They are never imaginative because, again, they don’t need to be. They find it impossible to want anything which they can’t actually see in the village or which isn’t theirs already. Adolescence makes them a bit restless, of course, but by then they are in such control of themselves that they rarely do anything unusual or exciting. They are very balanced but really it is only because they are so heavy! They never have any desire to explore an unknown area. They resist any pressure to make them inquisitive about things which lie beyond the scope of the village and should there be a boy or girl with initiative and a bright intelligence, he or she is soon frustrated. With most of them it is, ‘We know quite enough for what we have to do, thank you very much.’
The mothers are only interested if their children can perform something, recite a poem by heart, strum a piece on the piano. They are proud then. They don’t appreciate the need to ask why a thing is done. They say that they don’t like their children to ask questions all the time; they think it is rude. There is something treasonable about a child who does well. A market gardener I know, who is now about twenty, is a lonely person because he went to the grammar school and the village women say, ‘Didn’t get him far, did it? All that schooling and he’s still on the land!’ Perhaps they know that there is nothing like education for breaking up an ordinary country family. Or perhaps theirs is a different wisdom.
The Cook’s Tale
The dialect of the area has a gentle sing‐song intonation which is allied with a pithy toughness. The following story, told before radio and other language‐changing agencies arrived, gives some indication of the vigorous Suffolk speech and shows many old English words which are still in common use in the village. It also displays the somewhat laconic wit of the people. The story itself is Suffolk’s claim – one of many – to the Rumpelstiltskin legend. It was told by a servant at the Big House many years ago.
TOM TIT TOT
Well, once upon a time there were a woman, and she baked five pies. And when they come out of the oven they was that overbaked, the crust were too hard to eat. So she says to her darter:
‘Maw’r,’ says she, ‘put you them there pies on the shelf an’ leave them a little, an’ they’ll come agin.’ – She meant, you know, the crust ’ud get soft.
But the gal, she says to herself, ‘Well, if they’ll come agin, I’ll ate ’em now.’ And she set to work and ate ’em all, first and last.
Well, come supper time the woman she said: ‘Goo you and git one o’ them there pies. I dare say they’ve come agin now.’
The gal she went an’ she looked, an’ there warn’t nothin’ but the dishes. So back she come, an’ says she, ‘Noo, they ain’t come agin.’
‘Not none o’ them?’ says the mother.
‘Not none o’ them,’ says she.
‘Well, come agin, or not come agin,’ says the woman, ‘I’ll ha’ one for supper.’
‘But you can’t if they ain’t come,’ says the gal. ‘But I can,’ says she. ‘Goo you and bring the best of ’em.’
‘Best or worst,’ says the gal, ‘I’ve ate ’em all, an’ you can’t ha’ one till that’s come agin.’
Well, the woman she were wholly bate, an’ she took her spinnin’ to the door to spin, and as she spun she sang:
‘My darter ha’ ate five, five pies to‐day.
My darter ha’ ate five, five pies to‐day.’
The King, he were a’ comin’ down the street an’ he hard her sing, but what she sang he couldn’t hear, so he stopped and said,
‘What were that you was a singin’ of, maw’r?’ The woman, she were ashamed to let him hare what her darter had been a doin’, so she sang, ’stids o’ that:
‘My darter ha’ spun five, five skeins to‐day.
My darter ha’ spun five, five skeins to‐day.’
‘S’ars o’ mine!’ says the King, ‘I never heerd tell o’ anyone as could do that.’
Then he said: ‘Look you here, I want a wife and I’ll marry your darter. But look you here,’ says he, ‘ ’leven months out o’ the year she shall have all the vittles she likes to eat, and all the gownds she likes to git, an’ all the cump’ny she likes to hev; but the last month o’ the year she’ll ha’ to spin five skeins ev’ry day, an’ if she doon’t, I shall kill her.’
‘All right,’ says the woman, for she thowt what a grand marriage there was. And as for them five skeins, when te come tew, there’d be plenty o’ ways o’ gettin’ out of it, and likeliest, he’d ha’ forgot about it.
Well, so they was married. An’ for ’leven months the gal had all the vittles she liked to ate, and all the gownds she liked to git, and all the cump’ny she liked to hev. But when the time was over she began to think about them there skeins an’ to wonder if he had ’em in mind. But not one word did he say about ’em, an’ she whoolly thowt he’d forgot ’em.
Howsivir, the last day o’ the last month, he takes her to a room she’d niver set eyes on afore. There worn’t nothin’ in it but a spinnin’ wheel an’ a stool. An’, say he, ‘Now me dear, hare you’ll be shut in tomorrow with some vittles and some flax, and if you hain’t spun five skeins by the night, yar hid’ll goo off.’
An’ away he went about his business. Well, she were that frightened. She’d allus been such a gatless mawther, that she didn’t so much as know how to spin, an’ what were she to dew tomorrer, with no one to come nigh to help her? She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, an’ lork! how she did cry!
Howsivir, all on a sudden she hard a sort o’ knockin’ low down on the door. She upped and oped it, an’ what should she see but a small little black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right kewrious, an’ that said:
‘What are yew cryin’ for?’
‘What’s that to yew?’ says she.
‘Nivir yew mind,’ that said. ‘But tell me what you’re a cryin’ for?’
‘That oon’t dew me noo good if I dew,’ says she. ‘You doon’t know that,’ that said, an’ twirled that’s tail round.
‘Well,’ says she, ‘that oon’t dew no harm, if that doon’t dew no good,’ and she upped an’ she told about the pies an’ the skeins an’ everything.
‘This is what I’ll do,’ says the little black thing. ‘I’ll come to yar winder iv’ry mornin’ an’ take the flax an’ bring it spun at night.’
‘What’s your pay?’ says she.
That looked out o’ the corners o’ that’s eyes an’ said: ‘I’ll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, an’ if you hain’t guessed it afore the month’s up, yew shall be mine.’
Well, she thowt she’d be sure to guess that’s name afore the month was up. ‘All right,’ says she, ‘I agree.’
‘All right,’ says that, an’ lork! how that twirled that’s tail!
Well, the next day, har husband he took har into the room, an’ there was the flax an’ the day’s vittles.
‘Now there’s the flax,’ says he, ‘an’ if that ain’t spun up this night off goo yar hid!’ An’ then he went out an’ locked the door.
He’d hardly gone, when there was a knockin’ agin the winder. She upped and she oped it, an’ there sure enough was the little oo’d thing a settin’ on the ledge.
‘Where’s the flax?’ says he.
‘Here te be,’ says she. And she gonned it to him.
Well, come the evenin’, a knockin’ come agin to the winder. She upped and she oped it and there was the little oo’d thing with five skeins of flax on his arm.
‘Here to be,’ says he, and he gonned it to her. ‘Now what’s my name?’ says he.
‘What, is that Bill?’ says she.
‘Noo, that ain’t,’ says he. An’ he twirled his tail.
‘Well, is that Ned?’ says she.
‘Noo, that ain’t,’ says he. An’ he twirled his tail.
‘Well, is that Mark?’ says she.
‘Noo, that ain’t,’ says he. And he twirled harder, an’ awa’ he flew.
Well, har husband he c
ome in, there was the five skeins riddy for him. ‘I see I shan’t hev for to kill you to‐night, me dare,’ says he. ‘Yew’ll hev yar vittles and yar flax in the mornin’,’ says he, an’ awa’ he goes.
Well, ivery day the flax and the vittles, they was brought, an’ ivery day that there little black impet used to come mornins and evenins. An’ all the day the mawther she set a tryin’ fur to think o’ names to say to it when te come at night. But she niver hit on the right one. An’ as that got to‐warts the ind o’ the month, the impet that began to look soo maliceful, an’ that twirled that’s tail faster an’ faster each time she gave a guess.
At last te come to the last day but one. The impet that come along o’ the five skeins an’ that said:
‘What, hain’t yew got my name yet?’
‘Is that Nicodemus?’ says she.
‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ that says.
‘Is that Sammle?’ says she.
‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ that says.
‘A‐well, is that Methusalem?’ says she.
‘Noo, t’ain’t that norther,’ he says.
Then that looks at her with that’s eyes like a cool o’fire, an’ that says: ‘Woman, there’s only tomorrer night, and then yar’ll be mine!’ An’ away that flew.
Well, she felt that horrud. Howsomediver, she hard the King a comin’ along the passage. In he came, an’ when he see the five skeins, he says, says he:
‘Well, my dare,’ says he, ‘I don’t see but what you’ll ha’ your skeins riddy tomorrer night as well, an’ as I reckon I shan’t ha’ to kill you, I’ll ha’ supper in here tonight.’ So they brought supper, an’ another stool for him, and down the tew they set.
Well, he hadn’t eat but a mouthful or so, when he stops an’ begins to laugh.
‘What is it?’ says she.
‘A‐why,’ says he, ‘I was out a huntin’ to‐day, an’ I got awa’ to a place in the wood I’d never seen afore. An’ there was an’ ol’ chalk pit. An’ I heerd a sort o’ a hummin’, kind o’. So I got off my hobby, and went right quiet to the pit, an’ I looked down. Well, what should be there but the funniest little black thing yew iver set eyes on. An’ what was that dewin’ on, but that had a little spinnin’ wheel, an’ that were spinnin’ wonnerful fast, an’ twirlin’ that’s tail. An’ as that span that sang:
‘Nimmy nimmy not
My name’s Tom Tit Tot.’
Well, when the mawther heerd this, she fared as if she could ha’ jumped outer her skin for joy, but she didn’t say a word.
Next day, that there little thing looked soo maliceful when he come for the flax. An’ when night come, she heerd that a knockin’ agin the winder panes. She oped the winder, an’ that came right in on the ledge. That were grinnin’ from are to are, an’ Oo! that’s tail were twirlin’ round that fast!
‘What’s my name?’ that says, as that gonned har the skeins.
‘Is that Solomon?’ she says, pretendin’ to be afeared.
‘Noo, t’aint,’ that says, an’ that come fudder into the room.
‘Well, is that Zebedee?’ says she again.
‘Noo, t’ain’t,’ says the impet. An’ then that laughed an’ twirled that’s tail till yew cou’n’t hardly see it.
‘Take time, woman,’ that says; ‘next guess an’ you’ll be mine.’ An’ that stretched out that’s black hands at her.
Well, she backed a step or two, an’ she looked at it, and then she laughed out, and says she, a pointin’ of her finger at it,
‘Nimmy nimmy not,
Yar name’s Tom Tit Tot!’
Well, when that hard her, that shruck awful, an’ awa’ that flew into the dark, an’ she niver saw it noo more.
Alan Mitton · aged thirty‐eight · orchard foreman
I am an orchard man. The orchards I was born into, as you might say, are the biggest in the village. There are nearly 140 acres of them and they lie on the slopes to the south of the houses. More people are employed here than anywhere else in the village. I actually started work on this farm three years before I left school, mostly during the summer holidays. And then, when I left school, the farmer said, ‘You used to enjoy being on the fruit cart, maybe you would like to stay on it regular?’ I said, ‘I would rather’, and that is how I came to be in the fruit all the while.
When they first planted the orchards, before the First War, they began with just a little patch containing two or three trees of each kind of fruit and then they began to lay out the Bramley orchards – probably about five acres apiece. And gradually the orchards spread their way up the hill – because of frost reasons, I suppose. We’ve got about nine acres of old‐established Bramleys left from those days. Some are over fifty years old and if the pruning is done correctly there is no reason why these trees shouldn’t go on for always. Right at the bottom of this old orchard there is a row of the original trees planted in the 1890s – just five trees planted at twelve yards square, which is double the space usually given to a Bramley. One of these five trees, which is nearly eighty years old, never produces less than twenty bushels of apples. And the funny thing is that the apples are all big. No one really knows why this tree is so marvellous, why every year without fail, as you might say, it gives eighteen out of its twenty bushels which are first‐class apples. In 1965, which was a good apple year, we picked 124 bushels of fruit off this one row of old trees. The next row, where the trees have only half the space, gave 120 bushels.
In the days when I began, out of the twenty men on the fruit farm, only four were allowed to prune. This was because of the old‐fashioned idea that when you were cutting a piece of wood you were taking so many apples off the tree. So the trees went up and up, and bushed out and became enormous. They got so thick that it was difficult to spray them and so tall it was hard to gather. And they didn’t get enough air. But about fifteen years ago we tried a new drastic cutting method. We said, ‘Right! We’ll have this bit out and this bit out!’ The old men came and looked and said, ‘You aren’t pruning, you’re pollarding!’ They were very shocked. ‘Poor trees, poor trees…’ they said. All the middles were ripped out; the trees looked like umbrellas. In fact, it looked really shameful. It was always the old boys’ pride to keep the shape of a tree, so they were shocked. It was their main art, to keep the tree‐shape. Well, nothing was said. The sawing went on. The middles were taken right out and the lower boughs removed so that the tractors and sprayers could drive through the orchard. These trees looked terrible and the next year they grew so much spur‐wood where the boughs had been that we wondered if we had done right. Then, the next year, the fruit started to come. It was exciting. The apples got better and better. It was amazing; you had to see it to believe it.
So much changed after this. Once, you had to wait five years between planting a tree and picking its fruit, now it is only three. These young trees are no more than three feet high and with a stick no rounder than your thumb. They have had their tops cut off at knee level and have burst out into four or five branches which, a year or so later, have been cut halfway back again – tipping, we call it – and then the third year we have the apples. You can pick as many as twenty pounds of apples from a fourth‐year tree. It is all so quick.
We buy our trees from a nursery in Sussex. They come as maidens, which is a first‐year tree which has been grafted and budded. We plant them at the end of the year and then, just before the sap rises, we snip the top out. Should any flowering buds appear the first year, we rub them off. We never let apples come the first year. These trees are low and small, so that we can pick the fruit easily. All the big trees are gradually disappearing.
We are expanding the Coxes. Twenty years ago there wasn’t a Cox tree on the farm at all. We were told that the soil in the village was wrong for Coxes and that they wouldn’t grow. The only field which might grow them, they said, was down by the river. They said they might grow there. But then, they said, the frost will lie in the river belt, so better not plant there. Well, we planted them on the
slope with a pollinater and they have borne extremely heavy. Coxes are expensive apples but very popular; there is always a sale for them. You can eat them all the way through from early October to February and they will always be good, whereas an apple like a Worcester can only be eaten in September for the full flavour. It soon goes clung, as we say. We pollinate the Coxes with James Grieves – one James Grieve to about every fifteen Coxes. If it looks like an apple‐glut year and we think that the Grieves aren’t going to sell very well, we pick the biggest of them in early September and sell them as cookers. The apples which are left on the James Grieve trees won’t be picked at all. They will just drop onto the ground. Last year they were all picked and sold because the spring frosts caused an apple shortage.
We’re growing Matsus, which is a new kind of apple from Japan which has been crossed with a Golden Delicious. There are more Golden Delicious apples grown in the world than any other variety. We find that the Matsu will hang on the tree longer than any other apple. With Coxes, you’ve got to rush and pick before the mid‐October winds take them off but there is no hurry with a Matsu. It will hang firm until you have finished picking all your main eaters and cookers. Last year, this one particular Matsu which we grew on trial had eleven apples on it. They were great things. We cut one up into pieces for the women to try and they said it was juicy and nice and fine‐flavoured. This year, this same tree bore 511 pounds of fruit! The weight of it carried the boughs to the grass, so that it was like an open parasol. Every apple went over the two‐inch mark, which is the grade an apple has to be for market. So we are pleased with the Matsus.
Voices of Akenfield Page 7