leg up oor Kornies

leg up

naamwoord

(Literally) the act of assisting another's progress over a wall or other obstacle by forming a step for one of their feet with one's hands

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

gwayn

advantage

prow

advantage

voorbeelde

int. ke dhe gerdhes; voyd alebma; ke dhortam; n. or poke, nudge, shove pock m. -ys, -yow; or shove, leg-up bunt m. -ow d bunt, cf. B bountañ. SWF not fixed.
int. ke dhe gerdhes; voyd alebma; ke dhortam; n. or poke, nudge, shove pock m. -ys, -yow; or shove, leg-up bunt m. -ow d bunt, cf. B bountañ. SWF not fixed.

She'd stand up on her hind legs and watch over the foot path that ran beside Trengrove Asylum for the Lost and Found.
Hi a sevi war hy diwar dhelergh ha golya an trolergh a resa ryb Harber Trengove rag an Kellys ha'n Kevys.

She’d stand up on her hind legs and watch over the foot path that ran beside Trengrove Asylum for the Lost and Found.
Hi a sevi war hy diwar dhelergh ha golya an trolergh a resa ryb Harber Trengove rag an Kellys ha'n Kevys.

As we walked down the stairs into what had become a fetid pit, a cat greeted us. When I say ‘greeted’, that is a relative term. Actually, it hissed loudly at me and then growled deeply, with real menace. I was definitely not welcome down there as far as it was concerned. Apparently, it could tell the difference between me and the other residents. It liked them. It didn’t like me. How curious. As I tried to ease my way down the stairs, passing the small, hissing fury, its eyes suddenly widened to the size of saucers and its ears flattened back onto its head. It repeated its hiss of warning. “Fuck off, puss!” I said, in a friendly tone. Apparently, it didn’t like bad language because, with that, it reared up on its hind legs and made a standing vertical leap for my face. I weaved backwards and, in any event, it didn’t quite reach the height of my face but, as it dropped back to the ground, it caught its claws in my thigh and clung there. Naturally, it also sank its teeth into my flesh as hard as it could and, muffled by its mouthful, growled menacingly. There was pain, considerable pain. One or two of the assembled zombies made noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter. (Do zombies have a sense of humour? If so, I didn’t think much of it.) I grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and peeled it off my leg – there was an audible sound of my skin tearing, ever so slightly, beneath my jeans. I held the cat before my eyes – it was still growling and spitting but temporarily immobilised by the same ‘hold’ that its mother had once used on it when it was a kitten. I shaped to hurl the little monster far away from me – but, as I did so, I noticed the zombies, as one, abruptly stared at me. So, I stopped mid-throw. Did these zombies really care what I did with an apparently feral – and certainly out of control – cat?
Ha ni diyskynnys an wrisfordh dhe le may tothya ha bos lemmyn poll flerys, y’gan dhynnerghis kath. Pan lavarav ‘dynnerghis’, nyns yw an ger poran ewn. Yn hwir, an gath a sias yn ughel orthymm – hag ena ev a wrommyas yn town, gans godros gwir. Herwydh an gath, nyns en vy wolkomm vytholl. Yn apert, hi a aswonni an dyffrans yntredhov ha’n trigoryon erell. Hi a’s kara. Ny’m kara hi. Ass o henna koynt. Ha my besyes diyskynna an wrisfordh, ow tremena an gonnar vyghan ow sia, hy dewlagas a ledanhes a-dhesempis dhe vraster an padelligow ha’y diwskovarn a omblattyes erbynn hy fenn. Hi a dhassias hy gwarnyans. “Ke dhe-ves, kathik!” yn-medhav vy – po, dhe’n lyha, nebes geryow haval. Yn apert, nyns o da gensi an geryow ma drefenn, a-dhistowgh, hi dhe omdhrehevel war hy threys a-dhelergh ha gul lamm plommwedhek wor’tu ha’m fas. My a wayas yn uskis war-dhelergh ha, yn neb kas, ny ylli hi drehedhes ughelder ow fas mes, ha hi koedhys dhe’n leur, hy ewines a veu kachyes y’m mordhos - ha’n gath a lena ena. Heb mar, hi a sedhas keffrys hy dyns kalessa galla y’m esker ha, kudhys hy son gans hy ganowas, pesya grommya yn godros. Yth esa payn – meur a bayn. Onan po dew yntra’n zombis a wrug sonyow a heveli bos kepar ha hwerthinva. (Eus syns a dhidhan dhe’n zombis? Mars o yndella, ny’n keren meur.) My a settyas dalghenn war an gath der kil hy honna ha’y diruska dhiworth ow esker – yth esa son poran klywadow a’m kroghen ow skwardya yn-dann ow jins. My a synsis an gath a-dherag ow dewlagas – yth esa hwath ow krommya hag ow sia mes my re’s gwrussa anwayadow dres pols gans an keth ‘gavel’ re wrussa hy mamm devnydh anedhi pan o kathik. My a dhredhedhis ow leuv rag tewlel an euthvil byghan yn pellder dhiworthiv vy – mes, ha my gwrys yndella – my a verkyas an zombis, warbarth oll, dhe lagatta orthiv a-dhistowgh. Ytho, my a veu stoppyes gansa yn hanter-towl. Esa bern yn hwir dhe’n zombis ma a-dro dhe byth a wrussen vy gans kath gwyls (yn apert), kath dres rewl? 41

There was, however, another figure in that (formerly) leading jeep. He started waving his arms about and pointing at the driver in a distinctly unfriendly way. Naturally, both of these people were too far away for me to hear what was being said – or even to make out their uniforms – but the body language was pretty clear. The gesticulating one was probably an unhappy officer and the driver was probably just a ‘grunt’. In any event, contrary to common sense, (i.e. to just wait until the engine cooled down and refill the radiator) I saw the ‘grunt’ driver start trudging back along the road towards the base, leaving the ‘officer’ behind (the rest of the convoy having long since passed by.) “What an unreasonable moron that officer must be,” I thought – but gave it no more consideration than that. As I’ve said, the daylight was waning and I had, maybe, 15 minutes to get back to David’s and my little hidey-hole. So, I started climbing, very carefully, back down the derelict and rickety watch-tower. (But I must say that going down was definitely less strenuous than climbing up.) When I neared the bottom, I leapt down the last few feet. I shouldn’t have done that because I fell heavily and, predictably, my legs buckled beneath me once again. But there was no real harm done. I picked myself up and called for David. No response. “Come on, Mate,” I called. “We’ve gotta get back to the tunnel. The soldiers are out looking for us ....” Still no response. “... and it’s getting dark,” I added, hopefully. David was gone. Just gone. Shit! Optimistically, I thought that, maybe, he’d gotten bored and gone back to the tunnel under his own steam. After all, he knew where it was because he’d located it in the first place, while I had been asleep. So, I hastened back to the tunnel and squeezed myself through the entrance. Still no sign of David.
Byttegyns, yth esa figur arall y’n jip (kyns) ow ledya. Ev a dhallathas gwevya y dhiwvregh oll a-dro ha poyntya orth an lywyer yn fordh o poran anhweg. Yth esa an dhew figur re bell a-dhiworthiv, heb mar, rag ow klywes pyth a veu leverys – po rag ow gweles yn kler aga uniforms hogen – mes yeth aga horfow o pur gler. An huni ow kwevya o yn hwirhaval soedhek ha nyns o an lywyer yn hwirhaval saw gwas byghan. Yn neb kas, erbynn skians kemmyn (henn yw leverel, gortos bys pan yeynhasa an jynn hag ena daslenwel an dhewynnell), my a welas an gwas byghan dhe dalleth travalya war fordh troha’n selva, ow kasa an soedhek a-dhelergh dhodho (remenant an rew kertys re’n tremensa nans o termyn hir). “Ass yw boba anresnadow, an soedhek na,” a brederis – mes ny wrugavy ri dhodho konsydrans vyth es henna. Kepar dell leveris, yth esa an howlsplann ow fyllel hag yth esa dhymm, martesen, pymthek mynysenn rag drehedhes kovva Davydh ha my. Ytho, my a dhallathas diyskynna, meur ow rach, an tour deantell ha gesys dhe goll. (Byttegyns, res o dhymm amyttya an diyskynnans dhe vos essa ages an yskynnans.) Pan neshis an ben, my a lammas dhe’n leur. Nyns o henna gwrys da drefenn my dhe goedha yn poes ha, dell waytyes, ow diwarr a omhwelas yn-dannov unnweyth arta. Byttegyns, nyns esa drog sevur ow tos dhiworto. My a sevis yn- bann ha gelwel dhe Dhavydh. Gorthyp vyth. “Deun yn-rag, ‘Vata,” a elwis. “Res yw dehweles dhe’n gowfordh. Yma’n soudoryon orth agan hwilas ...” Hwath gorthyp vyth. “... hag yma an nos ow tos,” yn-medhav, meur ow govenek. Gyllys o Davydh. Gyllys yn tien. Kawgh! Leun o gwaytyans, my a grysis, martesen, y vos skwithys hag ytho ev re dhehwelsa y honan dhe’n gowfordh. Wosa oll, ev a wodhya le mayth esa drefenn ev dh’y gavoes y’n kynsa le, ha my koskys. Ytho my a fistenas rag dehweles dhe’n gowfordh hag omstroetha dre hy forth. Hwath sin vyth a Dhavydh.

I realised immediately that I’d been overly optimistic – I had thought he might remember, in the deep recesses of his ‘mind’ that he had once been the family’s resident card-sharp. Apparently not – poker was out of the question. Maybe ‘snap’? No, I thought, I would start at an even more basic level than that – just as you would start with a small child. I would spread the cards out in front of him, grouping them in their suits and lining them up according to their numbers and images. Did David still have the capacity for pattern recognition with his degraded sight and his degraded mind? David and I sat cross-legged on the floor, facing each other in the semi- darkness of the crypt. He seemed to be watching me carefully as I lay out the four rows of cards in front of him: all the diamonds, all the hearts, all the spades and all the clubs in numerical order. What did he see? I sat silently as he seemed to move his head slowly in order to scan across the rows of cards – and back again. He started to make little grunting noises and then, with a roar and a violent sweep of his hand, scattered the deck across the floor. He put his face up close to mine and roared angrily once more – and then retreated to his makeshift bed and turned his back on me. “That went well,” I thought to myself, believing the opposite. I remained seated (and stunned) on the floor – but, within a short time, started to reconsider what had just happened. “If the cards truly meant nothing to him,” I wondered, “why the sudden display of anger?” Why the pointed retreat from me? That was not mere boredom or irritation. Had the cards triggered some painful memory? Was he suddenly aware of what he had now lost? I would have to wait and see. I was not going to get any more out of him today.
My a grysi a-dhistowgh ow bos re leun a waytyans. Y kryssen y hallsa perthi kov, y’n kilyer down a’y ‘vrys’, a’y vos kyns toellor-kartennow an teylu. Yn apert, nyns o hemma an kas. Nyns o possybyl ev dhe wari poeker. ‘Snap’, martesen? Na, a brederis vy, my a dhallathsen an gwari war nivel selvenel dres eghenn – kepar dell dhallathsen gwari gans fleghik: ow lesa an kartennow a-dheragdho hag ow kul bagasow anedha yn linennow herwydh aga sewtys, aga niverow ha’ga imajys. Esa hwath dhe Dhavydh galloes aswonn patronyow yn despit dh’y wolok dhiredhyes hag yn despit dh’y vrys diredhyes? Yth esen ni a’gan esedh war an leur, krowsegys agan diwarr ha’gan fasow an eyl orth y gila yn hanter-tewlder an gleudhgell. Yth heveli y vos ow mires orthymm ha my gorrys a-dheragdho peder res a gartennow: oll an adamantys, oll an kolonnow, oll an palyow hag oll an mullion – yn aray niverek. Pyth esa ow kweles? Yth esen a’m esedh, didros, hag ev hevelys gwaya y benn yn lent rag arhwilas a-dreus an resyow kartennow – dhe’n barth dyghow hag ena dhe’n barth kledh. Ev a wrug nebes roghigow hag ena, meur y vedhyglans, skattrys an kartennow war an leur gans skuberyans freudhek y dhorn. Bejeth ogas dhe vejeth, ev a vedhyglas yn serrys unnweyth arta – ha kildenna dh’y weli servadow ha treylya y geyn er ow bynn. “Henn eth yn ta,” a brederis vy, ow krysi kontrari. My a drigas a’m esedh war an leur, basys yn tien – byttegyns, wosa pols, my a dhallathas ombrederis a-dro dhe byth re hwarsa lemmyn. “Mar ny styrya an kartennow yn hwir mann dhodho,” a omwovynnis vy, “prag y hwrug a-dhesempis diskwedhyans a sorr a’n par na?” Prag y hwrug kildennans serth a’n par na dhiworthiv vy? Nyns o henna annians hepken po sorrvann. Martesen, an kartennow re sordsa kov ankensi. Martesen, ev a gonvedhsa a- dhesempis pyth re gollsa lemmyn. Res o dhymm gortos an gorthybow. Nyns esa moy bos dyskys dhiworto hedhyw.

“‘Spy’? Is there a spy?” I thought. “Who would that be?” It took a minute or two for my woolly-headed self to realize that the only person whose blood they could be baying for was the sower of the seeds of doubt: me! Oh dear. Dragged to the scaffold by the mob when I could hardly stand on my own two feet. This was not entirely what I had hoped or planned for. Then, ‘The Cavalry’ arrived – almost literally. Ingrid and a U.S. Sergeant burst into my room, having vociferously ordered the infirmary guards to stand aside. “Get your goddammed stuff, soldier – and be quick about it,” ordered the Yankee Sergeant. “You’re leaving now – unless you want to be lynched by your fellow countrymen.” (How nice of him to call me ‘soldier’, I thought.) “Move it!” he screamed in my face. I still don’t know his name – but, evidently, he’d been impressed by what I’d had to say at the lecture and believed that ‘his boys’ had been lured to Australia under false pretences. Perhaps Gately and Swooper had spoken to him. In any case, it seemed he considered that my life might be worth saving. I tried to stand once again but my legs buckled underneath me after a few steps. Ingrid, whom I noticed was dishevelled and out of uniform, turned and screamed: “Guard!” One of the three goons, confused and disorientated, came running into the room. Ingrid pointed to me, now lying on the floor. “Pick him up and follow us!” He did. The brutish bastard was surprisingly strong – but, then again, I had lost a lot of weight and condition since arriving at ‘Pucka’. So, I was no great load to carry. Soon, I found myself flung roughly into the back tray of a jeep. It had been parked at the side of the parade ground. Brawling troops surrounded us on all sides but none paid us any attention – there was just too much brawling that needed still to be done.
“ ‘Aspier’? Eus aspier?” a brederis. “Piw a allsa bos?” Wosa unn vynysenn po diw, y teuth dhe’m brys kemmyskys honanieth an aspier: nyns esa saw onan may hallsens bos ow hardha – gonador has dout, my! A Dhuw! Draylyes dhe’n vynk gans an rout ha namna yllyn sevel war’m dewdroes. Nyns o hemma a byth re via dhymm govenek na pyth re dowlsen. Ena, y teuth ‘an Marghoglu’ – moy po le. Y tardhas y’m chambour Ingrid ha Serjont Amerikanek. (Yth erghsens yn ughel dhe withysi an vedhegva dhe sevel a-denewen.) “Kav dha dhaffar euthyk, souder – ha gwra e uskis,” a erghis an Serjont Yankee. “Yth edh jy lemmyn – marnas ty a vynn bos lynchyes gans dha gothmans.” (Ass o hweg dhe’m gelwel ‘souder’, a brederis.) “Gway e!” a skrijas ev y’m fas. Ny wonn hwath y hanow – mes, yn apert, ev a garsa lowr pyth a lavarsen y’n kynsa areth hag ytho ev a grysi ‘y vois’ dhe dhynya dh’Ostrali dre falsuri. Po, martesen, Stevyer ha Porther re lavarsa dhodho. Yn neb kas, del heveli, ev a grysi y talvien bos selwys ow bywnans. My a assayas arta sevel mes ow diwesker a omhwelas yn-dannov wosa nebes kammow. Ingrid, ankempenn ha mes a uniform, a dreylyas ha skrija: “Gwithyas!” Onan yntr’an tri bilen, meur y ankombrynsi, a dheuth yn unn resek y’n chambour. Ingrid a boyntyas dhymm, a’m worwedh war an leur. “Gwra y dhrehevel ha’gan sywya!” Ev a wrug yndella. An bastard milek o pur nerthek – mes, yn fordh arall, my re gollsa meur a boester ha nerth a-dhia ow devedhyans orth selva ‘Pukka’. Ytho, nyns en begh meur. Yn skon, my a omgevis bos tewlys yn harow yn delergh jip. Parkyes re via ryb plen an gerdhva. Yth esa oll a-dro soudoryon yn freudh – mes nyns esa nebonan yntredha a wrug agan attendya – yth esa, dell heveli, re freudh bos gwrys hwath.