Krindlesyke

Excerpt

BOOK I

PHŒBE BARRASFORD

Krindlesyke is a remote shepherd’s cottage on the Northumbrian fells, at least three miles from any other habitation. It consists of two rooms, a but and a ben. Ezra Barrasford, an old herd, blind and decrepit, sits in an armchair in the but, or living-room, near the open door, on a mild afternoon in April. Eliza Barrasford, his wife, is busy, making griddle-cakes over the peat fire.

Eliza (glancing at the wag-at-the-wa’):

It’s hard on three o’clock, and they’ll be home
Before so very long now.

Ezra:

Eh, what’s that?

Eliza:

You’re growing duller every day. I said
They’d soon be home now.

Ezra:

They? And who be they?

Eliza:

My faith, you’ve got a memory like a milk-sile!
You’ve not forgotten Jim’s away to wed?
You’re not that dull.

Ezra:

We cannot all be needles:
And some folk’s tongues are sharper than their wits.
Yet, till thon spirt of hot tar blinded me,
No chap was cuter in all the countryside,
Or better at a bargain; and it took
A nimble tongue to bandy words with mine.
You’d got to be up betimes to get round Ezra:
And none was a shrewder judge of ewes, or women.
My wits just failed me once, the day I married:
But, you’re an early riser, and your tongue
Is always up before you, and with an edge,
Unblunted by the dewfall, and as busy
As a scythe in the grass at Lammas. So Jim’s away
To wed, is he, the limb? I thought he’d gone
For swedes; though now, I mind some babblement
About a wedding: but, nowadays, words tumble
Through my old head like turnips through a slicer;
And naught I ken who the bowdykite’s to wed—
Some bletherskite he’s picked up in a ditch,
Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine,
Who’ll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-river
Within a week, if I ken aught of Jim.
Unless ... Nay, sure, ’twas Judith Ellershaw.

Eliza:

No, no; you’re dull, indeed. It’s Phœbe Martin.

Ezra:

Who’s Phœbe Martin? I ken naught of her.

Eliza:

And I, but little.

Ezra:

Some trapsing tatterwallops,
I’ll warrant. Well, these days, the lads are like
The young cockgrouse, who doesn’t consult his dad
Before he mates. In my—yet, come to think,
I didn’t say overmuch. My dad and mammy
Scarce kenned her name when I sprung my bride on them;
Just loosed on them a gisseypig out of a poke
They’d heard no squeak of. They’d to thole my choice,
Lump it or like it. I’d the upper hand then:
And well they kenned their master. No tawse to chide,
Nor apron-strings to hold young Ezra then:
His turn had come; and he was cock of the midden,
And no braw cockerel’s hustled him from it yet,
For all their crowing. The blind old bird’s still game.
They’ve never had his spirit, the young cheepers,
Not one; and Jim’s the lave of the clutch; and he
Will never lord it at Krindlesyke till I’m straked.
But this what’s-her-name the gaby’s bringing ...

Eliza:

Phœbe.

Ezra:

A posical name; I never heard the like.
She’ll be a flighty faggit, mark my words.

Eliza:

She’s only been here once before; and now
She’ll be here all the time....