Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

Aye.

I en’t maunderin, be I? Only had a drop. I en’t lush, like. They waters it in here. Even the ale. Look at this table, now. More’n a hundred year old, I reckons. Pegs, see? No brads. Solid oak. That’ll be old man Webb’s old granfer did this. You can tell from the legs. He allus did a jowl aneath, on ivery one o’ his table legs, thought he was makin a gate. That thick ripplin bit, feel it with thy fingers, aneath. See? Aye. Dead as ditch-water, this ale. Watch her next time, when she goes out. Reckons as she flattens it deliberate. Times be like that. All greed an friggin.

Horse round the back, have ’ee? Allus wanted my own horse. Couldn’t afford a knacker. Heels touchin workhouse, me. You’ll get to Oxford no time, acause it en’t rained for days, have it? Thee’ll raise the dust, belike, to Oxford. Dry for May. Dry. Though they cows be layin down in Vanners.

Knowed you were a genneman, moment you come down.

Thank ’ee.

Lunnen’s a right place, they tells I. All manner o’ things goes on in Lunnen. Abraham did a job out there, once. This lady, she wanted a harvest frieze, only she didn’t want no city feller doin it. Friend o’ the Squire’s, weren’t she? Old Norcoat. He puts her on to Abraham. He did it. He did the lot. Honeysuckles, flowers, fruits, eggs an tongues, water, raffle, laurel leaves, ribbons, knots, all in best mahogany. 7d a foot run, he cost her. 7d a foot run. Now that be well nigh best carvin, nowt o’ your common. She were right happy. He said Lunnen were all bellockin an diddlin an too many strits. Heh. An it stunk more nor Ulver, he said. That be tellin. All manner o’ things goes on there, they tells us. An the ladies. They says they be two a penny, in Lunnen. Tosticated with it. I’ve forgot as how a woman feels, like. Touch-wood. My pizzle’s nowt but touch-wood. Burns but no flame. Ah well.

Firsest job he ever give me — an he weren’t much older, mind, nor I were, only seven year, I reckons, atween us, but he were that big, he were a man an I a boy — firsest job he give me, were ladder-spokes. A bit o’ shavin. Like this. Shavin ’em for the pole-holes, see. Square the ends. Shave, shave. Fit snug an tight acause, he says, ‘Thy work en’t over ater job be done. ’Tis jus begun, then. Thee makes a gate, an it begun when the first man swings her ope an shut for the cattle. Thy work goes on till the article be broke up, which if thy work be carried out proper won’t be till long ater thee be dead an buried.’ ’Tis what he says to I, my firsest day. Never lost that. ‘You shaves ’em overmuch, an a man be goin to break his collar.’ I reckons as how he was recallin his old granfer, then. The one as did the wheel poorly an broke a man’s neck. There be a verse on it in the Chapel yard. Pyke. One o’ them Pykes. Can’t read it proper now. His stone. Weather don’t wear away wood. Timber be stronger nor stone, to my mind, acause it en’t as stubborn. It don’t jus squat there. Breathes, more like. Moves about. Don’t bring the hawthorn into your house acause it breathes ill luck. It knows, see. Beech be good, apple, ash — though I can’t abide the smell of ash when I works, when I worked she. Filled the shop, she did, terrible sweet. An beechen copses — ill luck aneath moonlight. Aye.

Muggy in here. Bacco. Never took to pipes myself. Darkens your inside, that smoke. Smokes your heart black. You see what smoke do to timber. Look up there. That there. Hardens and darkens. Never took to it, see.

I reckons the barrel be givin out. Ax her for one afresh, next time. Don’t let her stoop it. Nowt but grouts then.

I cut this here mug myself, what, twenty year ago now. Yellow pine. My letters on the side. See? Copied from the parish book. S D 1780 . Samuel. Samuel Daye. Couldn’t fit all that on. Jus the letters. One piece o’ yellow pine. Fill her slick up from the jug, there’s a genneman, an I’ll be gettin on with the story.

Aye. Thank ’ee.

We were doin them stairs, weren’t we? This were, what, nigh on thretty year ago. Early summer, ’75. We were doin them stairs, athurt street at Squire’s. Start to finish we laid down them stairs. You wanna knock on his door, jus agin church out there, an ax to see his stairs. Best mahogany. Jamaica mahogany. Nowt o’ that deal for the Squire, save on the steps an risers. All as the hand touches, Jamaica mahogany, strong an dark. Best job we ever did, them stairs. Better nor gates, gates an more gates, an mendin. Mint crooked an dark, Squire’s place, though not piddlin, an he wanted it fancy, so we puts up a dog-leg stairs, don’t we? Abraham hums an hahs, gets out his pencil, draws it all out, fiddles his compass, measures an hums an hahs some more, Squire hoppin from one leg t’other, face all blowzy, bustin his britches, acause he likes his nourishment, don’t he? — an Abraham pockets his thoughts an says, ‘I’ll gets you up there, Squire, like you be on your way to Heaven. Six-inch by ten-inch pitch-board, seven steps, two foot o’ landin, winder, six steps, same boot lands as took off down bottom.’ That were Abraham’s way. Ladder to the Lord, he puts it — knowin, mind, as the Squire was drinkin hisself to it, an have no need of our aid.

So I gets goin on the newels an ballusters, back in our shop, flutin them twelve an eight respective, like, an planin the handrail like it were a lissom gal, that Jamaica mahogany, long clean shavins at my boots, see, mouldin that rail for all them fine hands as the old Squire fancied ud visit him, for he were keen on bibbin wi’ the Lords an Ladies, weren’t he, the old Squire, God rest him — who rised up on a mahogany staircase, I’ll be bound, alightin on the same foot as he set out on, though where ezackerly I’d not put no money on, heh — an the boy (for this were twenty year ater I begun wi’ Abraham, an there were others younger) the boy cuts the steps, risers, string-boards, all o’ that out o’ deal, an over we goes to the Manor, rips the old droxy staircase down, as were well nigh as old as that gurt oak out there, an sets to, hammerin them brads in.

Then Abraham says to I, ‘Samuel, thee can try thy hand at the scroll.’ That bein what the hand-rail ends on, the scroll, that fancy twirly bit top an bottom, see, an like the hardest part to get true, acause the rail has to find its eye in one turnin of a circle, an that be the trimmest. You gets the scroll wrong, an the whole staircase don’t look right. Don’t feel right aneath the hand. An you have to turn all them mouldins round into the circle, an scroll it up to the eye like it be water twirlin down a hole. You’d see up at the Hall. What I did be nowt compared wi’ that up at the Hall, acause they got Italians, didn’t they? Them as did that up at the Hall, they be for Kings an Queens, as don’t know a good scroll when they touches it, but they allus pays out for the best, don’t they? Aye. We ud knows a good scroll, but we don’t have stairs to put ’em on, least I don’t, only a ladder with pole-rails, hardly stairs, so no place for fancy work, save in the fancy places, where it gets powder on it, an cream, an all that stuff they plasters on their faces, an no perciation.

All rustlin up them stairs, like they be gods. Aye.

So all be lined up an ship-shape, an up we be goin, an I planes the scroll amiss then true, then cuts t’other, an feels warm an happy, when up comes old man Stiff from farm south side o’ Mapleash Down, a good stride up aback the Manor, an says as how all his gates needs shiftin, an new ones doin, an how he needs new doors here an there, an new browsers, an if we can’t he’ll be goin someplace else, for old Roger Stiff allus wanted things doin afore they be done, like. An we be mumblin through our brads, an white wi’ sawdust, an blinkin wi’ weariness, acause them stairs takes effort, see, for Squire wants it all grand an no messin, when Abraham claps us on the backs an says, ‘Aye aye, old man Stiff needs a goodish few things doin up his way. We’ll be endin late, lads.’