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.