PREWD'S
PRUNINGS
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.
July,
July, July awake, a dreaming of your love?
July,
July about your age? - well, gosh, good heavens above!
As
Maud dressed me for the evening I could not help but notice that I was a woman,
and as such privileged to change my mind. I
asked her at what time I should attend the village hall for this evening's
performance, my conversion in no little part influenced by poster for the event
which I had seen at the cobblers. It
seems that Doyley Silver-Darling will be taking part in the production, and
anything which that fine man is involved with cannot, I reasoned, be all bad.
Maud
replied that the event was not to be in the village hall, as this was laid out
ready for a jam session tomorrow. Farmer
Trout's barn is to be used instead. This
did not bode well, but it was too late to change my plans again, especially as I
had sent a card to the Great Hall wishing Doyley good luck.
Doyley
was magnificent. I suppose I should
have expected no less. How manly he
looked in his doublet and tights, with a broad sword swinging between his legs.
The production itself was a dreadful piece of doggerel, and it was only
Doyley's performance as Cromeo, one of the young lovers, that lifted it above
the abysmal. His contribution was
all the more remarkable as he had to pretend to be in love with Maud, who played
the other lover. At one point he
even had to kiss her, but such is his Thespian skill that he made us believe
that he might actually wish to do such a thing, all the time suppressing his
natural revulsion at having to touch the lips of a common servant with his own.
The rest of the cast were as nothing beside him, the vicar being
especially unconvincing as the parson, but even Doyley could do little with such
poor material. The more ignorant
members of the audience (all, that is, beside myself) actually seemed to enjoy
it, and applauded wildly throughout, but such things no longer surprise me. I do
not think the rest of the world will ever hear of this so-called opera.
************************
This
is not the place to go into the story of the Cromer/Sheringham Crab Wars, and
the ballad opera commissioned some 25 years later by the Royal and Ancient
Disorder of Crustaceans. The story
of the Wars is told in the 1999 book 'Crab Wars' by Chris Sugden and Sid Kipper,
and the opera was recorded in 1986 by many of the leading names of English folk
music, under the name of The Kipper Family.
Within the narrow world of traditional music Sid Kipper is, it seems,
regarded with considerable respect for his songs, and this record was made as a
tribute to his singing (I can heartily recommend the recording, if only because
I appear in the chorus). Sid,
however, was not totally convinced:
It seem a funny sort of a tribute to someone's singing when you don't
actually let them sing on the album. Still,
father and I got our own back by doing a lot of talking, so they didn't have it
all their own way.
One
thought occurs to me. The Crab Wars
were settled in the old-fashioned way by a marriage between the two sides.
You have to wonder whether this might still not be the best way to deal
with such matters. Had Mark
Thatcher, for instance, married an Argentinean we might have averted the strife
in the South Atlantic. And would he
really have been missed?
I
mentioned these linguistic peculiarities to Maud, who, goodness alone knows, has
enough of her own. "That'd be
the old rhymeless slang" she said, "Like what they have in the
opera", as if that was some sort of explanation.
Then I recalled that I had heard something of the sort in the dreadful
'Crab Wars' on Friday, when Mr Cod had played the part of Admiral Ben Bow.
I did not pursue the matter, though, being busy admonishing Maud for her
own abuse of the English language with a particularly weighty old dictionary of
uncle Wesley's. Never let it be said
that I do not allow the punishment to fit the crime.
*************************
A
Shannock is a person from Sheringham, a place which developed its own dialect,
in particular the Shannock rhymeless slang.
Sid: Being called a Shannock
isn't so bad. After all, people from
Trunch are called Truncheons! I read
that "Shannock" derives from 'shanny', which means unruly".
That's what I read, but don't blame me for it - blame Mrs Fry for
teaching me to read in the first place.
The
slang was developed by seaside traders as a way of discussing private matters
without being understood by holiday makers. This
is in itself remarkable, since the first holiday makers didn't arrive for at
least three centuries after the slang was invented.
The
slang was both a code and, sometimes, and abbreviation.
It proved quite impenetrable to outsiders, and so ensured that the
secrets of Sheringham were safe from prying ears.
Such a slang is very flexible, and can easily be personalised, with new
elements being made up by the speaker as he goes along.
This is exactly what happened in Sheringham until, eventually, no one
person could understand what any other was talking about.
Whilst this did little for the ease of communication, it led to
Sheringham being one of the most peaceful places in the British Isles, since it
became impossible for anyone to pick a fight with anyone else.
This may, in part, explain the fact that the town still has the greatest
life expectancy of any place in the country.
Sid: You may have heard the
saying 'There's plenty of other pebbles on the beach'.
Well, that din't hold true at Trimingham in them days.
There weren't a single pebble in sight, let alone plenty of others to go
with it. So 'Ten-Ton' Tunny and
Wally Whiting being dispatched there was no good.
But they knew the other saying, 'There's plenty of pebbles on the other
beach', so they went up the coast to Cromer, where there was loads of pebbles to
choose from. Of course, they could
have just gone to Cromer straight off, but orders is orders, isn't they?
Anyhow, they loaded up the horse and cart with pebbles.
Then they unloaded up the horse and just had them in the cart.
That seemed to work better, and soon they were struggling up the hill
past where the secondary school stands now.
I believe it lay down in them days. Anyhow,
when they got to the very top they saw the sign for Cromer High Station.
So Wally said why didn't they go the rest of the way by train.
Well, that seemed like a good idea at the time, mainly because it was a
good idea, I suppose. So they went
back down the hill again, and along to Cromer Beach station, because you
couldn't get direct to Trunch Central from Cromer High, and they all got on the
train and set off.
However, when the guard come round he said as how the horse was using up
two seats, so they'd have to pay an extra fare.
Well, Ten-Ton said that weren't the horse's fault that there weren't no
seats big enough and the railway should have thought of that when they built the
train. But the guard said no, it was
them who should have thought of it when they got the horse, and had a smaller
one instead. But 'Ten-Ton weren't
having none of that. He said a
smaller one couldn't have pulled the cart full of pebbles up that hill, could
it? So the guard said what cart load
of pebbles is that then? Well, that
was when they realised they'd forgotten to put the cart on the train.
But as they were just coming into Trunch Central at the time they decided
to go home for their teas anyhow, so they left the horse on the train for the
morning, and told the guard to sort the fare out with it direct.
So next morning they got the train to Cromer again.
Well, they meant to, but the trains had been rescheduled due to one of
the guards having the day off to recover from horse bites, and the one they
caught went to North Walsham instead. While
they were there they took the chance to do a bit of shopping, had a few drinks
at lunch time, and ended up getting to Cromer Beach at about 3 o'clock.
They had a cup of tea in the buffet, and waited for the next train.
That was the same train as brought them, but the driver wanted to show
off his shunting so it was another couple of hours before it arrived.
When it did come they were just in time to see the horse being thrown off
for smoking in a no-smoking compartment, so they had to walk home anyway.
By the time they got back to St Just it was after dark, so by tradition
they had the next day off for working overtime.
But as that was a Sunday they had the Monday off instead.
On the Tuesday they finally got the pebbles back to St Just, and started
chucking them into the garden, and that was when the trouble begun.
Mrs Prewd got quite aireated, by all accounts, saying as she didn't want
the pebbles just thrown in any old how, and she wanted the garden properly
cobbled. Well, Wally weren't having
none of that. "Each man to his
trade", he said. "Mine is
horse man. If you want cobbling done
then you'll have to get yourself a cobbler".
So off they sent for the village cobbler, 'Piece' Cod, but he wouldn't
come. He reckoned he'd never heard
of a cobbler going to his work, and if they wanted cobbling then they'd have to
bring it to him. Well, by then it
was too late to do it that day, so the next morning they loaded up the cart
again and took all the pebbles to old 'Piece'.
Well, he hummed and hahed a bit - he always hummed a bit did 'Piece', and
he could hah with the best of them if he set his mind to it.
After a lot of humming and considerable amount of hahing he allowed as
how he thought he could see his way to doing the job.
It got done by the Monday evening, just too late for them to take it back
to the house.
So on the Tuesday after the first one I told you about they put the
cobbled pebbles back on the cart and delivered it to the Old Toll House.
'Piece' had done a proper job, and with a bit of stretching it treated a
fit. They finished lacing it up just
as the pub opened for lunch, so, what with Mrs Prewd being out shopping at the
time they went to have a few drinks before coming back to see what she thought
of the job. But by the time they
eventually got out of there she'd come home and gone out again, so they had to
come back the next morning. Well,
she wasn't entirely satisfied with the fancy stitching round the tongue, but
that was hard luck, because that was Piece's trade mark, so in the end she
settled for it. It took all of
Wednesday and the next day to dubbin it against the weather, and they were
finally paid off on the Thursday night. Well,
that suited them just up to the ground, because the day after that was Old Soaks
Day, so they set to drinking the money with a Will.
But that's another story.
The
whole incident ruined my day, and I must say that I needed several glasses of
medicinal brandy upon my return home. This
had the effect of causing uncommon drowsiness, and I awoke late this evening
fully clothed upon the hearth rug, still with a fearful headache caused by the
vulgar behaviour of those people. It
is nearly midnight as I write this, and my handwriting is still rather less than
my governess, Miss Trust, would have admired.
**********************
On
General Coote's death the people of St Just subscribed to the erection of a
statue of their greatest son. It was
unveiled on the very first Old Soak's Day. There
is a strange story about the event:
Sid: Well, it all happened at
the inveigling ceremony. All the
local dignitaries were there - people like the Lord Mayoress of North Walsham,
the Cromer Lifeboat Stepdancers, Augustus Swineherd's boy, Augustus, and so on.
They all lined up, and when the veil was whipped off all the people
gasped in amazement at how lifelike the statue was.
But then, the story goes, the statue began to quiver, and quake, and
shake at the knees, and then fell in a huge heap on the ground.
And all the people gasped again, because that was even more lifelike!
"But
I have not yet told me my symptoms", I protested.
He raised an eyebrow, and proceeded to describe my symptoms exactly;
fuzzy head, parched throat, queasy stomach - I stopped him there, lest he
continue downward to more indelicate regions, although those regions were far
from indelicate at the time. I was
most impressed with his diagnostic skills, and asked how he could have known
what troubled me. "Everyone
shares your trouble today", was all he would say, and I left with my
package.
The
medicine certainly made me feel better. By
afternoon I felt well enough to venture out for my constitutional, and found Rev
Rudd, skulking under a railway bridge. In
our brief conversation I told him of my experience of yesterday, and he
explained that I was not being insulted by the ruffians, but that they were
asking me to join them. I must say
that am unclear of the distinction between the two things.
He
also told me about General Coote, a local hero, it seems, of whom I must admit I
have never heard. I must find out
more about the man.
*************************
I
could have helped Mrs Prewd in her enquiries.
Housed in the Coote Memorial Museum are a wealth of historic documents
which illustrate all aspects of the great man's life.
Here are some brief extracts, reproduced by kind permission of the
assistant curator, Miss Annie Kipper.
For
instance, in a despatch dated 1814 the Duke of Wellington reported:
The English Army marches on its stomach, with the sorry exception of this
fellow Coote. He crawls on all
fours, being for the best part of the day entirely in his cups.
I'd have him drummed out of the service tomorrow, but for the fact that
the bounder has promised me a dozen bottles of a damned fine Bordeaux.
Writing
some fifteen years earlier, in a letter to Lady Hamilton, Lord Nelson enthused
about the hairless General:
Yesterday I had the splendid fortune to meet Coote, who truly is a
remarkable man. No sooner had I
extended my hand to shake one of his than I found he had somehow spirited a
glass of wine into it. I say wine!
Nay, it was elixir itself. On
enquiring what the intoxicating liquor was, the great man informed me that is
was horseradish wine, from his own village of St Just-near-Trunch.
Imagine! A fellow Norfolk
man, and upon my own ship.
We consumed some half a dozen bottles of the stuff before dinner,
whereupon I was informed that French vessels were to aft.
I recall little of what followed, but I am informed that I grabbed one of
the empty bottles in mistake for my telescope, raised it to my good eye, and
declared that I saw no ships, only courtships.
Fortunately for my reputation this was misconstrued by my staff, who
interpreted it as reckless heroism. When
I die, dear Emma, I should like nothing better than to be pickled in a barrel of
this horseradish wine, so that I may soak it through my very pores.
Finally
we have a letter written home from the Crimea by Florence Nightingale in 1855:
I had thought to have attained a degree of immunity to the horrors of
this ghastly war, until yesterday, when a number of men were admitted suffering
from the most dreadful symptoms. On
enquiring, I learned that they had been drinking with the infamous General
Coote, who I once treated unsuccessfully for galloping alopecia.
With him they had consumed an inordinate quantity of a liquid which I
understand to have been prepared from a tincture of horseradish.
I had not the means even to begin treating these poor wretches, and must
needs leave them to their fate. All
night long I heard their agonising groans and sighs, and prayed to God that this
dreadful business will soon be over.
In the morning I was further offended by the arrival of the General
himself, who stated loudly that he had come to visit his men, and that he had
brought a little something to comfort them.
This 'something' turned out to be a large crate of light ale, with which
he insisted I serve them. Thus I
have, apparently, acquired the epithet 'The Lady with the Light'!
Today
I called on a number of people to see if something could not be done to occupy
the little horrors. Alas, I met no
enthusiasm for the project at all. Apparently
such things have been attempted in the past, but with little success.
How typical of these feeble willed people to give in simply because of a
few failures.
Eventually
I went to the Great Hall to see Lord Silver-Darling.
His Lordship was, unfortunately, unavailable, but his agent was most
helpful. Once he knew what I had in
mind he quickly agreed to provide what help he could.
He even got in touch with a cousin of his, who has agreed to supply some
more specialist items. As I write I
can hear the young cubs still roaring up and down the lane.
Little do they know that their days of freedom are numbered.
*******************************
Sid: The trouble with that
Prewd woman was she didn't know nothing about history.
I don't mean Kings and Queens and Dates and the like.
I mean real history about real people.
You see, the reason why nobody didn't want to help her was because they
knew what had gone before, when people had tried to get the kids something to do
in the past. Like when they sent
them to the seaside, and then ended up having to pay their fares back from
Holland. Or when they found a
children's entertainer, and it turned out he wasn't insured for fire and theft.
All in all it was best to let the children get on with it, and turn a
blind worm.
I
am not my uncle's niece for nothing. Uncle
Wesley had a strongly developed social conscience, and would not have allowed
abject anarchy to continue unabated. I
know just what he would have said, for he was nothing if not predictable.
"Angels must rush in where fools fear to tread", he would have
said, reaching for his horse-whip. I
may be no angel, but I am most certainly not a fool.
My
plan goes into action this morning. As
the children spill forth from their hovels, propelled more often than not by the
brooms of their irresponsible parents, they will be rounded up by some of his
Lordship's larger men, and placed in a travelling cage.
When all have been safely gathered in, the cage will be driven to the old
stables at the rear of the Silver-Darling estate, where I have a nasty surprise
for them.
Evening:
While
I must admit that things did not go exactly as planned, I think I may expect a
good deal more respect from the children of St Just-near-Trunch in the future.
*******************
Mrs
Prewd has a tendency to tell us more of her triumphs than her defeats.
She may well have gained a certain amount of respect from the local
children, but her plan was, in fact, totally wrecked.
Lord
Silver-Darling's agent's cousin was a circus owner.
Mrs Prewd had not just borrowed the travelling cage from him, but also
his lion tamer, ex Sergeant-Major 'Ironlung' Irons.
'Ironlung' was waiting for the children in the old stables, with his whip
and chair in hand. But he found that
there is more to taming children than taming lions, as Augustus Swineherd
relates in his auto-semibiographical novel 'Saprise To Cringleford':
"As we jumped down from the cage into the stables we were confronted
by a large, red-faced man, with a bull neck, barrel chest, bullet head and
varicose veins. In one hand he held
a long, wicked-looking whip, and in the other a kitchen chair.
He proceeded to treat us like a pride of circus lions, making us sit on
upturned buckets and balance beach-balls on our noses.
We were terrified by him. After
an hour or two of this he barked out; "And
now for the grand climax of the performance, Ladies and Gentlemen", and
proceeded to thrust his head in Maureen Moray's mouth.
"Well, kissing is one thing, and Maureen was well aware of the facts
of life. In fact she had tested out
the veracity of most of those facts for herself by that time.
But this was going too far, even for Maureen, and she registered her
protest by closing her teeth round the Sergeant's grizzled neck.
From his muffled cries he was clearly in some discomfort.
"Mrs Prewd, who had al the while been gloating at our discomfort,
now tried to persuade Maureen to let him go, but Maureen simply shook her head,
having no doubt been taught never to speak with her mouth full.
This head shaking only added to the Sergeant-Major's discomfort, as he
struggled to keep his feet. Eventually
we appointed Ernest Spratt to speak for us, and he began negotiations.
The outcome was that, in return for the release of Irons, and an
agreement by us to pass by Mrs Prewd's house more quietly in the future, she
would abandon her attempts to control us, and buy us a bottle of ginger beer
apiece to seal the bargain.
"Thus ended the episode of the taming of the lion tamer, and out of
the mouth of a babe or suckling came the Sergeant-Major."
Chapter
5 - 'The Wild Bunch'
Mrs
Prewd never mentions the episode again. It
seems that in the children of St Just-near-Trunch she met her not inconsiderable
match.
It
was while checking the pockets of her coat for fluff that I came upon it.
Of course, I did not know immediately what it was, so I unfolded it to
ensure that it was not anything that should not be there.
It was in the same hand as the other note, addressed to Doyley
Silver-Darling, and dated today. It
said 'Darling, I will come to you at midnight.
I cannot wait to get my hands on you.
Your little Frilly.'
Once
I realised what it was I replaced the note immediately, of course.
All day, though, I pondered its meaning.
Obviously I could not mention the matter to Maud, as she would then know
that I had been spying on her, and I would lose the element of surprise.
When
she went out to perform her errands I sat down to concentrate on the matter.
Were Frilly and Fancy the same person?
How had the note got into Maud's pocket?
As the day wore on it seemed clear to me that the note was a threat.
Why else should Frilly wish to get their hands on Doyley but to harm him?
As Maud washed up after dinner I went to her room to check that I had
remembered the details correctly, only to find that the note had mysteriously
disappeared. It was then that I
resolved that I must protect Doyley in his hour of need.
I shall go to the Hall tonight, if only to find out who Fancy and Frilly
might be.
It
is, of course, impossible to enter the Hall grounds with any ease at night,
surrounded as it is by a high wall surmounted with broken glass, punctuated with
stoutly locked gates. However, I had
noticed during my sojourn in the ditch, a month or so ago, that a tree had
fallen near the main gate in such a way as to make it possible for an agile and
determined person to climb it and get inside.
It is not only Mr Sherlock Homes who can make deductions.
I have done so on a number of occasions, the most recent being a
deduction of one shilling and three pence from Maud's wages for breaking a cup.
It seemed to me that Frilly and Fancy might hop up this tree to gain
their evil access. Accordingly I
concealed myself if some putrid green stuff which I believe is called 'bushes',
and waited to see if I could waylay Doyley's attackers.
As
midnight approached my vigilance seemed about to be rewarded.
From my left I heard the sound of footsteps, coming towards me along the
road. As I strained to see whose
feet were stepping I was surprised to hear more steps coming from the woods to
my right, and almost immediately a third set from the road behind me.
I had not reckoned to deal with such a mob, but I determined that if
needs be I would straddle the tree trunk like Horatio at the bridge.
First, though, I must size up my opponents.
It
was hard to make out much in the dark as first one, then another, and finally a
third shadowy figure appeared. The
first was rather small, living up to, or rather down to, the 'little' referred
to in the notes. The second was
hooded and, by the cheap scent on the breeze, somewhat effeminate.
It was only when I noticed that the third of them seemed to have three
legs that I began to have my doubts. These
doubts were strengthened as all three saw each other at once, and gave up a
chorus of surprise. In fact they
cried, in unison (and I must ask you to disregard vulgarity in the cause of
veracity), "Bugger me!" I
hasten to add that in these parts this is not a literal invitation, but is used
as a course curse.
As
the moon emerged from behind a cloud I saw that this distinctly unholy trinity
comprised Maud, her unspeakable brother Albert, and her diminutive
second-cousin, Walter. What they
were doing there I could not begin to imagine, but I felt sure that their
noisome presence would certainly have scared off Doyley's visitors.
So he was safe, thanks to the dreadful Kipper family, though it irks me
to say so. I decided to leave the
three of them to whatever fearful rite they had in mind, and slipped off home to
bed.
This
morning the whole thing seemed like some sort of bad dream, but the state of my
galoshes bellied any such interpretation. Maud
was rather sluggish following her nocturnal perambulations, but I could not
demand an explanation for her behaviour without inviting her to reply in kind.
Clearly she had managed to be up and about on time, as she volunteered
the information that 'His Young Lordling' had passed this morning on his way to
London. At least Doyley will be safe
there, amidst the blessings of civilisation so glaringly absent here.
I told Maud that I hoped she had given him my regards, which evinced only
the enigmatic reply that she had "said goodbye to him in the best way she
knew how".
I
may never know what was planned for last night, but I can at least have a clear
conscience that I did my bit to ensure that Doyley slept easy in his bed, which
is something Maud could never say.
************************
On
reading this extract to Sid Kipper in a search for clarification of a few
details, his first response was to ask what Nelson had been doing with a tree
trunk on the bridge of the Victory. Eventually
though, after several pints of thought, he offered this explanation:
The thing is that they didn't actually arrange to meet there at all.
It was pure happenstance. You
see, aunt Maud was on her way to the Hall to see if she'd left her scarf there
in February. Albert was there
because he'd heard that the game keeper, 'Man-Trap' Moray, had been taken ill,
so Albert was helping him out, unofficial like, by keeping an eye on his
pheasants for him. Good thing he
did, as well, because Albert found a couple of them had died, so he brought them
home for safe keeping. And Walter
was there to practice his singing. Of
course, he shouldn't have been out on his own, but he was learning that song
"It's my delight on a shiny night", and he wanted to get the feel of a
shiny night so he could sing it with all the right feeling.
So like I said it was just happenstance.
The
implausibility of this story suggests that Sid may have simply stolen it from
Swineherd's masterpiece, for there, on page 1,247 of 'The Come Between', we find
the following:
"Daud looked beseechingly at Alfred.
"You must take young Walker home at once, dear brother, as fast as
your various legs can carry you. I
have business at the Manor House which cannot wait".
""Nay, lass", neighed Alfred.
"I must help old Eel in his time of trouble, and then I shall report
what I have found to old Herbert at the Sheep Inn.
'Tis you, therefore, must see to the lad.
For now, farewell, sweet sister".
"And so it was that young Walker watched Alfred vanish back into the
woods, and took his cousin's reluctant hand.
"Then there is nothing else for it", she sighed; "You must
come with me to the House, for there is that there that this heart of mine
cannot forgo".
"What a night it was for young Walker, spent, as it was, sitting on
a velvet cushion on a satin settee, warmly wedged between his beloved cousin and
the noble Lord to be. And how glad
they must have been to have his pure, youthful spirit in their midst."
The
Come Between, Chapter 12
Swineherd
certainly used considerable prosaic license in writing this portion of the
narrative, and it may have been his lifelong fear of Albert Kipper which led him
to protect Maud's virtue and disguise Albert's activities.
We may never know what occurred that balmy July night, but we can rest
assured that not one of the explanations offered tells the whole truth.
If, indeed, any of them tells any part of the truth at all!