MY
BOOTIFUL MAWTHER
as told by Sid Kipper
a
tasty morsel from Sugden and Kipper's Cod Pieces
My Bootiful Mawther has two
features of particular interest. Firstly,
in performance it gives Sid an opportunity to demonstrate his not inconsiderable
acting talents (although that doesn't come over so well on the page, of course).
And, secondly, Sid seems to be completely unaware that it ever had any
musical content at all.
All was peaceful in the front
bar of the Travellers Vest, in the Norfolk village of Walcott.
Bert Baker, the landlord, was down in the cellar, watering the beer.
He did that because he believed in saving his customers from the evils of
drink. That, and making a profit.
Norman Nobbs stood at the bar,
nursing a half pint of something. He
was waiting until the time came when his wife would let him back into the house,
due to it being a Friday, and therefore Women's Quiet Night In in that part of
Norfolk.
Farmer Hicks and Ruby Slipper
were in the corner, playing cards. He
was playing 'Beggar my Neighbour', and she was playing 'Old Maid', so the
scoring was quite complicated!
And our heroes, 'Pigmy' Leon
and 'The Professor', were sitting at their usual table, near the door.
Of course, those weren't their real names.
They were nick-names. Pigmy's
real name was Leon Sea, and The Professor's was Fred Vincent.
But they got their names by the basic rule of clever nick-naming.
You see, Pigmy was six foot three and built like a brick privy, and The
Professor had once got the bottom score of minus-three out of ten in a mental
arithmetic test at school, more years ago than anyone who got less than seven
out of ten in the test could calculate.
So, like I said, all was
peaceful when the door opened, and in came a strange woman.
She wore a brand new waxed jacket, shiny green gum-boots, and a
head-scarf with horse shoes on. Not
real horseshoes, you understand. They
were printed ones. Otherwise when
she shook her head she'd knock herself out, and forget all about whatever it was
she'd been disagreeing with.
But she didn't shake her head.
She did something even more amazing.
She opened her mouth. And out
came a most peculiar sound. It sort
of sounded like English, but not how they spoke it in Walcott.
You could recognise some of the individual words alright, but put them
together and they made no sense at all.
"Oh I say", she said;
"How pahfectly quaint! How
absolutely authentic!"
Well, all the regulars stared
open mouthed at this strange noise. Except
for The Professor, but I'm coming to that. Because
just then the stranger spotted Bert Baker popping up behind the bar.
Well, he never liked to let a customer get away.
So she went straight over to him and said; "Tell me, my good man - I
take it you are Mine Host. So, tell
me, may one acquire a capuchino in your charming hostelry?"
Well, Bert couldn't understand
a word of that. So he looked at The
Professor for a translation. Because
The Professor had been to London. Oh,
it was only the once, and purely by accident, obviously.
He'd simply forgotten to get off the train at Stowmarket, due to lack of
ebriation.
"I reckon", The
Professor told Bert, in proper Norfolk, "I reckon she want a corfee".
"Well", replied Bert,
in the same tongue, "If she want a corfee, whas she doin' in a pub?"
"Buggered if I know",
said the Professor.
Well, the woman looked puzzled
for a while, but not for very long. That
wasn't her way.
"I say", she said,
"I mean, it's simply sooper to hear your vernacular, but I'm afraid I don't
quite follow the meaning".
The Professor translated for
Bert: "She say as how she like
the way we mardle, but she can't foller it".
"I aren't surprised",
he responded. "Arsk her if she
want suffin' proper to drink, or can I get on with my wuk?"
"Sartenly", said The
Professor. "Bert asks if you
require some sort of an alcoholic beverage, or can he return to his
duties?"
"Oh, I say!"
exclaimed the woman. "How
frighfully clever; you're bilingual. But
what luck - you're just exactly the sort of person I've been looking for."
And with that she forgot all
about the coffee, pulled up a three legged stool, and joined Pygmy and The
Professor at their table. She made
herself as comfortable as she could, which wasn't all that comfortable, because
the stool was actually supposed to have four legs.
And then she launched herself into a little speech.
"You see, it's this wise.
I moved into the village a few weeks ago, and of course it's absolutely
delighful, but I don't feel that I am quite fitting in.
It's not that people won't talk to me.
Quite the opposite in fact. Many
of them even shout. It's just that I
cannot understand a single word of what people say, although I think some of
them might be inviting me to count their fingers.
So, as you seem to understand both English and whatever passes for a
language in these parts, I would like to engage you to instruct me in the local
idiom".
"What she want?"
asked Pygmy.
"She say she want me to
larn her to talk proper", replied the Professor.
"That you won't",
said Pygmy. "I'll bet you ten
bob you don't".
"Awright, yer on.
When I're finished with her I'll pass her off as a lucal at the Stalham
Shew!"
"Bless!", said the
stranger. "Why, it's almost
musical. But tell me, what have you
and your charming companion concluded?"
"I'll do it", replied
The Professor. "We'll start
tomorrow".
It was just her good luck that
Pygmy didn't understand her when she called him charming.
Of course, he would never have hit a woman, but he'd certainly have born
a grudge.
A week later The Professor was
beginning to have his doubts. Well,
not so much beginning as nearing a conclusion, to tell the truth.
Oh, she was keen enough, alright. She
tried really hard. For instance,
she'd been to the rummage sale, and bought herself an new outfit of old clothes.
But even then he had to explain to her that most people didn't tie binder
twine round their ankles unless there was a real threat of something running up
their legs. However, there was one
good sign. She had at least changed
her name from Dominique, which not only sounded posh but also foreign, to Domie.
Just now he was giving her what
they call a vocal exercise.
"So, say arter me;
'The doo in Koo fall nooly on the foo'."
She had a go.
"The due in Kew falls newly on the few".
The Professor despaired.
"No, no, no! It's not
'due'; it's 'doo'."
"Deeoo".
"Well, thas a bit more
like it. Go agin".
"Deeoo.
Deeoo. Doo".
"Thas it.
Alright, go on. Do the whul
thing".
So she did.
"The doo in Koo fall nooly on the foo".
The Professor sat up with a
jerk. "She're got it", he
cried; "Blass bor, she're got
it!"
"The doo in Koo fall nooly
on the foo", she repeated.
"Awright, so where do the
doo fall?"
"On the foo; on the foo".
"And where's them duzzy
foo?"
"In Koo; in Koo".
And with that she got up and
started dancing round the room, almost singing "The doo in Koo fall nooly
on the foo", like she was gone out.
"Well", said the
Professor to himself, "Now we're a-gettin' somewhere.
Though I'm buggered if I know where it is!"
Two more weeks went by, and now
it was the eve of the Stalham Show. Pygmy
and The Professor were sitting, drinking, at their usual table in the Travellers
Vest.
"Best you have your ten
bob ready", said Pygmy. "I'll
be havin' that orf of you tomorrer".
"That you on't",
replied The Professor. "I'll
pass her off as a Norfolk mawther, and you'll have to swaller your own wuds,
just you wait and see."
Bert Baker offered his
fourpenny worth. "She're bound
to put a foot wrong somewhere. That
take a lifetime to larn Norfolk. Longer,
if yer a slow larner".
The Professor was unruffled.
"Well we'll see, sharn't we? I're
larned her all I know, and now she're got goin' she're took to it like an owd
sow to mud. I'm confidently
quiet".
There was a pause for thought.
It was soon broken by Bert Baker, who'd run out of material.
"What did she do afore she
come hare, then?" he asked.
"I hud as how she used to
be a flower seller", said Pygmy.
"Well, tha's not whully
right", said The Professor. "As
a matter of fact she wus the top boss at Bartam Mills, which is a grit old
company down London way. They reckon
they supply flour all over the shop".
"Are you narvous about
tomorrer?" asked Bert.
"That I in't.
And if I was, well, I'm now goin' out the back for a bowels match, so
that'll take my mind orf it, even if it was on it, which it in't!".
And he spent the rest of the
evening on the bowling green, just like he'd said he would.
And so the day of the Stalham
Show dawned. Of course it was
raining, because it always rains for the Stalham Show.
That's traditional. Nobody
can work out whether the rain knows when the Show is on, or whether the
organisers know what the weather will be when they fix the date.
But it always rains for the Stalham Show.
Pygmy and The Professor picked
Domie up on the Stalham road, so they could go to the Show together.
The Professor had a surprise up his sleeve for the others.
He'd entered Domie for the Norfolk Dialect Competition, or, as it was
known to one and all, 'Mardling Lucal'.
It was a cunning plan.
You see the Dialect Competition was always the opening event of the Show,
and he knew that if she did alright in that she'd be home and dry.
Or away and wet, given the place and the weather.
As a sort of insurance he'd let it be known that she was his cousin from
the other side of the Broads. And
she suffered from a speech impediment.
Well, when they got there the
crowd was milling around, singing a song about how wonderful they all were, but
that was nothing unusual for Stalham. The
Professor led Domie straight to the registration table.
She'd changed a lot. For a
start, she'd lost her snooty manner. Now
she had a proper Norfolk slummock, which is hard to describe, but you'd know it
if you saw it. Nobody gave her a
second glance, which, of course, meant she'd passed the first part of the test.
Now came second part.
"Wass yer nairm?"
asked the clerk.
"Thas Domie", she
answered, word perfect.
"Right you are Domie.
An what you goin' in for?"
"I'm a-goin' to do the
Norfolk Talking cerstificate".
"Awright.
So whas yer piece?"
"I'm doin'
'Boadikippa'"
"Well that'll be nice for
us orl, I'm sure. We'll corl you
when we need you".
And, before very much longer,
entries were closed and the competition was opened.
Well, there were all sorts of pieces, performed by all sorts of people.
Why they all went in for it nobody knew, because the competition was
always won by a bloke who came over from Catfield every year, and was never seen
at any other time. But they still
went in for it, anyway. A young boy
did "A pome called 'The Bor Stood On The Bunnin' Deck'".
A middle-aged woman gave them "Wuddswuths Daffs".
And a very shy man performed "'Whas Owed To A Greek' by a bloke
called Ern". At least, they
thought that was what he performed. They couldn't actually hear any of it due to
his very shyness.
And so it went on, until there
was only Domie and the bloke from Catfield left to go.
Well, it was the bloke's turn next, and up he got, and did what he always
did:
"This here is by a bloke
called Tom Gray, and thas called 'An Allergy Writ in a Country Chuchyard',
though I don't know what country that was in.
Here go;
The curfoo toll the knell of
partin' day,
The lowin' hud wind slowly or
the lea;
The ploughman humwood plod his
wary way,
And leave the wuld to darkness
and to me; silly bugger".
And as soon as he'd finished,
people began to pack up their belongings to go.
Because they all thought they'd heard the winning entry, as usual.
But they were stopped in their tracks by a voice that rang out in tones
of pure Norfolk. It was Domie, of
course.
"I'm a-goin' to do you a
bit from The Song of Boadikippa, by T.S. Idiot:
In
the town of Nooton Flotman,
By
the shinin' Elsie Waters,
Up
the crick without a paddle,
Sat
a slummockin' great mawther.
She're
the Queen of orl Iceni.
With
her was the mighty hunter,
Known
to orl as Higher Puchase,
He
say "I will lie with Boadi,
I
will get my outside inside".
She
say "I should bloomin' cuckoo"."
And so on, for quite a long
time. But the time didn't seem to
matter. Because the audience, the
judge, and all the other competitors were completely entranced.
All except for the bloke from Catfield, who'd already gone home, leaving
a forwarding address for them to send his prize.
But, of course, he didn't get
any prize. The prize went, by the
unanimous vote of the judge, to Domie.
Well, it was a total triumph
for The Professor. He got his
winnings from Pigmy double quick, and then the three of them couldn't wait to
get back to Walcott to celebrate, in the dry.
"Get me to the pub on
time", cried the Professor.
"Yis", said Pigmy,
"I feel pretty much the same. An
she'd better come an all - I're grown accustomed to her fairce".
"Come you on Domie",
said The Professor. "We'll drop
you orf on the street where you live".
Well, Domie just smiled.
Then she sighed. And then she
declared to one and all; "Now, wouln't that be lovely?"
And, for some totally unknown
reason, I feel like the story ought to finish on a song.
But it can't, of course, because for the life of me I just can't think of
a single song that would suit.