Trosher short story 2010

THE REGULAR
BY IAN VARGESON

LOOK OUT, hare ’e come. “Point o’ moild please. How much? Blast, Oi dint watta buy the brury.”

Gie the ow so and so a chance to settle down. “Oi doont know, I’re bin cummin in hare fifty year and thare ent a fearce I reckernoise.”

Well, thass a fair point, at least. The Dewdrop Inn ent rarely a pub so much as a restaurant these days; no seprit bar or lounge, let aloon a snug. An’ that is sad that he’s the ony real local what cum in hare. Mind you, he’s ony hare cos the King Billy down the rood shut last month. Landlord coont compete wi’ this plearce, since that went ‘upmarket’. Now he’re got money-mearkin plans ter tarn his property inter housin. Wear’ll see. Anyway, fer orl he say, our ow meart hare seem to git on alright wi’ them what do come in hare now; nut that there’s bin many on ’em in tonight. Mondays always wuz quiet. Ony two in earlier and they were booth shandy drinkers. He’s orf out fer a fag now, so thass even quieter.

“Thass a good job that ent allus loik this,” he say when he come back. “Even though some on ’em what come in hare ken be irriteartin. Partickerly them watta bin on the telly, or talk as though they hev.”

I know what he mean. “Can I get a gin and tonic?” they arsk.

“Hev what yew want, my dear,” I say, “but yew doont hatta get it – thass what Oi’m hare fer.”

Then thare’s them what ha’ sin too many cookin programmes an’ want samfire. And when, arter puttin ’em right, you sarve the samfer with a bit o’ winegar, they reckon thass a ‘tad too bitter’.

I told him that an’ he larfed. “Moi heart aloive,” he say, “ter me a tad was suffin we hatta clare orfa Scott’s Medder afore we could play on a Saturday arternoon.

“How long is it,” he ruminearted, “when yew git a group loik that, afore one on ’em watta know wass the best way ter git ter Hokum from hare?”


IAN VARGESON READING HIS STORY

We shoont be crewl. Moost on ’em are friendly enough an’ our ow pal hare ent slow in tearkin advantage o’ thare generarsity. An’ the new owner ent too bad neither. He must ha’ thought experience counted fer suffin when he give me this job six month ago.

But I still hev reservearshuns about workin hare. What the customers say ent no consarn o’ moin, but I carnt help gittin agitearted at what they come out with sometimes. I spoos ow habits die hard.

Like them gigglin mawthers in hare yisty – startin evra sentence with ‘I’m like’, ‘He’s like’ or ‘She’s like’ and endin it with a question mark, when that ent a question? Then there’s ‘haitch’, loik when some on ’em talk about the NHS; or ‘is yar telly HD ready?’. Far as I can remember, that was suffin Morecambe and Wise said once an’ that stuck. Thass a rummun people carnt tell the difference atween sorft an’ serious. Mind yew, that ent allus streartfor’ard: I still hev a problem with ‘razed to the ground’. Arter sevrul years I found out the spellin woont what I thought, but wass wrong wi’ jist sayin ‘bant down’?

I tell th’ow regular this an’ he nod. “We hed thet mooter rearcin commentearter in hare th’other day. Yew know – him what say ‘And Wettel’s in sickth place!’ Sickth? Dew he droive car number sick? Another bewty wuz when he say ‘Hamilton’s on fire!’, but I doont think he wuz, thank tha Lord.”

“The reardio ent much better. Hev yew nooticed the number on ’em that say ‘yeah’, ‘no’ in reply ter a question? What sort o’ arnser is that? An’ some o’ them ‘award winners’ carnt complete a sentence without sayin ‘kind of’ three times in it,” I say. “Noo,” I think aloud, “we’re got a long way ter go afore we need git on ter misplearced apostrophes.”

“Cum agin?” the ow hand say, afore gorn on. “And doont git me on ter when tha’re ment ter be talkin Norfolk. That episode o’ Kingdom, when the pub landlord say ter a boy ‘You arrn’t from rewnd these parrts, arre ye?’, med me ill.”

No, you ent neither, ow partner, I thought. Moind yew, that carnt be easy fer outsiders; that ent unknown fer me ter be tearken fer an Australian when Oi’m up in Yorkshire. Speshully when we go ter tha cricket at Scaarbra.

“Anyway, I hare they’re now gorta improve the rood th’other side o’ Thetford, so there’ll be more on ’em a cummin afore long. Praps we cood doivert ’em ter Swaffham, ter talk ter thet landlord,” he chuckle.

Well, that opened the gearte ter a whool new field, but I doont watta encourage him. I ent rarely in the mood fer his squit, so I give it tha toime-honoured “The day thou gavest, Lord, has ended”.

“What? Ha’past nine and you’re shuttin up shop?”

Yew doont hatta stay open now, yew say, if that tarn out ter be a quiet noight! Deregerleartion? They deregerlearted the buses. Now yew git five turn up at the same toim Wensdy arternoon and nuthin the rest o’ the week.

“Awroight – fare ye well. Oi doont watta be hulled out, though that woont be a fast. Oi better gorn show moi missus a good husband.”

Why do we hatta hev this pantomoime evra noight?

“Yes dear,” I sigh. “I’ll just clare the bar an’ hev a snout round afore lockin up. An’ that woont hat ye to teark the dorg out afore I git hoom.”

He’re bin insuffrable since we give up the Dewdrop an’ moved to ar new bungalow. An’ I thought I could git out o’ his way down hare fer a few hours. That backfired, dint it? Ah well, I spoos I could always ....

Noo – I ent gorn back ter teachin English. Thass obviously a wearste o’ toime.

I WAS A STRANGER
BY KATHERINE BYGRAVE

MOI FATHER HE WORNT NORFIK, n’yit wornt Mother. They wuz a rum sorterra mixture. They lived up London. (We say, ‘Up London’, same as we say, ‘Up Norwich’, but that int ‘up’, thass down, dew yew look at yar map.)

Mother she dint loike that part o’ London, she reckoned that wuz low class. She wuz rather a hikey little pusson. She wanted ta move, an’ she kep a putten on har parts, so Father, he say, “Less go ta Norfolk.”

I wuz oonla a little ole bearby then, that wuz nointeen-twenter tew. We hatta go b’train. Mother hatta feed me in the train so she hatta put a big ole shawl round harself. Thass what they useter hatta do. When we got to Norfik we hatta walk acrorst Norwich an git ta City Stearshun. (That int there now – ole Hitler, he bombed that.) Then we hatta walk agin. Up a narrer little ole rud. That wornt med up. Mother hent never sin a rud like that up London. That wuz all grit an marl an stuns. Father, he say, “Yew better let me carry the bearby!”

That wuz a rum little ole plearse, after livven in London. Med a pebbles like yew git orf a the beach. That wuz a mile ta the charch, a mile ta the skule, tew mile ta the oonla shop, an’ tew mile ta the stearshun if yew hatta go inter Norwich fer sumth’n. Father he hatta git hisself a bike an’ one fer Mother, but she dint know how ter roide so he hatta larn har. Har’s wuz a gal’s bike but bein’ as she wornt verra big, she still hatta dew three little hops fust ta git on tu’rt. She’d git the wind up dew a hoss ’n’ cart come.

Our nearber, he hed a little ole farm. Oonla one hoss, one cow, an’ one ole billa goat – yew c’d smell him half a mile orf. (The goat, I mean.)


KATHERINE BYGRAVE RECEIVED THIRD PRIZE

People spook ta Mother an’ she’d sorta nod, but she dint mearke friends. She went ta charch but she dint go ta jumble searles an’ that. She dint hev the chimbley sweep, an’ hev a good fye out ivra spring, like evra one else. I dint git a dose o’ medsin evra weekend like other kids there hed, an’ she dint work in the filds a-singlen beet, an’ picken up tearters like the other wimmen round about. She din’t know how ta mearke piece-mats for the floor like evra one hed. (Mearde frum ole trousers an’ jackets an’ skarts cut up an’ put on a ole bit a-sacken’.) I reckon them wimmen there thought she wuz a rummun.

When I hatta start skule Teacher wuz a local gal. She wuz nice, but she kep a-sayen ta me, “Do leave orf talken Cockney!”

I sune larnt Norfik, an’ I hatta larn ta say, “Please may I leave the room? (If yew know what I mean.)

At skule I hatta set agin the gal Myrtle. She kep a-sayen, “Yew shunt be hair, yew wornt born hair!” She told the other kids, “Dorn’t less speak ta har!” She say, “Yew wanta go back where yew come from!”

She wuz an oonla child an’ she hed evrathing she wanted: a watch, waterbutes, a bike, button-up leggens in winter, an’ even fleecy-lined combernations fer underwear.

She dint like me c’s my hair wuz longer than hers, an’ I hed a Scotch Kilt, so har mother hed ta teark har up Norwich an’ git har one, but mine was all pleats an’ that flew out all round when I twizzled round, so she dint like that. When I got good marks for writen, an’ Teacher writ ‘RUBBISH!’ on hars, she dipped har pen in the ink an’ dropped a gret ole blot on my book. I dint tell the teacher.

I’d still hatta set alonga har. But that wuz eighty-eight years ago. I wuz walk’n by the ole skule the other week, and way come good ole ‘Smudger’. He set by us in skule.

“Wuz yew born hair?” he say.

I told’m I wuz oonla a bearby when we’d come. I got a hug, then a rather bristly kiss.

“Oi reckon yew’ll pass as one on us, now!” he say kindly.

Dew yew know what, tergether? That med moi day! (Corse, thass orl bludda foreigners now!)