by Adam Thorpe
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.
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.’
He allus called us lads, right up to five year ago, though I were long past thretty year even in ’75, when this happened.
That was his way, see.
An we looks at each other, an makes a face all the same, for them stairs weren’t all we were at then, no – we were doin stalls for Barr’s farm, an nigh on a hundred cogs for the mill, an a fence round what Chalmers’d enclosed (for that were jus begun then, that poor business) an all the littler jobs folk brought in on the chance, like – an here be old Abraham pilin more on, like we were donkeys, past all puttin up with, in our minds.
Now Abraham, we knows, has a patchy temper, so we don’t say nothin, but goes on hammerin, an fixin, an smoothin, then ater work the next day it be off to our shop an in there till eleven, makin gates an doors to Abraham’s lines, by candlelight, though it were well nigh summer, an off to Stiff’s early over Mapleash, an I hangs the big gate into the Gore, as be on the main road just afore turnin off to farm, an there I be fresh up with tom-tit an buntin, a-hangin the big gate, when who should I see but Abraham come. An I turns to the lads an says, ‘What he be up to now then, checkin up, like? He looks bucksome enough.’ More nor we were, hammerin an stompin the earth hard agin the post fit to bust that early we barely nodded a-nights, an the sun only jus now peeped, an mist all along river, see, down the bottom. Aye aye.
