Alice Jolly is a novelist and playwright. Her memoir Dead Babies and Seaside Towns won the PEN Ackerley Prize 2016. She also won the V. S. Pritchett Memorial Prize awarded by the Royal Society of Literature in 2014 for one of her short stories, ‘Ray the Rottweiler’. She has written two novels previously, What the Eye Doesn’t See and If Only You Knew. Her next novel, Between the Regions of Kindness, will be published in 2019. She has written for the Guardian, Mail on Sunday and the Independent, and she has broadcast for Radio 4. She lives in Stroud, Gloucestershire.
What the Eye Doesn’t See
If Only You Knew
Dead Babies and Seaside Towns
Between the Regions of Kindness
For my brilliant mother Jan Jolly
whose love and courage never fail
Dear Reader,
The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and ebook wherever books are sold, in shops and online.
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This manuscript was found at a house called Mount Vernon that is at the top of Butterrow Hill, just outside the town of Stroud, in the county of Gloucestershire. My husband and I purchased this house earlier this year. It was previously owned by a Mrs Isabella Harbingham, née Greylord, whose recent death brought about the sale of the house. She had apparently inherited Mount Vernon in her youth from her great-uncle.
Upon arriving at the house, my husband and I ascertained that some maintenance works would be necessary. So it happened that a few weeks ago, I found myself in the lower tower room assessing some damage to a wooden panel beneath a window. My husband being away from home, and I myself being a person who enjoys practical tasks, I set out to sand the edges of that broken panel, so that the carpenter might more easily repair it.
It was in this way that I realized that certain papers were enclosed behind the panel. Seeing that these papers were a recollection written in this house, I sat down and started to read. My intention was to read but a few pages, as I had many other tasks to complete. However, when I finally laid down the dusty and tattered manuscript, I remarked that the first light of dawn was already rising.
Initially I thought to edit the manuscript I had discovered before typing it out. To this end, I marked in the geographical location of certain sections of the story so as to reduce some confusion that might otherwise arise. Having done that, I then considered how I might improve and correct the text itself but, after some reflection, I decided to type it out just as I found it, without revision.
Sarah Jane Moffatt
July 1938
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
NOTE
MOUNT VERNON
MOUNT VERNON
THE HEAVENS
MOUNT VERNON
THE HEAVENS
MOUNT VERNON
THE HEAVENS
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
MOUNT VERNON
STOCTON HILL
GLOUCESTER
MOUNT VERNON
AFTERWORD
AUTHOR’S NOTE
SUPPORTERS
COPYRIGHT
If you tell a story oft enough
So it become true
Words like the twisting grain of wood
Or the course of a slow running river
Have ways they must evr go
Who might I be to wield the axe cross the grain
Or try to untwist the flow of water
Yet I take up this my pen
To set down here my story
Bone blood brain
What does a soul look like
If you write him on paper
Yes soil also how may he be held
Within this fragile mesh of words
Yet so tis certain
Soil hisself must find his tongue
My story being but one speck of grit
In the swelling ballad of these Valleys
Oh how I do love to see them once again
The light brush cross their emerald edges
As the sun bloom and wither day on day
Soil soul and sin too
Soon all one
The hours hurry at my shoulder
The words will not wait
Yea these Valleys were my beginning
I come here first on the black ridge of the night
A coach tumbling falling many clattering mile
I know nothing afore
I sit on the back next a basket of chickens
The coach roll and pitch stars unspool behind me
Through a banner of black
The coach cut through all
Chickens screaming feathers poking out
Through the thick twist basket weave
My hand numb as I grip tight head nodding
Not a house a tree a man a beast or a Devil
Only the road
Slap of the horses hooves creak of a wheel
Tear and drag of a wind
Tips and tussles distant trees
Til sudden the coach falls forward into stillness
A man come round lamp light furrows of his face
He reach up lift me down
My skirt catching in the chicken basket
So wood stiff I can barely stand
From above a man cries out
You not leave a child here
Tis well knowd the history of this place
These are my instructions
No No the voice above says
Then many on the roof nodding their heads
Saying Nay
One splutters and coughs
A thick hand waves down
These are my instructions
She must be left
The door of the coach open
A fat whisker man pale britches call out
What is the delay We must drive on
Other on the roof
They say No Yes You cannot Cough cough Hurry up now
Another say You must go on to the Bear
In the name of Christian charity
You may not leave her
The furrow face man say to me close
Only you wait Wait He will come
Left with my one cloth bag
On the high shelf of the night
Though old man the coach call
Shame on you
Still the coach grow narrow
Small the light flicker
Flicker smaller and smaller
Flicker again is gone
Around me nothing flat land only nothing
Not a hedge or a tree but as my sight clear I see
Here the place many roads meet
The wind does sweep in now
From somewhere close
Creak creak creak like door grate on rustd hinge
Above the stars sway and pray God His mercy
This place many ghosts and ghouls
Gather thick the air
Their hiss and spit their foul smell
Tether my throat
I would turn out my pockets to protect myself
Yet my hands are too froze
So I cruck my thumbs in my fists instead
Fall upon my knees in the grass fix my eyes
On that shadowd line far in the distance
Black on black
Feel my fears calm
Were it not for that moment I look up see
Some dark shadow hang ovrhead
Black and spreading but also fragile
Maybe some girt dark bird
Moves with clanks and whistles
I know not what
But the Devil is certainly in it
My bones shudder cold fingers tight at my throat
Mercy mercy on my soul
I know well the Bible does say
That you call and He come
Even though you be no one and nothing
I never know if this be right
But now can only call and call
Hope and faith
Is the Lord there Does He hear
For many a long moment it seems not
Still I believe
Then gradually it begins
A sound comes from far away
High up in the heavens
A swishing and rustling
The drawing back of fine cloth
The flickers of whiteness small
Like light touching
The wings of flock of geese
A coming always closer
Then gathering round You cannot see them clear
Only their wings white curvd on the darkly grass
Gentle and still gathering softly
The sound a soft beating as of many hearts
Angels many Angels
Drive out legion of Devils dwell here
Such is His majesty and mercy
With them come girt certainty
Ease and courage I feel sure my hour has come
I go with them gladly to meet my Maker
Only instead the sound of horses hooves
Echo the same road the coach departd
The Angels wings fold away
Yet still I am in their care
So watch the horseman swell
Out through the shadows
The bridle of the horse clunking
As he snuffles and chomps
There the horse stops The man looks down
His face in the shadow of a tall hat so he barks
You are Mary Ann Sate
I say Yes Sir that is I
Then he reaches down
Grips tight the bone of my arm
I see his black knottd hair and wide cut lips
A red and white spottd kerchief tied his neck
He swings me up heels knees kicking struggling
My legs come to rest
Either side the horse waxen withers
Then all swings round the shape of the hill turn
The horse is striding out brisk the way he come
My hand twistd tight in his greasy mane
The mans arm round me not warm but rootd firm
In this way we travel on
Soon passing a coaching inn
This the Bear of Rodborough
Though I know it not at the time
Lights sway in the winders
Scrape of boots in the yard
A sudden shout of laughter
Smell of log fire hay and goose fat
But we stop not there
Dive down deep into trees
Then behind me feel the swell of lungs
The man begins to sing
Not loud but his voice is fine
It rolls and swoops carries all round
Heres a health to the barley mow my brave boys
We drink it out the jolly brown bowl
Sets the heart spinning I would sing too
When he stops for a moment laughs to hisself
Wraps his arm tighter round me
Only then I find heart tongue say
Sir where are we head
The man say only
The Heavens
I write this down for my Master tell me I must
His name is Mr Blyth Cottrell
Mark well my words
I cannot deny him or argue make any answer
My Master is not a man whose will is evr movd
I say this assurdly
Having knowd him many a distant year
Even since we were both green and but half growd
I workd for his father then Mr Harland Cottrell
A slippery saviour God Bless his soul
Twas another house another time
These few short weeks since
I bring my creaking body back
To these Valleys of Stroudwater
Return to work for my Master here
In the Grace of God I come back to my beginnings
Yet my soul is tossd and troubld sore
I did so want these Valleys again
Longd for them as dry earth yearns water
Yet I did not want to see my Master again
Yet so in Gods judgement it has fall out
Only do I find my peace
When I wake early the day yet thin
In the small tower room I take for mine
Walk out into the embrace of the garden
Stand gainst the white railing
See the dawn grey pink come up
Drawn like a veil off the town
Which has growd now so far along the Valley
Railway come cutting all
I would hardly know
These the most sacred hours
For once there is settling quiet
A drop down into deep stillness
Sometime if I am sure he is sleeping
I lie down in the weeping grass
As I did when a child
Put my ear to the ground
Can hear the creaking
Turn of the day starting the suck of the sap
The sly settling of the earth
In this the blessd early spring of all creation
Then look up at the blue above scatter of clouds
Flies buzz in spirals birds chatter
Course I should work but how might I
This is a fine noble house
Solid in the hill but fluttering also
Light as a childs toy
So many winders the light glance
They call it Mount Vernon
Was built here when I was but a child
By a Mr Partridge a dyer from Bowbridge
Workd down below in the pit of the Valley
A delicate house all latest style from London
Turret tower battlements shutters
Water tank gather rain from the many roofs
But needs butler gardener indoor maid and out
There was the man servant Mr Gains
But he is gone
Now only me
Thanks be to our Almighty God
My Master beyond the care of such matters
Now I hear him calling so go once again to the
Downstairs front drawing room
Where he sit in a chair by the winder
Swollen with age
Even a few weeks since had still top hat
Satin waistcoat gold rings and buckle shoe
Kept his stub arm neatly hid away
Now he is bare head shirt hang open
Putrid leg prop on a spindle chair
He made his fortune as a chirurgeon
In the East of India among the pagan Hindoo
So they say
Though in his family this a vex question
Who is chirurgeon or carpenter and who is no
I suppose they Hindoo would not know
Comes back here to the land of his birth
Buy hisself this lofty house
Though I think he has not so much money
As you would think
The whole place already furnishd
Everything left behind by the people afore
All now soaking slipping sliding
Into damp decay and dusty mould
Though this room still glitter vast winders
Draw in wavering pools of sun light
All cross the panes twistd leads like lace
You never saw a thing so fine
The air all about bright silver today
Though the rain come oft splatter the glass
In sharp early zummer squalls
One winder look out the front of the house
One to the side and about the garden
Where the land drops away
Steep almost as a cliff right down to the town
Then rise up sharp a wall of green the other side
He say Ah Mary Ann there you are
What would I do without you
This sometimes is his mood
But he has evr been fickle as the weather
A storm may come in at any time Take care of he
I have an idea he says
Snuffles and coughs tries to shift
His poison heavy leg
I want a story writ down
I look cross at him and think Oh so now it start
He never would leave alone
I know now what he will say
I do not want to hear the words
The dead are best left
Under the moist comfort of soil
Left to whatevr peace they may find
We have all the time he says So much time
But I know we have v little
He know it too for all he talks it out
He will go afore me
Yet I shall not be many days to follow
This story he does say must now be told
All the events that our times have led to
For there have been some as have
Engagd in deceits and misrepresentations
Such as must be correctd
I had thought perhaps to ask Mr Gains
His assistance in this matter
Yet he being gone now
I should like to write myself course he say
Then waves at me the sleeve of his shirt
Flapping white and empty
Yes Sir I say
Polite and quiet not look at him direct
Yet inside me anger flush like fever
How dare he How dare he
Age have growd him mad
He takes my peace again he takes my peace
Aye he say I want my brothers story to be told
The word brother drop into the room
Like a smouldering coal
Fallen from the grate and lie there betwixt us
We neither move to stamp it out We cannot
Twill not be snuffd so
Yr brother Sir I say
The words flare in my throat
Make my voice burst sudden loud
Yes Yes he say but as his hand reach out
Long and white still it trembles sharp
As he takes a kerchief
Wipes at the sweat now blooms his brow
I look at him then
Have not lookd him arrow shaft in the eye
For more than forty years
Then I were powerless gainst he
So tis again now
His eyes fugitive from mine
Wipes again at his bead brow
Go he says
Open up that tallboy drawer in the corner
So I do as he say and take out paper pen ink
But as I come back past him I stumble a little
Fall gainst his leg
God help me it were done a purpose
He draw tight in pain whimper
Like a whippd animal
I did enjoy to see it
Yet soon he takes a hold upon hisself
So I sit beside he at the desk
Take up the pen
The balance of it feel precious
In my hand
The steel nib made finer far
Than those I did use at the gaol in Gloucester
Take down moderate and careful what he say
Even now write a fair hand as his father taught
The title of this book he say
The Strange and Courageous History
Of Mr Ned Cottrell
As did live in the county of Gloucester
Being born there on the date of 1812
As did advance the rights of the common man
This I can abear no more so do now say
Perhaps the title should it be
The History of the Cottrell Brothers
Again I look him straight
Only once like this afore
He knows it He understands
He never was a fool
He divines that I know all
Aye every last bone marrow all
He may deceive others but never me
Tries he then to roll on with his words
But we have not gone one step more
Cross the white acres of the page
Afore his breath come sudden
His face bloom purple and groan
Maybe I change the dressing for you Sir I say
He nods his head tries to inch his leg
Cries out again
Sweat run the deep rivulets of his face
So steps I down to the kitchen
Which in this house a low room half under earth
Much linen and bandage tear in strip
Dry there now a cause the squalling flisks
On the range boil pots of herbs
Prescriptions and receipts
So I do find Muriatic quicksilver three grains
Rosewater six ounces sugar of lead one ounce
I would know these cures in my dreams
I done the same for his father
Then back I goes to the drawing room
Finds there my Master
Has stood up holding hisself
With the barrel of a musket
This musket he did ask me to bring down
Line of fine matchlocks
Standing to attention in a cabinet upstairs
Their wood silk to the touch
Metal engravd like fine embroidery
Now he use such as a walking stick
Lowers hisself down the armchair
As is near the fire
So I do set to and dress his leg
Hoping that now he may perhaps
Settle into some rest
Yet no no he will go on
Write write we must
So back I then to the desk
Wait to hear what I must write next
Yet though I wait many stilld minutes
No word does come
Perhaps Sir I say might I suggest
I could continue for you
If that would assist you
He considers me then eyes cat narrow
So I do say Course Sir you would then
Correct what I write
As would be need I am sure
He now is sliding into sleep
The pain having draind he deep
So yes yes he say
Perhaps you may continue
His eyes dropping down now
Even as he speak
So there I am left
Alone with the page
Such a v fine page tis
I have hardly words to tell
Paper the like I never did see
Clear and smooth pourd like buttermilk
So many pages Hundreds maybe
All unstaind
I am rippld by it
The silken cream the space and light
Paper cool to the touch and waiting
Yet I can find not one word to write
Sitting there in the stillness
The rain fling gainst the winder
Yet all its sound gather together
In one loud beat fills not just this room
But echoes all cross the Valleys
That one word Brother Brother Brother
I stand up then from the desk
Gasp as though invisible hands
Do constrict tight my throat
My eyes then do light
On that musket usd as a stick to walk
Still prop long and lean beside he
I move toward it
Run my finger up and down the black shine barrel
Feel the stipple of the metal reach up
Run my finger once twice
Round the open toothless mouth
Take it up
Measure the weight and length in my hands
Tis a long time since
I took a musket to my shoulder
Ambrose taught me and I was once a fine shot
Tis nearly as long as I and heavily to balance
The barrel almost too much weight to raise
The powder in the cabinet upstairs
Dry and ready
He could not run and though he cry for help
There is no one would hear
I seed what a musket can do
When it blasts in a mans face
The blackend flesh the splinterd bone
See straight through into the globe of the head
Dark deep red the teeth there
Tiny chips of white still bright like stars
Blown inward
I crook my finger into the trigger
It fits neatly there
That first morning I wake
The rock and rattle of the carriage
Still sway through my bones
Bump in my teeth
I look round the dawn gathering chamber
See myself in bed next another maybe more
I know I am not at home
Yet could not say where home is
I want to twist ovr see where I find myself
Yet I turn the bed make an animal squeaking
So I must ease myself slow
Look up the gloom plaster shadow of the ceiling
Crackd and sagging and toward the winder
Hangs only a white cloth
The light blur like milken mist
Turn creak groan
Another shifts stop turn again
The sheet and blankets warm gainst my leg
Still I ease myself out into a clap of cold
I walk the grey shadows furrd boards
To the winder The cold fit to crack the air
There been a hard frost the winder thick ice
Inside and out the pattern delicate as
Lace on the cuff of a fine gentleman
I put my finger up to touch
Look up above the ice
A girt fiery sun rises up
Below all is white
The house floating light on a bed of cloud
I thank God for bringing me safe to His side
Then I remember again the night afore
How I did arrive here
I must have slept
My thoughts immediately interruptd by a boy
Who rises upright out of the bed
Throwing back the covers
He but a rough shape in the bluntd light
Who are you What are you doing here
He stands in his night shirt eyes gaping
What are you
I have no answer to give him
I am come to heaven I say
Since we float high on the clouds
This must be so
The boy tosses his head back
Laughs a bursting laugh
Comes toward me
Hits me cross the side of the head
V friendly
Heaven Heaven Who are you Where are you from
This is a place called The Heavens he say
Yet nothing to do with the heavens
Made God Almighty so they say
Tis only a name as all villages and hamlets
Even fields and coppice must have
Tis The Heavens but v far from heaven
I fix my eyes on the floor boards feeling fool
Yet wonder also if what he tells me is true
He laughs again puts out his hand
Says I am Ambrose
Then a voice comes from below
No words just an angry voice
At this sound a girl jumps also from the bed
She has long brown hair in a plait moves sprite
Taking clothes from a pile on a chair
She considers me briefly
Her lip snarl pushes clothes at me
You must dress the baby she says
Only then I notice a cradle wedgd in the corner
A tiny child lying turnd on its front head up
Bonnet hanging crookd
Who is she the boy still say
You were told Ambrose the girl says
You are not to ask
Come on come on she says to me
I start to pull on clothes
Vest calico chemise drop my knees drawers flannel petticoat
Clothes I never did see afore
Know not how to put on
You are no good for anything the girl say
Pushes me Now I must get Baby Fern dressd
You are too slow
I pull on the many clothes follow the childers
The stairs narrow tipping straight down a door
The air is biting sharp on the skin the light red
We go down through vegetables and past pigs
Around are sheds as I splash ice water hear
Shuffle of animals the white of breath rising
All gasp and laugh at the clip of cold
This is two cottages now I see
As I follow the others indoors
The room is low with a long table a range
Pot hanging and long handle for the bread
Far in the corner bags of wool
A trestle table and hazel twigs
Three men sitting at table
Eating barley bread and dripping
Their hands crackd their boots scuffle
Drops of tea glisten in their uncut beards
Their shallow eyes watch
The girl tells me we are to clear the table
She pass me plates but I am not ready
The greasy rim slips and juggles in my fingers
Crashes to the stones of the floor
The metal of it clattering
Loud as a musket fird
After come a silence while I pick up the plate
I raise my head to see a woman looking at me
Her eyes are big as the moon
White of them bright as best china
The ball blue dazzling
Eye lashes thick as flowr petal
Sweeping down on china cheek frame perfect
Her yeller hair pulld tight from her face
So the skin stretch back with it
A fine woman blessd with Beauty and Grace
Yet tis her mouth I notice
Which tell another tale
Sewd up pulld wrinkld
With a thread will not fray
Teeth tiny and bleach white
Going inward sharp like a fox
The woman stares at me a long while
Then she turn to a man
Tis the same man from last night
Head of ebony curls and swollen lips laughing
We were not told about her mouth she say
Tis the mark of the Devil another say
I hang my head
Yet the man from last night
I shall know he soon as Mr Abel Woebegone
He does say Enough of that
All is all the same
In the spread of Gods creation
Then say to the girl Sybilla
Shew her where is the scullery
Get these dishes clear I want no more said
So I follow Sybilla to the scullery make haste
The water is cold to clean the dishes
They must be rubbd with grit many atimes
I am a fast worker and all is soon done
Then the woman calls breakfast and we go back
The men are leaving now
The woman points at me and say
That one eat in the scullery
Yet the man from last night say
I want no more of it We must remember our Christian charity
So I sit down at the table
Bread and dripping much I eat quick and well
Thank God for my good fortune in this meal
The woman holds the baby now screaming for food
She pull out her nipple rub it with coal dust
Then puts the baby on it
Keening more and worse
Then puts milk in a cup and pours that down
The baby coughing and choking
Ambrose foot kick gainst mine
He is laughing flick a crumb toward me
Straight up the woman is on her feet
Baby still grippd and yelling
Slams her hand down flat on the table
Even the walls shake
Out You go out
This she shouts at Ambrose and he move quick
No no she say to him You leave that bread
He puts down the chunk
Shrug his shoulders smirk
Then out the door
The woman turn then to get more milk
Sybilla go to help her
Moving quick I slide the bread off the table
Hide it tight under my apron
Soon I say Let me please help with the table
So I get out to the scullery
There is Ambrose as I thought
Pull on his boots
Silent I pass him the bread
He smiles A sudden blooming easy smile
Pulls my ear and nods
Laughs
My Master call me and so I go to him
Tis a morning blessd with strengthening sun
My Master sit as he do so oft
In that front drawing room
The room is crowd now for only yesterday
He had me move a bed downstairs
It took me many a long hour to get it down
Take to piece oak frame struggle bed head down
Rattle and bash gainst the fine wood the stair
Push and fold the horse hair mattress
After that all my strength
Washd right out of me
Yet still he starts again this morning
That I am to write this book
Though first the dressing once again to change
I have the ointment now for bathing
Tis ready made
Drop on stiff knee down
Strip the bandages off
This does make he grunt in pain
For the bandages were tied as tight
As he could be borne so it must be
Put they aside for boiling
The leg underneath is soft and swollen
Like marrow ovr ripe and split all open
Fat and purple and also green in some place
Smell sharp sweet dead flesh
So I swab with cloth and bathe it well
Draw the poison off
Take now the bandage higher up the thigh
My head jerk back
A cry rise to my lips
I cut it short
But he has seed my face
There are maggots in his leg
The time is short so v soon now
I do not look at he
Maybe he send for a chirurgeon or a barber
Have the leg saw off
This being now not so difficult
As twas when his father
So oft did chop and cut
This done his arm a few years back
But they cannot saw and chop saw and chop
Soon nothing left to chop
Is need a different regimen of life
But my Master has already tried that
Give me instructions in all the medicaments
As should bring healing inside
Yet they have not
His face is freezd tight now
His mouth turn down his eyes roll
Even he cannot ignore this omen
I kneel again clean all maggot egg
Use vinegar salt to burn all out
My hands I do hold steady
Though he is not the only one afeard
For when he is gone
What chance is there then for me
Always the choices are but few
All ends in the Workhouse
You keep yrself out as long as you may
But all paths end there
No matter how respectable you come
I cannot think on this
Work steady and tender touch
Still he wince in pain
After I done I pour him some whisky
He has always been too fond of hard liquor
Though his father never permit it
Never was in that house
But now with the pain what choice he has
Then as I finish he ask me again
About the writing of his cursd book
He will not leave it
Though has hardly strength to speak
This matter he want settld
Afore his soul is takd
Again I do suggest to he
I may well write a few words
For he to correct
He rambling now again some such
The county of Gloucestershire on this date
Such heroic deed in advancement progress
Yet afore many words is gone in sleep
Once again I am left with the page
Yet can find not a word to say
The problem being this
Where might one begin such a story
Tis like you pull up the root of a tree
Which runs deeper and further
Than evr you can know
The beginning found far distance
From where the tree now stand
Yet so it happen as I sit there puzzling
I do look up and see a boy
Who steps away from the house
His stride is long and easy
Clean and sharp as a March breeze
I know course who the boy is
For it does happen that the son of Ambrose
Does live in the toll house down below
Sends sometimes this boy
Being the grandson of Ambrose
Sometime with bread milk egg
Now just this glimpse of him
Does grip at my heart for even in his stride
He is like his grandfather
I would know him anywhere
This thought leading me back then
Into the many tributaries of mine own past
My question being this
Where now is the girl who felt no fear
The lass Mr Abel Woebegone did make
Who did believe in the power of the truth
For despite me poor and without family
I was in the care of the Angels
Flourishd in mine own strength
Oh for that time again
Would the pen could return me there
Then of a sudden start to write
My hand run on tumbling fast
The words gallop so I can hardly keep pace
Not write as he writ
As an educatd person writ
Yet it do not matter
His father said we have a language
Which belong equal to all
The voice of the flowring meadow
The product of our own soil
The voice of our own dear country of England
The words we speak in mill or field or lane
Of which we should not be shamd
I write not the story of his brother
But the story of my beginning
Which must start with these Valleys
With my life at The Heavens With Ambrose Aye
What does a soul look like
If you write him on paper
And soil also
Soil soul and sin too
Soon all one
Ah Mr Abel Woebegone
May God keep safe his generous soul
His were a life that seem blight and thwartd
Yet so much he gave to me
That I must write down so all would know
He must not be completely forgot
So my pen goes on galloping ahead of me
In pursuit of she who livd without fear
Who believd the truth could save
My life at The Heavens is blessd with much
Grace and Good
Lives I there in the care
Of her with the draw string mouth
Stretchd hair Mrs Freda Woebegone
The childers Ambrose Sybilla and Baby Fern
She I love head thick with knottd curls
Eyes wide and blue as zummer skye
Tiny hands damp and grasping
When she wake at night I hold her close
Mr Abel Woebegone a gardener for Clutterbucks
At Lower Lypiatt
Though tis said he write a fair hand
I never see it not til the end
Next door to us the Forresters
Also Claypits Farm and Mr Wood
Down the end of the garden
Beyond the vegetables sheds and pigs
Tis for Mr Wood
I am sent up the hill to tend the sheep
The Heavens already perchd up high
Yet still I go higher
This pleases me much
From the ceiling on which I am placd
I can see the whole world
There on the top
You feel the power and majesty of the Lord
Though the winter thickening day on day
The land is pale and lonesome
The night come early and the frost
Digs into the v bone
Nose red and running
Hands swelld with it
Oft the sheep is lost in hedge or wood
I must not go til they is all pulld out
Sometimes in places thick with thorns
Catch in my clothes blood scratchd my face
Yet I am never without courage
One of the early days
Ambrose come to find me
That day I remember well
Memory is not this day leads to that
Tis where the heart is touchd
Ambrose is sent with a message to Mack House
Stops by me on his way home
Even though he must take another road
Mrs Freda would not like if she knew
Course I see Ambrose morning and evenings
Never talk to he much
Mrs Freda does not care for idle chatter
In particular not from he
Must be careful or she will beat raw
Twas raining that day the drops so thick
All the Valleys lost behind a curtain
Just the grey slant arrows tumbling down
Gather thick every rut mud ankley deep
Even at this girt height
I sit on a log at the end of a small copse
Soon time to get the sheep back in
Yet I wait hoping that the rain may stop
The sheep pushd in gainst a hedge theysselfs
Sodden sagging grey bleating pitiful
I see him walk toward me
With an easy swing to his stride
Take no care of the rain
His hand raisd to wave
His cheeks are red his eyes fire his face round
He come in under the trees stand near to me
The rain it comes thick as a stream he say
Tis true even through the branches of the trees
Water is still splatting down
He takes from his pocket a piece of cheese
This he does for me
Food steal from pantry
After I do so for he
I do not know then what I should say
But break the cheese and try to give he half
He say no I must eat all and we stand
Look out ovr the muffld shadows cross
To where the other side of the Valleys should be
So you are Mr Woebegones son I say
This is bold of me but I want to know
For it has not been clear to me
Though he does use the name Woebegone
I know he is not the son of Mrs Woebegone
She makes that clear
But I think him perhaps the child
Of a woman Mr Woebegone was marrid to afore
No No he say I am not
He take me from the Workhouse
I am an orphan
When I hear the word Workhouse I breathe sharp
No matter how small child
All know what that mean
Where is orphan I say
He laugh at me then but kindly and say
No No An orphan is someone who has no family
Oh I say Oh Then I am an orphan as well
This knowledge gives me pleasure
I enjoy to be something
Particular as Ambrose is as well
So he and I now closy be
Though it also seem strange
As he is so v like Mr Woebegone
Close as my two thumbs
But I say none of that
Then he say
Do you not cry to sit here alone and cold
No I say I am not alone I like the rain
You like the rain he say
I had not thought anyone should say that
I feel foolish then but he seeing that
Clouts my capper gently give me such a smile
You never see a smile so wide and clean
Full of such clear delight
That evr were his gift
I like the rain too he say
Also storms and burning sun
Cool days pale brown neither hot nor cold
I like all those days
You see them cross these hills
The way they change the colours
Sometimes you see all things the same time
You understand
Yes I say I understand
When I speak these words
I never had such a feeling afore
I do not think most people are like this
Ambrose say
Most people like the spring the zummer
The good days
Yes I say You are right
But you must have it all Ambrose says
All the seasons even blackest winter when the
Land is dark and grasping and boots numb
Without feeling for the cold
Yes I say You are right
I wish then I had words such as he
To say the things I felt
Then I shiver through every bone
A happy shiver
But he see it and say You must not sit still
Twill not answer
See see You must stamp yr feet a bit
Swing yr arms
I do not want to do that
My face burn hide my eyes
Look look he say He catches hold of my arms
Swings them around Stamps his feet to shew
Come come Here Like this Stamp stamp
Slap his thighs raise the toes of boots
The music sudden quicken through him
Like this and this
He makes me stand beside he
First my feet bang only heavy up and down
Here here he say Like this like this
Then slowly it starts
No no Here Like this
My feet go heel and toe heel and toe
Turn turn and turn again then No Listen
Clap clap clap
The raining wood rattle our twisting turning
Our rising laughter Clap clap Heel toe turn
The blood floods warm through our hearts
Hardly notice the swelling dark
Til Ambrose says Come Look tis clearing now
I help you get the sheep in
No no I say There is no need
Yes he say No need but I shall do it anyway
Since we are family now Mary Ann Sate
If evr I think the world
Is a dark and terrible place
Tis Ambrose I think of and remember
Heel toe turn turn
Mr and Mrs Woebegone are good Christians
Of the Methodist Chapel of Mr John Wesley
I am told oft how Mrs Woebegone has
Out of the mercy of her Christian heart
Takd on the weighty burden of her husbands sin
Mr Wood at the farm Methodist also
Tis the true and proper path
The only hope we may have of redemption
The way of the upright is to depart from evil
He that keep his way so preserves his soul
Are you savd they say Are you savd
Mrs Woebegone read the Bible always
Break yr arm to lift it down from the shelf
A gold cross dug into the front
To remind of our Lords suffering
So many girter than any we can know
Hell is always but two step away
Where the unrighteous boil in pots of fire
Or are pushd off cliffs by forks
Into burning chasms licking orange and red
Even those as young as Baby Fern So she say
The Devil dwell in every corner
We must be fearful of he
I know this from my experience
For I have seed he
Just beyond the pig pens walkd
As they say shining like a bright morning star
Coverd also in many magnificent jewel
Such as ruby topaz diamond and jasper
Such is my shock I am took dead
Fall down on the path
Mrs Woebegone slapping my legs
Shouting the true Gospel at me
Yet so tis good she do not find cider bottles
Stone and corkd hidden up in the rafters
Of the hay loft
Ambrose and me know
I do not like to consider on it
Mr Woebegone is not savd
Yet he is a heart full man merry and kind
Though bend like a sapling always
Afore we go to the chapel
Sybilla evr a peart and pinnikin girl
Twist her hair braid
Scream if she get dirt on her apron
She is a proper girl and I watch her
To see how I must behave
No one braid my hair
Thick and knotty as a thicket they say
Must be choppd at the shoulder
I do not care better that way
Mrs Woebegone also wear bonnet button boot
She is a woman likes things kept spick neat
Tis a shame for her
To live as she does at The Heavens
Where she wather all the day
About the dirt the farm men brings in
The ceilings held up in several corner
By thick pillars of wood
Water pour in the back door
Many a winder banging
When the gale worries and the rain floods
Tis not what she were born to
The Methodist Chapel at Acre Hedge in Stroud
Visitd many atime Mr John Wesley hisself
Two mile along the Valley side
Tis glorious to walk that way
Ovr the stream at the Coombs down Dry Hill
Past Way House Farm and then ovr Lyme Stream
Where the brokd down mill is
Many a field you see from here is spread
With scarlet cloth drying out in the air
Does come from the mills and dyehouses below
The fall of the fulling stocks sound always
The heart beat that does keep
The life to flow through all these Valleys
Then through Creese Gate
Til you come to the hem of Stroud
Where are many gabld houses
Some also poke holes
No bigger than a kennel
You must take care for the pigs
Rooting through the many gardens
Water running the churs and many middens
You must step round
All being on a perilous slide
So the front door of one house
Almost on a level with the roof
Of the lower
This being the nature of Stroud
The smell of seg ripe from the currier
Hops brewing the corner of Acre Street
John Prices workshops where is made
The spinning mule for the mills
Come you then to the many side chapel
Multitudes are there maybe a hundred or more
All come to give thanks to the Almighty
I am to walk with Mr and Mrs Woebegone
Ambrose Sybilla
All the way there but when we arrive
I am not to go in the pew
Am to stay at the back
With cripples and old people smell bad
Blatchy and not Properly Dress
One man has only a bloody hole
Where his eyes should properly be
They say is done in the war in France
Defending the freedom and bounty
Of our heroic country of England
From foreign tyranny
I am not to speak any
Only meet them again as we walk back
After we been in the Sunday school
Where you may get a cup of milk
Play there with some carvd figures
The ark Noah built and many animals
Paintd neat you may arrange in rows
Ye must all grow up good Christians
Mr Woebegone say
Ye must not go wrong as I did
But as he suck on his pipe he is smiling
The people at the chapel do not care for he
I see it in their bitter eyes
The tip of a hat contempt like spit
When the sermon come
I do not understand the word
Though this is the true path
The Devil come in my mind
Coverd with those many shining jewels
Cannot be movd from there
Stuck in tight
Then oft we must go up to the front
Me and some others kneel down afore the altar
Are you savd Are you savd
My knees are pressd into the rock floor
I cannot keep myself up straight
Are you savd Are you savd
The stick come down cross the back of a head
I wait for it on mine
Are you savd Are you savd
When we leave Mr Woebegone shake his shoulders
Swing his arms Toss his hat
I think he pleasd to be gone
I pray she do not see
On the way home back above Stroud Fields
Through Creese Gate and all the jade rich ways
Mrs Woebegone and Sybilla shout to scurry up
As I am left far behind from thinking
Too much of the Devil and his questions
I ask Ambrose what he think
He say little laughs trips me up
Flicks at my hair with a long switch
Catch hold of me and spin me round
Like a spinning top full of laughing
As all pass in a swirl of verdant green
Then just as he catch hold me again
The path turn past Way House Farm
A coming up to Dry Hill
We happen then upon Mr Woebegone
Who is stood in the way
Looking down the moss green folds of the Valley
Smoking his pipe scratching his head
Tis only now I notice
How he smell of cider
God save him
He was evr a man with a crookd elbow
Ambrose say to him So what then you think Sir
He oft speak to Mr Woebegone in this way
Bold but only when she is not round
The Devil he say What I think on him
Then he laughs a little licks his lips
I look round for we close the weavers cottages
I should not want any hears
We cannot know how far is Mrs Woebegone
She may be only in the fringe of trees
Mr Woebegone stares down the Valley smiles
Shakes his head lay a hand on Ambrose shoulder
I never seed him do that afore
At the same time rustle a breeze
Shiver all the leaves
Turn their silver back
Flickering and glistening to us
Mr Woebegone says I think not much on he
Nor on God neither
I am filld with terrible fear
And excitement both
I remember to this day that feeling how it come
Say Mr Woebegone
For why would any think on sin and punishment
When one sees here all of Gods creation
Spread round us in these Valleys
All that we might need to know
Do you not think so
Is this not miracle and revelation enough
As he speaks he stretches out his hand
In a long arc to take in all the Valley
Such majesty in the gesture
As though he create it all
Just then and there
With the twitch of his fingers
Then he shouts out heart rent loud
Tears bubbling in his eyes
Laying his hand cross his chest saying
The world is my country
All mankind are my brethren
To do good is my religion
He turns to Ambrose and then to me
I welling tears his talk does tempt torment so
Surely he must be heard
Ambrose and me shall be beat
Then comes calm and I hear it whisper
That tender sound which tells me
The Angels are closy by and we are safe
So I laughs then and Mr Woebegone
Does lay his hand gentle on my head
Tis not til we are at the Coombs
We hear above us Sybilla running in the path
Hurry up Hurry up Do not banter about there
Mother says come You come now
So we all go on
But I remember
That same night I lie awake long
From down below I hear Ambrose and Mr Woebegone
I get up watch them see them pointing up
Hear fragments of words mysterial and veild
They are naming them the stars in the heavens
I never thought they might have names
When Ambrose come in I am still awake
He is flushd ruddy laughing
Come come he says I will shew you something
I not want to get up but he makes me
Come come You must see
I follow him down to the front parlour
Our feet whispering through the shadowd house
The front parlour we are not allowd to go
The moon at the winder a shining coin
Fill the room with silver surfaces
Touch on the tapestry seat of a chair
Ambrose move the wood basket quiet
So none above may hear
Then he pull back floor boards
I shiver listen breath tight
Here he says See here
At first I see nothing but then knees down
My eyes strengthen I see the yellerd paper
In a hole down under the boards
A pile of raggd papers curld at the edges
The one on top a pamphlet
Some letter printd big and some small
A black line cross the bottom
Something in it afears me
I stand back
Ambrose look up at me from where he kneel
You know he was in prison he say
Mr Woebegone In Horsley
Wearing the county livery he
And walking the burster
You know what that means
I do know for tis talkd oft enough
What happens to those who go there
Now I say tis not true
So I turn and go
Heading back to bed
My mind knocking and banging gainst itself
For Mr Abel Woebegone is surely a good man
Yet good men do not go to prison
I do not want to know any more
But those hidden books smoulder in my head
When I go back to bed lie awake til Ambrose come
Lie down next to me his legs tangld with mine
His breath close on my face
Are you savd Are you savd he say
His voice deep and mocking his face pulld grim
I push at him laughing but afeard
Do you not care he say
I know you do not care if you are savd
I stop then and sit right up
Feel the room round me
As though the weight gone from it
Walls ceiling winders beds scatterd clothes
No more substantial than tree branches
The heavens close to us
My mind goes back to Mr Woebegone
Stood on the Valley side
His hand stretchd out as though he
Hisself the creator of all
I am thinking of Ambrose question
Remembering what Mr Woebegone say
Then I know the answer
I whisper the words into the floating bedroom
No I do not think on it
A cause me I know right well that I am savd
I have always been savd
I will be savd forevr
Tis certain I will
For I know what is true
What is not
Being all I need to know
Ambrose and I lie together laughing then
But I am frightd of myself
Yearning now always always
To go back to that moment
When Mr Woebegone spoke
To hear those words again
On the skirt of the Valley
Time come when I must go to school
I did not know if I evr would
Being not proper of the family
I do not think it would a come to pass
But for Mr Abel Woebegone for I hear oft words
Twixt him and Mrs Freda harsh and angry
Yet quiet and snake hiss venom
She will go She will not
She will go I tell you
What point there be for such as she
All she can learn is work hard
Be of good Christian virtue
The most such as she expect
Is the dignity earn her living
Best she start now
Finally I go in the morning
As do Ambrose and Sybilla
Many at the school go the mornings
Work the mill in the afternoons
Tis but a short walk to school
Down Dry Hill pass Way House Farm
To Creese Gate and then on to Acre Street
All in one room tall winders stretching high
Warm oft on account a massy furnace at the back
Filld up with logs
Like in the chapel
I am not to sit with Ambrose and Sybilla
Yet still I am given slate and chalk
Here for the first time I see books
Which is not the Bible
They teach us how to write
Must be from left to right
Fill up all the space
One line lead on to next
No gap in betwixt or down the side
I like blank spaces
Areas of black and nothing there
I like to give the words their breath
But no no no I am told that is not the way
Girl for the love of God
Will you but listen to what you are told
Left to right fill up all the slate
I love to form the letters
See them grow the easy twist and curl
The world caught and orderd
Put down straight
No no Mary Ann
How many times must I tell you
Fill up all the space
I like the words to roam free
I relish the books also
Though I not get to see them much
That for older children whose hands are clean
Is best when we can all go out in the yard
For there play many rickety boys rabble games
The best is kill Mr Bonny Part
The French tyrant who is a stocking
Stuffd all full of straw
Who chase and hit as hard as you may
With a long banging stick
A hard woman is the Mistress there
Did beat Ambrose once thwack thwack thwack
The sound of stick gainst moleskin bash
Saying to him afterwards
I hope now Ambrose Woebegone you understand
Where do you stand
That I most certainly do he then reply
For one thing I can know for sure
I shall not be sitting for some long time
I did think then she might beat he again
Except at that moment three large geese
Did walk in the room passing up the aisle