"There Vicker! Just you munch your mouth around that..."
In which during a shared supper of sorts, Reverend Wrashleigh-Whyllinge is touched so see the Humbleby's warmth and affection transform a hovel into their happy home...
Gillieflower bustled back and forth beetling about in her grubby kitchen, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up to her elbows beneath her dungarees. She rooted around energetically among sooty pots and rusty pans. Flitting between cupboard and stove, bending deep into a bucket of vegetable peelings, then darting back again, her head bobbing as she chundered cheerfully to herself.
Her hair, wild and unruly, looked like a hedge through which something had been reluctantly dragged backwards. Stray strands clung to her flushed cheeks as she worked, happy with exertion.
“I don’t know what it was I wanted to say ’til I’ve heard myself say it—and from my own mouth too…”
Not that Albert and I mind a bit of dirt; we’re quite used to it. There’s plenty of it down in the root cellar, what with the vegetables and all. Cook’s forever on about my grubby hands and clothes, always telling me to keep out of her precious kitchen. But I’m always earthing about in the sacks, aren’t I? How she expects me to be clean as the day I was born, I’ll never know! Still…
Now, where’s the paper with the sprout peelings?' she asked. 'They’ve got to go on the stove first, or the stew’ll never cook in time. Cook did me proud today—lots of leftover spud skins, parsnip ends, and turnip trimmings. That’s good for flavour that is, right good coming down the waste chute for me special.
Mrs Humbleby flung odd-shaped ingredients into the rusty pot atop the cow-pat stove with abandon, sloshing liquids and tossing in slops and scraps. The kitchen with sooty walls filled with the sounds of crashing, banging, and scraping, and while no pan or ingredient emerged unscathed, little progress was apparent.
Another big batch of my best all-purpose belly binding stew she chundered. "I just put it all in—whatever I’ve got, or the peelings Cook saved for me from the big house. Cook it all up, and there you go—it’s stew. A girt big gobful of that fresh by the ladle-load ‘ll see you right…’
My ‘dorable, my Albert, now—he swears by it. Says it keeps him regular and always reckons it tastes nice! Up with the dawn he is, and to bed with the dark. Working his toes to the very bone up there on his patch, come all weathers."
The contents of the pot—brown, gloopy, and strangely stringy in parts—bubbled away, gurgling to itself. Gillieflower looked on, satisfied.
"There we go—soon be done. Just needs a bit of time to simmer down proper now."
She gave the pot a vigorous stir, sending up a cloud of steam. “Packed with naturally nurturing nutrients, fresh from the soil itself, just as Mother Nature likes it best!”
The acrid tang of cowpat from the stove mingled with the earthy scent of root vegetables. A cupboard, hanging at a precarious angle, clung to the wall by a single rusty nail.
Willie watched the progress with growing trepidation as Mrs Humbleby now bustled back and forth from the grubby kitchen to the small square table she was setting for supper. She knelt determinedly on the earth floor in front of a mouldy wooden cupboard, chundering away as she worked. At last, three earthenware plates were triumphantly brandished and brought to the table.
She bobbed back to the sooty stove, snatched up a filthy rag, and lifted the lid on the rusty saucepan where her ‘stew’ was simmering. An explosion of steam joined the acrid smoke rising from the dried cowpats fuelling the stove. Mrs Humbleby sniffed at the steam, nodding to herself in approval before giving the bubbling gloop a quick stir and dropping the lid back with a decisive thunk.
After another clatter of strange objects and implements, Mrs Humbleby returned to the table—this time bearing an old tin can with a half-peeled label and a partially removed lid. Into this, she had poked a single stem of evening primrose flower in bloom.
‘Well,’ she said, peering at the table and adjusting the centrepiece slightly, ‘you’ll not find me going looking for a gift in a horse’s mouth, and that’s the truth of it.’ She picked up one of the chipped earthenware plates and wiped the dirt and dust from it with her stained apron.
‘Them peelings from Cook today weren’t much to talk about, but put ’em in my stew and they’ll come good. Not that anyone could push a parsnip past me without me noticing! Now, where’s that boozleberry wine, Albert, my dorable—the one we got from Cousin Desmirelda what’s afflicted and once got removed when she married that young fellow and moved down to Middlemuck Farm? Vicker here’ll need a taste of that to go with his stew—mind you, that old wormslyce of mine’s seen better days.’
With that, she drew a deep breath, pausing to admire the table now set for supper. Something was awry.
She picked up a fork, spat on the bent tines, and used a dirty fingernail to scrape out a dried piece of a previous meal.
‘Heaven’s, Vicker, look at that! Can’t be having that when we’ve got our best plates and whatnots out for you.’
‘Mrs Humbleby, you’ve gone to so much trouble on my account—it’s most kind of you, and of course of Albert too, to have invited me to join you for supper.’ Willie cast an uneasy glance at the chipped bowls and stained crocks set before him. ‘It’s so kind of you—but really, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
‘Nonsense, Vicker,’ Gillieflower replied, smiling cheerfully as she yanked down the apron worn over her dungarees. ‘Look, see—it’s our best set, Vicker, just because it’s a special occasion. We haven’t had anyone to sup with us, so to have a Vicker at the table down here in our little byre, well...’ For once, it seemed words had escaped her.
‘Ah,’ Albert interjected, rising from his high-backed fiddle chair by the hearth and joining them to admire the table. ‘That’s not just our best china, Vicker—that’s our only china,’ he said with pride. 'Proper earthware they call it, been in my family generations it has.'
Noticing a stain, Mrs Humbleby picked up a plate and began wiping it on her cuff.
‘Albert,’ she beamed, ‘my ’dorable—imagine us, a proper Vicker right here to sup with us, sitting at our little table to partake of my stew! It’s a real privilege, and sure as ’n’s lays eggs, it’ll take your mind off the troubles with that patch of yours. After all, them toes of yours are hard at work dawn till dusk. If it’s not raising ’em in the abundance it used to, well, you’re surely not the cause of it.’
Mrs Humbleby drew out an ancient stool from beneath the table and gestured for Willie to sit. It creaked as its uneven legs sank slightly into the floor under his weight.
‘Albert’s been having a bit of bother with them wrigglers of his these last few years,’ Mrs Humbleby explained as Albert took his place at the head of the table. ‘But I says to him, “Albert, my ’dorable, it’s not down to you if your sack’s half empty at the end of the day, no matter how hard you’ve been working them toes of yours out in all weathers, up there on your patch.” There’s no shame in it, is there, Vicker? You can tell him for me—it’s not his fault if the wrigglers aren’t as forthcoming as they once was. Isn’t that right, Albert?’ she called over her shoulder as she bustled into the kitchen.
‘Here ’tis, then—feast your eyes on this girt big panful of my finest stew,’ Mrs Humbleby announced brightly, bouncing out of the sooty kitchen in a cloud of smoke, which suggested that more than just dried cowpats might be burning. She carried an enormous pan, its rusted surface blackened with soot from the stove.
Albert’s eyes followed Gillie from the kitchen to the table and beamed with pride. After carrying the big steaming bowl aloft to the table, she deposited it with a delighted flourish on the cracked and pitted wooden tabletop. The table legs staggered under the weight of the enormous pile of brown stew, which Vicker considered nervously. It seemed to be made of some recognisable elements: potato peelings, discernible from the black eyespots still scarred on them, larger chunks of vegetable, likely parsnip and turnip, some tough, some mushed, and the biggest ingredient appeared to be long threads of sliced onion, browned and glistening slightly distastefully.
‘You’ll not get anything as good and wholesome as one of my stews, and Vicker, it looks like it’s just in time too—you’re fair wasting away. My stew here, as my ’dorable’ll tell you, is full to belly-bursting with goodness fresh from his patch and my vegetable plot.’
‘She’s a wonder, my Gillie,’ Albert added warmly. ‘Makes four kinds of stew—Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn—all filled with goodness and natural bits and bobs from hereabouts in Wormbrook. Of course, all the stews are mostly the same—nice and wholesome, no matter the season. But if it’s winter when she makes it, then “Winter Stew” it is—that’s one of her lovely little ways. Same if it’s made in summer then it’s “Summer Stew” - that’s four recipes at least for sure.”
‘You’d be amazed what she can work up from peelings, sprout water, vegetable scraps, herbs from the garden, and, of course, a big heap of fresh ’uns from my patch this very morning. Works wonders, she does—it’s miraculous what comes out of that little kitchen and that clanky old stove that’s cooked more hot dinners than we’ve all eaten.’"
Mrs Humbleby leaned into the pot with a rusty ladle, scraping the congealed portions from the very bottom until a large, leaky ladleful of stew emerged.
‘There you go, Vicker—look at that, a lovely big ladle-load of our finest,’ she said, dolloping the brown, strangely textured gloop onto Willie’s plate with gusto. ‘Don’t you hold back, Vicker—go on and munch your mouth around that. We don’t stand on no ceremonies here, do we, Albert, my love?’
A strange earthy tang rose from the splatter of stew on Willie’s plate, making him recoil. There seemed to be a large quantity of onion in the stew, and while most of the components were beyond identification, he recognised carrot, potato peelings, and what appeared to be the fibrous outer leaves of sprouts. The main constituent however seemed to be large lengths of red onion.
Just as Willie was about to offer compliments, Mrs Humbleby plopped another huge ladleful of stew onto his plate before he could stop her.
‘There you go, Vicker—I’ll not have you go hungry. Not after what I reckon Miss Mordrid feeds you up on. There’s plenty here, all freshly made and wholesome as you can ever hope for. ’Course, it’s not so easy with that old wormslyce of mine—it’s not as sharp as it used to be. I’ve been on to Albert about buying another, but he don’t seem to pay no mind to it—do you, Albert, my ’dorable?’
Willie tentatively took up his spoon, poking at the gloopy, stringy concoction before him. Forcing a smile to appear gracious, he fought the uneasy churning in his stomach.
To Mrs Humbleby, silence seemed an affront to friendship, and her well-intentioned chunderings filled every moment. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘here’s me burbling on like a book…’ Taking up her own spoon and joining Albert eagerly setting about the plateful.
Finally, there was a little silence as Mrs Humbleby chewed away at her stew. Willie, still struggling to load the bent spoon with the brown lumpy mess, was just about to bring it to his lips when Mrs Humbleby let out a sudden shriek.
‘Oh deary me—Vicker!’ she exclaimed, blushing furiously. ‘You’ll not never guess what I’ve done, but Vicker, you must be beside yourself!’ Her eyes darted nervously between Albert and Willie, clearly agitated.
‘Whatever will you think of us, Vicker? We’ve gone and started on our stews without saying grace! Vicker, you must think us right improper folk,” she said, wringing her hands in her grubby apron. “It’s all on account of not never having the pleasure of no vicker come sup with us. You’ll just have to overlook our byrely ways, Vicker. I don’t know what my ‘dorable Albert must be thinking of me—we’re not no spuds up from chipping, and that’s the truth.”
‘No, no, not at all,’ he stammered, trying to sound reassuring despite his discomfort. ‘It’s quite alright, really. I’d be happy to oblige,’ he offered, clearing his throat as he tried to bring to mind the customary words. ‘Dearly departed...’ was just forming on the tip of his tongue when Gillieflower, who was having none of it, put her shoulders back.
‘Now don’t you go exerting yourself, Vicker. You’re a guest, so it’s only right I does it for us. Isn’t that right, Albert?’
‘It’ll be Gillieflower’s pleasure, Vicker. Poor as peas we may be, but we don’t forget our manners here,’ Albert chimed in warmly.
Relieved and happy to be excused the duty Willie nodded. ‘Of course, Mrs. Humbleby. I should be most honoured.’
Albert watched his wife with a proud smile, grateful for her social know-how. Gillieflower clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and took a deep breath.
‘Here goes—Our flower what hearts in heaven,’ she began, her voice trembling but full of determination. ‘Spread us this day our staley bread. Fergive them whats had some, and for the others, Lord, we’re truly sorry as we fergave them whats trespassed on purpose—and the other what nots and so forths. And bless us our humble byre.’
Albert nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, my love,’ he said. ‘You did that very well.’
Willie offered an encouraging smile. ‘That was lovely, Mrs. Humbleby,’ he said kindly. ‘I’ve never heard it said with more conviction.’
Gillieflower beamed proudly, fussing over the vicar to ensure he had a sufficiency of her general-purpose stew. A leaky ladle load brimming with menace close to hand. Willie returned to his bowl, poking at it tentatively with his spoon. ‘Tell me, Mrs. Humbleby,’ he ventured, bracing himself for the next mouthful, ‘are these fine onions here from your own vegetable patch?’
Before he could take another bite, Gillieflower’s voice rang out sharply once again. Again Willie jumped and dropped his spoon of stew in his lap.
‘Oh no! Wait on!’ she cried, wringing her hands nervously in her apron. ‘That’s not right, I’m sure of it. Vicker, I don’t know where to put myself, but I think I got that all wrong. It’s not going to work if it’s not said proper, is it? But not to worry yourself, Vicker—I’ll give it another go. Can’t do no harm, can it?’
Willie, waved his hands in protest. ‘Oh no, Mrs. Humbleby, there’s really no need. You mustn’t bother yourself—you really mustn’t—’
But Gillieflower, undeterred, clasped her hands together once more. ‘Oh, but I must, Vicker. We must do things proper-like.’ She took another deep breath, closing her eyes in fierce concentration.
‘Our flower what lives up yonder, furrowed be our field, thy farmyard come, and chores be done down here as ’tis in heaven. Spread us this day our staley bread, forgive them what’s had some, and for the others, we’re truly sorry. Forgive them as trespassed and scared me ’ns. Lead us not with tempting notions, but deliver us from weasels. For thine is the cabbage patch, the plow and scarecrow, for never and ever, Amen. And bless our humble byre.’
She opened her eyes, looking round the table with a proud smile. Her grin widened as she glanced at Albert, softly chuckling beside her, he too blushing with pride.
‘Well done, my Gillieflower,’ he said warmly.
‘Indeed, Mrs. Humbleby. Very well done,’ Willie added approvingly.
‘And bless our humble byre,’ Albert repeated, much moved. His eyes misty, he wiped them with the backs of his calloused hands.
Willie felt a tug of envy mingled with admiration as he looked at the contented couple. Their life might be simple, their means modest, but their hearts and lives were rich.
And in that moment, amidst the peculiarities and imperfections of life in Wormbrook, Willie found himself feeling unexpectedly grateful for being part of such an extraordinary evening.
Willing Willie's peacable thoughts on love, his musings on the meaning of family and of the warmth of the Humbleby home were however, all to brief. A lurching churning in his tummy accompanied by the taste of stew surging up his throat sharp and stinging shattered is quiet contemplations. With a ghastly new vigour the purpose of his visit and the nature of his explanation sprang unbidden to mind. Insanely saintly and ever ready to give his all to the service of others, poor Willie was about to find himself upon a path that even angels would fear to tread.
This was so funny and warm. There's a kindness to your writing that pulls me in.