Ulverton (13 page)

I praye for thy sole an hev sed my rimes wee shll bee 5 I hopes thee hev more theyar to du the job spesely as ucle Rob hev a badd leg God spede my sonne

thy ever loving mothr

Sara Snail

P.S. I hev not red to hur al you rote God forgif thee thy tung asll soon bee lillin oute al rite if thee wernt a doomd felon I odd du a damd deal wuss for thy slandere tha tell thee nowe I hev — thy mother an hev rubbd her duggs with my — for eche leter rit may the divil taik thee as wer niver more tha a ras kel by God wen thee bee slicd upp & throne too the doggs I ool be in heavn al rite with thy mamy soein a fine net in & oute wen thee bee danglin wotch thy cokk it don go upp itt shll al rite but thee ooll be pissin thy sole in too the dust you hev yr jus reward i hev mine al rite

john Pounds tailer

yr mam think this bee a praier so itt bee

Sunday the 7th day of this inst April 1776 Surley Row Ulverton

My dear Francis,

Mr John Bate our Curate writes this for me. The Rector has paid the Coachman 1 shilling to carry it, I have always been a worthy Church attender. We are all very glad at your Pardon. I believe your Prosecutor was moved by God’s merciful example to
forgive
you I hope he has a fine new hat. I have Wept many times for joy, etc. Your mother is exceedingly joyous that you shall be coming home when you have the Money for the coach. Judith also was glad, and your wife also. Mr Pounds trembled with Shock as if he had seen a Ghost. This is the power of Prayer. God be with thee my son. You must not pick up any more fine hats.

Your ever loving Mother,

Sarah Shail

P.S. My black Wen remains very Sore.

HE WERE A
master carpenter, but no master o’ men. He didn’t allus treat us aright. This were Abraham Webb. His father an granfer were wainwrights, but ater the fire when he were only fourteen there was that much work to do he got down an carved hisself a post in joinery so as he become the finest an most skilled hereabouts. There was that much work to cut, it lasted him years, for them as could pay wanted all manner o’ pretty cupboards, an stairs, an mantelshelves. The fire took away, what, a quarter of Ulver, in ’45. Bitter sweet for carpenters an suchlike. I were only ten year but I remimbers it. Blizzed away half o’ Main Street afore they dowsed him. Melted the rime out to Five Elms. It were a raw winter, but river were warm as a maid.

Aye, Abraham rised on that, for sure. It were his brother did the waggons, though they shared the yard. The brother’s son took over now.

I become apprenticed on account of a girl I fancied. She were milkmaid over at Barr’s farm, this side o’ river. I were jus on fourteen year, speech like turnin a gate on rusty hinges an never stuck up to a girl afore. Meets her early on the way to milkin, luggin her bucket, but it were split awmost atwo an she were that low, bein a pail she’d a-had from when she first begun, that I says to her, ‘I’ll make thee one afresh, Kath’ – thinkin as how that be the shortest way to her heart. So I lops some chestnut an bangs away, an makes such a botch she only laughs when I shows he to her. I had no skills then, he were all square, as I had nowt to bend the timber with – though she be white an soft, chestnut. I vowed then an there to learn myself joinery. How to make wood do for me what my tongue don’t.

She buckles to wi’ old George Stroude, young tanner down Fogbourne way, soon ater. Reckon as he were workin more’n his straps backerds an forruds, when I were shilly-shallyin. Aye.

Heh.

Though I bint grizzlin, mind. I got down to’t afore long. A brace o’ nippers. Aye aye.

‘That’s a Webb,’ people’d say, ‘that there’s a Webb.’ They’d point at their cupboards an say it, or in the church where he’d done poppy-heads. It weren’t nothin fancy, it weren’t fancywork like the stuff up at the Hall, an it weren’t hardly ever painted, an gilded, as I sees up at the Hall – but it were solid an agreeable, an still be, for nowt o’ Webb’s work have ever buckled or cracked. He chosed his timber like a body chooses a woman. For life, an no shilly-shallyin.

He have a-bin in the ground these five year, and I misses him. Winter of ’97 he died. Jus afore he hacked his last he’d cock a ear, abed, an hear the dingin in the yard, an he’d know what we were puttin together. He knowed when it were his own coffen. He hears the boards ripped, an sits bolt up in bed, an swears we en’t got it seasoned proper. All through the hammerin o’ the brads it were shaped beautiful in his own head, an he sweared like fury when he heared one hit off. I says sweared, but it weren’t no blasphemy, for he were a church-goer all his days. An that be at the heart o’ this story, if you were to cleft it – that, an his hardness. He were pure oak.

Now I don’t hold wi’ them as says Abraham Webb were the spit of his father in skill. His father stuck to wheels, an had other men do gates an stairs an so forth. No comparin. But I do know as Isaac Webb’s father, Jepthah Webb, bein Abraham’s granfer, made a wheel poorly so it broke an pitched a man into the next Kingdom. Aye. That were way back, up at Plumm’s, the year old dame Anne was made. But by my reckonin, Abraham had soaked up the skill so he were well nigh saturated, an hardly needed to larn in his head. He ud allus have a sweet smell about him, for he were reared in sawdust. You should’ve seed his hands, hard as a nave an as well nigh chopped, for they’d never been more’n a night away from irons, an allus dark as a gipsy’s from oak-juice, he’d felled so many.

Thank’ee.

Aye. He were right stumpy, he were, an ud allus stand straddle
wise,
when he weren’t at summat, wi’ them hands in his britches, axin nowt o’ narn save they get to it, an ud give a bastin to the young-uns if they gives him lip, or shambles in late. I knows, for I feeled it, an it allus drayed blood. But he were patient as the Lord wi’ an aggy line, if the boy was eager, an ud allus show us the right way. He were two men.

One treated us aright, t’other not.

Your health, sir.

Aye.

For it weren’t so much the beatin, as the hours. We’d be on a job, an he’d have us there afore cock-crow, sayin as how life was for toilin, an to get gumption a body didn’t pick it up abed, an then kep us till late a-night. I remimbers them walks – three, four, five mild – athurt the down to some farm or other, pitch dark a-winter, an nowt but a glimmerin in the east o’ summertime, an rabbit-scuts we couldn’t touch, all our irons an whatnot in our boxes, luggin it all, clatterin along, and then back to our shop an at them floorboards, or doors, or whatever, till well ater candlelight, even o’ summer. It weren’t jolly, no. There was one lad, name o’ Tuck, who didn’t ought to have bin apprenticed anyways, but he gets so down in the mouth about it all he throws his box in the river from Saddle Bridge one night, dog-tired, an goes to sea. Abraham be that fretted about the box he gets me to jump in an fish him out, an them poplars were aready turnin leaf. One didn’t say no, though. Some o’ the tools were gone acause the box were ope when I found he, though it were nowt the worse for the dowsin, an old Abraham wanted me to go back in an fish up them as were fallen out, but I were that shrammed an chatterin I couldn’t hear him, an he let me off.

There was a bradawl missin, an a truein plane, an a tenon-saw. That were sad.

Aye.

See these fingers? Rheumatics. Useless.

Couldn’t mend a broomstick now. Time was when I were that busy I could’ve waded through the shavins.

Ah well.

Old Abraham ud say to me, ‘Samuel, if thee en’t a doer, thee be good as dead.’ He were cock-eyed, mind, an this gid him a queer look. But he had the truest line of arn on us. He ud snap that lampblack an saw on it like it were butter, an the grain felled away clean like it were made that way. I could tell his sawin blind. It were music.

One time we gets some work up at the Hall, an not jus the back-stairs, neither. Ladybitch Chalmers wanted her broke bits mended, didn’t she? I got a peepful of her stuff, I did. All gilded an carved like it were breathed out an no iron hadn’t ever touched it, all leaves an twined in bedwine an ivery door had a-chitted some ivy atop. Smell o’ wax, though I don’t go along wi’ polishin as the fine ones do. Hands on the rails do it, an the boards gets greasy an slippy. They likes the shine, see. Anyways, I gets a bit of a pier-glass, a banger of a glass, twice the size of I, an there was a bit of a wing nicked off a what-d’ye-call, a cupid. I carved this wing out like my life hanged on it, an were right proud at it, all the same, an tapped it on wi’ a fillet aback to keep it from topplin off an upsettin her ladyship, though she weren’t lackin in cupids, was she, the way she goed on? – an in comes Abraham, an squints at it, an sucks his teeth, an shoves his hands in his britches, an stands straddle-wise, an hums an hahs, an says, ‘Samuel, that ben’t a wing for a cupid so much as a hawk.’ An I says, ‘Nay, Mr Webb, not so much a hawk, more a lark.’ An he smiles, an says, ‘Samuel, best take her down. Thee have got to be handlin on her like thee be smitten.’ Wood was allus ‘her’ to Abraham.

An I did. Still there, I shouldn’t wonder. Though they don’t deserve it. I’ll tell thee on that some other time. She were a crabby old bitch, Lady Chalmers. I seed her picture, from way back, an she were handsome then. Though she still thought she were, the way she beautified herself wi’ all that white stuff, an all them red ribbons in her hair. She were not much better nor her son, I’ll say that, an that be all but swearin, round here. We don’t forget easy. Recallin don’t get ramshackle, not round here. No.

See that chap come in now? You ax him about the Chalmers. Atween you an I, he have bagged more deer nor they have. That be his sister wi’n, old Mags Knapp. She was allus broken-mouthed. Lost her teeth ploughin, we say. Green Man reglars,
don’t
know what they be doin in the Never Fear. As you knows as the New Inn, though it en’t bin new for a tarnal long time. Had a drop aready. Maybe the law be on ’em. That’ll be summat. There en’t a mother’s son in here as hasn’t tried to get what be theirs by right, off o’ them Chalmers. Don’t tell narn. You be ridin through. Nowt o’ yourn, sir.

No.

What Abraham ud allus say to me: ‘Thee be adrift, Samuel, an if thee don’t get hammerin, thee’ll sink.’ He was full o’ them concoctions, was Abraham. But he were right. My work allus had a weakness about it. Not a big ’un. Jus a kind o’ touch about it, that it weren’t solid, like his were, all the way from start to finish. It’d start strong, but ud be gnarley, or bungersome, an then strong, an so on. Jus a touch.

Ah well.

Can’t all be masters. No.

He could spot a tree as were ready better nor arn other. That was what he had. Dead o’ winter, frost cracklin, sap down, first light up in the copses – Baylee mainly, good oak there, middlin tough acause the soil en’t thin, an Smithy Copse for elm, an top o’ Frum Down for beech, though they’ve mostly gone now, them as were past Five Elms Farm, on account o’ the storms, for they don’t root deep, beech, an they were right on brow there, afore sarsens, though there be a fine clump on the estate, agin river, where they put that daft temple, aye, an wych astraddle the river ater Quabb Bottom jus afore old Master Pottinger’s mill, goin up, in Grigg’s, for we needed a goodish lot o’ wych, for the furniture, though I prefers the Dutch, plenty o’ that out Bursop way, an roundabouts, Dutch bein easy on the palm an works wi’ you, don’t it? – an there he’d be, deep in Baylee, eyein this butt, that butt, an allus better nor his bro for seein the wheel in the crooked uns, ezackerly right, an ud mark ’em, I can see him now, wi’ a flick o’ the gouge an stride through the old mist, cracklin over the floor – an he’d be fellin the next day, he’d be that quick at hagglin.

They’d crash down all right. He’d have the butts in the bob in no time, up there in the woods. You go to the yard now, see the elm stacked, right hand o’ saw-pit, we cut down eight, nine year ago, when we were still gristy. That be my work there, though I
won’t
never fashion it. Could tell you where ivery one of ’em stood, once. All out Bursop way. Ivery one have a tale in her. Like haaf as be fashioned out o’ timber in Ulver, I can tell you where it come from, what dern tree. See that old door there? Twenty year old, but it were once up atop Basing’s Down, north end o’ Swilly Copse, pleasurin its leaves in grawin weather, rustlin in wind. Afore we lopped she, an one day’s work got a door out.

Aye. He were more nor sixty then, but he were dashin about like a fox, up there in them copses, wi’ his big brown hat an big brown coat. I medn’t be able to book-larn, an know letters, but I can read them copses. ’Tis what he gived I.

You ride up to Baylee Copse an see. Other side o’ the square here there be Bew’s Lane. Go on up there, see, an onto the track an there be Baylee dead ahead. Dead ahead. Best oak round-abouts. Best English oak, save the top end, where the ground be chocky. Wood comes hard out o’ that end. Stayin long, then?

Aye. I will. Good an warm.

Aye. It all helps. Kills the worm, don’t it, like milk, milk in a milk pail. Them worms fancies chestnut, acause it be white an soft for them little jaws, but they don’t like the saturation. That be why the ale be good for thee. Kills the worm.

A good un, but true, if you’ll stay for it.

What the rooms be like up there then? Make sure she lays you a fire now. The chill en’t out yet. Make sure. That there well side be best. Gets the sun, an not them dingin bells. You a churcher, then? Last time I bin was to lay down my old woman in her tarnal rest, God bless her. Go in there, look at the poppy-heads on the north side. That be my work. Abraham’s on the south. You’ll know. Never could do as he did. Never could. An the font-lid. That be ourn. I remimbers the tree, up in Baylee. Abraham, he stalks about one mornin, dead o’ winter, raw it was, clouds all curdlin, an he were right riled, acause he wanted an oak for the lid that were droxy at the bottom, for the beauty on it, an he couldn’t spot un, or more like smell un, an were gettin more an more glowery, till he stopped stock-still anigh a gurt mellow butt, big as a church, an sniffed low, an were pleased as punch, an that be the one. That be atop the font. Nice an streaky, like river-spate ater storms. Two years afore he worked it, mind. Vicar had to wait,
didn’t
he? An Abraham were that vallyble, he did. Atween you an I, though, I can spot a dragon in them patterns. I reckons as how there were a dragon in that tree. He’ll avenge hisself one day. ’Tis what oak be. Vengeful. Eh? Heh.

I gets a-dry talkin.

Aye.

It were my hands. Dubby they be, see? Not made for handlin. Not for fine work. Not even afore rheumatics. Though I won’t say as I did poor work. But it weren’t never admired.

Look. Lay hold o’ this here, look. Lay hold o’ the haft.

Worked wi’n for nigh on forty year, didn’t I? Chiselled my life out, wi’ that. Chiselled my life out. Sold the other tools. Couldn’t rid me o’ that un. Don’t sit comfortable in a fine hand. Look. My life in this here haft, see? All worn one side. A pokey kind o’ life. But I couldn’t rid me o’ this. My life in this haft. Nigh worn out.

First job, wi’ this un, morticin for the winders in the Vicar’s house. Still there, praise the Lord. Them winders have seed a thing or two, I shouldn’t wonder. Haven’t stuck since, though. Not to my knowledge. That be Webb’s work for you. That be Abraham.

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.