BUDGETS an’ BUST-UPS

A Cornish Tale about Our L’il Village by Sal Tregenna.

Well, me deers, I spoase you wuz all lookin’ vore to zeein’ th’ new Budget, wadden’ee, zame’s us wuz yur in our li’l village. An’ I ‘opes you’m plazed wo’n now you knaws wot ‘e iz! I can’t zay everybody yur iz, ll th’ zame. Vather purty grumbled cuz there wadden nort took off th’ baccy, an’ I zed I reckoned they might hev left us hev our tay a mite cheeper! Still, there’s a gude menny vokes yur purty smilin’ now, speshully the skule taichers, an’ th’ men ‘pon th’ dole, an’ they wot hev got motor cars an’ brave gude inkums!
JANE AN’ OLE SLY
Me an’ Jane hap to be out in the road taalkin’ when th’ ole paper veller cum along las’ Wensday, so coarse us stopt there lookin’ to wot it zed ‘bout this yur ole Budget. Jane wuz properly dishgusted, iss ‘er wuz. “Why, tedden nort to ‘elp th’ likes o’ us,” zes she. “I caals it a blessid waash-out, that I do. If they’d bring down th’ price o’ livin’ twould be zummin like it. But strikes me tiz all to ‘elp they wot doant want it.” Jist then ‘long cums ole Pleeceman Sly, wi’ ‘is toes terned out an’ a gurt smile ‘pon ‘is vaace. “Well, ladies,” zes ‘e, “ I spoase you’m delited wi’ th’ Budget, bant’ee?” “No, I bant,” snaps Jane. “I wuz jist zayin’ wot a dishgrace tiz that there idden nort in it to ‘elp us pore vokes wot wants ‘elp. If you ax me th’ ones wot doant do no wurk, an’ th’ ones wot gits the’r livin’ mighty aizey, be th’ ones that vares best every time.” Coarse, ole Sly dedden like that, an’ ‘e axed Jane wot ‘er mained. “Surely you mus’ knaw that if us gits our pay roze agane tiz gain make things bedder all roun,” zes ‘e. “I can’t zee that,” zes Jane. “’Ow do’ee make that out?” “Well,” zes ‘e, “if I got more munney to spaind, I shall be abel to buy more, shent I?” “Well, that idden gain do nobody else no gude,” zes Jane. “Iss tiz, Missus,” zes ‘e. “I’ll ‘splain it to ‘ee, now. Everything you buy makes wurk vur zumbody, doant it? If you buys a pare o’ boots, tiz wurk vur zumbody to make ‘em, an’ th’ zame be everything else. Do’ee zee wot I main? Zo it stan’s to rayson that wi’ zo menny hunderds o’ vokes all droo th’ cuntry hevin’ more to spend, tiz gain make more wurk, an’ tha’s wot this cuntry needs, idden it?”
JANE DOANT AGREE.
“Iss,” zes Jane. “I deerzay th’ cuntry do need more wurk, but ha’f th’ blessid men doant! They bant gain wurk if they can go an’ git paid vur doin’ nort. Bezides, I reckons you ole pleecemen gits paid too much be ha’f. Tedden like if you dun ort mutch to earn it! I wish to gudeness I could git dree or vower poun’ a weak jist vur stalkin’ up an’ down droo th’ village wi’ a blew zuit an’ big ‘at on, an’ skeerin’ th’ cheldern away! An’ there’s my pore ole man got to louster like a navvy vur thirty-bob a weak. I caal’t wecked, that I do!” “Well, Missus,” zes ole Sly, “you aut to hev married a Pleeceman, then p’raps you’d hev bin plaized.” Jane snorted like a grampus. “Married a pleeceman, indaid,” snaps she, “I never zeed one gude lookin’ enuff, or else I might hev!” Wi’ that ole Sly stalked away off; still smilin’. I reckon twould hev took a brave mite to rub off thikky smile that day.
TH’ LECKSHUN
Then us ‘ad a brave ole spree auver th’ leckshun, too. There wuz dree o’ ‘em put up; Varmer Brown, an’ Varmer Trehane, an’ Butcher Bone. Coarse, us waint up to th’ mittin’s an’ yurd wot they all ‘ad to zay vur the’r’zels, an’ I mus’ zay they all tould a blessid gude yarn. A body would think our li’l village wuz gain be a li’l parrydise when they got in ‘pon th’ Districk Council to yur they talk. Tiz zackly like th’ leckshuns vur Parleymint, idden it, th’ way they cums roun’ an’ tries to taalk’ee auver? They wuz all reddy to ait us vur weaks avore-‘and, an’ the’r Missuses wuz gain roun’ shakin’ ‘ands wi’ everybody. Like I zed to Jane, when ole Missus Bone cum vore shakin’ ‘ands wi’ us, ‘er wont knaw us agane nex’ week. ‘Er’ll be passin’ by on th’ tother zide, an’ talkin’ no more ‘count o’ us that if us  wuz a cupple o’ yurriwigs!
Ennyway, Varmer Brown an’ Varmer Trehane got in, an’ th’ chaps ‘ad a purty ole spree thikky nite. They cum down yur an’ axed vur the lend o’ our ole dunkey shay, an’ away they waint dra’in o’n behind ‘em. When they knawed who wuz gone in they dra’ed ‘em all roun’ th’ village, one to a time, an’ Jim Snell waint ‘long avore playin’ “E’ a jolly gude veller” ‘pon ‘i ole ‘corgin. They dra’ed boath o’ ‘em to pub to vanish wi’, zo I reckon that wuz a brave gude ‘int, doant you? Pore ole Varmer Trehane looked brave an’ shuy when they landed’n up ‘pon th’ pub dore-step I can tell’ee! ‘E’s a gurt tay-total man, ‘e iz, an’ it mus’ hev waint agin th’ grain wi’n. But Jim Snell zed ‘e would’n be bait be Varmer Brown, zo ‘e axed ‘em all to go in an’ drink ‘is ‘ealth in ginger beer! ‘E dedden go in ‘izzel’, zo ‘e dedden zee wot they dun. But if there’s enny gain be th’ way Vather an’ Zilas cum ‘ome thikky nite arm-in-arm like a pare o’ coarters, well, I reckons it mus’ hev bin nashun strong ginger-beer!