nut.  Dew he need disiples?”

“Coal and water,” says she, “Is all he seems to need, and most of the water he uses for fishing.”

“Yew still hint sed hew yew ar,” say Stan, seeking to broaden the discussion.

“Do I need to prove my credentials?” says Miss Amelia, “To people with nothing to impart.”

“Oi spuz nut,” say Stan, putting a restraining hand on Jarge's arm.

“Well I suggest you tend to the dog,” says Miss Amelia, “Evans will find you some iodine.”

Raggs is certainly in need of a few patches, but not as many as he would have needed, if the attacking dogs had been coordinated against him.  Fortunately, most of the combatents had agendas of their own and old scores to settle, so by the time Jarge and Stan had broken up the fight most of the other dogs were playing politics among themselves and had forgotton he was there.

While Stan and Jarge escort Raggs in the direction of the Steam Caravan, Miss Amelia turns her attention to the problem of the baby, which is strongly objecting to being rescued.  Foxy Annie is wringing her hands and muttering about nannie-goats and wet-nursing.  Ginny is holding the baby and wondering just what to do next.  The baby is prune-faced and squawking and Ted is trying to make some sort of shawl sling by which Ginny can carry the baby on the back of one of the bay mares.

“It will have to be fed,” says Miss Amelia, pointing at Annie, “You, how have you been feeding it?”

“Lots mumm, orfun mumm,” say Annie “Oi bin a nurse mumm.”

“Then feed it now,” says Miss Amelia, “Before the damn thing explodes like one of my Uncle's boilers.”

“NOo,” say Ginny, as Annie trys to snatch back the child.

“Oi karnt feed'ut less Oi hev'ut,” say Annie, “Yew wunt dew'ut rite.”

“Yew shant hev'ut less yew tell me wut yer gawn ter dew,” say Ginny.

“Stupid mawther,” say Annie, “Yew yung gals ar'orl th'searme.”

“Come on,” says Miss Amelia, “We haven't got all day!”

“She wunt tell me wut she reckon ter dew,” say Ginny.

“She wunt let me git orn wi'ut,” say Annie.

“I expect she's going to hang it on a goat's dug,” says Miss Amelia, “Now let her get on with it and stop the thing making that diabolical noise.”

— • —

2.10.9 - Brace of Telegrams

On the Monday morning after the Saturday day-trip, the village of Little Mardlingham has seen the return of all its denizens except Fribbins and Sir Marcus's London party.  The abducted baby is reunited with its mother and twin, Ginny and Raggs are back at Home Farm, Ted has returned to the attic dormitory above the stables behind The Big House, Bea is back at the Crossed Arms and Boy Jimma is returning to Norwich with the dray-cum-charrabang.

You will remember that Sir Marcus's party, made up of Himself, Rosamunda, Miss Roberts, the estate steward and Charles the coachman, are currently visiting the metropolis of London.  Thanks to the wonders of the new electric telegraph system, an item of news is about to arrive on the breakfast table at Belle Vale House in Bedford Place:

“Thank you Charles,” says Rosamunda, taking a small brown envelope from the proffered silver tray.

“What is my dear?” asks Sir Marcus, who has already received a similar missive some ten minutes earlier.

“From my brother,” says Rosamunda, “Apparently I'm to tell you your butler is missing, owing to an accident during the return from the village outing.”

“Ah,” says Sir Marcus, “I'm ahead of you there, my dear.”

“You already know?” says Rosamunda, “You didn't tell me.”

“I thought I should wait,” says Sir Marcus, “The story, as I have it at present, is most concerning and of doubtful accuracy.”

“Prey do not be so protective,” says Rosamunda, “Unless the matter is private, of course.  Perhaps you would prefer it if Miss Roberts should withdraw from the table?”

“I feel no need to be private with my news,” says Sir Marcus, “But would spare both you ladies undue concern.”

“Come come, Sir Marcus,” says Miss Roberts, Rosamunda's companion, “We gals are not the ‘shrinking violet’ type.”

“Nor,” smiles Rosamunda, “The shrieking violent type, despite Miss Roberts armory.”

“I trust there are no revolvers about your person at the breakfast table, Miss Roberts,” says Sir Marcus, raising an eyebrow at the chaperone.

“Dare I say it,” says Miss Roberts, drawing a frown from Rosamunda at her forwardness, “But you might be surprised at what can be stowed in a bustle.”

“Talking of servants,” says Rosamunda, “You seem unconcerned that my telegram announces the loss of your butler.

“Ah, mine adds to that,” says Sir marcus, “Apparently he is arraigned for murder and currently awaiting the convening of a magistrates' court in the market town of Aylsham.”

“May the good Lord have mercy,” say Rosamunda, “Surely not?”

“Can they expect you to sit on the bench in such a case,” says Miss Roberts, “Surely you would have to declare an interest.”

“You understand the law?” asks Sir Marcus, glancing speculatively at Miss Roberts.

“My brother is a barrister,” says Miss Roberts, “But has yet to find a place in Lincoln's Inn.”

“Handy relatives to have,” says Rosamunda, a bit miffed at losing the centre of attention, “For those with big guns.”

“Nevertheless,” says Sir Marcus, “I shall have to return to Norfolk.”

— • —

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— • —

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— • —

2.09.1 - Drama Times Three

Apart from the ongoing contest between gamekeeper and poachers, that particular part of the parkland and woods around Blickling Hall had not generally been the stage upon which great dramas played.  Not when there were better venues to be had, the Pyramid, Orangery, Knot garden and Lake to name but a few.  However, around nightfall on the day of the Mardlingham day-trip, three significant events did occur:

The first of these had begun some miles away in the grounds of a lesser, but still aristocratic ancestral hall, when a husband had surprised his wife in a compromising position with another man.  Anton Benoni, a minor aristocrat notorious for both seducing other men's wives and getting caught doing it, had immediately swapped the smooth white flesh of the wife for the pure white hide of his standby steed and made himself scarce.

The subsequent chase had culminated at the edge of the Blickling estate with a thrown cavalry sabre passing between the Count's fourth and fifth ribs thus converting his innards into an instant kebab.  The Count had fallen by the wayside, the white horse, relieved of its burden had carried on regardless.  The husband, after a perfunctory kick at the Count's head, had withdrawn his sabre, wiped it on the flapping tail of the Count's shirt and galloped off back the way he had come.

The second of these dramatic events, Fribbin's and his party's encounter with their ‘ghostly’ white horse, was consequent upon the first.  They were in the right place at the wrong time.

The third event involved Annie the Peg, a mentally disturbed, middle-aged romany woman of wild appearance but gentle nature.  Exactly what Annie thought, as she was startled awake by what sounded like a squall of banshees, and an unconscious girl clasping a well swaddled bundle rolled into the bushes, can only be imagined.  Whatever it was, she grabbed the bundle, scrambled out from the shelter of her bush and ran.  Under the circumstances it is not surprising that her well worn woven nettle-cloth bag of handmade clothes pegs was left abandoned.

— • —

Some way away, towards Mardlingham, Raggs and the filly are rapidly discovering that body language is fine for conveying intention, but not motivation.  Both animals have made what they considered sensible decisions and both are determined to carry them out.  The filly, having been released from the shafts of the stranded governess cart, has decided it is going home, a task well within its capabilities, but Raggs, Ginny's dog, has followed and caught up with it and is now determined to shepherd the horse back to the cart.

Now, every time the filly finds a way forward, the dog blocks its path and every time the horse dithers Raggs forces it back.  The horse having longer legs and Raggs being somewhat nervous when faced with a set of iron-shod hooves, their curious little dance has been slowly moving in the direction of Mardlingham ever since it began.  It reaches the junction with the turnpike just as Jimma, Ted and the vicar arrive there from the opposite direction:

“Oi foun'summat,” say Ted, tarn'n back ter yell a'Jimma an'th'wicar, “Thar's a rud hare, fulla norses an'dawgs.”

“Blust Bor,” say Jimma, wavi'n hiz lanthorn, “Hint thet yor filly, Wicar?”

“It certainly is,” says the vicar, breathlessly riding up from the rear, “But where are the rest of the party?”

— • —

2.09.2 - Foot in the Saddle

When Ginny had reported the disappearance of the baby in her care, Fribbins had unhooked one of the carriage lamps from the listing governess cart and rushed into the woods.  In the darkness, made blacker by the stabbing beam of the lamp, the bushes and undergrowth that bordered the road became a veritable maze.  Fribbins, a man with very little natural sense of direction, unless it was within the warrens of country-house attics and cellars, would easily have become lost.  However, the wailing of babies and the outrage of their mothers provided a sonic-beacon he could not ignore.  Ginny had followed him into the woods, blundering after him as well as she could without a lamp of her own.

All would have gone well and they might easily have recovered the missing child, had it not been for the white horse.  Fribbins had come to the end of the deer-path he had been searching and swung back, only to find his way blocked by an anxious, and suddenly dazzled, Ginny.  As he turned the lamp beam aside, it shone square on another, much larger face, with huge hypnotic long-lashed eyes and a long nose, foam drooling from its black lips and steam wreathing the dark pits of its nostrils.  After a moment of confrontation, while Fribbins's heart-rate drops a few notches and the horse decides to stand it's ground, they both snort apologetically and blink like kitchen maids caught with their thumbs in the jam-pot:

“It's the ghost,” says Fribbins, in his half-horrified hushed voice.

“It's a bludda'orse,” says Ginny, relying on her sense of smell.

“P'raps yer rite,” says Fribbins, putting out a hand and patting the animal on its spooky nose.

“Wud'ut hitch ter th'cart?” says Ginny, “We nede a'norse.”

“Wot's rong wi'th'filly?” says Fribbins, who had failed to tie it up after releasing it from the shafts.

“Thet run orf,” says Ginny, “Oi sent Raggs arter'ut, but hint sin neetha ov'em since.”

“Thissear'orse hev a saddle,” says Fribbins, “We cud ride fer help.”

“Nut me,” say Ginny, “Oi gotta dawg ter worra abowt.”

“Then shull'ut be me?” say Fribbins, “Thas a long toime since Oi last set foot in a saddle.”

“Then thas ware yew went rong,” says Ginny, “Thus toime, mek shur yew yews yer bum!”

— • —

2.09.3 - Follow the Dog

As soon as Raggs and the filly realised they had company, their dispute became irrelevant.  The filly switched off its brain and followed its nose to the lush grass of the verge.  Raggs' brain slipped a few cogs and decided duty now lie in taking the entire party back to the governess cart.  A task best undertaken by persuasion:

“Wuss th'dawg dew'n?” say Ted, “Hint thet Ginny's lurcher?”

“Untidy look'n lunk,” say Jimma, staring at the dog in the beam of his lanthorn, “Iz'thet yew Raggs?”

“Gruff!” says Raggs, wagging his hindquarters and lurching in the direction he wanted them to go.

“Do you not think,” says the vicar, gathering up the filly's reigns and adding them to those of his gelding, “That it wants us to follow?”

“Wull, thet is a lurcher,” say Ted, “Mus'meen suffen, lurch'n loike thet.”

“Yew reckon we'd be betta'orf wi'a pointer?” say Jimma, with a laugh.

“Pray let us hurry,” says the vicar, “And pray there's been no accident.”

“Then folla th'dawg,” say Jimma, “Thet'unt muve 'less'n yew dew.”

— • —

It says a lot for the filly's determination, that it had progressed so far against Raggs' opposition, so it is some minutes before Jimma's lanthorn crosses beams with the remaining lamp of the governess cart.  The mothers immediately fall silent as events begin to unfold around them:  Raggs flings himself at Ginny's skirt and receives a strategic hug that prevents the worst excesses of the inevitable face licking;  Jimma and Ted take charge of the filly and governess cart;  and the vicar faces an instant court-martial from the mothers.

By the time the women have told him about the spectral white horse, the ditching of the cart, Ginny losing one of the twins and their undeserved desertion by Fribbins;  Jimma and Ted have repaired the cart.  The prospect of a return to normality gives the vicar a chance to calm things down and he eventually persuades them to trust themselves and their offspring to Jimma and the governess cart.

They are then in two minds about the vicar and Ted.  Should they both remain in the woods to continue the search for the missing child or just Ted, and what should be done about Fribbins.  Ted then discovers the bag of pegs and Annie's night-shelter under the bush, which threatens to reignite the whole debate.  Jimma, with a quick glance at the vicar, flicks the reigns and sets the governess cart on a course for home.

— • —

2.09.4 - Who'd be a Fox?

An old book or document is said to be foxed, if age has given it a crop of reddish brown spots.  A man may be foxy if he is sly of disposition and crafty by nature.  Generally a woman could be considered foxy if she is probably worth the chase, but in Annie's case, it should come as a warning to approach from the upwind direction, unless you have no sense of smell or you, yourself pong like a stoat.

Away from the shadows of the denser part of Blickling Woods, and with a quarter moon glowing through a thin overcast, Annie has stopped to examine her surprise parcel.  Her first impression had been that it was just a bundle of shawls, then it had made tiny squeaking noises reminiscent of suckling-pig, but now that it has started squalling like a baby, she decides to unwrap it.

Annie, in her current state, may not fit well with society, rural, urban or Romany, but things have not always been that way, and she has often nursed the babies of other travelling families.  Her first action is to remove the child's nappy and throw it away.  The resulting freedom to kick, wakes the child's appetite and the beginning of a chuckle turns into a cry.  Annie rips one of the three swaddling shawls into four strips and uses one as a nappy.  She then wraps the child in the best of the shawls, and bundles everything else together for carrying.  Next stop will be the nearest verge or common sporting a resident nannie-goat.

— • —

At the Police House in Blickling Road, Aylsham, a mile or two east of the Blickling Woods, Superintendent Jonathan Chambers, Sergeant William Aldis and Constable Henry Howes are taking delivery of a body.  It is the corpse of Anton, Count Benoni, and has been sliced through with a sabre; exhibit one, herewith attached.

The men doing the delivering are gamekeepers from the Blickling Estate, who seem to be under the impression that the Count's death is the action of some poacher, who, they claim, will be laid by the heels in due course.  The Superintendent begs to differ, on the grounds that he has yet to come across poachers wielding cavalry sabres.  It is at this moment that the fraught Fribbins arrives on a white horse with some cock-and-bull story about abandoned mothers.

“Humm!  Sly as a fox,” says the superintendant, glaring at Fribbins, “I think you should know, Mister, that his here corpus delicti is well known for riding a white horse.”

“Is thus yor 'orse, mister?” says the sergeant, taking hold of the bridle, "Praps yew'd care ter dismount and step inta th'lite.”

“Thar's a'naye-bee sewn orn th'saddle-clorth,” say Constable Howes.

“So thar is,” say the sergeant, “An'wuss this gret red stain orn th'orse's flank?”

“Now Mister Fribbins,” say the sergeant, “What wuzzut you sed abowt abandon'n yer muther?”

— • —

Author's Note:

Names taken directly from the 1861 Census for Aylsham, Norfolk, UK:
At the Police Station, Blickling road,
  Jonathan Chambers (40), superintendent.
At the adjacent Police House:
  William Aldis (47) police officer,
  and his lodger, Henry Howes (24) police officer.

In the story, all words and actions of these three real characters are totally fictional.  Please COMMENT if you object.

— • —

2.09.5 - Watching the Detectives

In the minutes before Jimma had tickled-up the filly and resumed the mothers' homeward journey, the debate had been mostly concerned with what they wanted from the menfolk.  The menfolk, having the power of transportation as a trump card, had not taken much notice.  However, nobody had thought about Ted, Ginny and her dog Raggs, except of course themselves:

“Wotcher got thar?” say Ginny, see'n Ted clasp'n a peg-bag.

“Suff'n fergot by th'tramp,” say Ted, hold'n thet open fer har t'see.

“Gypsy pegs,” say Ginny, “Hare, shew'm t'th'dawg.”

“Hare Boy, Raggs,” say Ted, “Gitcher snoot fulla thus.”

“Snuff, snuff, phwoof,” say Raggs, sitt'n back an'look'n a'Ginny.

“GOo'orn then,” say Ginny, flapp'n ha'rarms a'th'surrownd'n shadders, “Fetch, Boy, fetch.”

“Huurf, snuff, snuf, snuf....” say Raggs, lollop'n orf frum side t'side, dew'n hiz bes'himpreshun a'a bludhund.

“Thas'ut Boy,” say Ginny, stumbl'n art'rim, “Fetch th'babba, sniff'ut owt, Boy.”

“Ted?” calls the vicar, a little concerned at finding himself alone in the dark except for a lanthorn and three nervous horses.

“Over hare,” calls Ted, frum sum plearce orf amung th'brammles.

“Fwaff, snurf, fwagh!” say Raggs, find'n th'dutty nappy ware Annie ha'chuckt'ut.

“Gawd,” say Ginny, now near enough to follow her own nose, “Duntchew dare roll in thet, yew stinky cur.”

“Hev he got th'scent?” say Ted, gett'n a whiff ov'ut hisself.

“Wull,” say Ginny, “Now we know wot way they wuz hedd'n.”

“Oi'll git th'orses,” say Ted, “Then yew kin give Raggs hiz hed.”

“Children, Please,” says the vicar, “It would be most gratifying if you could tell me what is happening.”

— • —

Meanwhile in Aylsham, Constable Henry Howes has a choice.  The superintendant has sent him to fetch some transport, but it will take ages to round-up the horses for the Black-Maria van, which is the official police vehicle.  On the other hand the superintendant's wife has a fine little pony and trap, with the pony kept in a loose box off the back lane.  Henry, known as Harry, fills the lamps on the trap, harnesses the pony, known as Pip, places two extra dark-lanthorns under the seat and with his own bulls-eye to hand, drives the rig round in front of the police houses.

The superintendant, initially pleased at the efficiency of his constable, loses some of his enthusiasm when he sees what Harry has provided.  However, there is no real reason why they should all go looking for lost mothers or the truth of Fribbin's story, so he orders Sergeant William Aldis, known as Bill, to lock Fribbins in the cells and stand guard until his return.  Superintendant Jonathan Chambers, known as Sir, then sallies forth for Blickling Woods with Harry and Pip.

As by then the mothers are well on the way back to Mardlingham, and the vicar's scouting party is half a mile past Itteringham Mill following the trail of Foxy Annie; they find nothing there, other than anonymous wheel tracks in the dry ditch and several piles of horsedroppings, also anonymous.  With no witnesses or evidence on his side, things are not looking good for Fribbins.

— • —

2.09.6 - Thrashing About

The day after the return of the village charabang excursion is Sunday and the majority of the day-trippers who are safely home will soon be awakening in their own beds.  Even the vicar has returned, having lost touch with Raggs, Ginny and Ted somewhere on the edge of the sprawling Walpole estate.

With church services looming, having no fresh sermon prepared is the least of the vicar's problems; not when there's a mislaid butler and an abducted baby at the head of the list.  Not to mention Jarge and Stan having to be left in Cromer, and two young persons mounted on over-large horses, thundering through woods, commons and heath in pursuit of Foxy Annie:

“Ware away?” cry Ted, reigning in to listen, but hearing nothing.

“Gawn away!” cry Ginny from the other side of the brook, “Raggs? Hare Boy!”

“Raggs, Raggs...” say Ted in his shout'n voice, but th'dawg's gawn tew.

“Hev yer sin Wicar?” say Ginny, putt'n har Bay at th'stream an'thudd'n down alongside a'Ted.

“Gawn away,” say Ted, wi'a larf, “Dunt know how he kep'up s'long, in th'fust plearce.”

“Hint thet Sunday?” say Ginny, “Chuch sarvices an'orl?”

“Oi spuz thet iz,” say Ted, “Ar'we gawn?”

“Nut less thar sarv'n brekfust!” say Ginny, “Ware ar'we, enaways?”

“Clime a tree?” say Ted, “Or folla th'brook?”

“Upstream,” say Ginny, “Git'arselves a view wen th'sun rise.”

Meanwhile, Annie, having laid down a false trail has doubled back to the verge where she found the goat, and is snuggled up with the sleeping baby under the thickest part of the hedge.

In the cold whitwashed cells at Aylsham police station, Fribbins the butler has nothing to snuggle with apart from a thin grey blanket.  His supper has been bread and water and he has been thoroughly thrashed at draughts (chequers) by Sergeant - call me ‘Huff'n Billy’ - Aldis.  In the next cell, the corpse of Anton, Count Benoni has even less chance of a snuggle.

— • —

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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?”

— • —

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.

— • —

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.

— • —

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.”

— • —

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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— • —

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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.

— • —

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!

— • —

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.”

— • —

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?”

— • —

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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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.”

— • —

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— • —

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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— • —

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.”

— • —

2.05.7 - Putting the Boot In

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.”

— • —

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— • —

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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— • —

2.04.1 - An Early Start

As the sun rose from the horizon, so did Jimma from his kipping place in the hayloft over the stable behind the Crossed Arms Inn.  Bea, being his intended, but normally living under her father's roof at the inn, emerged yawning from her temporary bed in the hay beside him.  Meanwhile in the main-building, parental snoring should be considered indicative rather of a liberal attitude, than ignorance of such nocturnal wandering.

With the ostler and Jarge's help, Jimma soon had the converted dray harnessed to its handsome pair of dapple-greys; the pride of the Norwich brewery from which the vehicle had been hired.  After which, they helped Bea load the necessary crates of pale-ale in crown-cork bottles and the same number of screw-top quarts containing home-brewed cyder, and climbed aboard.

Ten minutes later they were parked in the stable yard behind The Big House and the charabang was sporting a motley gang of general housemaids, footmen and grooms, not forgetting the boot-boy.  All that is left to load is the kitchen crew:

“Ooh er,” say Tottie, look'n up a'th' dray-turned-charabang, “Thas tew nere th'sky fer me.”

“Git'chew up a'tha'cart, moi gal,” say Cook, “Thet unt weart orl day.”

“Ted'll gi'yer a lift,” say Tilly, tarn'n ter yell acrors'th'yaard, “Oy! Ted, Git'cher pitchfork, thar's wun more stook hare fer th'stack.”

“Git'cher toe orn thar m'dere,” say Jarge, pointing to the hanging step at the side of the cart, “An'gi'me yer arm.”

“Oy!” say Tottie, in har sqwarky voice, “Wotch moi bum.”

“How'd yar tung, thas ony me,” say Tilly, putt'n har shoulder ter Tottie's rump, “Now gi'me a pull, an' we'll orl be abord.”

“Sep'Jarge an th'cook,” say Tottie, “Reckon she'll hetta grow wings ter git up hare.”

“Jus'yew stand hare orn th'mount'n block,” say Jarge tew th'cook, “An'Jimma'll ketch yer as he floi parst on th'way owt.”

“Ar'yer redda?” say Jimma, eye'n up th'big stun mount'n block frum the driv'n seat a'th'sharrabang.

“Git orn wi'ut,” say Jarge, “Wot ar'yer weart'n fer, a folla'n wind?”

“Thar Missus Peasholm,” say Jarge, help'n the cook aboard th'cart as thet dock along side th'stun block, “Thet wuz easy'nuff, wunt'ut?”

“Thank yer kindly, yung sur,” say Cook, dew'n a wobbly kurtsy an'subside'n on th'fust bench ahint th'driver.

“Now thas toime fer th'capting ter jine th'shup," say Jarge, settl'n his hat farmly orn hiz hed, stepp'n acrorst an sett'n aside Jimma.

“Blust! He dud'ut orn hiz own," say Ted, lugg'n owt a bag a'oots, “Oi hope'd he wuz gornta nede a prod frum moy pitchfork.”

“We'll hev lessa yor cheek, terday, if yer pleeze,” say Jarge, “Dew yew chuck'us thet gret ol'bag, bor, an'less be orf.”

So, with The Big House contingent aboard, a huge hamper from Cook's kitchen, oats for the horses, and Ted riding the leader, the charabang heads for its second stop at the Vicarage.

— • —

2.04.2 - Bursting with Daytrippers

The seaside day-trip, organised by the vicar, is open to any children, servants or apprentices, domiciled within the Little Mardlingham parish boundary, and extends to such parents or other supervisors as might be appropriate.  So, as the two horse charabang arrives at the Vicarage end of Little Mardlingham High Street, there is a small crowd of eligible villagers ready and waiting.

Stan waves the charabang in beside the milk-churn loading platform in front of the dairy.  The day-trippers start to fidget restlessly, but are confined to the grass verge by Ginny's friend Raggs, who being a dog, has naturally assumed the task of crowd controller.

The several benches fitted to the bed of the dray, some already taken by The Big House contingent, are soon bursting with villagers.  Unfortunately, there are no seats remaining to accommodate the tardy arrival of a certain five mothers clutching their elfin-eared babes-in-arms.  With the promise of an instant bally-hoo in the offing, something must be done:

“Stan,” says the vicar, wiping his forehead, “I would be much obliged if you and Ted shall disembark and harness my sister's filly to the governess cart.”

“Roight, Wicar,” say Stan, “That shud dew'ut.”

“Meanwhile,” says the vicar, “Raggs and I will marshall our main force for the assault on Ford Lane.”

Now it is the way of community groups, such as that aboard our charabang, to have periods of quiet anticipation, broken only by muttered remarks and occasional quips:

“Wot ar'we weart'n fer?” say Jarge,
“Chrus'mus?” say Jimma.

“Niver fort Oi'd see Fribbins by daylite,” say Tilly,
“Reckon he'll be aw'rite if th'wind dunt blow,” say Tottie.

“Are we thar yit?” say th'boot-boy,
“D'pens ware yer wunt ter be,” say Cook.

“Kin Oi drive?” say Ragamuffin,
“Now thars a gud quest'n,” say Jimma.

“When dew we broach th'amper?” say Dollymuffin,
“Wen Oi say so,” say Cook.

“Hare they are!” say Jarge,
“Smart rig, wi'thet filly in th'shafts” say Jimma.

“Come orn, git gawn,” say Ragamuffin,
“Hew put yew in charge?” say Fribbins.

“We're orf, there gOo Wicar,” say Jimma,
“Bowt toime tew,” say Jarge.

“Hey! weart fer Stan,” yell Ted runn'n ter mount'n th'lead'oss.

— • —

2.04.3 - Wagon Load of Mothers

The trouble with the vicar's governess cart is that, being a sort of wickerwork tub on wheels, it only has seats along the sides.  Sitting face to face, naturally enough, is ideal for Hannah, Martha, Maria, Sarah and Flora whose main aim in life is communication.  However, as the driver is also forced to sit sideways, long journeys can result in a nasty crick in the neck.  It's the vicar who is doing the driving, but today, an awkward sitting position may not be the only source of pain and his neck not the only target.

Now when I say communication, I don't mean conversation, the five young mothers of Mardlingham use a much more effective system than mere conversation.  They all speak at once, an unending stream of everything they have in (or on) their minds.  Obviously this eliminates the need to ask questions, because eventually all possible answers, both actual and speculative, will be included.

There being five mums but because of Flora's twins, six babies, the vicar has acquired an involuntary lapfull of his own.  At least it gives him somebody to talk to:

“So, young fellow,” says the vicar, “What do they call you?”

“Blug!” says the child, squirming in delight at the attention.

“Blug, huh?” says the vicar, “I suppose you think I've forgotton what name I baptised you with?”

“Glup!” says the child, “Blup blup bup.”

“Goodness,” says the vicar, “Such epigrams at your time of life.”

“Blugugg,” says the child, waving its arms.

“This is the ford,” says the vicar, “Despite the pretty splashing noises, the proper seaside is still far away.”

“Phfssstp,” says the child, waggling its legs.

“My thoughts exactly,” says the vicar.

— • —

2.04.4 - Slack in the Reigns

After crossing the river at the ford, they face an uneventful climb up the rutted track to the turnpike.  Thanks to estate money and tolls, this has a fine metalled surface of the type known as - Macadam -, not to be confused with our modern equivalent, tarMacadam (tarmac).

Viewing the passing countryside has little interest for countryfolk, at least it doesn't until they strike properly ‘furrin’ parts such as the next parish but one, and bucolic wit is almost the only in-vehicle entertainment system:

“Oi kin hare worta,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we thar yit?”
“Thas th'ford, Rat-fearce.” say Dollymuffin.
“Oi know thet,” say th'boot-boy, “Twuz spuz t'meark yer larf, Carrot-top.”
“Woss rong wi'carrot hair?” say Ragamuffin, standing up in defence of his sister.

“Howd yew hard, childer,” say Fust-footman, “Searve orl thet fer th'beach.”
“Fight'n alowd, iz'ut - orn th'beach?” say Second-footman.
“Whoy?” say Fust-footman, “Fanca yer chanses?”
“If yew tew ar'look'n f'extra duties,” say Fribbins, “Oi got plenna t'spare.”

“Luvla reach a'rud, thus hare tarnpike,” say Jarge, “Reckon yew cud tickle'em up a bit, dunchew?”
“An'hew dew we hetta thank fer thet?” say Jimma, “Oi'll gi'yer tew guesses.”

“Hare, Ted!” say Stan, razin hiz voice ter reach th'boy on th'lead horse, “Ketch thus.”
“Wottiz'ut?” say Ted, pluck'n'ut neetla outta th'eare.
“Moi little owd horn,” say Stan, “Yew'll hetta give Wicar a toot, if we're garn ena more fleet.”

“Yor little owd horn?” say Jarge, “Ar'yer shur yew kin spare'ut?”
“Oi gotta nutha wun a'tum,” say Stan, “Th'wife loike to keep thet handa wen Oi'm away.”

In the governess cart, there is a sudden silence, all eyes turn to the rear and glare at Ted:

“Wuss he toot'n hiz lit'lowd'orn fer?” say Hannah, “Meark'n me ferget wot Oi wuz abowt ter say.”
“They wunt us on the trot,” say Maria.
“Hed enuf a'thet wi'moi twins,” say Flora.
“Whip'ut up, Wicar,” say Sarah, “Starr up sum dust, gi'um summat t'squit abowt.”
“Dew thus thing dew a gallap?” say Martha.
“Hold onto your hats, and your babies too,” say Wicar, boldly slackening the reigns by which he had been holding back the filly.

— • —

2.04.5 - Fourpence for the Cow

With fast spinning wheels and flying manes, their teamster's eyes alight for ruts and potholes, strewn flints or fallen branches, the governess cart and charabang of Mardlingham's daytrippers bowl along the turnpike.  This is the second such road that they have covered this day and now its terminal draws near.  The final Tollgate, before they enter the narrow lanes that will take them down to the coast.  There is, however, a more irritating obstacle to pass, a gatekeeper more notorious than Turpin himself:

“Stand, stand, Oi say!” cries the gatekeeper, his sturdy frame reinforcing the gate across the road.

“Good day, Friend,” says the vicar, reigning in the excited filly and bringing the governess cart to a swaying halt.

“Wot hev we hare,” say th'geartsmun, “A chuch-wurth a'pence, or Oi'll be blow'd.”

“Come come, my man,” says the vicar, “State your price, but prey, do so with charity in mind, for we travel only in aid of our common health.”

“Now wot if Oi tell thet ter ar'willage rector, wen he next pass th'pleart,” say th'geartsmun, “‘Come come Rector,’ Oi'll say, ‘Oi'm ony hare fer me helf.’”

“Then, as did the people of the Holy Land, shall we have to render unto Caesar,” says the vicar, “State your price, as it please you sirra, and stand not upon such ceremony.”

“Sixpunce fer a wun'oss cart,” say th'geartsmun, “Shillun fer wun wi'tew ...”

“Here, then ...” says the vicar, offering the required coins.

“Oi hint funnsh'd yit,” say th'geartsmun, “... then thar'll be fi'pence a score fer the sheep an'calves, wi'an'haddishunal vorpence fer th'fat cow on the dray.”

“That's nothing but highway robbery,” exclaims the vicar, “Where's your sense of charity, sirra?”

It is fortunate for even such a massive bucolic as the gatesman, that Cook prefers talking to listening.  Having missed his obvious reference to her somewhat rotund nature and the extent of her maternal balcony, she now sits wondering why everybody is staring at her:

“Wot?” she say, “Is my'att awry?”

But nobody cares to enlighten her.  Ginny, the Ragamuffins and Ginny's dog, however, drop down from the rear of the dray and take to the fields behind the hedge:

“Ware ar'we gawn?” say Dolly in har wispr'n voice, “An'why dew yew keep hussh'n me up?”

“Hush,” say Ginny, “Just folla me an'keep th'dawg quiet.”

Once past the gate and with much silent gesticulating, the war-party agree a course of action.  Ginny and the Ragamuffin creep in and carefully draw back the arm of the gate-latch.  Dolly and the dog Raggs slip under the gate and approach the rear of the gate keeper.  Dolly carefully positions Raggs and makes him sit, then sidles round the gatesman and tugs at his sleeve:

“Ere Mista,” say Dolly wi'gret tereful eyes, “Hev yew sin moi darwg?”

“Wot?” say th'geartesmun, “NOo, bugga orf!”

“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” say Dolly in har must annoy'n voice, “WOooooo!”

“Gitt'im Raggs,” say Ginny, “Thas'ut!” as Raggs sink hiz teeth in th'geartesmun's trowsers, “Thas the way, boy! Gud darwg.”

“Goodness!” says the vicar, tossing two coins to the road, “The gates open.”

“Fix bayonets,” shouts Jarge, “An'charge!”

“Tru'nuff,” say Stan, “But nut as much as he wuz gawn tew, th'bugga.”

“Leddies present,” say Jimma, “Less giv'them a charnse ter dew sum swear'n, fer a change.”

— • —

2.04.6 - Red Cabbage in Cider

There comes a certain moment in every coast-bound journey, when you breast that last rise and the view opens up before you.  Do you rush on, plunging headlong to your destination, or tarry awhile in anticipation?  It may depend on what you have in the hamper and how long you've been travelling:

“Moi stumik hurts,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we thar yit?”

“Woss'ut sic a'empta?” say Dolly, “Moinz empta.”

“SOoz moin,” say Tottie, “Dew enabudda r'memba brekfust.”

“Larst yare at learst,” say Tilly, “Hint thet toime fer levensez?”

“Tharz'am in th'amper,” say Tottie, “An'byl'd eggs, an'fresh bred, an'Cook's pott'd-meat, an'cowl'p'taters, red-cabbudge in cyder, leg'a'lamb, an'... Blust, Oi fergit wot else.”

“Now yer meark'n me hungra,” say Cook, “Hint thet 'leven'a'clark yit?”

“Thet unt be 'leven til we see th'sea,” say Stan, “So keep a gud look owt.”

“Oi'll tell moi wotch,” say Jarge, heft th'gret lump ov'ut frum hiz parket, “SOoz thet kin keep up.”

“Yew call thet a wotch,” say Jimma, “Oi'd call'ut a tarnup.”

“Yew git mor toime in a wotch loike thus,” say Jarge, “Hew wunt their toime ter be tew skinny?”

“Yew meen loike Cook and th'syzza har hamper?” say Tottie, “Yew wunt want wun frum a skinny cook, wudja?”

“Iz thet summa yor cheek?” say Cook, “Or an arse-ter-fearce cumplimunt?”

“Iz thet th'sea,” yell Ted, frum th'lead'oss, “Thet bitta blew a'th'bartum a'th'hill?”

“Thet sartinly iz,” say Stan, “Giv'Wicar a toot, an'we'll set hare awhile ter sarmple thet thar'amper.”

“Ware's th'ale?” say Jarge, as they swing acrorst th'verge, “An sum oots fer th'osses?”

— • —

2.04.7 - Cromer in View

In the planning of any campaign, before the first attack, it is wise to feed the forces.  It is now officially the eleventh hour and The Mardlingham Expeditionary Force, poised on the hill above their objective, are in the midst of their Elevenses:

“Suffun smell funna,” say th'boot-boy, “Ar'we'thar yit?”

“Thas wunna th'orses,” say Ted, “They loike a gud blow-orf wi'thar oots.”

“NOo, thas nut 'orse,” say th'boot-boy, “Thas diffrunt, 'orses smell th'searme.”

“Thas the sea,” say Jarge, “Sum say thas ozone, but Oi recon thas th'fishamun.”

“Ozone?” says the vicar, from the other side of the pic-nic rug, “You follow the high sciences, then?”

“Ony if thar gawn ter th'pub,” say Jarge, “Red'ut inna buk.”

“Healthful Emanations,” says the vicar, “By Sir Lesgoe C. Baything?”

“Thas th'wun,” say Jarge, with a chuckle “Or thet mite'a bin ‘Murder on Cromer Cliffs’ price wun penna a'th'pust-orfuss.”

“Ar'they suffun ter skeer yer?” say Tottie, “These hare CrOoma Cliffs?”

“Sartainly,” say Stan, “Th'hulla CrOoma iz frit by'em.”

“Why'z thet?” say Jarge, hew knew wut wuz come'n.

“CrOoma wuz milez away an'part a'Yorkshire,” say Stan, “Afore th'cliff start a'fall'n in.”

“Dew they tork diffrunt?” say Tilly, “Karnt abide thet.”

— • —

2.04.8 - Half full of Cider

The horses are refreshed and showing some excitement at the salt in the air as random gusts of sea breeze overcome the day's gentle south-easterly wind.  Jarge, being experienced in the ways of the Norfolk weather, had predicted such a wind, despite it being somewhat against the normal weather pattern, and the vicar had prayed that he'd be right.

Naturally, a southerly wind is preferable on a north facing coast because it keeps the colder sea-air at bey, or if you prefer, out of the bay.  Not that Cromer is in a bay, despite the ironical use of that term by certain locals.  But enough shilly-shally, the horses are not the only one's getting restless:

“Orl aboard,” say Jimma, checking the brakes, axels and harness of both rigs, while Ted does a round of the hooves, “Ar'yer redda, Wicar?”

“Certainly, certainly,” says the vicar, regarding the freshly loaded contents of the governess cart with some distast, “But where is my little flock of mothers?”

“We fort yew cud dew wi'a change,” say Stan, “Jarge an'me.”

“Us an'orl,” say Dolly, spek'n fer har sel', har brudda, th'boot-boy, Ginny and Raggs.

“Thar orf,” say Ginny, “Thet gret ol'cart'll git thar fust if we dunt git a muve'on.”

“Wi'yor p'mishun, Wicar,” say Stan, grabbing the reigns, “Can't let th'brew'ry beat th'chuch, now? Kin we?”

“Oi'll stand by th'brake,” say Jarge, “Thar's a gud ol'drop on th'rud frum hare on in.”

“Goodness,” says the vicar, “Surely not a race?”

“Thar 'arf way thar a'redda,” say th'boot-boy, “Dew Oi nede ter git owt an'push?”

“Thas'nuff a'yor cheek,” say Jarge, “Stan hev'ut orl in hand.  He usta rearce tarnips.”

“However do you race turnips,” says the vicar, “Roll them down hill?”

“No nede ter git cumplicearted,” say Stan, “Thas easa'nuff.”

“I didn't expect it to be simple,” says the vicar, “Knowing you two.”

“Yew rearla wunt ter know?” say Stan, watching the vicar nod in resignation, “Tell'im Jarge.”

“Jus'sew th'seed, worta'em an'weart,” say Jarge, “Then they raise 'emslves.”

At this point the filly, unaccustomed to towing a cart full of laughter downhill at speed, decided to slow down, necessitating a certain amount of panic in the cart and a lot of loud swearing from Jarge working the brake.  As equilibrium is restored, the vicar has a thought:

“You realise there's no need to rush?” he says, “Not with the dray being half full of women and the women being half full of cider.”

“Nut ter mention th'footmen and th'ale,” say Jarge, “Sumbudda's tarnips is gawn ter git wortered!”

— • —

2.04.9 - Nettles are for Sprinkling

If there's one profession that enjoys a good grind, it's that of the miller.  From the high land behind the town, our trippers can see that Cromer has two windmills, of which that nearest them on the south western approach is the lowest, a wooden post-mill of trestle construction (click - HERE - for picture) with four sails and a long tail-pole to steer it into the wind.  Nearby is a secluded paddock with an unkempt hedge and open gate, ideal for day-trippers suddenly in need of a little privacy:

“How nice to be right,” says the vicar, who had predicted such a stop, “James is reigning in by the mill.”

Normally, the vicar's sister Rosamunda would have had charge of the trip's small contingent of school children, but she is away in London.  So far, the kids have simmered away in the middle two rows of the charabang under Miss Beatrice's watchful eye, but as they slow to a stop, her attention is momentarily turned towards Jimmy, the handsome drayman:

“Blust Boy,” say Jarge, frum th'gov'ness cart, “Skewls owt!  See'em gOo.”

“Wull Oi hope thar nut gawn t'worta th'mill-pust,” say Stan, “We wunt wunt th'rot ter set in.”

“Town-folk often do that to nettles, thinking to kill them,” says the vicar, “Not realising tis a fine aid to fertility.”

“SOo, in th'kearse a'th'mill,” say Stan, “Thet'll eetha hit th'clowds or th'mould, but wi'luck, we'll be hum by then, so that unt matta.”

“Thet seem t'me thet'd be a betta mill,” say Jarge, “If thet did grow itsel'a bit more depth.”

“By ‘depth’ you mean ‘height’ I take it?” says the vicar.

“Thas depth wen yew'r clumb tew'th'crown,” say th'boot-boy.

“Oi wunt moind a closer look,” say Jarge, “But thet'int urjent.”

“Shull we reign in,” say Stan, “Thar's them amung us thet might nede ter give th'nettles a drink.”

“Dunt look a'me,” say Ginny, “Little boys are wuss'n gals.”

“Wull then,” say Stan, “Apart frum Lil'Boy-Jarge, ar'thar enna tearkers?”

“We should await the others,” says the vicar, “In any case.”

“But gett'n set redda fer a swift start,” say Ragamuffin, “Oi got moi tuppence on th'chuch in thus hare rearce ter CrOoma.”

“I'm sure,” says the vicar, “That the Church appreciates your little sin on its behalf.”

“Wot sin iz thet?” say Dolly, “Tell'n fibs abowt hev'n tuppence?”

— • —

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2.03.1 - Rosamunda's Letter

From the point of view of the village gossips, Whitsun week is about to improve with the vicarious but doubtful pleasure of knowing the exact contents of certain letters.  The first being from Miss Rosamunda to her brother.  Fortunately, the weird girl who ‘duz fer th'wicar’ is both able to read and has that opportunity while standing half behind her master's chair pouring his mid-morning chocolate - the missive in question running thus:

Belle Vale House,
Bedford Place,
London.
Monday

My Dearest Brother,

  Sir Marcus's London house is a fine example of the sort of town-house, we so admired on that trip to Bath in the West Country.  It has a tall double fronted elevation in the middle of a delightfully fashionable terrace very close to Russell Square.  There are mews to the rear with sufficient space for both the carriage and the brougham, but the horses have separate residence at a nearby ostlers.
  The journey was a delight, if a little bumpy as far as Norwich, where Marcus received great respect from the manager at Gurney's Bank and sweet Miss Roberts joined our party.  Thereafter, the state of the roads was not such as to satisfy our villager friend George, who would have been at them by nines with his bucket and shovel as soon as they fouled his eye.
  Newmarket was at last achieved by dusk of the Saturday, and we stayed the night at the Rutland Arms, a fine inn with a courtyard.  As I had been promised, the town, renowned for it's race-course, was full of delightful horses, to one of which, Marcus introduced me.  It was the dam of my fine new filly, which I shall sorely miss until our return to Mardlingham, as I shall yourself, dear brother.

Your Loving Sister, Rosamunda.

— • —

2.03.2 - The Vicars Reply

When you arrive in a new place after an exhausting journey, as Rosamunda did at the weekend, the first letter written home may well fail to tell the recipient anything they actually want to know.  As can be seen from the vicar's reply, his sister's was no exception:

Little Mardlingham,
Vicarage House,
County of Norfolk.
Tuesday

Rosamunda, my dear,

  I am most pleased that Sir Marcus's London house seems to meet with your preliminary approval and has such ideal facilities for vehicles of an horse-drawn nature.  Moreover, I was delighted to hear of the first two legs of your journey and how they passed off with so little discomfort and none of the anguish of travel, I know you to have suffered in the past.  It is also gratifying to hear of the respect Sir Marcus received at Gurney's Bank, which is only to be expected.  Furthermore, I am delighted that the ancestry of your new mount is now known to you.
  However, you do not mention the one part of the journey, that already has Mardlingham a-buzz with rumour, and that is the terrifying event which is said to have befallen your party in the wildness of the heathland beyond Newmarket.  I only know from the receipt of your brief missive, that you seem to have survived, but in what state, I hesitate to imagine.  I await your reply in trepidation.

May His Blessing be upon you and all in your company,
Your Reverend Brother, Cedric.

— • —

2.03.3 - Rosamundas Response

Anybody who has had experience of a large organisation, lived in a village or its urban equivalent, will know how quickly news travels.  Tracking down the course of the relevant river of gossip is not always easy, especially where eavesdropping and other covert practices are involved.  However, Rosamunda is not the only letter writer in the London party, Sir Marcus's village coachman, Charles has a fine hand at copperplate and his son, Ted has the skill to read his father's handwriting, if nothing else.  Ted, being in Mardlingham and also being a considerably earlier riser than the vicar, met the post boy as he entered the village, thus he was able to pass on news of the more startling side of Sir Marcus's journey to London, which Rosamunda had been holding back, but now explores in full:

Belle Vale House,
Bedford Place,
London.
Wednesday

My Dearest Brother,

  I sit here struck almost dumb by your letter.  What mode of divination or prophetic vision has unveiled those events that I sought to suppress?  Pray forgive my arrogance, that I should have tried to protect you from such anguish as our highway adventure might engender, when greater powers take it upon themselves to reveal all.
  Suffice it to say, that at no time did we seem to be in any real danger, not with Sir Marcus and his men popping off their guns like a day at the shoot.  The first we knew of the event, which happened on the sandy track that serves as the London road beyond Newmarket, was a group of wildly prancing and heavily mufflered horsemen approaching across the heath.
  My brave Sir Marcus immediately dropped the window-glass and shouted ‘Footpads’ although I could see that, in reality, they were highwaymen of the first order.  Our men on the footboards of both carriages, at once began a brisk fire with the scattergun and horse-pistols, which caused the marauders to turn aside.
  Unfortunately, our men having to reload, the ‘Turpins’ again swerved in our direction.  However, it was then that the true value of dear Miss Roberts, my new friend and companion, came to light.  Apparently, she had in her reticule, a large handgun of American origin, given to her by her brother who had journeyed in those parts, which gun she discharged from the carriage window.  On receipt of this shot, one of the highwaymen fell from his mount and another was thrown.
  Thus with the ungodly severely discommoded we were able to continue in God's peace.  Being familiar with my resilient nature, you will know that such adventures serve only to stimulate the rosiness of my cheeks, so please do not take any time to worry on my behalf.  I trust all is well with yourself and our dear village, such a contrast to the rattle we have here in the great capital of our Empire.

Your Loving Sister, Rosamunda.

— • —

2.03.4 - Missive from Marcus

With so much to be done, London having milliners and dressmakers of a complexity not found in Mardlingham, nor even Norwich, Rosamunda and Miss Roberts have escaped their male companion.  Sir Marcus, having become quite dizzy at his belle's sudden disclosure of rather more in the way of cosmopolitan values than he was expecting, seeks the quiet of his London Gentlemen's Club, where he pens this letter:

WHITE'S CLUB,

An excellent retreat
for Gentlemen,
St. James,
London.

Tuesday.

My dear Perry,
  I am writing this to express my admiration for your splendid execution of our little jape upon the heath.  Miss Rosamunda was greatly excited by the seeming hazzard of all our lives and the stirling defence to be had from yours truly and his merry men.  It is seriously misfortunate that one of our party, namely a Miss Roberts, Rosamunda's companion, proved to be such a fine shot.
  As my last sight of your fallen braves was their rising with much abusive caterwauling, I trust her shooting was not fine enough to have done them any permanent damage.
  Secrecy being so important to our escapade, I had not forewarned Miss Roberts on the grounds that she, like my Rosamunda, was but a part of the audience.  It was with no little surprise, that as we wheeled the Brougham back to support the carriage, I saw her in classic pose at the carriage window with sights laid and an enormous revolver barking fire.  Had not the recoil been so great, and for her somewhat unexpected, I fear she would have spun out the full set of chambers upon you.
  Perhaps you will disperse among your minions, a fair division of the value of my note on Gurney's Bank (enclosed herewith), as a reward for wounds so honourably received.

Your sincere friend and
fellow jacanapes,
Marcus.

— • —

2.03.5 - Perry Replies

With cousins like Peregrine, Sir Marcus can never feel really safe in the bosom of his family.  The more we meet of them, the more we appreciate that our Lord of the Mardlingham Manor may not actually be the worst apple in the Haugh-Wells barrel.  Perry Haugh, naturally enough is on the penniless aristocratic side.

Poste Restante,  The Post Office,
St. Andrew Street,  Cambridge.
Wednesday.

My dear Marcus,
  Around me at The Pickerel Inn, as I write, the small ale and porter flows at your expense, finding its way to the gullets of my three fine braves, as the claret so easily does to mine.  Fortunately none will spill from shot holes, which is most serendipitous, considering the calibre of your Miss Robert's artillery.
  Had we known that such canon were to be ranged against us, we might well have found ourselves a more convivial party.  As it is Seb has a fine scorch mark across his saddle, like a laying on of the Devil's tail.  He was most fortunate not to be in it at the time, his horse having already spooked at the Amazon's apparition in the carriage window.
  So, with your promissory note sold to the landlord here, we shall be hard put to drink it dry before midnight, despite his derisory rate of exchange.  Tomorrow the college again requires our attendance, though shall we comply or no, I fail to predict.
  Prey join us here for a night of jollity in Cambridge on the occurrence of your return to Norfolk.  I promise we shall comport ourselves worthy of your lady's company, although we reserve the right to cower in awe before her sharp-shooting companion.

Ever your true friend,
Perry

— • —

2.03.6 - Homnibus or Charabang

With his sister and her beau away in London, the Little Mardlingham vicar has returned his attention to the promotion of improved health, more morality and a little happiness among his parishioners.  His latest assay in this direction, a mass trip to the seaside, will require suitable transport.  Naturally, he has delegated the problem to the experts, Boy Jimma and Buxum Bea:

(Letter 1 of 2)

 
Over the Arch,
Brewry Yard,
Barack Strete,
Norich.
Wedensdy.

Dere Miss Beatruss,
  Tha brewer's hajent, hevin bin receepted of yor letter and the remitunses inclosed, hev made awailuble the dray upon wich can be set sich benches as to conwert it to a homnibuss or sharabang.  As drayman it wul bee my duty to drive from Norwich to Mardlinum set upon such conweyunce and frum tha to Croma Spa and thus hum to Norwich wia Mardlinum yet agin.
  Orl as agrede atween you and the hajent on beharve of the wicar.  You shud espect fust arriwal by nitefall on fridy, for the conweniance of been away betimes on satdy mornin.

Your frend and dutiful sarvent,
Jimmy.
 
 
 

(Letter 2 of 2)

 
The Vicarage
Little Mardlingham,
Thursday.

Dear James,
  Being in receipt of your Wednesday letter, passed to me from the inn, I beg your indulgence that I should prepare this reply on behalf of myself and your dear friend Miss Beatrice.
  The arrangements you specify will suit admirably and we in Mardlingham look forward in pleasant anticipation to the forthcoming daytrip to the seaside.
  I have it on good authority that Cromer is a fine place, with a tall church and a bathhouse in addition to invigourating beaches and good stabling for your horses.
  We are currently hoping that certain expectations of a clemancy in the weather as predicted by our mutual friend George, will prove correct.  However, I shall not stint in my prayers for his rectitude in this matter.

Yours truly and with all appropriate blessings,
Rev. C. W. Jimpson (Vicar).

P.S.   Miss Beatrice asks me to append her best regards.
 
 

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2.02.1 - View from the Tower

When in ancient times, the villagers of Norfolk chose the places to build their churches, one factor was the provision of a panoramic view from the top of the tower.  An eerie from which early warning could be had of the approach of Danes, drovers and dragons, rascals, rustlers and Royalty, carriers of plague, pox and postal packages, Satanic beasts or tax collectors.  They are also rather useful for spying on trysting couples in the bright dawn light and at whatever time later in the morning the idea occurs to sombody:

“Kin yer see'em?” say Stan, peer'n thru hiz glarses.

“Summat on th'muve on Brikl'n Hill,” say Jarge, point'n a long arm.

“I do believe you have them,” says the vicar, “Yes indeed.  Sir Marcus on his bay mare and my sister on the chestnut filly.”

“Still karnt see'em,” say Stan, sheard'n hiz eyes.

“Acrorst th'river, ter th'left a'th'ford,” say Jarge, “Gaze along th'pasture, jus'blow Pit Covet.”

“Look's like they're exchanging mounts,” says the vicar.

“Thet dew, tew,” say Jarge, “Thow Oi karnt see Sir Marcus been werra happa onna side-saddle.”

“Whoops,” says the vicar, “There goes the side-saddle, straight into the pit.”

“Oi fort yew wuz in fearver a'side-saddles?” say Stan.

“I'm changing my mind,” says the vicar, “There is, it seems, a practical advantage in the prey being able to at least equal the speed of of the predator, if not outrun it.”

“Ar'yew shur yew know which is which?” say Jarge.

“Thar orf,” say Stan, “Miss Rosamunda on th'bay iz in th'lead, bu'th'bare-back filly is comm'n up farst along th'rail.”

“An'thas neck'n'neck at th'fust fence,” say Jarge, “She's over.”

“An'so's he,” say Stan, “Sir Marcus hev th'inside line at th'next bend.”

“But the bay's put on a spurt,” says the vicar, “And cut him off.”

“Wooh Hey!” say Jarge, “Th'filly hev stumbl'd, see him fly.”

“Sir Marcus is down,” say Stan, “An'he's up agin.”

“My sister's wheeling back, but he's waving her off,” says the vicar.

“She'll be gawn ter round up th'filly,” say Jarge, “Wile Sir Marcus dew th'searme wi'hiz dignity.”

“I think I'll harness the governess cart,” says the vicar.

— • —

2.02.2 - Tavern or Teashop

It took Jarge half an hour to find a pony for the vicar's governess cart.  The usual source, a neighbouring dairy, had two, but they were out on their rounds and not expected to be available until the evening.  That left the night-soil collector, who had to be awoken and was reluctant to risk his pony in the vicar's service after the recent chaos at the crossroads.

So when the three men in the cart finally arrived at the covert on Brick Kiln Hill, there was nothing to be done but salvage the side-saddle from the brambles at the bottom of a defunct claypit and cast around for clues.  At the vicar's insistance, Stan braved the open maw of the half collapsed kiln, but it was obvious from the spider's webs that nobody had been in there for months.

They then decided to return to The Vicarage, from whence Jarge made his way to the Crossed Arms, arriving just as Jimma, now on the return leg of his deliveries, is finishing his drayman's lunch:

“Arta'noon, Jimma,” say Jarge, “Enna a'thet left fer me?”

“Thas orl gorn,” say Bea, “Jimma hev hed th'last ov'ut.”

“Yew'll hetta nip up ter Gret Mard'lum,” say Jimma, “Thar's a prarpa Tea Shop in th'hi'streart now.”

“Hew wuntta goo tew a plearce loike thet?” say Jarge.

“Miss Rosamunda fer a start,” say Jimma, “Nut t'menshun Sir Marcus.”

“Wull Oi'll be blow'd,” say Jarge, “So thas ware they went t'ground.”

“Oi wuz jus' pass'n th'mark't wen they came owta Back Lane,” say Jimma, “Lead'n th'orses.  Then Sir Marcus try ter gittem inta th'Wellin'tun Tavern, but orl she let him dew wuz stable th'orses.”

“Then wot?” say Jarge, “Dans'n round the Maypole?”

“She haul'd him orf inta th'Corranearshun Tea Shop,” say Jimma.

“Corranearshun?” say Jarge, “Which wun?”

“Thar's ony wun,” say Jimma, “Th'wun on th'corner.”

“So far,” say Bea, “Oi hare thas two more leddies wot hev'ut in moind.”

“Hev wot,” say Jimma, “Gitt'n corranated?”

“Oop'nun a Tea Shop,” say Bea, “Werra refined, mite ev'n gOo thar m'self.”

“So how long wuz they in thar?” say Jarge, “Th'tryst'n couple.”

“Oi spec thar still thar,” say Jimma, “Larst Oi saw wuz th'leddie gitt'n thus gret owd cake owta th'winda.”

— • —

2.02.3 - Rosamunda Returns

Stan has just returned the muck-cart pony to its stable without waking the owner and is kindly running a damp cloth over the vicar's governess cart, when Sir Marcus and Rosamunda arrive at The Vicarage gates.  Since The Vicarage coach-house, tack-room and loose-box are located in a wing running forward from the kitchen block at the right of main facade, Stan has a view through the shubbery to the gate.  After helping her down from the bay mare, Sir Marcus does the sort of bow that is often described as ‘making a leg’ and passes her the reigns of the filly he has been riding bareback.  At which point Miss Rosamunda plants an enthusiastic but carefully controlled kiss on his cheek and trips gaily down the driveway leading her filly:

“Ah Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “Is something wrong with the governess cart?”

“Nuth'n a horse wunt fix,” say Stan, “Wi'summer come'n orn, Oi spek th'Rev'runt'll wunt ter be putt'ut ter more use.”

“I expect he will,” says Rosamunda, “Only the other day he was talking of arranging a village outing or two.”

“Werra furrard look'n, he iz,” say Stan, “Highjeer bee'n a heath'n saint an'orl.”

“Ah yes!  Hygeia, Goddess of Health, wife of Asclepius and daughter of Eros,” says Rosamunda, “The improving effects of spa-waters and the bracing air of the seaside.”

“Yew hev'ut zactly,” say Stan, “Wicar's taking thet orl ter hart fer hiz perrishers.”

“Parishioners,” says Rosamund, giving him a funny look.

“Wicar's hev'n tea in th'consarvatry,” say Stan, “If yer wunt him.”

“I've taken tea, thank you,” says Rosamunda, “At that fine new afternoon venue in Great Mardlingham, and very pleasant it was.”

“Dew they hev gud cakes?” say Stan, “Mebbe charklutt?”

“They certainly do,” says Rosamunda, with a satisfied smile, “Lots of chocolate.”

“Shull Oi rub down the filly?” say Stan, “Thars oats in a nosebag an'worta in th'troff.”

“No thank you, Stanley,” says Rosamunda, “I was brought up to groom my own horses.  It's the best way of thanking them.”

“Wull, then, If yer shur,” say Stan, “Oi'll leave yew tew'ut.”

— • —

2.02.4 - Chocolate Cake not Droit de Seigneur

Another Mardlingham day has passed.  All that's left to be done is sink a few ales and enjoy a gossip in the taproom at the Crossed Arms:

“Wott'ud she hev ter say?” say Jarge, “Ware'd they gOo orf tew?”

“Hint yer sin'ut,” say Stan, “Th'Corunearshun Tea Shop?”

“Gret Mard'l'm?” say Jarge, “On th'corner by th'Wellin'tun Tavern.”

“Thas th'plearce,” say Stan, “Seems loike Sir Marcus treat'd har ter th'charklutt kearke.”

“Thas a sarri'us biznuss then?” say Jarge, wi'a gret ol'grin acrorst hiz fizog.

“Sart'nly look loike'ut,” say Stan, wi'a larf.

“She dint say ena'th'n'bowt ears, Oi spoze?” say Jarge, “Or dratted seanyers?”

“Droit de Seigneur?” say Stan, “NOo, but Oi reckon we'd ha'know'd if he'd put a foot owta line.”

“Powerf'l young leddy, is Miss Rosamunda,” say Jarge, “Nut wun ter crorse lite'ly.”

“Wicar say he need a new boy fer th'oss,” say Stan, “Dew a bit a'gard'nun an'orl.”

“Wot abowt th'Ragamuffin?” say Jarge, “He's abowt grow'd owta hiz kid's butes.”

“Tew sharp,” say Stan, “He'd be orf wi'th'filly afore moonrise.”

“He iz a bit wild, Oi grant yer,” say Jarge, “But hiz wuds gud.”

“Wull Oi moite tearke hiz wud onna bag a'spuds,” say Stan, “But nut onna'norse.”

“Then thettle hetta be wun a'th'Pratt sprats,” say Jarge, “Frum th'mill.”

“I wuz hope'n,” says Bea frum ahint th'bar, “Thet Sir Marcus wud be th'wun gawn orf wi'th'filly afore moonrise.”

“Ripp'n orf har saddle, chears'n har bareback, then prostreat'n hi'self acrorst th'turf, hint a'nuff, then?” say Stan.

— • —

2.02.5 - London in the Spring

With Whitsuntide looming, Sir Marcus is preparing to spend some time persuing his less rural business interests and indulge in the pleasures of springtime in London.  Naturally, with Miss Rosamunda planning to accompany him, this year's social round will be rather different.  Up at The Big House this breaking news has just reached the foot of the back stairs:

“Hev yew hard?” say Tilly, “They're orf ter Lunn'n.”

“Cook wuz jus' say'n,” say Tottie, “Th'Tweeny hev fetched orl th'trunks and chests frum th'attic, an' she an'th'up-stare maid ar'pack'n hiz bests, second bests, an'bes'seconds.”

“Fribbins reckon thas orl a'cawze a'hiz toilet bee'n bruk,” say Tilly, “Them china po ar'tew chill fer th'Masta's bum of a'marn'n.”

“Moind yar tongue,” say Cook, “Th'Marsta's bum iz nOo biznus a'yorn.”

“Hews gOo'n wi'em?” say Tottie, “Ena ov'us gals?”

“NOo charnce,” say Tilly, “They hev a full set a'th'Lunn'n'ouse.”

“Jus'th'Marsta an'th'Steward, Oi spuz,” say Tottie, “Nut Fribbins a'th'Cook?”

“Thas how'ut seem t'be,” say Tilly, “An'th'Wicar's suster, a'corse.”

“OOh!” say Tottie, “Wi'nOo chaperone?”

“Thar's a leddy's cumpanion meet'n'em at Norridge,” say Cook, “Now tizzy vu, an' git orn wi'cleen'n th'fish.”

“Wos ‘Tizzy Vu’ meen,” say Tottie, look'n confus'd.

“Thas ‘Howd yer jaw’ in Frunch,” say Tilly, “Dun'chew know nuff'n?”

“Hey, thus fish hint ded,” say Tottie, “Thas still wriggl'n.”

“Moindja hand,” say Cook, whang'n orf th'hed wi a cleaver.

“Ta!” say Tottie, “Oi dunt loike'ut when they muve abowt.”

“How long a'they gawn ter be away fer?” say Tilly, wyp'n silva scales orl down har frunt.

“Fribbins reckon that'll be 'bowt a munth,” say Cook, “Thas usual a'thus toime a'yare.”

— • —

2.02.6 - The Moment of Departure

Trunks and chests are packed and stacked in and about Sir Marcus Haugh-Wells' fine carriage, his estate steward and the coach driver from the the London house are on the box, armed with a scattergun against footpads.  Miss Rosamunda has said her farewells and stands on the steps of The Big House awaiting her beau:

“Charles will drive us in the brougham,” says Sir Marcus, “Tis considerably more comfortable than the carriage on these country roads.”

“Will it not be crowded when Miss Roberts joins us at Norwich?” asks Rosamunda.

“She can follow in the carriage with the steward,” says Sir Marcus, “Keep all the baggage in one place.”

“That's no way to talk of poor Miss Roberts,” says Rosamunda, “She has a sweet nature.”

“As sweet as the length of her nose,” says Sir Marcus, “I dare say.”

“Perhaps you dare too much,” says Rosamunda, “I am beginning to wonder if I shall be able to overcome my sadness at not spending Whitsunday in my own brother's delightful little church.”

“We cannot delay,” says Sir Marcus, “I have Saturday business in both Norwich and Newmarket.”

“Then pray refrain from such talk about my new friend Miss Roberts,” says Rosamunda, “If her nose ever needs to be criticised, I shall make it my duty to do so.”

“Then I shall confine my remarking of noses to the the delightful example that adorns your lovely face,” smiles Sir Marcus.

“See that you do,” says Rosamunda, “Now shall we set forth?”

“Forth with!” exclaims Sir Marcus, sweeping her up and depositing her on the fine soft leather of the brougham's seat.

— • —

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Please click - HERE - for translations.

— • —

2.01.1 - Wringing the Sheets

Coarse soap, clouds of steam, red hands and sopping aprons, it must be wash-day for the scullions up at The Big House:

“Thas nun a'moi biznus,” say Tottie, “But thet dunt'arf nagg'a'cher.”

“Carn't hev thet,” say Tilly, stirring th'wash-cawppa.

“Wot?” say Tottie, “Me bee'n nagg'd at?”

“NOo,” say Tilly, “Thet'ut hint yor biznus.”

“Yew say'n Oi'm nosey?” say Tottie, in har dangerous sorta voice.

“NOo,” say Tilly, “Oi'm say'n, if yew got sum muk, yew shud spred'ut abowt.”

“Thet hint muk,” say Tottie, “Jus'curious, thas orl.”

“'Bowt wot?” say Tilly pull'n a sheet outa th'wash-cawppa an' slamm'n'ut in th'sink.

“'Bowt th'sogers,” say Tottie, “Arf the toime th'willage is fulla sogers, then thet hint.”

“Thas th'way'ut wark, wi'millisha” say Tilly, “When he wunt sogers he say ‘Let thar be sogers’ 'an they orl come runn'n, then he say ‘Git orf hum’ an' orf they gOo.”

“SOo they hint sogers orl th'toime?” say Tottie.

“Twist me th'end a thet sheet,” say Tilly, “An' less wring th'bugga's neck.”

“SOo hews `he` wen he's a'tum,” say Tottie.

“Thas a sheet,” say Tilly, “Ar'yew gorn blind?”

“NOo, him wot tell'um ter come runn'n,” say Tottie.

“Moi fudda say thas th'Lard Leften'n't,” say Tilly, “But, far's'Oi kin see, thas Sir Marcus wot dew orl th'tell'n.”

“Hint thet allus?” say Tottie.

— • —

2.01.2 - Springtime in the Scullery

With a grand household's worth of bedsheets slopped in the sink, the linen was about to be separated.   The housekeeper and her team taking charge of the larger, finer squares of linen to be lightly starched, ironed smooth and religiously folded for the use of the master and his guests, while the rest of the sheets were hurried through the mangle and out onto the kitchen-yard lines in the chapped red hands of the scullions:

“Gawn, git th'nex'wun up thar,” say Tilly, “So's Oi kin git a purchase onn'ut wi'th'rollers.”

“Wull, dunt be s'sudden wi'ut,” say Tottie, “Yew fare hed moi por lil'dannies wi'th'las'wun.”

“We hint got orl day,” say Tilly, “Cook'll be arta har wedgetubles, afore yew know'ut.”

“Hev yer hard frum Josh?” say Tottie, meaning the soger-plowboy from the chimney incident.

“NOo rearz'n Oi shud, is thar?” say Tilly, cranking the mangle with a touch of venom.

“Cook reckon thar might be,” say Tottie, risking a finger to straighten the draw of the currently frothing sheet.

“Cook'll say enna'th'n fer a larf,” say Tilly, “Yew shud hare wot she say 'bowt yew an' th'stable lads.”

“She kin say wot she loike 'bowt me an' Ted,” say Tottie.

“Tipp'n yer cap, then?” say Tilly, “Nice strong lad, yew cud dew wuss.”

“Wot mearke me think thas Spring?” say Cook, frum ware she'd bin lissn'n in th'doorway.

— • —

2.01.3 - Fresh Eggs and Joshua

If you leave The Big House scullery via the stable-yard, go round the barn and behind the main buildings that make up Home Farm, sometimes known as Dorsen's Farm, you'll find that it too has a scullery.   At this time of day, between breakfast and 'levenses, it will be full of eggs, all neatly sorted into straw lined baskets by young Ginny and set out ready for collection:

“Whoah thar!” say Tottie, as Ginny's ol'dawg Raggs slap hiz tongue acrorst har fearce.

“If he bother yew,” say Ginny, “Bite hiz ear.”

“Dew thet dew enna gud?” say Tottie, hold'n up wunna Ragg's hairy flaps an' picking orf a coupla burrs.

“Cummear boy,” say Ginny, “Set yar hot raggedy bum on th'cold pamments, an' storp orl thissear lollop'n abowt.”

“Hev yer got th'eggs?” say Tottie, “Cook's feeling like a bit'uv a scramble.”

“Dew he loike thet?” say Ginny, “Th'marsta?”

“Dunno,” say Tottie, “But Fribbins dew.”

“Fort he wuz long ded,” say Ginny, refer'n tew th'ol'butler.

“He ony look thet way,” say Tottie, “Wuss th'latest wud, roun'hare?”

“We gorn ter git a fresh carter,” say Ginny, “Now thet Jimma's gorn orf ter Norridge.”

“Hew's thet?” say Tottie, “Enna'wun we know?”

“Dunno 'bowt ‘we’” say Ginny, “But Ol'Dorsen call him Joshua.”

“Ustta be a'prentice plow-boy in th'malisha?” say Tottie.

“Thas th'wun,” say Ginny, “Dew yer know him?”

“Thet mite be Tilly's Josh,” say Tottie, “Yew know, th'soger we pull'd owta th'chimbly.”

— • —

2.01.4 - Wigs, Lobes and Kedgeree

Beneath the silver covers on Sir Marcus sideboard, kedgeree and scrambled eggs were but two of the choices he had avoided on his way from dressing-room to stables.   For our handsome young Lord of the Manor, a gallop along the river path and across the fields to the vicarage were much more interesting.   In any case, Miss Rosamunda would, no doubt, be pleased to offer him a bite at her own more intimate breakfast table, the better to be enjoyed when the ride had given him an appetite.   The breakfast dishes at The Big House, although spurned by the master, would not be so treated by the staff:

“A porsh'n a'scramblies?” say Tilly, from the door of the butler's pantry.

“Thank'ee,” say Fribbins, setting aside the wig he was brushing, “A portion would please, I'm sure.”

“Thar yer gOo,” say Tilly, dolloping it onto a warmed plate, “Sum a'thus an' sum a that - ter gOo with'ut?”

“Of course,” say the butler, “And pass me that bottle, while you're handy.”

Back in the servant's hall, Tilly shares the final remainder of the remains of the breakfast leftovers between Tottie and herself:

“Port wine?” say Tilly, waving the water jug.

“Bet Fribbin's dunt hev to pr'tend,” say Tottie.

“Yew'd be rite,” say Tilly, “Cort th'ol'bugga wi'out hiz wig.”

“Fort yew wuz a bit pale,” say Tottie.

“Hev yew eva nOotussed hiz ears?” say Tilly.

“Oi nivva look abuv hiz watch-chain,” say Tottie, “Kase Oi ketch th'evil eye or summat.”

“Yew hint seen th'lobes, then?” say Tilly.

“Wut abowt th'lobes?” say Tottie.

“Thar hint ena,” say Tilly, “Seem ter hev gawn miss'n or nevva grow'd.”

“Thass funna,” say Tottie, “Wunt Jarge an' Stan arsk'n bowt lobes?”

— • —

2.01.5 - Poetry and Toothache

Curiously, the Stable-Yard horse-trough with its tall cast-iron pump is almost exactly the geometrical centre of the complex of buildings that make up The Big House, otherwise known as Mardlingham Manor.   It also seems to be the node around which many of the social interactions take place:   On one side is the predominately female population of house-servants, on the other the almost exclusively male groups of stable and farm-servants;   It is there that Sir Marcus deals with his horses, until recently the major driving force in his self-indulgent lifestyle, and prefers to instruct his minions.   It is also from whence he dispatches gifts to his most recent interest, Miss Rosamunda, the vicar's pretty sister:

“Arternune Jarge,” say Ted, as he walk by wi'a fine filly bound fer th'wicarage.

“Arternune Ted,” say Jarge, admir'n th'oss.

“Fer Miss Rosamunda, frum Sir Marcus,” say Ted, “SOo's they kin go riding in th'brite dorn lite.”

“Dunt give me ena a'yer brite dorn lites,” say Jarge, “Po'tree stuff gi'me th'tooth-eark.”

“Got a messidge f'yer,” say Ted, “Frum Tilly.”

“Wuss thet, then?” say Jarge.

“Fribbin's hant got no lobes,” say Ted, “Thas orl - dunt know wot'ut meen.”

“Fribbin's hant got no lobes?” say Jarge, “Wull Oi nivva.”

“Hare come Stan,” say Ted, “Oi bes'be orf, can't stand 'roun'mardl'n orl day.”

“Arternune Stan,” say Jarge, “Ted jus'gi'me a choice morsel.”

“Arternune Jarge,” say Stan, “Wuss thet, then?”

“Fribbin's hant got no lobes,” say Jarge, “Wudga reckon?”

“Fribbins, th'ol'butler?” say Stan, “Leap'n abowt loike a randy 'prentice?”

“Oi know,” say Jarge, “Mebbe thar's anutha connexshun.”

— • —

2.01.6 - Fiddle-Faddle-Saddle

The Mardlingham afternoon has reached its climax, a fine filly has been delivered and now graces the loosebox behind the vicarage coach-house.   ‘Temperance’ the silver teapot is on the tray, in company with its little friends ‘Sweet Lumps’ and ‘Dairy Queen’ - as they are known to the strange girl, who "duz fer th'wicarage" in kitchen matters.   Ted is sitting in the vicarage kitchen waiting for the maid to return and, hopefully, add a slice of walnut cake to the flaggon of home-brewed ginger-beer she has already provided.   In the parlour, Rosamunda is glaring at her brother:

“Don't you dare say that again,” says Rosamunda, “Brother or not...”

“I speak as the vicar,” says her brother, “And the vicar says ‘Fiddle-Faddle’ to a Spanish saddle and ‘Fiddle-Faddle’ again.”

“I'll return the filly,” says Rosmunda, “If that will make you happier.”

“It's not the filly,” says the vicar, “I have long thought you needed a nice hack for riding.”

“Hack? Hack?” says Rosamunda, “I only wish it was a blazing black stallion, so I could trample you under foot.”

“You don't mean that, my dear,” says the vicar, “I'm sure.   Two little words do not really deserve such approbrium.”

“Two little words?” says Rosamunda, rising from the table and pointing a sharp fingernail at her brother's nose, “When those words are ‘Fiddle-Faddle?’”

“Well really, my dear,” says the vicar, “A side-saddle would surely be the most appropriate?”

“Why should a side-saddle be so appropriate?” says Rosamunda, “Because I have the misfortune to be the vicar's sister, I suppose?”

“A fine lady should display discretion,” says the vicar, “Uphold the mores of her class.”

“A hot blooded young schoolmistress galloping the meadows with a handsome squire,” says Rosamunda, “Has little need of such antiquations.”

“Wull thet be orl, miss,” says the maid, frozen by the table with teapot still in hand.

“Er, yes,” says Rosamunda noticing her for the first time, “No, get my brother the smelling salts, while I loosen his collar.”

— • —

2.01.7 - Innocents in the Vicarage

One can never tell, with the Mardlingham Vicar, whether he completely fails to see the problem, misses the point entirely or let's things pass out of tolerance and the desire for a quiet life.   Where his sister is concerned, there is a constant conflict between how he sees her in his mind, and how she really is.   So I think we'd better leave them to it and follow the maid back to the kitchen:

“Thar yew are,” say Ted, as th'wicar's kitchen maid close th'door on th'ruckshuns in th'parler.

“SOo Oi am,” say the maid, “Fansa anutha slosh frum th'belly-jug?”

“Dew yew hev funna nearmes fer evvath'n?” say Ted.

“Thas best ter be frends wi'things,” say th'strange gal, “Speshla in a plearce loike thus, sa'nere th'grearve-yaard.”

“Dunt hev'n th'wicar aroun' pr'tec'yer?” say Ted.

“A hinnacent,” say th'maid, “Thas him.”

“Th'cake look tasty,” say Ted, play'n wi'hiz empta pleart.

“Thas fulla devils,” say th'maid, “Try a bit an'see.”

“Taste like rum an'brandy ter me,” say Ted, teark'n a bite, “Hew mearde'ut?”

“Miss Rosamunda,” say the maid, “But she used th'winegar bottle.”

“Wull, if thas winegar,” say Ted, “Oi'll teake a quart.”

“She keep'ut locked away,” say the gal, “Oi hevta use th'malty stuff in th'stunware jar.”

“How'd yew know thas winegar in Miss Rosamunda's bottle?” say Ted.

“Oi KIN read,” say th'gal, “thet say so on th'learble.”

“Blust me,” say Ted, “Th'wicar hint th'ony hinnacent round hare.”

— • —

2.01.8 - Droit de Seigneur

When the vicar took over the living at Little Mardlingham, the Vicarage had been well supplied with drapery, furnishings, kitchen and tableware.   There was little essential to be added to household, gardens, conservatory or coach-house, save perhaps servants, livestock, cake and other perishables.   This had well suited the state of his purse, but begun a series of long suffering sighs from his sister Rosamunda.

By way of transport, a simple governess cart had been included, but sadly, no pony to go with it.   The previous vicar having had an arrangement with the adjoining dairy for the loan of a suitable hay-burner when required.   The tack room, however boasted a single lonely side-saddle of sturdy, but antiquated design.   Miss Rosamunda, finding herself itching with impatience in the bright dawn light, and therefore unable to wait for the delivery of her new Spanish saddle, had thrown it over the new filly and set off for her first tryst with Sir Marcus.   A little later in the day, deliveries start to arrive in the village:

“Marn'n Jimma,” say Stan, as th'brewery dray come owta th'pub yard, “Ar'yer hed'n past th'wicarage?”

“Oi am,” say Jimma, “Hop yew up hare, bor.”

“Wuss in th'parcel?” say Stan, “Pic-nic lunch?”

“Thas a Spanish saddle fer Miss Rosamunda,” say Jimma, “Oi'm save'n th'carrier a trip.”

“Loos'n him a tip, more like!” say Stan, “Enna'kearse yew hint sune anuff.”

“Sune anuff?” say Jimma, “NOo budda sed enna'thi'n 'bowt been ‘sune anuff’ - ony ‘sune as yer kan’.”

“Saw har th'smarn'n,” say Stan, “Side-saddle!   Oi wuz try'n nut ter larf, when she arsk me a funna quest'n.”

“Wuss thet, then?” say Jimma.

“Wuss ‘Droit de Seigneur’?” say Stan, “Bin read'n sum funna buks, Oi reckon.”

“Sumth'n 'bowt Spanish saddles, is'ut?” say Jimma.

“Sumth'n 'bowt Spanish practices, more loike,” say Stan, “Ancient rites, Lords a'th'Manor, chaste maidens an' gitt'n fust bite a'th'turnip.”

“Ah! Thet ‘Droit de Seigneur?’” say Jimma, “Dew we hev thet in Mardl'n'um?”

“Oi'd ha' sed nOo,” say Stan, “But then she arsk me if Oi knew Sir Marcus hint nut got nOo lobes ter hiz ears.”

— • —

2.01.9 - Architecture - Avian or Angellic?

To save Jimma the job, Stan has delivered the Spanish saddle to The Vicarage and at the disgruntled vicar's request dumped it on the bench in the tackroom adjoining the coach-house and loosebox.

Stan had then shared his concern about Miss Rosamunda's tryst with Sir Marcus and her bombshell about his earlobes, after which he and the vicar had hurried across to the churchyard for a consultation with Jarge:

“Marn'n Wicar, marn'n Stan,” say Jarge, “Be down inna minut.”

“Wuss he dew'n on th'porch ruff?” say Stan, “Fort thet wuz dun wi'mend'n las'week.”

“Thwarting an attempt at avian architecture,” says the vicar, “Bird's nest in the water-spout.”

“Wull sa'long as thas avian, nut angellic,” say Stan, with a grin.

“Certainly wouldn't want to discourage them,” says the vicar, having his first laugh of the day, “Angel's nests being so rare this season.”

“Now, wuss thus orl abowt?” say Jarge, slid'n down th'ladder wi'a sart'n applum.

“Blust Bor,” say Stan, “Yew cud dew yersel'a'ningery, loike thet.”

“Tell him what you told me,” says the vicar, “About Sir Marcus.”

“He's anutha wun wi'nOo earlobes,” say Stan, “Thet giv'us tree parsable culpr'ts.”

“Young Silky, the travelling dudman; Fribbins, the decrepit butler and Sir Marcus, the Lord of the Manor,” says the vicar.

“Oi'll bet a pint a'horse-feathers thet hint Fribbins,” say Stan.

“And I'll cap that with the same weight in angel-feathers,” says the vicar.

“Oi'd reely luv th'buth'a'yer ter be'n error,” say Jarge, “But Oi happen ter know Fribbins an'th'dudman ar'relearted.”

“Poor old Fribbins just had to be the skeleton in somebody's cupboard,” says the vicar.

“Why dunt th'wicar jus'gOo a'narsk th'changel'n mothers?” say Jarge.

“Or Stanley could put it to Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “As part of his duties as the parish clerk.”

“Or we cud orl jus'weart fer Miss Rosamunda ter git back frum har ride,” say Jarge.

— • —

NEXT - chapters - LATEST

All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.

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  INTRODUCTION - New readers start here:

  INDEX to Book One.

  Spring Fever - (Book 2, Chapter 1)
  Episodes:
  2.01.1 - Wringing the Sheets
  2.01.2 - Springtime in the Scullery
  2.01.3 - Fresh Eggs and Joshua
  2.01.4 - Wigs, Lobes and Kedgeree
  2.01.5 - Poetry and Toothache
  2.01.6 - Fiddle-Faddle-Saddle
  2.01.7 - Innocents in the Vicarage
  2.01.8 - Droit de Seigneur
  2.01.9 - Architecture - Avian or Angellic?

  Rosamunda's Tryst - (Book 2, Chapter 2)
  Episodes:
  2.02.1 - View from the Tower
  2.02.2 - Tavern or Teashop
  2.02.3 - Rosamunda Returns
  2.02.4 - Chocolate Cake not Droit de Seigneur
  2.02.5 - London in the Spring
  2.02.6 - The Moment of Departure

  Correspondence - (Book 2 - Chapter 3)
  Episodes:
  2.03.1 - Rosamunda's Letter
  2.03.2 - The Vicars Reply
  2.03.3 - Rosamundas Response
  2.03.4 - Missive from Marcus
  2.03.5 - Perry Replies
  2.03.6 - Homnibus or Charabang

  Cromer or Bust - (Book 2 - Chapter 4)
  Episodes:
  2.04.1 - An Early Start
  2.04.2 - Bursting with Daytrippers
  2.04.3 - Wagon Load of Mothers
  2.04.4 - Slack in the Reigns
  2.04.5 - Fourpence for the Cow
  2.04.6 - Red Cabbage in Cider
  2.04.7 - Cromer in View
  2.04.8 - Half full of Cider
  2.04.9 - Nettles are for Sprinkling

  Down in Cromer Town - (Book 2 - Chapter 5)
  Episodes:
  2.05.1 - Like a Tipply-Topply Toy
  2.05.2 - Three Horse Race?
  2.05.3 - Centrifugal Intimacy
  2.05.4 - The Beach at Last
  2.05.5 - Tuppence will get you nowhere
  2.05.6 - Tale of Two Dogs
  2.05.7 - Putting the Boot In
  Author's Note:  Not Fashion Boots
  2.05.8 - The Gentleman Flasher
  2.05.9 - Donkey Derby

  Cromer Beach - (Book 2 - Chapter 6)
  Episodes:
  2.06.1 - Steam, Tea and Caravans
  2.06.2 - Not a Polite Question
  2.06.3 - Let Neptune Tickle your Keel
  2.06.4 - The Colliers Nuts
  2.06.5 - Outbreak of Class-war?
  2.06.6 - Silver Not Gold

  Time to go Home - (Book 2 - Chapter 7)
  Episodes:
  2.07.1 - Tick-Tock Where's my Flock
  2.07.2 - Not Squit but Nonsense
  Author's Note:  Edward Lear
  2.07.3 - Sober as a Buzzard
  2.07.4 - Inventions of Satan
  2.07.5 - No Need to Ask

  Home James (and Don't Spare the Horses) - (Book 2 - Chapter 8)
  Episodes:
  2.08.1 - Ales and Spirits
  2.08.2 - Vale of Shadows
  2.08.3 - Driving without Lights
  2.08.4 - Ghost of Blickling Woods
  2.08.5 - A Hack for the Vicar

  Blame the Butler? - (Book 2 - Chapter 9)
  Episodes:
  2.09.1 - Drama Times Three
  2.09.2 - Foot in the Saddle
  2.09.3 - Follow the Dog
  2.09.4 - Who'd be a Fox?
  Author's Note:  Real Characters
  2.09.5 - Watching the Detectives
  2.09.6 - Thrashing About

  Not Enough Breakfast - (Book 2 - Chapter 10)
  Episodes:
  2.10.1 - Importance of Breakfast
  2.10.2 - Raising some Steam
  Author's Note: Walter Hancock
  2.10.3 - Coal Smoke and Coffee
  2.10.4 - River, Steam or Horse-power?
  2.10.5 - No Fooling the Dog
  2.10.6 - Humanity and Friendship
  2.10.7 - Rain of Barley
  2.10.8 - Miss Amelia Dominates
  2.10.9 - Brace of Telegrams

  Back to Normal - (Book 2 - Chapter 11)
  Episodes:
  2.11.1 - Any Corpse in a Hurry
  2.11.2 - Draughts and Saddle-Sores
  2.11.3 - Rumours Abounding
  2.11.4 - Pulling One Off
  2.11.5 - Charity and Mischief

  The Diversion - (Book 2 - Chapter 12)
  Episodes:
  2.12.1 - Knocking off Saint Andrew
  2.12.2 - Fishing - Fly and Sly
  2.12.3 - Baffled by Injectors
  2.12.4 - Wobbly Ladder
  2.12.5 - Opposites Attract
  2.12.6 - INK - Chinese or Indian

  Latest Episode - (New episodes 5 to 7 times a week)

— • —

Chapter Index updated about once a week!

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