Mary Ann Sate Imbecile Read online

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  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.

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  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

  NOTE

  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

  CONTENTS

  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

  MOUNT VERNON

  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 tha
t 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

  MOUNT VERNON

  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 winder
s

  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