It is just after dawn on Christmas day; the Scullions have been hard at it since four o'clock. Tottie, the youngest of the pair, is still shivvering from waking up in her freezing attic room with breath frozen on her pillow. She is currently wandering deep in the warren of stores, cellars and pantries that underlie the kitchens of Mardlingham Manor, she has a list in her hand, some of which she can read and the rest she can guess. The things so far collected are looped in a fold of her apron, but every time she finds a fresh addition, she has to unload it onto the nearest spare shelf or table, find the tiny stub of indelible pencil given her by Cook, add a new purple stripe to her tongue by licking it and cross the item off the list. She is not filled with the Christmas spirit:
“Bile th'kittel, blarnsh th'armuns,” say Tottie, “Git'sum sultarnass, star th'duff, rinse yer hans, siv'th'flar, wares th'bu'uh, cum'hare, git owta th'way, dew thus, dew thet, hintchew finish'd yit?”
“Hew a'yew lord'n'ut ova?” say Tilly, arriving with her own apron full of goodies, “Even th'Boot-boy dun't hev t'lissen t'yew.”
“Jus'repeet'n wot Cook keep a'say'n,” say Tottie, “Mung otha things.”
“Wull Oi dunt see nOo point in'ut,” say Tilly, “Less yew'r gorn loony.”
“They unt gitcha if yer keep tork'n,” say Tottie, “Dun't loike tork, they dun't.”
“Hew dun't?” say Tilly, “Th'soles a'orl th'ded scullions? Them wot lorst th'way down hare, an'fown th'divil afor they fown th'way owt?”
“Hint skeer'd a'them,” say Tottie, “They dun't botha Baptists. Thas th'rats wot giv'me th'willies.”
“Thas tew fruz fer rats down hare,” say Tilly, “Oi recken they'd rutha kip-down in yor mattress.”
“Wuss thet fat hairy thing by yer foot then?” say Tottie.
— • —
“Thet wuz quick,” say Cook, “Hev yer dun th'hole list?”
“Eva'thin we cud rede,” say Tilly, “Afor th'rats got us.”
“They unt go nere yer if yer tork,” say Cook.
“If thas true,” say Tottie, “Sum ov'em musta gorn deef!”
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