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.
You’ll see my gate, off to Oxford, from the saddle, right hand goin out. You’ll see her. Biggest gate I ever done. All chamfered for lightness, nice ripplin jowl, brace o’ best oak an thick as they come. Swings like the gate o’ Heaven for a infant, easy an wide an wi’ ne’er a squeal. An old Ben Bowsher hissed out some fancy wings at the forge for that one, for he knowed it were big an special. All splayed they are, an you’ll see the twirliest bit of iron ever twisted for the top o’ the catch, he were that keen. But a gate be ten hours’ work to the hour, an no messin. So where do we find them hours? Not down in the ale-house. Not here. Not a-snug wi’ my old woman neither. No. Every night, aye, an we weren’t on no spree if we weren’t a-home. No. We was in that shop, boots on the cobbles, an no splut from arn on us, acause we were a-feared, I’ll be frank, o’ that Abraham.
Aye.
He allus called me lad, right to his last breath. An me long past my sixtieth year! Aye. That were his manner. That were his way.
Aye.
I reckons as she oughta be bungin back the spile on this bugger. Air’s been at it. I’ll have another, though. Make sure she fills it slick to the top, no halves.
Thank ’ee.
I were younger then, surely. When I hangs that gate I be fit an hale, but no lad all the same. Now I be bad in the fingers I be a genneman till my dying day. Like your good self, sir. Nowt to go at, now. Aye.
Thy health, sir.
That Abraham.
Listen. He come up to us that mornin an he stands there a-straddle, an sucks at his teeth, an swipes the grass wi’ his stick, an nods summat, an he says, ‘Lads, thee’ll be comin along ship-shape there, I won’t deny it. But thee be summat gingerly wi’ that old creature of a gate. I’d expected thee to be up an away up to Manor by this hour. Thee’ll be havin sup wi’ the maids soon, at this rate.’ An one o’ the lads, a lump of a chap, he be linin up the harr agin the post, readyin it for the hammerin to true, when all on a sudden he stops stock still, an looks upperds, like a hare that’s heared summat, and stays so, while I be waitin for him wi’ my hammer hangin in the air, see, an the peewits makin a hell on a din, an the other lad stampin his boot down about the post as one ought, for a good hold, when Abraham says, ‘What be up wi’ thee, Ketchaside’ — for that were the big lad’s name, one o’ the Ketchasides from Maddle Lane — ‘what be up wi’ thee?’