Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

hey up an back an up an back agin till all they drat lines rolls past thy sight though you have shut up the lot bunkin off home at the close o’ journey like thee be haaf in the corner o’ mine Master Dannul massy on us well thinkin it be thy voice then only the barleyoyles astir in the breeze nope thee be ten feet aneath young feller thee on’t be nope thee on’t be nope nope thee on’t be dang an bloody buggerin hell no Dinneford’s bloody Magnesia nor no Cockle’s bloody Pills nor no patent bloody embocation woman in the whole bloody Empire on’t be soothin I oh thy Mam on’t have I blubberin don’t look right wi’ a rake I spect telled her I found his hoop Mrs Holland aneath the rhododendrons like that were a botch then certain sure her shriekin like a hare in a trap Dannul Dannul Dannul deep in the rhododendrons Mrs Holland like he’d only jus now rolled he in tssssssssssssss aye thee’d rub thy hands agin this tsssssss why does barley hiss so Mr Perry like the green sey suckin thy hand a-clippin they ticklin oyles atop blouses more like Master Dannul a thousand ladies’ blouses slided off that wind be heartsick for she Mother Nature fattenin up they gals afore the strike o’ our hooks I think it is the action of the ears upon each other Mr Perry yaa I tells ’ee summat thee ud never be talkin to the likes of I ater Eton had a-larned thee to be a toff boy no holdin o’ my hand athurt field ater that boy nope though it don’t make nowt right about that as God did to thee no ways look feather in the hawthorn haafway up like a angel bin through see she throwed out all thy feathers boy thy Mam he were larnin they names Mrs Holland I says she says Mr Perry mind your business all they feathers throwed out jay poker tom-tit jenny-wren buntin peewit mag crow she wi’ her pink hankercher pickin they up one by one whoa I was larnin he Mrs Holland look that be heron Mrs Holland whoa I remimbers he findin that one Mrs Holland like it was yeserday pink hankercher like they was dirt that on’t be Christern pleased as punch he were wi’ the grey heron go away she yowls go away like I were a piece o’ clat in her eye a piece o’ clat that hurted I I smelled they burn boy I smelled they burn

well we on’t be gettin miffy on it aye now thee be a angel upperds one o’ they host wi’ feathers o’ gold flied out o’ this sturvin stinkin world boy leastways best to go afore sins clag thee up a-handlin on they bubbies an furrers an thoughts as get thy soul all clammed wi’ muck or boozin thy way to Old Gooseberry’s throat yowlin every inch o’ the road chock-full o’ sins no hidin that no chizzlin thy way out o’ that nope nope I en’t a-treaded no straight an narrer no ways boy bent as a buckthorn that be why I hobbles an groans see afflishun see hast thou took thy Dr Laville’s Jonas I says no doctor’s stuff no bloody gout liquor woman be curin I save it be hell’s fire we all be monkeys now please God I’ve heared that haaf monkeys haaf angels well I be ape all through by now an Doomsday on’t be worser nor my dang rheumatics Master Dannul drat it I en’t hardly able to fetch a breath up some times ater rakin thy Mam’s lawn though it do kip the wolf from off of our door I says to the missus it do kip the wolf from off of our door if so be as she yangs at I to stop aye them Bursop maids were allus yangers an chivviers that were my big botch not fetchin breath afore it eh gie out ye mucky bugger wi’ that slap as don’t mean nowt jus thinkin on her squirted more milk out of I than out her cows now age boy age en’t left I nowt o’ that but a yangin mouth

aye aye well now best foot forrud kip the pot a-boilin casn’t do nowt about it boy casn’t disgouge what thee hast aready cut oh I remimbers thee jus here like it were yeserday thy face clammed tight with these here black berries that firsest time boy on’t never be black an ripe for thee this year now hup flatulence Mr Perry thy Mam says flatulence an summat wi’ a fancy name on the gastrics Mr Perry I says hedgerow fruit be Adam’s meat she says blowflies weren’t in God’s Garden for one Mr Perry for two I says where there be shit there be blowflies Mrs Holland aye she were wonnerful miffy at that nigh lost my bit o’ gardenin on account o’ that but you on’t eat nowt wi’out it come out some place an old Adam ate of every dern tree in the garden it do say wi’out a drop o’ Dinneford’s bloody Magnesia in sight I says he done his shits he done his proper shits well I do remimbers thee chock-full o’ sweetness Master Dannul dang the lot on ’em bloody buggerin Hell it do catch I in throat like a rag in a taypot blind leadin the blind thy Mam’d call it I says Hoppetty en’t that bad Mrs Holland poachin eyes see poachin eyes as ud watch she pass in all her best pink toggery years back now eh jus afore she was wedded to that to your Dad Mr Holland oh lovely an jimp aye jimp an fresh an lovely a-holdin onto her bonnet in that old gig as ud pass I by as en’t worth a brass farden to she nope yet one time a-broadcastin barley seed like the sight o’ she rattlin past towart Church stopped I dead an sended my hands all a-shake like so as I couldn’t git my hands in an out o’ that seed-lip proper for a bit then come grawin time Jonas old man Barr says what be that rumple in crop atop Whitesheet Haw didst stumble over flint when seedin or beest thee gettin too aged for this kind o’ work an back-drappin off a limp wrist eh well old Jonas kep tight smug for I couldn’t rightly say as that rumple were a hankerin ater a lady as were makin me maayzy like an thee ud have her eyes an mouth bang in thee sometimes boy then oh I feeled like I did feel like I were strollin on air like I med let they horses dray my plough an have my smoke an no clittin o’ no flints atween here an Doomsday look then yaa howsomever some jawlter-head ud lay into I about summat I en’t done an lo behold it be all druvved deep agin an low

well now yea up hup best foot forrud down here into beechen copse hup eh eh look look there Red Admirable on that clover look firsest I have seed this year an got a bit teared on the way look aye be needin a fine needle to stitch that little feller up boy aye hup aye cool as a plum at this time o’ mornin aneath the beechen trees aye Hoppetty had a cruel fancy on thy old Mam boy down with thy Dad in same parish book as old Jo Perry yit they names be in copperplate an mine be a mark weren’t never no scholard boy well bress-ploughin when I were awmost bran new as thee be buggerin hell sunked out o’ sight like a gurt stone now what you gone an got thyself that dang flammation on the bellowses for boy didn’t they have no meadow-sweet boy they buggers gid they nowt but them pastilles I reckons as thy Mam’s breath be ripe wi’ them pastilles mint ripe for kissin I says mint ripe for kissin now why bist this here paunchy tree be took right bad atop well fauty wi’ rust when old Dick Knapp were took by keeper dodged Dick’s knife git rammed to the haft chock in her broke hisself clean atwo now fauty wi’ rust aye fauty wi’ rust en’t right now wi’out thee to finger the hurt boy en’t right at all can awmost hear the corn turnin golden in the coombs wi’out thee axin I on this an that that an this this an that it be as if spirit be flied off out o’ here an out o’ every drat place boy wi’out thee to ax I over agin why that tree aneath withy-wine be fauty wi’ rust why that sorrel were ate in the sturvin days why that tixt o’ lovin words to old Lizzie Pyke were cut in the bark o’ crooked ash yonder one while past save words en’t grawed an the old tree have why gurt oak on high road be called Sam’s Own as we ud hang from an collar plums wi’ a stick shaved sharp out o’ Harry Tagg’s fruit cart passin aneath hup aye ben’t no use at all steppin out wi’out a ear an a eye to stir my old chaak nope en’t narn to hear my rigmaroles save in the boozer boy as be only for ale en’t narn o’ they boozers raaly listenin anyways come come Jonas it be worth a jug o’ never fear now worth a jug o’ never fear oh forty gallons o’ never fear forty gallons o’ table beer forty gallons o’ worse nor that an forty gallons o’ rattle tap yaa allus thought as I’d have a jug out o’ thee in the Never Fear as you fine folk knows as New Inn en’t bin new for a tarnal long time betwixt thee an I an the gate-post kaaarkok pheasant boy nice fat pheasant whole copse be a-move wi’ game yit you collars one whiskut o’ beech out o’ here they’d pull us up in a jiff them near buggers yaa never had no drop o’ milk till I were fourteen save out o’ my mam’s dugs them close-fisted fanners gid us nowt though it were a-drippin off they noses frozed we were them winters wi’out a stick to rub aye worsest days Master Dannul worsest days an there I goes ploughin on to seventy please God an you as the heron did drop in the moss get sunked when thee be jus about a hobbledehoy what is a hobbledehoy Mr Perry well I never a chap be called a hobbledehoy as be short of a man but more’n a boy thee on’t never feel that there gurt sappy feller creep into thy gullet an hinder thy voice an stretch thy limbs summat gawky so as thee on’t know where thee begins nor ends all they jimp gals a-splashin an a-squealin in river makin thee a-hanker that bad thee’d want to weep nope on’t never git thee out o’ that sailor toggery now boy now thee be a-rollin thy hoops over the Awmighty’s bestest peonies drat it I were goin to show thee them glass jiggamies wi’ the shadders on ’em I telled thee on as I found in old Miss Peep-Hole’s attic that Red House it were called then Bew’s Lane jus over-right the Chapel an I were axed to clear he out ater she had leaved this world well that were a thing a-sunk into her bath chair anigh I doin the gardenin atween the field jobs then please God plantin her a smacker on the cheek ater she had passed on cold as dewfall boy if you don’t kiss the face o’ the corpse it do have a knack o’ troublin thee afresh aye well I were prunin roses click click oh Stephen Stephen she do cry all on a sudden them pages o’ writin blowed all over lawn oh Mr Quiller well I says he be jus now passed away you knows that ma’am oh Stephen Stephen an she do claps I to her breast though she be that poorly a bag o’ bones as twere like bein elapsed by a sparrer oh Stephen Stephen then she do yowl like a hare in a trap as to git the crows an ravens off o’ she well I reckoned as she were well nigh to keckin it jus like Mr Quiller as they didn’t find nowt wrong wi’ jus a kind o’ curse they said as come out o’ some old king’s tomb from the year dot an I says I’ll be jus a minut gettin Doc Scott over bein as the maid were out to shop no she cries no a minut be a blur too long too long a minut be a blur too long aye I en’t never got rid o’ that it have stuck like shit to a blanket a minut be a blur too long then she goes on agin about the birds they crows an ravens an I says there en’t no birds save they rooks in the churchyard makin a hell on a din then she do pant an reach deep athin her gurt black skirt as she ud have her camera jiggamy aneath when she were peepin oh I knowed it see I knowed it cotched her one time a-bogglin on old Janey Pocock makin sweet wi’ that Mary Stroude’s bro his Dad were the top harness-maker round abouts in a boat they was aye aye I seed it all over-right to she stopped dead I were other side o’ river jus back from rakin for old man Barr well into her skirt she goed an pulled out a envelope an says when these seeds bloom think on me think on tarnity an how they seeds were older nor a number o’ years as made I giddy an how the universe were a ripple on a lake an life were a spuddlin o’ the river o’ time an whatnot an her hand gid a little jump in mine jus like a rabbet twitchin in snare an lo behold she were dang dead as a nit God rest her soul boy en’t never sowed they old black seeds for she med come an trouble I then yit Jo don’t mind if thee dost Master Dannul don’t mind if thee dost thee can trouble I any old day to show thee them glass jiggamies wi’ shadders on ’em clearin out see new chap in her house says take home what you like what don’t git throwed in cart Perry my man well I finds they glass jiggamies in attic look an takes they home well nigh fifty on ’em on account o’ my teeny-tiny patch as growed my cabbages see aye pushed they on till I had the paunchiest cabbages abouts outside the greenhouse gents knowed for it I was oh knowed for it narn else didn’t have no cloches see seed faces in they jiggamies now an agin old Lizzie Pyke wi’ a yoke o’ water once trees an horses old dame Trason as were chursened Hannah Mary Heddin one time though she were a while dead by then athurt a cabbage one mornin as gid me a fright an a haaf aye jus like old Dick Knapp one day a-bended over my patch as seed a face in there as made him yowl like a pig an turn all creamy-faced so as he had to seat hisself only he never telled I what it were save he were chewin on about a pair o’ specs an highty-tighty wives an some Doctor feller puttin he up to it an axin for the Lord’s massy afore he claps up well that were different anyways old Dick Knapp axin for the Lord’s massy jus on account o’ one o’ my shadders see like a shadder on his conscience I reckoned aye shifty old bugger old Dick Knapp aye cool as a plum along here boy cool as a plum don’t see no faces in they now ater what thretty year don’t see no faces now please God