Ulverton (22 page)

well now yea up hup best foot forrud down here into beechen copse hup eh eh look look there Red Admirable on that clover look firsest I have seed this year an got a bit teared on the way look aye be needin a fine needle to stitch that little feller up boy aye hup aye cool as a plum at this time o’ mornin aneath the beechen trees aye Hoppetty had a cruel fancy on thy old Mam boy down with thy Dad in same parish book as old Jo Perry yit they names be in copperplate an mine be a mark weren’t never no scholard boy well bress-ploughin when I were awmost bran new as thee be buggerin hell sunked out o’ sight like a gurt stone now what you gone an got thyself that dang flammation on the bellowses for boy didn’t they have no meadow-sweet boy they buggers gid they nowt but them pastilles I reckons as thy Mam’s breath be ripe wi’ them pastilles mint ripe for kissin I says mint ripe for kissin now why bist this here paunchy tree be took right bad atop well fauty wi’ rust when old Dick Knapp were took by keeper dodged Dick’s knife git rammed to the haft chock in her broke hisself clean atwo now fauty wi’ rust aye fauty wi’ rust en’t right now wi’out thee to finger the hurt boy en’t right at all can awmost hear the corn turnin golden in the coombs wi’out thee axin I on this an that that an this this an that it be as if spirit be flied off out o’ here an out o’ every drat place boy wi’out thee to ax I over agin why that tree aneath withy-wine be fauty wi’ rust why that sorrel were ate in the sturvin days why that tixt o’ lovin words to old Lizzie Pyke were cut in the bark o’ crooked ash yonder one while past save words en’t grawed an the old tree have why gurt oak on high road be called Sam’s Own as we ud hang from an collar plums wi’ a stick shaved sharp out o’ Harry Tagg’s fruit cart passin aneath hup aye ben’t no use at all steppin out wi’out a ear an a eye to stir my old chaak nope en’t narn to hear my rigmaroles save in the boozer boy as be only for ale en’t narn o’ they boozers raaly listenin anyways come come Jonas it be worth a jug o’ never fear now worth a jug o’ never fear
oh
forty gallons o’ never fear forty gallons o’ table beer forty gallons o’ worse nor that an forty gallons o’ rattle tap yaa allus thought as I’d have a jug out o’ thee in the Never Fear as you fine folk knows as New Inn en’t bin new for a tarnal long time betwixt thee an I an the gate-post kaaarkok pheasant boy nice fat pheasant whole copse be a-move wi’ game yit you collars one whiskut o’ beech out o’ here they’d pull us up in a jiff them near buggers yaa never had no drop o’ milk till I were fourteen save out o’ my mam’s dugs them close-fisted fanners gid us nowt though it were a-drippin off they noses frozed we were them winters wi’out a stick to rub aye worsest days Master Dannul worsest days an there I goes ploughin on to seventy please God an you as the heron did drop in the moss get sunked when thee be jus about a hobbledehoy what is a hobbledehoy Mr Perry well I never a chap be called a hobbledehoy as be short of a man but more’n a boy thee on’t never feel that there gurt sappy feller creep into thy gullet an hinder thy voice an stretch thy limbs summat gawky so as thee on’t know where thee begins nor ends all they jimp gals a-splashin an a-squealin in river makin thee a-hanker that bad thee’d want to weep nope on’t never git thee out o’ that sailor toggery now boy now thee be a-rollin thy hoops over the Awmighty’s bestest peonies drat it I were goin to show thee them glass jiggamies wi’ the shadders on ’em I telled thee on as I found in old Miss Peep-Hole’s attic that Red House it were called then Bew’s Lane jus over-right the Chapel an I were axed to clear he out ater she had leaved this world well that were a thing a-sunk into her bath chair anigh I doin the gardenin atween the field jobs then please God plantin her a smacker on the cheek ater she had passed on cold as dewfall boy if you don’t kiss the face o’ the corpse it do have a knack o’ troublin thee afresh aye well I were prunin roses click click oh Stephen Stephen she do cry all on a sudden them pages o’ writin blowed all over lawn oh Mr Quiller well I says he be jus now passed away you knows that ma’am oh Stephen Stephen an she do claps I to her breast though she be that poorly a bag o’ bones as twere like bein elapsed by a sparrer oh Stephen Stephen then she do yowl like a hare in a trap as to git the crows an ravens off o’ she well I reckoned as she were well nigh to keckin it jus like Mr Quiller as they didn’t find nowt wrong wi’ jus a kind o’ curse they said as come out o’ some old king’s tomb from the year dot an I says I’ll be jus a minut gettin Doc Scott over bein as the maid
were
out to shop no she cries no a minut be a blur too long too long a minut be a blur too long aye I en’t never got rid o’ that it have stuck like shit to a blanket a minut be a blur too long then she goes on agin about the birds they crows an ravens an I says there en’t no birds save they rooks in the churchyard makin a hell on a din then she do pant an reach deep athin her gurt black skirt as she ud have her camera jiggamy aneath when she were peepin oh I knowed it see I knowed it cotched her one time a-bogglin on old Janey Pocock makin sweet wi’ that Mary Stroude’s bro his Dad were the top harness-maker round abouts in a boat they was aye aye I seed it all over-right to she stopped dead I were other side o’ river jus back from rakin for old man Barr well into her skirt she goed an pulled out a envelope an says when these seeds bloom think on me think on tarnity an how they seeds were older nor a number o’ years as made I giddy an how the universe were a ripple on a lake an life were a spuddlin o’ the river o’ time an whatnot an her hand gid a little jump in mine jus like a rabbet twitchin in snare an lo behold she were dang dead as a nit God rest her soul boy en’t never sowed they old black seeds for she med come an trouble I then yit Jo don’t mind if thee dost Master Dannul don’t mind if thee dost thee can trouble I any old day to show thee them glass jiggamies wi’ shadders on ’em clearin out see new chap in her house says take home what you like what don’t git throwed in cart Perry my man well I finds they glass jiggamies in attic look an takes they home well nigh fifty on ’em on account o’ my teeny-tiny patch as growed my cabbages see aye pushed they on till I had the paunchiest cabbages abouts outside the greenhouse gents knowed for it I was oh knowed for it narn else didn’t have no cloches see seed faces in they jiggamies now an agin old Lizzie Pyke wi’ a yoke o’ water once trees an horses old dame Trason as were chursened Hannah Mary Heddin one time though she were a while dead by then athurt a cabbage one mornin as gid me a fright an a haaf aye jus like old Dick Knapp one day a-bended over my patch as seed a face in there as made him yowl like a pig an turn all creamy-faced so as he had to seat hisself only he never telled I what it were save he were chewin on about a pair o’ specs an highty-tighty wives an some Doctor feller puttin he up to it an axin for the Lord’s massy afore he claps up well that were different anyways old Dick Knapp axin for the Lord’s massy jus on account o’ one o’ my shadders see like a shadder on his conscience I reckoned aye shifty
old
bugger old Dick Knapp aye cool as a plum along here boy cool as a plum don’t see no faces in they now ater what thretty year don’t see no faces now please God

nope I reckons as the smacker on her face wore they hauntins out see never throwed nowt out all my born days see nope smack every one o’ my old coats an britches my missus have a-patched into ourn peg-rug boy aye better nor haaf my born days be aneath my heels afront hearth in peg-rug boy well firsest shirt as Buzly Tuck teared off of I one harvest too much booze wantin a picky-back or summat daft that big shirt be cobbled in somewhere there boy Gumbledons aye in Gumbledons old Buzly Tuck as couldn’t get a well aye us jus wantin our brencheese see dead beat aye yea up look master rabbin redbreast checkin up on us as we ben’t be doin no evil tic-tic nosy little chit look aye well hup brashy piece o’ sponge old Gumbledons yit that drat wheat were thick as ever agin the strike well thee’d have to skin thy shirt like a rabbet’s fleck off anights them reaper gingins have took that away howsomever them old timers ud maunder on about it aye look look buntin boy aye buntin hup aye them newfangled clackettin dos have took haaf o’ the muck an toil away though thee can’t sing no filthy chunes no more an so as the hart doth pant hard in the hunt for the brazen elf queen I do dream on her whoa see aye boy you wi’ all they stiff-arsed angels I’d better minds me now boy who comes here then hmm hmm TIME O’ DAY MISS hmmmmm hm Parkes’ daughter aye they gals don’t ride side-saddle now see gallopy gallopy gallop pleasurin for a gal see pommel knockin her thatch aneath hill jiggetty jiggetty jig aye Littler my cus Littler Moses acause his old Dad were Moses aready see jus there aneath that beech yonder laas o’ the bluebells yonder clanged by a spring-gun in ’25 aye bloody cobweb in here with they trippy wires trip bang worser to hang aye off acornin then scat for two day till one o’ they keepers brung a waggon out o’ Plum Farm Littler in the back aneath a rag sterk dead boy aye sterk bloody dead I remimbers thee’d shiver a bit at that Master Dannul an he were only a nip catched a pound o’ shot in his stumps well bled to a husk bettermost haaf the night they reckoned gawpin up on they starries jus yonder agin them there bluebells some on us weaved a cross out o’ straw now an agin an leaved it there if we was snarin anyways on’t never want to pass away like that boy wi’out narn else to hold thee aye to hold thee an only a nip

dang it bloody buggerin hell this life en’t bin no dish o’ tay jus about a sop in sour grease it be save thee be one o’ they Lordyshits whoa about now you comether an look through here boy you have a peep at palace from the arse-end mind thy soul on this here barb wire don’t want to get harled up like a bloody lamb a-fleckin thy sailor toggery off agin they tangs look there see them chaps a-brevettin about the bowlin green they be lookin for a tall blade o’ grass as have gone aground aye thee’d chuckle at that Master Dannul tall blade o’ grass as have gone aground oh we’d have some laafs boy thy Mam en’t never bin one for laafs now she be like Queen Vic boy like she have a gnawin aye everlastinly rustlin black black as the Squire’s cream knacker as us old Ulver folk do say now riddle the chaff out o’ that boy riddle the chaff out o’ that aye all I remimbers be a clink clink o’ pails an a scuttlin up scarp an a smell o’ burnin gurt glitterin eye aneath moon well haaf asleep I was an only a nip same as thee Master Dannul gettin upsides wi’ all they buggers aye you med have bin in there an played the toff afore but you en’t never seed it this arsy-versy ways about hast thee now look ’ee yonder awmost to village they silver birch they calls it the Wilderness boy acause it don’t have no grass an highty-tighty flowers like a damn carpit well it weren’t no bloody wilderness afore nope my gurt-gurt-gramver were born in there no hedge-bit neither nope took they a mornin my gramver telled I to slap they homes down to a plume o’ chaak dust an faggots jus for a bit o’ garden for they Lordyshits aye an my gramver had it from her own gramver’s mouth herself boy aye oh there be us an others here as on’t never disremimber that till Doomsday boy won’t never disremimber that till the clang o’ Doom aye plough an drill an mow atop the chaak aneath en’t stirred yaa that gurt lake I remimbers nowt but turf an sheep about she now look a man can’t walk straight wi’out doin a nancy boy about they flower beds cotched a swan afore now out o’ there splish splish gurt white wings all sooty wi’ our mitts blackened up see flit flit stick her in the gullet well that were a doins an a haaf leastways a stop to thy nips howlin wi’ hunger for a month yaa have to go to shop for arn dalled thing now here be to all his Lordyshit’s jack-rabbets as have biled the pot an kep I off from sturvin well they didn’t do nowt for my old Mam boy bag o’ bones wi’ her givin us young grubs all as she was hern then stone-cartin off Top Field they flints spreethin her mitts I can see they now boy
a-strokin
us when I were took wi’ the scarlet one time a-foldin theyselves an prayin aye I can see they now all welted an crook tallow flame jumpin up her shadder agin the beam an all that mumblin to God as en’t never gid us nowt but sour sops aye God shed bloody rest her soul boy if so be as He have one then eh kaaaa kaaaa kaaaa hear they rooks kaaaa kaaaa an haaf a stone o’ corn in ivery one o’ they nests old Long Togs Long Togs Whiteacre Ralphy Oadam Titchy Ketchaside old Plashy Pottinger as couldn’t say owt but plash bein as he didn’t hear nowt as a babby but plashin an plashin o’ mill-wheel see an my cus Churlet Griffin more a boy wi’out a willum nor a gal an Jonas shinnin the ellums out on Frum Down dinner o’ rooks corn fluff in cake-hole while they Chammers-Lavery folk well nigh blawed theyselves at dinner us folk chokin on rook-fluff an they eatin their bloody heads off no folk not even they niggers out Africa way never had to live as us done well one while past some blokes among us did get a mite obstroppelus about it clouted a few gingins all to smash like slitted the grain out like a chicken-throat aye tell me about the Trouble Mr Perry what Master Dannul says I the whole lot over agin oh yes Mr Perry it’s topping I think haa yaa thee were allus a bloody good sort boy aye well no better nor ten year I were yit I minds us they men comin out the courthouse like it were yeserday see well my Mam’s brother Giley Griffin hollerin don’t thee be worrited chit tis only fourteen year then Johnny Cap’n Oadam wavin at us hoi hoi tis danglin for me but it shattent hold gal old Shepherd Bunce’s lad as had his flock out Bursop way don’t blubber mother tis only life they on’t be makin away wi’ me an all them fellers come out as were ploughmen an reapers an hedgers an horsemen an shearers an shepherds as you don’t git the likes of now well ploughmen as could draw a furrer plum as that horsemen as maunt turn out a team wi’out a bloom as ud blind thee on they flanks aye blind thee on they flanks an my old Mam an Auntie Ruth screamin fit to bust an all on us yowlin knockin our heads an blubberin an the nips blubberin acause they seed their Mams blubberin an squawlin aye their boots didn’t never touch no Ulver turf no more nor didn’t never squelch up Little Hangy nor go poachin tip-toe in Bayleaze nor get thick nor clamput about the yard nor get thick wi’ crossin athurt Mwile Slad nor dusted on the maiden rudge ways handlin their tools o’ their occepashins no more nor git poorly in their arn beds an have
a
stone anigh their heads as nips med pick blooms for an all for nowt boy all for nowt recitin thee on this now boy athout thee don’t ezackerly recalls a-lookin on that there fine house an fine garden what they tot-bellies done to kip theyselves blawed galled us with they saddles till the blood come out aye blood come out aye gid us a leg up onto the old cross good an proper boy aye banged they nails in like they were ruttin they highty-tighty wives aye yea up hup best foot forrud Master Dannul lest thee leave a fleck o’ thy soul on their drat tangs on’t never be a toff now thee on’t nope no them buggers on’t cotch thee now boy four an twenty Ulver men ne’er hollered in the coomb though morn was come an sun were up twere silent as the tomb aye so climb the hill hi-ho come climb the hill hi-ho we’ll gie the lads a milk-white steed that they med gallop home an so forth worth a pot o’ bunk an a bit o’ twist in the ale-house that patch o’ singin as shed be ater you be that dry a-roarin it nope on’t never cotch thee an turn thee to a toff now boy thee be old Hoppetty’s own now boy old Hoppetty’s own as med larn thee all to hisself dang the lot on ’em