The Nose Plumbers' Tale

by PM Goodman

Chaucer’s

  THE NOSE PLUMBERS’ TALE

  translated into Modern English

  by

  P.M. Goodman

  Introduction by Dr Daryl Flannel

  THE NOSE PLUMBERS’ TALE

  A Litmus Productions ebook

  Originally published online

  Copyright © Litmus Productions 2012

  P.M. Goodman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  So don’t use it to do your History homework.

  For Moo, Shmoo and Bob

  INTRODUCTION by Dr Daryl Flannel, Celebrity Historian

  In the years 1300 to 1380 B.H. (before handkerchiefs), boys and girls who picked their noses were taking a massive risk.

  “Oi! Get your nasty fingers out of there!” the Olds shouted at them, sometimes clipping them round the ear for good measure. “The Plague dozes in noses. And it’s a light sleeper. Wake it up, next sneeze your story’s over!”

  They even danced round in circles and sang songs about it.

  “Ring a ring a roses, A pocketful of posies, Atishoo-atishoo! We all fall down.”

  That was one of the Olds’ favourites. And:

  “Everywhere I’m looking now, I can feel your halo-halo-halo, I can see your halo-halo-halo…”

  That was another (usually sung by all the single ladies).

  When they weren’t making a song and dance, the Olds said that clothes disturbed the Plague less than fingers. And ordered children to use their sleeves to wipe their noses, like civilised people.

  This was a time when giants roamed England. Some skipped the roaming, stayed home and put their vast feet up. The giants did whatever they liked, because they owned England. Was it a generally magical time? For the giants, maybe. The poor, who worked for them, would have loved to magic food onto their tables and into their bellies. But that was impossible.

  It was not a magical time.

  In fact there should never have been giants in the first place.

  Rich and poor had been about the same size (the rich looked bigger because they made the poor bow to them all the time). One year, there was a bad crop shortage. The rich panicked and began scoffing all the food for miles around. The shortage passed – but their greed lasted. And the more they consumed, the more they grew. (Not wider – it wasn’t that kind of food. Just taller. Gigantic, in fact.)

  Left with nothing but scraps, the poor stopped growing and started shrinking. They ate ears of corn, hairs of barley, and rain soup on Sundays if they were lucky. Poor children didn’t reach their parents’ height, let alone the size of their masters. That was why their parents weren't called grown-ups but Olds.

  Anyway, the story goes that one summer’s day, some years after the vicious Plague – known as the Black Death – had done its worst (though imagine the devastation had it done its best), a scrawny but lively serf boy called Perkis had a Bright Idea. More importantly, he Did Something About It. And he Did the Something to a giant landowner, John Kent, who stood at least two and a half chains high in his silk-stockinged feet.

  And that’s where Chaucer’s newly-discovered Nose Plumbers’ Tale – retold here in modern English – begins.

  SOME IDEA OF SCALE

  A CHAIN:

  ____________________________________________________________

  A VERY TALL PEASANT*:

  __

  * - (lying down, obviously)

 

  CHAPTER One

  Two boys were playing tag among the gravestones one Sunday morning, under the giant oak tree that had been planted when God created England. Their names were Perkis and Finch.

  Inside the peasant church, the priest wouldn’t shut up about the Plague. Perkis had found himself itching and sweating – two classic signs of the Black Death. He needed no help imagining illness and disease all around. So he and Finch – who was much less bothered, having long ago stopped listening – sneaked out into the sunshine, while the priest began to detail further hellfire coming their way.

  Perkis led two tags to one. Finch was by no stretch of even Perkis’s imagination a runner. He had scored his one by repeatedly complaining he had a bone in his leg until Perkis stopped. Right now he was bent double behind a gravestone, taking a breather. Perkis flung an acorn in his direction and took off. But at that instant the church doors burst open. The Sunday service – and their game – was over.

  First out was the bailiff, Farmer Farnes. He owned both the largest boil and the largest farm in the village. He was determined to be first at everything – including leaving the church.

  “Ought to pray for your salvation, boy,” Farnes growled at Perkis. “Instead of tearing about holy ground with no respect. If you won’t listen to the priest, just you wait till I’m a full-on giant.”

  Farmer Farnes loved to boast about his big plans. He loped off down the lane, grinding his angry jaw and snarling. Most people were miserable after meeting him. The boys were no exception. But next out was old Frank Tyler, the smartest village serf, in his best Sunday rags.

  “What’s Farnes been saying?” Frank Tyler shook his head. “He’s worse than ever since he was made a Freeman. Ignore him.” He nodded at the church. “All that plague talk, I started to itch. You’re better off out here. What you been up to, eh? Talking with the dead?”

  “Just playing,” Perkis answered. Too late, he realised what was coming.

  “WHAT?” Tyler shouted, cupping a hand to his hairy ear. “Praying? Out here?”

  “PLAYING!” Perkis and Finch shouted back. This was the problem talking to Frank Tyler.

  “What??” the serf repeated, louder still. “Speak up, boys...”

  “PLAYING!!!” they yelled.

  “You’re wasting your time.” Perkis’s Uncle Ethel (short for Ethelred), a proud, hard-working serf, frowned at his nephew as he and Auntie Stan (short for Stanild) left the church. “He’s as deaf as the bodies beneath our feet. Aren’t you, What?”

  The Olds called Frank Tyler ‘What’, on account of his lousy hearing. Tyler ignored Ethel and Stan completely – all the proof they needed that they were right.

  “Playing. Got it. You must speak clearly,” he said firmly. “Farnes stinks, doesn’t he?” he whispered to Perkis. “We’ll fix him.” With a sly wink, he went on his way.

  Finch looked puzzled. “He can’t hear a thing, right? How did he know what the priest was talking about?”

  Perkis shrugged. “Priest says the same thing every week.”

  Serfs occasionally stood behind Frank Tyler to blow raspberries, or shout his name. Still, they liked and respected him for his suggestions on how to improve their lives. “Fewer serfs will catch the Black Death if we wash our hands after picking our noses,” he announced. Perkis thought this daft. But voting for the person in charge, instead of the giants bossing everyone about merely because they were giants, seemed a fantastic idea.

  “Go home now,” ordered Uncle Ethel. “Help your aunt prepare the midday meal.” He looked as gloomy as most of the serfs coming out of Church. It was like they’d all been told off but didn’t know why. “Special treat,” he said cheerlessly. “Rain soup.”

  Perkis detested the drudgery of Ethel and Stan’s lives. But how could he hope to avoid it? Orphaned at the age of two, he had been abandoned by his elder brother Ferkis, who left the village to seek his fortune. Uncle and Auntie were bringing him up to be an obedient ser
f.

  “I never get rain soup,” Finch murmured. “If I open my mouth during a storm, Dad says I’m being greedy – ”

  Finch was worse off than Perkis. “Too many kids to feed,” his dad Old Finch was often heard to moan. Problem was, Finch was an only child. Perkis realised life was hard whether or not you had parents.

  Old Finch was last to leave the church. Perkis thought the shifty look on his face might have something to do with the small pie he was chewing. He looked like a naughty rat, hoping nobody would notice his cheeks secretly moving up and down.

  Old Finch glared at them. “Haven’t you gone yet?” he said, once he’d swallowed his mouthful. “What you standing there for? Are you dead?”

  “Let’s cut through the daisy field,” Finch suggested to Perkis.

  “Don’t cut through the daisy field!” Old Finch shot back, picking his ear with a calloused finger. “Do I have to do all your thinking for you?”

  The daisy field belonged to giant landowner John Kent. If they were caught trespassing, their troubles would be as enormous as John Kent himself. Besides, Perkis had always hated being surrounded by too much greenery.

  “Come on,” Finch muttered. “They’ll all be in Giant church.” And, if only to escape Old Finch, they set off.

  Daisies came up to their shoulders. Perkis looked at the soft furry stalks and shuddered.

  “Let’s pick one,” Finch said.

  The flowers proved resistant. Even the thinnest stalk they could find wouldn’t budge. Determined, they tugged like horses pulling a cart, and almost didn’t notice the sky darken.

  John Kent was striding home from Giant church. His broad head eclipsed the sun.

  Realising the danger, the boys frantically looked for an escape route before they were crushed underfoot. Massive daisies in every direction, and most of the field still to cross. It would be sheer luck where John Kent put his feet.

  “I don’t want to die!” whimpered Finch, mainly because dying would prove his father right.

  Half a giant stride away, however, John Kent suddenly bent to sniff a blue flower. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lovely scent.

  They had to grab the chance and get moving! But Perkis was watching the pollen spiralling up out of the flower and into the giant’s nostrils as he breathed in. John Kent’s eyes snapped open as it tickled his nose. His face crinkled, and he began gasping for air.

  Perkis had to stop John Kent sneezing. Sneezes freed the Plague. A giant’s sneeze could wipe out everything for miles around. He’d have to use his catapult – although he had only ever aimed it at squirrels and, occasionally, Finch. As he pulled it from his belt, however, he felt the circling wind lift him off his feet, and he was sniffed up like pollen into John Kent’s nose.

  It was damp, dark and windy. Perkis felt as if a huge brush was being swept over his body. Unable to see clearly, he unleashed a shot at the advancing snotstorm.

  Instantly the gale dropped. Perkis readied another shot to fire again. But the wind seemed to flee further up John Kent’s nostril. Perkis froze, taking in his murky, disgusting surroundings. John Kent was still bent over. The daisy field offered a soft landing. Quickly he jumped.

  Finch’s eyes were as wide as the sky. He was speechless. Now there was no escaping the furious giant. John Kent was pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “What happened?” he said. “I swear I was about to sneeze.”

  “It…um…went back in,” he mumbled. Maybe John Kent had wanted to sneeze. After all, what did giants care about wiping out peasant families? (And Perkis knew a little sneeze felt so good sometimes, just as you let rip.)

  John Kent stared hard at them. “Brilliant,” he said. “Did you see it?”

  Perkis held out his catapult. The giant turned it over in his fingers.

  “You made a sneeze…vanish?”

  Was he impressed or unconvinced? It was hard to tell. “Young serf, you're going to be – ”

  He paused. He had nearly said rich – but that was plainly impossible. “Very pop – ” he began.

  He was going to say popular – but he couldn't imagine how two scrawny serf children could ever be loved by all and sundry. He thought hard.

  “You’re going to be very busy,” he said. “Be at my house on Stinky Hill after sunrise tomorrow. If you repeat the trick, and I can find you some noblemen, we might be in business.” John Kent hadn’t got rich by missing a money-making opportunity.

  “How about you just tell everyone how great I was and give me my freedom?” Perkis ventured.

  John Kent boomed out a laugh. Then he stopped, and shook his head. “We shall have customers tomorrow. Good day, little Big Shot.”

  “First heroic thing I do in my life,” Perkis muttered. “And he’s going to make me do it again!” He silently cursed Finch for suggesting the short-cut.

  Finch prodded his shoulder. “You’re it,” he said.

  CHAPTER Two

  The squawks of two cockerels woke Perkis at dawn. They squatted atop Farmer Farnes’ barns like a pair of fat kings each on a wooden throne. And they were loud! Ethel and Stan’s one-room house had thin walls and openings for windows. Most mornings Perkis dozed in his straw bed, dreaming about feasting on roasted birds. His regular job didn’t start until mid-morning. Today he had to crawl into his dirty tunic and breeches and leave as John Kent had ordered. His uncle and aunt were still asleep.

  He had made a small brush from twigs and strands of the kitchen broom. He tiptoed out with an oak bucket, the brush and his catapult. From the barntops, the roosters seemed to smirk at him. Farmer Farnes had somehow been made a Freeman last year, then bailiff. Being promoted like that meant he could keep poultry and more of his crops. As a result he was growing faster than Christianity, and boasting how he’d soon be a giant. If a sneeze chose to blow Farmer Farnes’ head off one day, Perkis wouldn’t stop it.

  There had been little rain this summer. The trees were brown, the grass dry and dusty – just how he liked it. He had left the village and was halfway up Stinky Hill when a familiar voice called his name. “Perkis! Wait!” Finch was behind him, trying to catch up.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You didn’t have to come.” Finch had offered to join him, but it was obvious he’d rather have been tied to a plough and made to walk till sundown.

  “Dad chased me out the house.” Finch was wheezing from his efforts.

  “Why?”

  “I guess so I can – ”

  “Oy, son!”

  Further down Stinky Hill, Old Finch was breathlessly waving for them to wait. Sweat poured from his round face as he approached. “Not quite the Viking I used to be…” he puffed.

  “What are you doing here?” Finch groaned.

  Old Finch ignored him and turned to Perkis. “Going to work for John Kent, my boy says. You’re going to need a manager.”

  “What’s a manager?” Perkis didn’t trust Old Finch further than he could yawn.

  “Someone who looks out for you. Kent’s not bad as landowners go. But if no-one makes him pay a decent rate, stands to reason he won’t, will he? I’ll talk to him. We’ll do a deal.” Old Finch looked pleased with himself.

  “How?” Perkis asked. The old serf was more dangerous than a sneeze.

  “How?! Haggling!! When I was younger, y’know, me and What Tyler haggled with Baron Bigge…”

  “You what?” Finch was astonished by this news of his father’s past achievements. (Perkis didn’t believe a word he said about anything.)

  “Yeah, What Tyler,” Old Finch said, misunderstanding his son (not for the first time).

  “Did it work?” Perkis asked doubtfully.

  “Got a crust of bread that week. To share between us.” Old Finch strode ahead, muttering, “Should’ve asked for two.”

  A curtain of sycamore trees gave way to a view of John Kent’s home. It stood bold and proud, the size of a castle.

  “How many friends you reckon he’s found?” Finch asked.r />
  “Let me see,” Perkis said. “How many idiots want a catapult shot up their nose?”

  “All giants are idiots, according to Dad.”

  Old Finch had reached the front door. He pounded his fists on it. Moments later, it swung open with the kind of bloodcurdling screech a dozen peasants might have made had a giant stood on them for fun.

  The serfs looked up.

  And up.

  Over a bit. And up again.

  The gaunt face of John Kent loomed almost as tall as Stinky Hill itself. “Boys!” he blared. Perkis wondered if the giant could spot an Old amongst them. “You’re here. Excellent.”

  He waved them in. Metal ornaments and amulets hung on the hallway wall next to a tapestry of John Kent’s wedding to the late Mrs Kent (who had died of the Plague twenty minutes after the last thread was sewn). The floorboards stretched to the very ends of the earth.

  “My word, sire, this is nice.” Old Finch rubbed his chin, impressed. The kitchen could have housed fifty peasant families, making ladders of one another’s shoulders to reach the cupboards, which were bound to be packed with food. Perkis and Finch kept their eyes open for scraps. The gristle from a giant’s lunch could keep them going all day.

  “Can your dad haggle us supper tonight?” Perkis asked, in a desperate burst of optimistic faith in Old Finch.

  Finch was silent. He thought that (a) there was more chance of Old Finch being supper than of him extracting any from John Kent, but (b) if his dad miraculously did a deal, only one peasant would be eating well as a result, and it wasn’t either of them.

  “…so it’s only fair for the extra work, sire, the boys get a groat or two, towards our tax bill.” Old Finch was having a go at bargaining with John Kent.

  “Indeed.” John Kent seemed amused. “They must be remunerated.”

  This giant word threw Old Finch. “Remoonied?”

  “Paid. The charge to customers is a shilling, so Perkins shall receive two groats.”

  “It’s Perkis. And my son’s here too.” Old Finch waggled a finger at the boys.