Norfolk Folk Tales E-Book

Hugh Lupton

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Norfolk is steeped in story. Whether we are treading fields, fens, beaches or streets, the landscape is pregnant with secret histories. The collective imagination of countless generations has populated the county with ghosts, saints, witches, pharisees, giants and supernatural beasts. Stories have evolved around historical characters, with Horatio Nelson, Oliver Cromwell, Anne Boleyn, Tom Paine and King Edmund becoming larger than life in folk-memory. This book is a celebration of the deep connection between a place and its people.

Leseprobe

For my old friends from Keswick Mill, especially Tim Brook, Michael Deason-Barrow, and in memory of Jasmine Reeve

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

1 The Callow Pit Coffer

2 The Potter Heigham Drummer

3 The Ploughman and the Pharisees

4 The Three Ungrateful Sons

5 The Lie of the Land – Hills, Mounds and Hidden Treasures

6 Holy Wells and Holy Relics

7 The Peddlar of Swaffham

8 Sir Thomas Erpingham

9 Witches

10 Four Ballad Tales

11 Bells

12 Stone Hearts

13 William of the Strong Hand

14 The Wild Boy

15 Tom Hickathrift

16 My Sister, My Mistress, My Mother and My Wife

17 Edmund, King and Martyr

18 Old Shuck

19 Cock and Bull

20 Tom Paine’s Bones

21 The Green Lady

22 Anne Boleyn

23 The Dauntless Girl

24 Seafarers

25 The Grey Goose Feather

26 Little Saint William of Norwich

27 Six Norfolk Ghosts

28 Sir Thomas Browne and the Hollow Cane

29 John Skelton and the Miller of Diss

30 The Visions of St Fursey

31 Fiddlers and Tunnels

32 The Sandringham Pals

33 Sir Berney Brograve

Norfolk Place Names Index

Bibliography

Websites

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Norfolk is steeped in story. Whether we are travelling along the coast, through the loam-rich farmlands, across the sandy brecklands, among the inland waterways of the broads, or over the marsh and fenlands to the west of the county; whether we are threading the Saxon and Medieval streets of Norwich, Kings Lynn or Thetford, stories are everywhere.

All the events that have happened in a place, all the geological and historical interactions, are held in the grain of a landscape. They are memories that lurk under the surface of the soil. Where they meet the human mind, they become something new. The Australian Aborigines would call this marriage of mind and land the ‘Dreaming’ of a place. It is not quite conscious. It is never altogether stable. It lies underneath the sunlit, familiar, waking world of the twenty-first century.

Like people everywhere (storytelling being a universal compulsion), the inhabitants of Norfolk have been part of this process. Over countless generations half-remembered histories, superstitions, beliefs, stories from elsewhere and leaps of imagination have been brought to bear on hills, wells, springs, sandbanks, trees, houses, stones, churches, bridges and much more besides. Landscape has precipitated story, and these ancient stories carry the voices of everyone who has told them.

I’ve been fascinated for a long time by this relationship between place, history and local imagination. The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves become part of who we are. They may be told to entertain, to warn, to elicit a chill shudder, to teach or to enlighten, but most of all they are told to reinforce a sense of belonging, of being alive in this place both now and in the past. Almost all of them are anchored to somewhere or something in the landscape that can still be seen today. As Dennis Tedlock has written: ‘… The sense of being in place exists at the same moment the story is being told … We have a mystery here, the story has to be connected up with the past and it has to be right here in front of us … An oral story is an action that’s now, and that speaks of ancient things.’

These stories have moved in and out of print, but primarily their life has been on the tongue. They have been told and remembered, elaborated and embellished as part of a great spoken tradition. Many of the people who told them would not have been able to read or write. Like the weavers of Worsted cloth and Aylsham web, the people of Norfolk have always been skilled at spinning yarns, weaving tales and embroidering the truth.

Only one of the stories in this collection is a ‘once upon a time’ tale. The rest I would call ‘legendary histories’. Some are from the remote past, some from the recent past. Some are fantastical. Some are matters of fact. All of them have a sense of life writ large, of the universal in the particular. All of them are imbued with the very particular topography, history and character of the County of Norfolk.

There’s a tradition among the Gypsies and the Travellers that when a story is told, the ghosts of the people who told it before are standing behind the teller. As I’ve worked on these tales I’ve been very aware of other tellers: website contributors, twentieth-century folklorists, Victorian antiquarians, Medieval hagiographers, Anglo-Saxon and Roman historians … and most of all the countless, nameless, forgotten voices of the people.

Hugh Lupton, 2013

1

THE CALLOW PIT COFFER

The north door of a church is commonly known as the Devil’s Door. According to Medieval belief the Devil resides in a child’s soul until the moment of baptism. At the touch of holy water to the head he makes a swift exit through the north door. The association between door and Devil is doubly strong in the church of St Botolph at Limpenhoe. The latch of the north door is turned by an iron ring that was brought from the nearby church of St Edmund at Southwood when it fell into ruin. It is a ring that has a history.

In the enclosure maps there is a pit marked on the border between the parishes of Southwood and Moulton that is called ‘The Callow Pit’. It was a pit that, according to local legend, held a treasure deep in its dark waters. Tradition is vague as to what the treasure might have been. It was certainly gold, but whether it was a smuggler’s fortune, a viking’s trophy, an Iceni hoard or an offering made to the spirits of the water in some deep forgotten past … no one knows. Of one thing the good rectors of Southwood were certain: it was not Christian gold, and anyone meddling with it was putting his immortal soul in peril.

But times were hard in the years that followed the English Civil War. Chaos ruled and harvests failed. Many families struggled to keep their bellies filled.

In Southwood the story was the same, and two men of the village – two brothers – tired of seeing their children going to bed with their bellies aching with hunger, decided to try their luck at the Callow Pit. They shared a flagon of ale to give them courage. Their wives cautioned them:

‘It’s a wicked old place. There’s them that’s seen a headless horseman riding out of it. There’s them that say it goes down and down to the very gates of Hell.’

But the two men paid them no heed. They cut a long straight pole and fitted an iron hook to the end of it. The two wives watched and shook their heads.

‘Well, if you’re set on going, you mind you keep your mouths shut … for whatever spooks reside in that place will be stirred by speech.’

The brothers shrugged; they went to the barn and fetched a long ladder.

‘We know the pair of you well enough, we’ve heard you cuss and blaspheme when you’ve had a quart of ale. Well, you watch yourselves this night in that place and keep your tongues behind your teeth.’

The brothers grinned at each other. Each of them took a last swig from the flagon and they set off with pole and ladder into the black night.

There was just enough moon to see by. The path was familiar. They tramped in silence, one in front, the other behind, one carrying the top ends of the ladder and pole tucked under his arms, the other the bottom.

When they reached the Callow Pit, in its hollow of alders and stunted willows, it seemed to be an open mouth swallowing all light. The murky water gave no reflection; it drew the night into itself. They shuddered and set to work. They stretched the long ladder across the pit from bank to bank. They stepped out over the black water, rung by rung, one behind the other. The leading brother held the pole horizontally by its middle, like a tightrope walker. When they reached the centre they turned the pole upright so that the iron hook sent ripples across the murk. Then, slowly, hand over hand, they pushed it down and down into the water.

It was only when their hands and forearms clutching the top end of the pole were elbow deep in water that they felt the hook push into stiff, thick mud. Without a word, with the understanding that passes sometimes between brothers, they began to work the hook through the mud, twisting it, pushing, lifting, sliding it to left and right. They moved along the rungs of the ladder, poking the depths.

For half an hour they worked, until their hands were numb with the cold water. Then, suddenly, they felt the iron hook meet something hard. It was scraping the surface of something smooth and firm. They twisted the pole and the hook locked into something that held it fast. They began to pull. They felt a tremendous weight. Hand over hand, kneeling on the rungs, straining their backs and arms, they heaved the pole up and up from the water. The ladder creaked and groaned, but it held firm. Slowly, by the thin light of the moon, they saw what they had caught.

The hook had snagged onto an iron ring. As they pulled it out of the black pit, they saw that it was attached to an iron lid, red and crusted with rust. Then, slowly a huge iron coffer emerged from the water, fastened with a lock of burnished brass. It was filled with something heavy that slid this way and that. The two brothers curled their fingers under the coffer and lifted. They set it across the ladder. There was a place where the lid had rusted clean away. Inside, there was no mistaking the yellow glint of golden coins catching the moonlight. The brothers could feel each other’s grins, even if they couldn’t see them. They threaded the pole through the iron ring. One stood behind, one in front. They heaved the pole onto their shoulders and set off, rung by rung, back to the bank of the Callow Pit, the coffer swinging between them.

When the first brother had set foot on firm ground he could contain himself no longer. He turned and shouted over his shoulder:

‘We’ve got it safe now, by Jesus Christ and all the Saints, and damn me if Old Nick shall ever take it from us!’

No sooner were the words spoken than a reek of yellow sulphur began to seethe and bubble from the pit. The brothers coughed and spluttered. They scrambled up the bank. Behind them there was a splash. They turned their heads and saw an enormous black hand rising from the murk. It turned from side to side as though it had an eye in its palm, then it lunged. A hand, a wrist, a forearm, an elbow … a whole arm emerged as quick as the crack of a whip. It lunged towards them. The black fingers curled around the coffer and pulled it back towards the water. The second brother flattened himself against the mud. The iron ring slid along the pole and caught once again in the hook. The two brothers seized the pole and pulled with all their strength. A terrible tug of war ensued. The brothers dug their heels into the willow roots and pulled one way, the black arm pulled the other.

Then came a crack, a sudden sharp clanking crack as the iron ring broke from the rusty lid of the coffer. The brothers fell backwards against the bank. When they sat up, the black hand had vanished, and all that was left of the coffer was a trail of bubbles breaking the surface of the Callow Pit.

And caught on the hook at the end of the pole, the heavy iron ring was swinging and dangling.

When they got home their wives were waiting for them with their hands on their hips. They looked at the iron ring and shook their heads.

‘I don’t suppose you broke silence and cussed, did ye?’

The brothers’ shut mouths were all the answer they needed.

They took the ring to the parson who fixed it to the door of Southwood Church, and there it hung until 1881 when it was taken to Limpenhoe and hung from the door there, the north door of course, the Devil’s Door.

2

THE POTTER HEIGHAM DRUMMER

The 9th (East Norfolk) Regiment of the Foot were also known as the ‘Holy Boys’. This was because the regiment’s badge, the image of Britannia, was mistaken by the Spanish and Portuguese allies during the Peninsular War for the Virgin Mary.

After serving with distinction in Spain, the regiment was sent to Canada in 1814 to prevent the United States’ threatened invasion (America seeing herself as being in sympathy with France as a sister republic).

Between the Spanish and Canadian campaigns of the Napoleonic wars, there was a brief lull when the soldiers of the regiment were granted furlough or leave. Many of them returned to their villages in Norfolk.

One of them was a drummer from Potter Heigham. He’d been sold into the regiment by his pauper father when he was ten years old. He was now sixteen. He came home to find that his father was dead and his mother had remarried. There was no home for him to return to. But six years in the army had taught him resourcefulness. With his soldier’s wage he bought an old canvas sail and made himself a tent on a piece of common land outside the village. Although it was mid-winter, he kept himself snug with a blazing fire. Every morning he would saunter into the village in his red military jacket with its shining buttons, and buy bread and tobacco.

The villagers recognised him.

‘Old Jess Dyble’s boy is back I see.’

‘Yip, an’ squatting on the common like a gypsy.’

There was something about the lad that they fought shy of. It wasn’t just that he was the son of a pauper; it was something more dangerous than that. He’d seen more in his six years away from home than they’d seen in their lifetimes. It was clear in his face that had been tanned brown by the Spanish sun, and bore on its cheek a long scar. It was in his eyes too, that seemed to hold secrets they didn’t want to enquire into. It was as though the war had left the boy both wounded and fearless.

For the girls of the village, it was a different story. That combination of wounded and fearless was a potent brew. They watched him cooking over his fire, self-composed and contented, whistling to himself. They watched him leaning over the bridge by the boatyards, smoking his pipe and spitting into the river. They watched his red jacket among the smocks and grey fustian overcoats of the village boys. Every one of the girls was smitten, but it was Eliza Rust, the prettiest and boldest of them all, who went up to him first.

‘Are you one of the Holy Boys?’

He smiled at her.

‘I am, Lizzie …’

She gasped.

‘How did you know my name?’

‘Because I remember you from before I marched away. A soldier never forgets a pretty face. Don’t you remember me, Nathan Dyble … little Natty?’

She looked into his eyes.

‘So you are – I’d clean forgot you. You was sold into the army and your father drank away the shilling the night you was took.’

‘That’d be me. Now, what would you say to a ribbon for that hat of yours?’

And so it was that Nathan Dyble walked Lizzie Rust to the village shop, pulled out his purse and bought her a ribbon that matched his jacket. The next day he walked her along the towpath by the river. The next day he borrowed a boat and rowed her out onto the broad.

It was there that her father saw them, talking and laughing and looking into each other’s faces like a couple of sweethearts. As soon as she came home, he called her: ‘Eliza, you come here.’

He was standing by the fire, trembling with rage.

‘You leave that boy alone. He ain’t no good. He ain’t got a roof over his head … and we all know what stock he come from. A redcoat on furlough has only one thing on his mind … and no daughter of mine will be a soldier’s whore. You’ll not see him again, do you understand, not never!’

But her father was too late; poor Lizzie was completely smitten by Nathan Dyble, and Nathan had no intention of giving up on her. When one of Lizzie’s friends came to his tent on the Common and said: ‘Lizzie Rust’s been warned off you, and her Dad says you and she are through for good and all.’ Nathan seized her by the hand and whispered: ‘You tell Lizzie Rust this: if she loves me as I love her, then she’s to wait for me at Swim Coots tomorrow night. If she don’t come, then I’ll up sticks and bid farewell to Potter Heigham, and she’ll never see me no more.’

That night was bitterly cold; in the morning there was a skin of ice on Hickling Broad that thickened with every hour that passed. By the time the sun set, it was strong enough to take a man’s weight.

Lizzie Rust lay in bed, waiting for her parents’ breathing on the other side of the thin partition wall to grow steady and even. When she was sure they were asleep, she slipped downstairs. She had hidden warm clothes beneath the wooden settle. She dressed herself and pulled a thick coat over her woollen clothes. She pulled back the bolt and slipped out of the cottage. It was frosty, and there was a strong moon. The world was black and white and silver. The grass crunched beneath her feet. She made her way along the lanes that ran beside the icy marshes to Swim Coots. She held herself against the bitter cold, looking out across the smooth wide expanse of the frozen broad. There was no sound; no sign of life. She waited and waited.

And then, suddenly, from the middle of the broad, there came a sound. It was the rattling and the rolling of a military drum, the crisp tattoo of a military parade. And then she saw him. He was skating towards her across the frozen lake in the full uniform of the Ninth Regiment of Foot, every button burnished in the moonlight, playing his drum as though a thousand men were marching to its rhythm. As he approached her, he lifted his drum-sticks to his forehead and crossed them. He stepped nimbly onto the frozen ground, unfastened his skates and took her in his arms. His face was flushed, and his body was warm from the exertion. She folded herself against him. Their mouths met. He unbuttoned her coat and threw it down onto the white grass. And there, beneath the clear winter moon, they lay down together, and all of her father’s worst fears were realised in an hour of unbridled happiness.

When they parted he whispered: ‘Tomorrow?’

And she replied: ‘Tomorrow.’

Night after night they met at Swim Coots. Night after night, he came skating across the broad with the tan-tan-tarra of his regimental drum. Night after night, they pitted their warmth against the bitter February chill.

But then one night she saw him coming towards her across the ice. He was beating his sticks against the skin of his drum but there was no sound. He stepped onto the ground and took her into his arms. She found herself shuddering at his touch: ‘My love … you are so cold.’

Without saying a word he unbuttoned her coat. She wriggled out of it and dropped it onto the ground. She seized his hand to draw him down … but her fingers closed around water. Her hand was wet with ice-cold water and where he had been standing there was nothing. Nobody. She was quite alone.

Suddenly she was filled with a chill terror.

‘Nathan!’

She ran out onto the ice, but it creaked and groaned and heaved under her weight so that she was forced to return to the edge of the broad. She ran along the edge of the broad, but thick cloud had covered the moon and she could see nothing. She made her way back to the village, not daring to say a word, knowing that if her father guessed the truth he would throw her out of house and home. She slipped through the door and climbed the stairs to bed. When she woke, a cold rain was battering the window-panes. She told her mother that she was feeling indisposed and stayed beneath the bedclothes. She slept fitfully through the day, and as it grew dark outside she came downstairs to the kitchen fire. Her father was warming his feet at the hearth. He looked up at her.

‘Well Lizzie, it’s just as well you done as I told you and didn’t go breaking your heart over poor Jess Dyble’s son.’

Lizzie paled.

‘Why’s that?’

‘They’ve just fished him out of the broad, drowned as a rat. He’d gone through the ice they reckon … though why he should have been dressed in the full uniform of the Holy Boys is a mystery no one can unravel … and if he hadn’t been strapped to that drum of his they reckon he’d have sunk to the bottom … what’s the matter Lizzie …’

‘She ain’t well, poor child’, said Lizzie’s mother, ‘Now you get back upstairs to bed, my sweet, and I’ll bring you up a bowl of gruel.’

It is said that Nathan Dyble’s ghost is still seen on Hickling Broad, but only in winter when the ice is beginning to melt. An old wherryman, recorded in 1906, put it this way: ‘The folks ha’ a notion that th’ Hickling drummer lad go skaten’ round Swim Cutes, a-beaten o’ his drum ter show that th’ ice ain’t safe.’

And if you want to see a drum of the 9th Regiment of Foot, then go to the Royal Norfolk Regimental Museum in Norwich Castle where there’s one on display.

3

THE PLOUGHMANAND THE PHARISEES

Three of the greatest traditional singers recorded during the folk-music revival of the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s have come from Norfolk: Walter Pardon, a carpenter from Knapton; Harry Cox, a farm labourer from Catfield; and Sam Larner, a fisherman from Winterton. All three had huge repertoires of song, much of which is available to us still thanks to the recordings made by folksong collectors over the years.

The cottage in Bulmer Lane, Winterton, where Sam Larner lived and died is marked by a blue plaque. He was the most exuberant of the three. He first went to sea when he was eight, signed on as a cabin boy aboard a sailing lugger when he was twelve, and spent most of his working life on steam drifters, following the shoals of herring.

The singer Martin Carthy remembers hearing him sing in 1959. ‘His impact was immediate and electrifying. This was a man in command, utterly accustomed to performing. He pointed at his audience, he teased them, he pulled words out of the air … I took away an impression of someone utterly at home with what he was doing, for whom every song was personal … and ‘The Lofty Tall Ship’ … with its endless variations, was as exotic as anything I had ever heard.’

Sam, although he never worked the land, would almost certainly have known the Winterton story of the Ploughman and the Pharisees, though it is to the reminiscences of Harry Cox that we need to go in order to get a sense of the rural hardship that is the backdrop to the story: ‘Used to eat turnips sometimes – had to get what you could – I have been hungry – well a labourer, he never got only ten shillings a week – that’s all we got – I’ve seen more dinner-times than I’ve had dinners. When I first began I got half a crown a week. It was a long long while afore I got very much more – I got a little better off as I got older – not much. You paid seven shillings for your board, and then you had the rest. Lot of them used to wear old second-hand slops we called them – jompers. That they did – and old tanned ones.’

Sam Larner would have been eighteen when this story was published in the Folklore Journal in 1896. It was told by a Winterton woman called Mrs Goodale. She had heard it from her grandmother.

There were hard times once, and terrible hard times. Food was dear, wages were low and families were large:

Provisions you buy at a shop it is true

But if you’ve no money there’s none there for you,

So what’s a poor man and his family to do?

And it’s O, the hard times of Old England

In Old England very hard times.

In Winterton there lived a farm labourer. His breakfast had been crust and cold water, and that’s no ballast for a good day’s ploughing. As he pulled on his boots to go to work he said to his wife: ‘I wish one of them Pharisees would give me a bit of luck.’

That morning he was set to ploughing his master’s 11-acre field. When the horses had been harnessed and led to the field, he got between the stilts of the plough.

‘Whoaaa!’

As the horses moved forwards, the blade of the plough sliced and turned the earth. All morning he followed the plough. And then, suddenly, he saw something shining in the turned earth. He stopped the horses, reached down and picked it up. It was the size and shape of a silver shilling … but the head on it was of no king or queen he’d heard tell of. And the tail-side showed what seemed to be a lean steed and a turning wheel.

‘Well I’ll be …’

It was as bright as a new-minted coin, as bright as a full moon. He dropped it into his pocket.

‘Where there was one – may there be more.’

He shook the reins and carried on working.

At the end of the day, he went home and put the coin on the table. He said to his wife: ‘Get you down to the shop and buy some meat for supper.’

She picked up the coin between finger and thumb and turned it over. She gave her husband a quizzical look but asked no questions.

‘As long as Old Brown’s behind the counter, and not his daughter, I reckon it’ll pass muster as the King’s coin.’

Luckily it was Old Brown, whose eyes were fading, behind the shop’s counter. That evening their children went to bed with their bellies full. When they were asleep, the ploughman and his wife raised their mugs of beer: ‘Here’s to the bee that stung Adam’s arse and set the world a-joggin’.’

The next day, the plough turned up two silver shillings.

‘Where there were two – may there be plenty.’

The next day there were four.

The next day there were eight.

Now the ploughman and his wife may have had no schooling, but they both had a head for numbers.

‘If that takes a day to plough an acre, then I reckon you’ll be ploughing that field for eleven days.’

‘I will, and if there’s one coin on day one, two on day two, four on day three and eight on day four …’

‘Then there’ll be sixteen on day five, thirty-two on day six, sixty-four on day seven, 128 on day eight, 256 on day nine …’

The ploughman whistled between his teeth.

‘And more’n a thousand on the last day … and you know, and I know, what must and must not be spoken of.’

His wife nodded and they called the children to their supper.

Both of them knew, as all people in those days knew, that any gift from the Pharisees, or the Fair People, must not be explained or given thanks for. One word and it would disappear from sight.

The next morning, as her husband was working, the ploughman’s wife went to the miller to buy flour for her baking. When her bag had been filled she pulled a silver shilling from her purse and handed it across.

The miller’s eyes were as sharp as gimlets.

‘Where did this come from?’

‘It’s just a shilling coin.’

‘Not like any I’ve seen before, give me another.’

She gave him another from her purse.

‘It’s just the same … and I’ll not take it.’

He seized the bag and tipped the flour back into his sack.

‘Judas Iscariot was paid with forty pieces of silver, and I reckon you’ve got two of them.’