"What the Master don't know" by Sarah Masters

It’s Monday mornin’ ‘an yer in ’t wash ’ouse dippin’ an’ wringin’ linen when I come to find you. You ignore me e’en though I’m standin’ at door plain as a pikestaff. I tug me apron down. “Master says.” I mek me voice loud as cook’s. “Master says yer to put extra starch in ’is cuffs. Cos ’e weren’t ’appy las’ time.”

You look to study ’t pillowcase in yer ’ands, actin’ like I’m not ’ere, so I says it again. ”Master says yer to put extra starch in ’is cuffs.” I wait, then I says, “Master told me to tell ya.” 

You look down at pillowcase an’ yer neck pinkens up. “Tart,” you say, quiet but loud enough for me to ’ear.

“Whatchoo say?” I come ’tother side of you. “Who’s a tart?” 

“Thee.” You look at me square, yer face bruff with the heat and sweat. “Tha’s a tart, and ’es a meathead for preferrin’ thee. Tha tart.”

I fold me arms. “Tart is it,” I says.  “Know what you are? A vinegar valentine. ’Cos he’s been sweet on me fer months an’ I ain’t given ’im no comeon.” 

You stand up straight. You wipe yer blashy arms wi’ a pillowcase. “’Aint gi’en ’im no comeon? I seen thee doing the big eyes. Tha’s not as green as tha’s cabbage lookin’.”   You throw the pillowcase aside.  “’An oo’s tellin’ me what to do anyways? Tha’s nobbut a kitchen maid.”

“Is that right?” I point at me cap. “Under-cook, not kitchen maid, is what I am. Master says ’e’s gonna promote me, says me pies make ’im swoon.”

That gets to you.  “I’ll gi’ thee swoon.” You grab yer wooden dolly from washtub and swing it wi’ both ’ands like to come sticklebutt at me.

I step back quick. Then I spy bucket o’ borax reekin’ to high heaven. Just the job. I grab it, heft it to me shoulder. I gi’ it a swing an’ chuck it.

Quicklicketysplit you’ve ducked. There’s a shout be’ind you and there’s Master. Afore we can say owt ’e goes down, heavy as a ham, flat on ’t floor. Bastes 'isself in a pool o' grey slime. 

Laugh? You an’ me, we near piss oursels. We’re ’oldin’ each other’s arms like two lovers as the laughter peels out of us. Master’s writhin’ aroun’ an’ I know ’e’s not gonna mek me under-cook no more, but I don’t care. You ‘an me, we’ve allas been mates, allas will be. You point at Master’s claggy sleeves, an’ yer can ’ardly get words out. “’E’s got starch in ’is cuffs now.” 

Sarah is a southerner living in Yorkshire who loves getting her head around Yorkshire dialect.