PREWD

Being those portions of the Mousehold Press book 'Prewd and Prejudice' deemed too long, short, irrelevant, irregular or downright irreverent for inclusion in the original publication.

Percy Fotherskill was a well known eccentric of his day, who at one time or another engaged in a number of amateur 'enthusiasms', in some of which he had a limited sort of success. He always managed, however, to miss the really big breakthrough. In 1929, for instance, he discovered a way of killing off penicillin mould. Some fifty years earlier, in 1876, he had invented the speaking clock, but being unaware of Alexander Graham Bell's contemporaneous work on the telephone he could see no use for it.

Excitedly I called on Mrs kipper and asked what she could tell me. She assured me that she could tell me all about it. She could, she said, but she wouldn't. I was crestfallen, but she could not be persuaded to change her mind. Was it, I enquired, because I was a man, and that this knowledge was traditionally that of the wise women of the area, to be taught only to the initiated? No, she replied, it wasn't that. It was because they had already been published by Sodder and Roughton in her book 'Dot Kipper's Handy Household Hints', now out of print. She did me one piece of advice, but "Mind your own business" didn't seem to me to be a particularly helpful suggestion for a researcher.

Sid offered to sell me a rare first edition of the book, adding "Mind you, that's not as rare as a second edition would be", but I declined when I heard the price. I did, however, come across another useful source, 'Nature Notes From North Norfolk', by Dr Cal Thorpe. One chapter describes some of the rare plants of the area, some of which might bear fruit if examined for medicinal purposes:

This rather shy little fern is unique to the area. It gets its name from its curiously shaped leaves. In cultivation it must be deflowered in the Spring if it is to bear fruit.

A rather ugly plant which grows freely in the area, with a serrated leaf and khaki coloured flower. Its chief feature are the fruits, which fit exactly into the human ear, and are used locally as ear plugs. The origins of its name are obscure.

Unable to support itself, this plant climbs up others and hangs out over the highways and byways of the area, often catching the unwary passer-by, just as the mythical old man - sometimes named as Jack Kepper - was supposed to have done.

From the Old English 'Martinmas Day's eye (daeges eage), because it flowers on or around the 11th of November. The flower open only briefly, rather as though it takes one look, sees the grey, overcast weather, and closes again. Rarely seen today, as I write this in the spring. See also NICHOLAS DAISY of Sidestrand.

A nasty little plant, curled and dripping a saliva-like substance. It is said locally to have curative properties, but this author feels that the cure must be worse than the disease.

Sid's grandfather, William Kipper, was known for his sayings about the weather, which included "If the seaweed is wet, that means the tide's in", "Red sky at night, shepherds pie", and the one which Sid claims has never failed to be correct:

Nowadays we tend to laugh at such doggerel as this, but it must be remembered that in those dark days before Michael Fish there was no better way of predicting that which was all important to the countryman.

Sid Mother says you can have all your weather men on the telly, but she won't. She still goes by the old rhymes, plus her right knee. If that Ian McCasket had mother's right knee he wouldn't need all them charts and things to tell the weather, because the knee would tell him. I mean, just the other week mother was round at Mrs Dace's house, and she was nodding off after the 6 o'clock news on the BBC, and she distinctly heard her knee say that there would be changeable weather tomorrow, caused by a depression over the urinals. And sure enough, her knee was spot on. You can always tell a good weather man by his limp, that's what I say.

It is said that people would travel miles to hear the inspiring words of 'the demon bawler', as he came to be known. The church would be packed when word got around that he was to ride his hobbyhorse, and after the service the Goat Inn would be packed, and the village green covered with picnickers who had brought along their lunch and, of course, something with a little kick to wash it down. The highlight came when the curate moved amongst them, roundly abusing them for their drinking habits, and a toast would be drunk to him all round. Then, exhausted, he would retire to his digs, and for a month or two be once again the shy, retiring cleric.

It was not the famous, or even the infamous, that gave the Goat Inn its character, but the regulars.

One such was Nathaniel Newt, a nineteenth century worthy, who occupied the same seat by the fireside for over forty years. He did have a home to go to, but when asked why he never went there he would always reply "I went there once and she made me do the washing up, so I aren't going there again until I'm dead". The landlord, Ernie Spratt, was one of the old school, and would never bother a customer by clearing up around him, so Nathaniel's corner gradually piled up with rubbish. For the last ten years of his life nobody saw anything of him except for an arm, which would periodically thrust an empty tankard through the detritus and accept a full one - he never was one for idle chatter. Consequently he had been dead for three days before anyone realised. Ernie, of course, had noticed that he wasn't drinking, but didn't want to disturb him in case he had a bad hangover.

Eventually they dug him out and he was carried home in a triumphal procession, with the village band in attendance. They were not allowed to play, but they always enjoyed an excuse to put on their uniforms. His wife, Natalie Newt, refused to let him into the house, however, saying "Last time he came home he left the plates all greasy and forgot to wipe the draining board. Let him stay at the Goat." So back they processed, and he was laid out on the bar counter. Being well pickled he did not go off, and he remained there as a conversation piece for several months. Eventually Mrs Pratt got fed up with people starting fires by knocking their pipes out in his pockets, and he was buried, sitting in his own seat, in St Just-near-Trunch churchyard, where he remains to this day, as far as anyone knows.

The English will sing in the praise of good ale;

The Scots extol scotch, if they're able.

In France, and such places, it's wine without fail,

But they're all equal under the table.

Some sip and savour, decrying all haste;

Some gulp it down, for they can't stand the taste,

But if it were rationed they'd all join the queues -

Bottoms up! Get it down you! as long as it's booze.

part of Three Cheers For Booze.

When the Goat Inn was modernised, the beams, furniture and fitting were not actually thrown away.

Sid When they done up the pub my Great Uncle Albert took a fancy to having all that stuff for himself. So he went down the pub to have a word with Old Ernie. Well, he was gong there anyway, as a matter of fact. And when he had gone he said "I suppose you've got a bit of a problem, what with there to throw all that stuff away". And Old Ernie said yes, he had. So Albert told him he could dump it round the back of our cowshed for a fiver. "Bring it any time you like", he said.

So Ernie did. The time he liked was four o'clock in the morning, so Albert wasn't actually in, but he was no sooner home than he took all that stuff and fitted it up in the cowshed. By all accounts it looked really smart, and Albert even fitted some of the beer pumps up into a kind of a milking machine.

Anyhow, it all eventually fell into disrepute after we got rid of the cows, and it might have been rotting there to this very day if it wasn't for a peculiar co-incidence. About fifteen years ago they decided to do the pub up again, and call it the Old Goat Inn. Well, my uncle George sold them all that stuff back again for a tidy sum. Young Ernie was delighted. He reckoned George had outdone himself, getting beams and stuff that fitted exactly like that. So on top of the money George got free drinks for a month, and he didn't have to nick any of them.

The modern visitor to the Old Goat might be forgiven for not realising that any of these changes had ever taken place, so well did all the old bits and pieces fit in again. It is only the hoof marks on the furniture and the mangers along the walls that give this remarkable secret away.

The longest day comes one Sunday in October, because that's when we put the cocks back. Then we have a day of twenty-five hours, which is one longer than the rest, except for the shortest day, which comes in the spring and only has twenty-three hours.

Sid may have something there, although if he has it probably fell off the back of a lorry. However, unfortunately for his theory, the introduction of Daytime Saving was not until some years after Mrs Prewd's stay, so it would not have applied.

The term 'longest day' refers, of course, to the day with the greatest number of daylight hours. Its significance in St Just-near-Trunch was mainly that this day offered the least possible opportunity for any activity which required darkness for its success. It also meant that those who prided themselves on being 'up with the lark' spent most of the day wandering around in a state of exhaustion, with bags under their eyes. Sid, himself far too wise to suffer from this particular problem, remembers some who did:

Take old 'Pansy' Whelk, who was head gardener up at the Hall. He used to work all the hours God sent. They reckon he could be found up at the church every night in the summer, praying to God not to send so many. Of course, that was daft. I mean, he was a terrible sinner, so God wasn't about to listen to what he wanted, was He?

In them days your life was ruled by the seasons. There was no lights to work by, so in the winter you could spend all your time in the pub, drinking. Nowadays its all too easy to forget - well, I forget what it's all too easy to forget, which just goes to improve my point, don't it?

Maud having gone out, I did try on her spare uniform, if only to be certain that is was not an option. I confess that I did not don the undergarments which normally accompany the clothes; as they seemed hardly decent. So I wore my own, more substantial, garments. The effect was rather bizarre, as they proved to be longer than the skirt, but I decided that they must do. I also found the shoes too small for even my dainty feet, so was forced to improvise with the nearest footwear of my own which was, in fact, my riding boots. After the addition of a little make-up I turned to the mirror, and found myself quite changed. I was sure that I would never be recognised by the dullards of this village.

And then an idea struck me. I could test out this belief by taking a brief walk in the lane. It was a silly fancy, and quite unworthy of me, but the donning of the costume seems to have brought out the daring and light-headedness of the theatre.

Once outside I quickly realised my folly. The disguise was a success, of course. Nobody challenged me, all seeming to be distracted by some humorous occurrence. Passers by laughed in a strange sort of way behind their hands, and grinned stupidly at me. I tried to smile back with the witless grin of the working classes, and this seemed to work, as it evidently increased their merriment. But it seemed best to quickly return home. Imagine my horror, then, when I found Farmer Trout blocking my way. He looked me up and down in a most unpleasant manner, and said "Now who have we here? A stranger to these parts, I think". Hastily disguising my voice I insisted that he step aside as I had business at the house. I hoped profoundly that he would not enquire after the nature of that business, as the horror of the situation had sent all sensible thoughts fleeing. But his mind had taken another, much more sordid, tack.

"Of course I'll let you pass", he said, "But only after you've given me a kiss for a toll. It's the custom around here. Those of us who can't get venison must settle for hare, and you're certainly game in that outfit".

The suggestion was preposterous. Yet I must get back inside before anyone else came along and saw me. As Uncle Wesley was wont to say "If you make your own petard then you must hang on it". I should just have to think of England and allow him to kiss me, which is what I did. I actually tried to imagine that it was dear Doyley I was kissing, though surely no member of the Nobility could have so cold a tongue. After what seemed like some hours, but was probably only five to ten minutes, the brute released me, and propelled me through the gate with the hand he had placed familiarly on my nether regions. Thus I finally gained sanctuary, defiled but defiant. I quickly divested myself of the horrid garments and, dressed once again decently, slowly regained my composure. I shall certainly not be wearing that disguise on the morrow.

As a consequence of their meeting Mrs Prewd records that farmer Trout became even more familiar than he had been before, tending to greet her with a wink and a question such has "How's the garden? Any bloomers showing?" Mrs Prewd avoided him whenever possible.

From the start, the Trunch Derby was held annually, always on Trunch Derby Day, the date of which varied, depending on when the race was run. By 1904 the standard of horse in the race had considerably improved, and competitors came from as far away as Little Snoring and Aslacton, the latter usually supported by a coach party, who had such a good time that they often spent the next two or three months getting home. The race is no longer run, alas. With the decline in horse ownership it became impossible to attract enough entries. For a while they tried running it with dogs, but suitable jockeys were not forthcoming.

The sole remaining trace of the race is the fact the Old Goat still remains open all day on Derby Day. It is not usually possible to get served, however.

Following the incident at the 1904 Derby Ursula Parkhurst was barred from the parish of St Just-near-Trunch, though precautions against her return were relaxed following her death in 1936. A poster offering a hogshead of horseradish wine for anyone giving information of her approach may still be seen at the Coote Memorial Museum, but only on request, as it has been used to fill up a gap in the floorboards.

Following my allarums and excursions of the last few days I must confess to feeling a little below par. My late husband, incidentally, would have been delighted if he had ever managed to achieve that state. On his frequent visits to the golf course he always complained of being above it. Be that as it may, and despite the satisfactory outcome of the last week, I have been left somewhat jaded.

I happened to remark to Maud that I had not the energy to personally supervise her ablutions today, and so must put her on trust to wash behind everything. She was a little surprised, I think, but then turned to me and said "Are you feeling a bit under the weather or not, Mrs Prewd?" It had nothing to do with her, but I lacked the energy to press the point. Taking advantage of my silence she chattered on: "What you want is a pick me up. I'll go and pick you one up", and before I could reply she had donned hat and coat and gone out. I did not expect to see her again for some time, as she often dallies disgracefully, but she was quickly back with a small package, bearing the barely legible, and decidedly illiterate legend 'elder bury and licherish'. Inside were a number of rough black lozenges.

I immediately assured Maud that I would have nothing to do with them. "Oh, but there's no harm in them", she insisted; "Look, I'll take a couple myself. And with that she swallowed two of the things. They seemed to do her no immediate damage, although a strange look did briefly cross her eyes. So when she pressed me I eventually agreed to take a single lozenge.

For a second I feared that I had made a possibly fatal mistake. It seemed that far from this being a pick me up it might very well be a put you down. But after the initial shock, which I recognised as being the cause of Maud's crossed eyes, I realised that I did feel much better. My lethargy was gone and my thoughts were clear.

I immediately demanded that Maud tell me what I had taken and where it had come from, but she refused, even though I now had the energy to press my demands quite forcefully. All she would say was that what 'they' would do to her if she told would be far worse than anything I could do. I fear she has a lot to learn yet about what I can do.

Gerald Barbel, who used to spend his holidays in the village with his aunt and uncle, recalls the lozenges in his witty autobiography 'My Family, A Load Of Animals':

At that time the locals swore by the lozenges, and indeed at them. My aunt Matilda took one twice a day for forty years - no mean feat when you consider the regurgitation involved. And it did her no harm whatsoever, just as long as you don't consider a hairy chest and bulging biceps harmful. But then, how could you? - Tarzan was much admired for his. Aunt Matilda made a useful second income planting fence posts by hand, saving the employment of a whole gang of men.

To be frank, which I'm not, uncle Frank, who was, felt a bit belittled by the whole thing. Except, of course, on a Saturday night, when he tended to feel nothing at all, an effect caused by the liberal intake of Old Coote at the Goat Inn. He would be in the pub at the crack of opening time, and come closing time he would still be there, trying to get served. After that, when the session really got going, he would get stuck into the beer, and the beer would get stuck into him. He'd finally come rolling home at about 4.30 in the morning, dropped off more often than not by Charlie Cockle, and dropped on immediately by Aunt Matilda, who would make him pay for his revels in certain terms. He took no notice, however, despite what Constable Crabb swore in court. I happen to know that the notice was taken by one Albert Kipper, although I saw two of them at the time, because I had been helping uncle Frank with his drinking problem. Following that he swore off the drink and took up the lozenges himself.

The 'they' referred to by Maud, by the way, were undoubtedly the St Just-near-Trunch Women's' Bright Hour. This was an organisation so secret that for many years nobody could be absolutely certain that they even existed.

Sid Well, the members knew, obviously. Otherwise they wouldn't know if they were in a meeting or all just happened to be there at the same time by coincidence. Nowadays everybody knows that they meet every Tuesday afternoon in the Village Hall. But we still don't know what they get up to in there.