The question of using accents and dialect in dialogue does seem to come up with great regularity and the advice is always pretty well the same. So perhaps a more practical example of the beauty and pitfalls will help.
I wrote this a few years ago on holiday after an evening in a Stockport pub with a couple of old railmen, partly intribute to the old chaps, partly for fun but mostly to try and capture their dying South Penine dialect. Since I've tried re-writing in a more bland modern Mid-Atlantic English, but the fun and personaility of the people simply does not show. In Gullah it is a real riot though!
But if you want to test your own favourite accent and dialect with the story, then please do.
Otherwise, it will be interesting to see how many can actually understand it (Americans can probably be excused
)
Danny, Nobby, the Guard and the Wife
To set the scene: A cattle train of sheep is standing at a halt waiting for the signals to be cleared off. Before them is a long incline that will take them up onto the moors. It is a chance for the guard to check the cargo, the fireman to get the fire burning hot for the climb and the driver to decant pearls of unwanted wisdom.
“Tha gaz reet wazzuck!” Danny Grisham observed loudly and with not unconsidered mirth to Nobby.
As is common with short wiry men, he was always on the verge of a seething rage, bubbling with impatience and more than ready to make free at others expense. On this occasion it was the guard who had just trudged past.
Nobby sighed and straightened his back, leaning heavily upon his shovel as he did so and pushed his cap back with a coal encrusted hand, leaving yet another black band over his forehead, before looking down at the far smaller form of the driver.
“Tha knas what tha wazzuck done don' tha?” Danny persisted. As a third generation railman he was not going to let up on any perceived failing of a fellow railman, especially a guard from Carlisle who was going around dressed in the official long tailed coat and top hat.
“How can ay wi' yer grit lump in door,” Nobby observed wearily. “'sides got ta git this-en banked oop fer next stretch, or yer'll use my steam!”
Danny turned from leaning upon the rail of the footplate and the object of his abuse towards the fireman. “'appens they's won't get 'em off for a wheel na,” he observed with some satisfaction. “We lost t' road na!”
Nobby sighed and bent a broad back to his fire again. Breaking up a good fire was not something any fireman on the Midland Railway liked to do, the line, full of long inclines, meant hard enough work as it was. But he had fired for Danny often enough to know that if he said there was to be no progress for a time, then there was not going to be progress.
“So waz t' guard done na?” He asked as point of interest.
“Uped one o' t' cattle wagons,” Danny explained, “an' ship ged owt. I's jus' run length of train wi' 'im chasing along a'hind!”
“'I'll 'ave to tell 'em oop signal box,” Nobby observed, straightening up again and joining the driver to watch the spectacle of the guard, hand firmly on his hat scurrying after the errant sheep, coat tails trying to wrap around his legs. “Dun 'e knas ship ain't goin' t' cross viaduct? Cum back when it gets t' end of gorge, grit wazzick?”
Looming over Danny by a clear head and shoulder, Nobby was the tallest and broadest fireman on the Stockton shed. Son of a farmer, below the soot and coal dust he shared their ruddy complexion and barrelled chest, but not the desire to be cold and wet marching the fells. Instead he had left the farm in the capable hands of two brothers and a sister at the age of fifteen to seek a warmer and better paid job on the railway. Twenty years later he had half achieved the goal; many were the times where pouring rain and gale force winds froze his back and the roaring fire roasted his front.
He had inherited other features from his family as well; From the the days and nights of lambing in high pens had come the tender and patient way he tended his fire. It made him the most respected of all the firemen, a man who could keep his fire burning and steam available, no matter who the driver was.
This was as well with Danny as the appointed driver, who was known to be heavy on both machine and fireman. Despite, or perhaps because of these differing characteristics, the two were friends beyond sharing the same terraced street and public house, each knocking the other up for the morning shift and sharing their meagre sandwich lunches, when put together. They worked well as a team, maintaining the company timings between stages as well as any and allowing more than normal familiarity.
“Na point telling,” Danny declared. “Can't tell 'em clever folk from Carlisle owt. Any tea in bottle? Meet as well sup wheel 'e's chasing around.”
From it's position nestled behind the regulator, where its precious contents would stay warm, Nobby took an on clay bottle brightly emblazoned with the pictographic words 'Shaws Finest Ginger Beer' and poured well stewed and sickly sweet tea into their shared chipped enamel mug.
Shortly Danny took the cinder shovel and dropped heavily from the footplate and took station crouching between engine and tender until he saw the hazy shape of the sheep returning.
“'a's a good job that,” Nobby rumbled approvingly, winching himself down. “It looked reet surprised when tha 'it it!”
“Looks like tha wif when tha returns late without beer full,” He continued lifting the carcass and showing the head with squashed snout towards Danny.
“Ay! Less of that!” Danny snapped with a hiss. “Quick, afore guard gits back. Es loft in back of tender.”
“You, Driver!” The shout from the freely perspiring guard forewarned of returning trouble. “Ye seen that there sheep come back?”
“Na lad,” Danny observed cheerfully, waving his oil rag. “Bin seeing to my engine while you'se away. 'haps it went off crag?”
“Silly things ship,” Nobby offered helpfully, leaning on the cab rail. “Es 'members win...”
“Aye well. Better get off then,” the guard snapped. “Wi' lost enough time.”
“Does look bit like wiff,” Danny admitted opening the regulator and unscrewing the brake. “Sim pinched face an' all! 'appen I got me self a wish come true?”
I wrote this a few years ago on holiday after an evening in a Stockport pub with a couple of old railmen, partly intribute to the old chaps, partly for fun but mostly to try and capture their dying South Penine dialect. Since I've tried re-writing in a more bland modern Mid-Atlantic English, but the fun and personaility of the people simply does not show. In Gullah it is a real riot though!
But if you want to test your own favourite accent and dialect with the story, then please do.
Otherwise, it will be interesting to see how many can actually understand it (Americans can probably be excused
)Danny, Nobby, the Guard and the Wife
To set the scene: A cattle train of sheep is standing at a halt waiting for the signals to be cleared off. Before them is a long incline that will take them up onto the moors. It is a chance for the guard to check the cargo, the fireman to get the fire burning hot for the climb and the driver to decant pearls of unwanted wisdom.
“Tha gaz reet wazzuck!” Danny Grisham observed loudly and with not unconsidered mirth to Nobby.
As is common with short wiry men, he was always on the verge of a seething rage, bubbling with impatience and more than ready to make free at others expense. On this occasion it was the guard who had just trudged past.
Nobby sighed and straightened his back, leaning heavily upon his shovel as he did so and pushed his cap back with a coal encrusted hand, leaving yet another black band over his forehead, before looking down at the far smaller form of the driver.
“Tha knas what tha wazzuck done don' tha?” Danny persisted. As a third generation railman he was not going to let up on any perceived failing of a fellow railman, especially a guard from Carlisle who was going around dressed in the official long tailed coat and top hat.
“How can ay wi' yer grit lump in door,” Nobby observed wearily. “'sides got ta git this-en banked oop fer next stretch, or yer'll use my steam!”
Danny turned from leaning upon the rail of the footplate and the object of his abuse towards the fireman. “'appens they's won't get 'em off for a wheel na,” he observed with some satisfaction. “We lost t' road na!”
Nobby sighed and bent a broad back to his fire again. Breaking up a good fire was not something any fireman on the Midland Railway liked to do, the line, full of long inclines, meant hard enough work as it was. But he had fired for Danny often enough to know that if he said there was to be no progress for a time, then there was not going to be progress.
“So waz t' guard done na?” He asked as point of interest.
“Uped one o' t' cattle wagons,” Danny explained, “an' ship ged owt. I's jus' run length of train wi' 'im chasing along a'hind!”
“'I'll 'ave to tell 'em oop signal box,” Nobby observed, straightening up again and joining the driver to watch the spectacle of the guard, hand firmly on his hat scurrying after the errant sheep, coat tails trying to wrap around his legs. “Dun 'e knas ship ain't goin' t' cross viaduct? Cum back when it gets t' end of gorge, grit wazzick?”
Looming over Danny by a clear head and shoulder, Nobby was the tallest and broadest fireman on the Stockton shed. Son of a farmer, below the soot and coal dust he shared their ruddy complexion and barrelled chest, but not the desire to be cold and wet marching the fells. Instead he had left the farm in the capable hands of two brothers and a sister at the age of fifteen to seek a warmer and better paid job on the railway. Twenty years later he had half achieved the goal; many were the times where pouring rain and gale force winds froze his back and the roaring fire roasted his front.
He had inherited other features from his family as well; From the the days and nights of lambing in high pens had come the tender and patient way he tended his fire. It made him the most respected of all the firemen, a man who could keep his fire burning and steam available, no matter who the driver was.
This was as well with Danny as the appointed driver, who was known to be heavy on both machine and fireman. Despite, or perhaps because of these differing characteristics, the two were friends beyond sharing the same terraced street and public house, each knocking the other up for the morning shift and sharing their meagre sandwich lunches, when put together. They worked well as a team, maintaining the company timings between stages as well as any and allowing more than normal familiarity.
“Na point telling,” Danny declared. “Can't tell 'em clever folk from Carlisle owt. Any tea in bottle? Meet as well sup wheel 'e's chasing around.”
From it's position nestled behind the regulator, where its precious contents would stay warm, Nobby took an on clay bottle brightly emblazoned with the pictographic words 'Shaws Finest Ginger Beer' and poured well stewed and sickly sweet tea into their shared chipped enamel mug.
Shortly Danny took the cinder shovel and dropped heavily from the footplate and took station crouching between engine and tender until he saw the hazy shape of the sheep returning.
“'a's a good job that,” Nobby rumbled approvingly, winching himself down. “It looked reet surprised when tha 'it it!”
“Looks like tha wif when tha returns late without beer full,” He continued lifting the carcass and showing the head with squashed snout towards Danny.
“Ay! Less of that!” Danny snapped with a hiss. “Quick, afore guard gits back. Es loft in back of tender.”
“You, Driver!” The shout from the freely perspiring guard forewarned of returning trouble. “Ye seen that there sheep come back?”
“Na lad,” Danny observed cheerfully, waving his oil rag. “Bin seeing to my engine while you'se away. 'haps it went off crag?”
“Silly things ship,” Nobby offered helpfully, leaning on the cab rail. “Es 'members win...”
“Aye well. Better get off then,” the guard snapped. “Wi' lost enough time.”
“Does look bit like wiff,” Danny admitted opening the regulator and unscrewing the brake. “Sim pinched face an' all! 'appen I got me self a wish come true?”
