Alan Garner - Thursbitch

The floor was on the ceiling, the front was at the back;

It stood alone between two more,

And the walls were whitewashed black!”

He raised his hat to Jenkin as they passed the stone.

“I am a roving jagger,

And fightable to rights;

I travel countries far and near,

And march by days and nights.

I travel countries far and near,

As you may understand,

Until at last I do arrive

On The Red Erythræan Strand!”

He was close enough to set the dogs barking.

“O I’m a blade

As knows no trade,

And folks they do adore me!

I’ll shoe their feet, I won’t them cheat,

But they’ll not reach home before me!

For I can sing and I can dance,

I am that roving jagger;

If Trouble ever should me chance,

I’ll stick him with me dagger!”

Nan Sarah came down the path into the lane. She put her arms about him.

“I thought I’d not see you again.”

“There, there, love. Have I not told you often enough? I’m the one as always comes back. I gave word to a chap, telling you I’d be away. Did he not?”

“He did. But he didn’t tell where you were for.”

“I met a man at Derby, and he was lost to take a jag down south; so I must give him a hand. And one road leads to another, they say. My, woman, but you’re biggening.”

“You’ve been gone that long.”

“Let me see to me beasts now; and then I’ll tell you all about me little periploos. I could sup a jug of ale.”

He unloaded the horses, watered and fed them, gave Bryn a bone, and went into the houseplace. Richard Turner and Mary were sitting on either side of the fire.

“Now then, youth.”

“Now then, Father.”

“Yon was a tragwallet and a bit.”

“Above a bit. But it made a mighty penny.”

“That’s what counts.”

“So you did get a second bite off his head, I see.”

“We did. An abundation. Yon good slobber of rain fixed us nicely. And yours is in, too. High Medda and all.”

“Grand. And I picked the corbel bread, gen next year, on me way up from Chester.” He set apart a bag of red and white toadstools.

“What have you fetched us?” said Mary.

“Now why should a man as has been down London be at fetching trinklements all that road? It’s jag enough, without trinklements on top.”

“London?” said Mary. “What’s that?”

“Where King is.”

“Who’s he now?” said Richard Turner.

“And a right midden of a place, I can tell you,” said Jack. “I don’t know how he tholes it, King. I was glad to be shut; I was that.”

“What did you see, Jack?” said Nan Sarah.

He looked around, and then leaned forward, pulling them in to hear.

“I saw houses thatched with pancakes, walls of pudding pies; and little pigs running in the streets with knives and forks in their backs, saying, ‘Who’ll have a slice?’.”

“Did you?” said Nan Sarah.

Richard Turner laughed, spat in the fire and settled back in his chair.

“He’s twitting you,” said Mary.

“Jack?”

Jack drank deeply from the jug, his eyes bright above the rim.

“Jack! You great nowt!”

She pummelled his chest.

“Do you not want to hear of me little periploos?” he said. “Me periploos of The Red Erythræan Sea?”

He lifted his satchel onto the table.

“There’s nowt as can beat a good periploos for telling strange tales and finding rum things and hearing daft songs. And this one’s had them all. There’s some folks with thoughts fit to grow wooden legs; I’ll tell you. Now where’s the old powsels and thrums?” He rummaged about. “Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Right. Now then, Father, what do you make of this?”

He put into Richard Turner’s hand an oval brass box. The lid was sunken, without any way of opening it. Richard Turner tried to slip his fingernail in, but it was too coarse. He shook it; there was no sound.

“Fetch us a knife.”

“No, Father. What should you do if you were up the fields with this here, and no knife? You’d still want it open.”

Richard Turner held the box every way, looking for a button or a catch, but the box was smooth, with only the outline of the sunken lid. He laughed.

“Nay, youth. Yon’s reckoned me up.”

“Hold it in your hand, Father, and thrutch both sides at same time. Not too hard, mind; but hard enough.”

Richard Turner set the box in his palm and squeezed. Nothing happened.

“Too much,” said Jack.

He squeezed again.

“Too little.”

Both men were laughing.

“Trust you, our Jack, to make a man’s life a misery. Eh!” The lid sprang wide on a hinge, and Richard Turner nearly dropped the box. “Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!”

“Poke your nutting-hook in that, Father.”

“There’s near an eight ounce o’ bacca, youth!”

“There’d best be,” said Jack, “else there’ll be a chap wanting his face mending next time I see him.”

“It’s a grand un. Spon spitting-fire new.” Richard Turner closed and opened the box, over and over, chuckling. “As good a job as any I’ve seen in many a long day.”

“Ay, well,” said Jack. “So one of you’s suited, and that’s a mercy. Now what? Powsels and thrums. Powsels and thrums. Here we are. Will this do you, Ma Mary?”

He brought out a looking glass in a wooden frame and handle and gave it to her with the back upwards. Mary took it, turned it over and squealed.

“Our Jack! I’ve heard tell on ’em! Eh, Rutchart.”

She held it up to him.

“Who’s that smart chap?” said Richard Turner. “By, he’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he? It’d be a lucky woman as could catch him. Wouldn’t it, Nan Sarah?”

He showed her the glass. “Barm pot,” she said, but peered closely into it before giving it back to Mary. “What’s for me, Jack?” Her face was flushed.

“What’s for you?” Jack looked at her belly. “Haven’t I given you enough already?”

“Jack!”

“I don’t know. I do not know. You’re a bucket with no bottom, you.” He lifted the satchel. “Light as a feather. Feels empty. Let’s see. Powsels and thrums. No. Nowt. Wait on. There’s an old muckender, if that’s any good to you.”

He pulled out a dirty handkerchief. It was crumpled and knotted. He looked into the satchel, and shook it over the table.

“No. You’ll have to make do, Nan Sarah.”

His face was mournful.

Nan Sarah took the handkerchief. She tried to unfasten the knot, but it was firmly tied. She struggled and tugged.

“Oh, Jack!”

“I tell you. It’s this or nowt. A man has more to think on than trinklements when he’s leading a full jag.”

She pushed at the knot, and it began to loosen. She worked on the rag with her teeth, and it moved. The handkerchief opened of itself from within and was covered by a blossoming unfolding of red, embroidered with flowers and bees, yellow and black and white and green.

“What is it?”

“You tell me, Nan Sarah.”

“Is it silk?”

“It is that.”

“But silk’s white.”

“It is while other folks get their hands on it. You’re a throwster. What happens next?”

“You take it for spinners down Macc, and fetch another brood of grubs.”

“Then what?”

“They give it weavers.”

“Then what?”

“It gets woven.”

“Then what?”

“How should I know? I’ve seen old buttons.”

“Oh, Nan Sarah, do you never think? Throwster gives spinner. Spinner gives weaver. What’s it all for?”

“Summat or other.”

“Woman, woman. That’s how folks make their fortunes. It’s dyed, and cut, and sewn; and kings and queens and suchlike wear it.”