The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; The One Hand Clapping

The One Hand Clapping.  April 16, 2002

What does that expression mean?

Gypsy John came today and I was still feeling the effects of alcohol poisoning I contracted somewhere between Billy Boyd’s (a local musician), party and my belligerent Sunday evening at Roy’s. To tell the honest truth I was kind of rampantly horny when John arrived and his tattoos were a bit of a turn on as were his massive hands, but the fact that he’s ex-SAS and suffers from manic depression since his wife left him deterred me from making any sexual suggestions.  I think I am going slightly loopy here with nothing but the clear fell to look at. I was bored today and slightly depressed but the last two days put the effects of alcohol into stark relief. I am allergic to the stuff. My breath went, almost suffocating me, I was in a panic and my mind went more than a little skew-whiff. I will die if I have more than two glasses of wine or two glasses of beer. I will keep my in-take to the minimum.

The lady from the Edinburgh National Gallery returned my enquiry into the Jolly (Sir William Maxwell) painting being perhaps a Sir Henry Raeburn. It isn’t; it is too early and they have a copy of it which has been dated by someone, by the costume, at 1760 or thereabout. So, Sir William would have been in his early forties.

I’m a bit scared about my future. I haven’t been offered anymore work with immigration; my phone is so crappy, and quite frankly, I’m a bit tired of waking up in this area. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow. I’ll have more energy to leave and check out the bookshop in Wigtown. Roll on the money; I’m desperate.

I would eventually like to start writing another book. I have the bare bones of the slave story but, like The Cuckoo’s Diary, I’ll have to set the scene elsewhere. Glencolmcil is a fascinating place, frightening.

Things are scary; the lambs will be taken and slaughtered in a couple of months. There are things people say and things they don’t say. Things get around about people. There is also a sexual tension in the air that could be dangerous. People take their comfort where they find it. I remember the Gaelic football team in Ireland and how I fancied number 7, a stocky sexy guy with a cute face and attitude, (I do love them built like bulls).

My sexuality’s gone through the roof. Anyway, tomorrow I hope I feel less depressed and more positive. I’ll have a nice wash and cycle.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; Strange Fruit

Strange fruit,  April, 14, 2002

Since a few weeks ago the gorse bushes have blossomed everywhere. Farmers are ploughing their fields accompanied by cawing crows or screeching gulls. Smoke continues to billow up from the horizon as heather is burned and, of course, we are blessed with gorgeous sunlight and crimson sunsets. Buds are slowly opening on the trees and I have been on seed watering duty since Jenny, Alison et al went away. Most are grown indoors until the shoots are ready to be planted in the garden. I am amazed at how quickly they are sprouting. The geese are not as vociferous as they were a month ago, thank God. The wind generator turns on the odd days now but there is still ample voltage from the batteries; same with rainwater which occasionally fills the jerry cans.

Maddy and Tristan left with their twelve-day old baby. I felt a little sad, if not bitter, to see a couple arrive make manifest their love through a child. It made me want to speak to someone close and I chose Mark.

The first conversation was one-upmanship and I had to call him again and have a proper conversation in which he said I could call him any time. We sound in love. I do want to see him, to hold him and be close to someone. I was lamenting how difficult I can be in relationships and wondered whether I was in self-imposed exile here from my emotions, which is probably partially the case. I can be a cold-fish sometimes and must endeavour to say what’s on my mind and especially what’s in my heart.

For some reason I have been very tired of late, sleeping a lot.

I thought of the sentence, ‘I am the only black face at the cattle market’, to start my new book, Strange Fruit. I think it will be about a twin, one of which is murdered and leads the other to investigate. I will transpose the story of the black brothers I heard about in glen Colmcil, in Donegal to Galloway. There will be a birth of a mixed-race child and one of the twins will be blamed for it and lynched. The other brother will stay on his friends remote farm (low-impact community) and, from there, discovers the child’s birth; the real father being a throwback to an 18^th century slave. The death is only discovered after the Whithorn digs reveals DNA evidence linking the child to the body, that of Jolly. A great opening image, harrowing because true, white men, dress in costume indistinguishable from the eighteenth century and today, chasing a young black man through woods across a stream; this links  the plight of Jolly with, well, Stephan Lawrence and our twin. Lynching still goes on all over the UK, very subtle; no need for a tree and rope. For reasons of internalized self-hate Britain’s gays are practitioners of it in its verbal, and sexually inverted racist form. Sleep-with-them (Blacks and Latinos) but don’t bring ‘em home; they seem to labouring under the grandiose delusion that fascists won’t come for them too. I once asked a very successful black gay social worker about the phenomena of inverted racism, and he said he always quickly establishes in the initial conversation whether the interested Caucasian has any black people in his/her dinner/party set. “If there are none, you’ll never be invited in darling, as they see it, they are racially slumming it”; There are many ways to lynch a black man and the Brits might well be pass-masters at it and especially if the white man perceives that the black man may be in anyway on a par or passing him, a better job, clothes, car, girlfriend, house, education, accent; this sends his entitled gyroscope reeling; it was ever thus. The black man, in the Southern states of America, could, on the turn of a pin, be perceived as ‘Uppity’ and on the gossamer fragility of a white’s insecurity, and be strung up from a tree.

The gold inscription below the painting of Jolly and Sir William Maxwell was probably added later. Even so, once again I can’t help thinking; it is a bazaar choice of pose to have his servant stand in the background with the instrument of his death in his hand. Sir William Maxwell does look very effeminate.

Re. burial. It is unknown where Jolly lies. The Maxwell cemetery is outside the town of Monreith, Meades or something. They have discovered a girl’s grave under a fallen tree but there is another unidentified grave somewhere.

When Tristan drove me into Newton Stewart, I swear, after exiting the petrol garage, I saw two young men walking  toward us on the open road ahead, the same two wild men Nick and I had met at the entrance to the forest a year ago, but I don’t remember passing them or them turning off anywhere. I remember looking behind for them. No where!?

There are ghosts at Monreith House. One is a maid and there is, reportedly, another man. It is rumoured that Jolly’s ghost haunted the castle, but it is mainly a rumour...

I have yet to meet a member of the Jolly family. Hopefully Richard from Belfast will give me an intro. Richard told me that Jean Jean told him that Jolly’s grandchildren did all they could to erase the parish records of their grandparent’s marriage, and their own birth certificates to hide their negro origins.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk: A Biblio-Thief

ABiblio-thief. April 12, 2002

“Try carters Bookshop in Wigtown”, said Archie, present caretaker at Monreith who I encountered once back outside in the grounds of Monreith house. “Carter was caretaker here for ten years and took a lot of the Maxwell collection with him when he left”.

When I entered G C Books in Wigtown, two women sent me to the back of the shop where indeed the booty from Monreith House was kept. I wanted assistance. I retraced my steps and noticed a middle-aged man behind a computer.

“I hear you have most of the Maxwell collection”. I said with undisguised lack of tact. (Immobilise your prey with attack). He bade me sit down and was extremely forth-coming about Jolly; source material, history, a candid appraisal of the way local memory worked, and his undisguised dislike for the present caretaker of Monreith House.

“Evening memories is the Herbert Maxwell to read.” He maintained. “There is an account of the first wheeled vehicle arriving in Wigtownshire by ship”. It seemed that wishing to arrive at a local election with great panache Sir William Maxwell, third baronet, had the stone dykes opened to widened the bridle paths for his new carriage... once at the meeting he was shouted down by the opposition for his involvement in smuggling. Though the mandate was to stop it going on, it appears Sir William Sir William  was making vast sums and avoiding taxes on in tea, whisky etc, by using the farms on his land to hide the contraband coming over from the Isle of Mann.

Carter believed, because of the lack of roads Jolly came from Liverpool which took a few hours to get to by sea. Carter spoke with an English cockney accent and reminded me of Fagin in Charles Dicken’s Oliver Twist. Maybe the rumour that he had begun his bookshop with the Maxwell collection made me prejudiced, whether it was guilt or genuine altruism he divested himself of all he knew.

“Sir William was heart-broken when Jolly died. He had hit him in a fit of temper” and “Yes it was with a cane. Friday was a lot older than he was in the painting”.

Carter did not think it was a Raeburn. His, (Carter’s) own name was cited for the collection for tax reasons; they had become national property on the proviso that the public could view them once a year. Carter put forward the hypothesis that Sir William, himself, has had the painting commissioned after Jolly’s death, so grief-stricken was he.

“Jolly married a local girl but continued to work for Sir William. When people remember around here they remember things passed down. The Jollys, and it is pretty certain, all descend from Jolly. You can tell when you look at them”.

It seemed Sir William had Jolly as a status symbol; “It was swashbuckling to have a blackamoor in those days and Sir William saw himself as such”

“Sir Herbert gives an account of why there was a move from Myrton castle to Monreith House in Evening memories”.

The image of the arrival of the first carriage is fascinating; Wheels arriving from a ship, the first wheeled vehicle ever, and the first blackamoor.

Carter told me about a book of letters written by a fourteen year old boy working on a slave ship. These are published. There are other sources. I would need to sit down and read these patiently.

If Sir William commissioned the painting why have it feature the cane in the very hands of the person it mowed down? Was this some kind of penance, a reminder of the wicked deed?

“There are graves in the garden near Monreith. It is where they used to be buried; it is supposed they buried Jolly there too” said Carter.

I felt sad for his life wrenched away from his father, taken and sold into slavery, Alesander Selkirk, the inspiration for Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, fell on hard times and betrayed his Man Friday and resold him into slavery.

I have yet to visit Whithorn.

When Carter got up to see me out he had an acute hunchback and supported himself with a cane…!

TheFallen~Sparrow~Hawk: Radio Roy

Radio Roy.  April 11, 2002

Roy, angry, bitter, nosy, opinionated, manipulative Roy. He’s gotten under my skin. I am patently aware that this being a relatively small community, that of Wigtonshire, that gossip apart from drifting dandelion-like borne by the post woman, Roy also spread news with authoritative relish. He phoned up yesterday and has phoned before and his nosiness and his negativity annoy me. He begins sentences with,”I’m only going to tell you this once...” and you think you’re going to be reprimanded. He talks about other people, namely my friends here.

I think he’s going to offer me things so he can get me to do things for free. I will say no, otherwise there’ll be no end to his calling. I think he is extremely negative like my mum, and he is closed. I will owe him for the tobacco, but I’ve got to be stubborn with him. Today, I’ll rotivate the garden but take a lot of spring onions, leaks and broccoli for a stir-fry. Damnait can relieve me. Maybe my irritability lies elsewhere, but being obligated to break my time going to Roy’s is annoying. I think I’ll not go just to make a point.

The fallen~Sparrow~Hawk: A Portrait

The painting, April 9, 2002

The road to Monreith estate is bordered by a curb-side of exotic foliage in luxuriant single file on one’s approach. It decides to begin a few hundred yards from the gates and impalpably announces the exotica to come.

I would need the knowledge of a botanist to name the huge red tubas which adorn a bush on entering the garden of Monreith House; gigantic deep red and pink tubas here and there. On the grounds were many species of tree and bush and flower; I recognised some from a previous visit to Kew gardens.

Out of nerves, I bided my time by taking a stroll around the grounds. A path lead me to the white loch, the whole place buzzed with birdsong; a veritable symphony of birds happy in their environment of exotic trees.

There were several privately own cottages on the grounds besides the South cottage at the entrance and the north cottage at the extreme end of the Loch. I did not go as far as the boat house, but I saw the ruined keep of Myrton castle.

The lands of myrton (village of the miry place. Old Norse) belonging to the Maxwells of Monreith (Gaelic; Moine riabhach, grey Moor) previously the McCulluchs, Sir Alexander entertained James 4^th on more than one journey to and from Whithorn.

In the seventeenth century the Maxwells had a home beside the White Loch. They were descended from the first Lord Maxwell in the fifteenth century and inter-married with the McCulluchs of Mryton and the Agnews of Lochnaw.

The path wound along until I caught a glimpse of Monreith House sideways on.

At first impressive, a modest estate house in disrepair on the outside. It reminded me of a plantation estate. Very tall with long bay windows and a circular bay window at the back. Four columns, cracked and peeling, framed a large black door which concealed an interior glass door through which I could see a hallway on the walls of which hung crossed swords, paintings, a large thermometer/weather clock.

No one was in though the doors were both unlocked and stood ajar.

Above Right door; Harmonia

Left Door; Hilaritas

Drawing room; Concordia

I tried the handle and entered.

William Maxwell of Monreith. 1712-1771.

Sir William sat at a huge chair with a letter in hand proffered to an unseen person. Behind him stands Jolly, a mere boy of around fifteen with a cane with an ornate bulbous handle. In gold is written Sir William Maxwell 1712-1771.

The other portraits in the room bare the gold inscriptions in the same gold lettering. Whether these were inscribed by Sir Henry Raeburn, the name in gold on the other painting, maybe these were added later.

I remember the slave’s large eyes, the eyes of a boy. He is holding the cane with a golden bulbous handle, which was to be his destruction.

Mrs Sykes (caretaker) husband was told by Sir Michael Maxwell himself that after flying into a rage Sir William had struck Jolly on the head causing a brain haemorrhage from which the slave died.

If the painting is a posthumous portrait of Sir William then the artist knows the story, either that or it is indeed a terrible irony that Jolly was made to pose brandishing the cane. Nick, a London mate, who emailed me earlier on, seems to think it would be typical of a sadist to make his victim pose with the weapon of punishment, for Nick believes the beatings would have been regular. Jolly is dressed in red embroidered silk.

I feel sad for Jolly, stuck up at Myrton Castle with a cantankerous old man. It is interesting that after his death Monreith House was built, maybe to erase the memory. Jolly, apparently did not reach 25 years of age.

Is there any mystery in the letter Sir William holds in his hand? Has he received news which made him angry? Has he called Jolly to fetch the cane? Is that fear in his eyes? Has he discovered that a local girl is pregnant? The letter looks unread….

Did Sir Henry Raeburn paint the picture?

Notes: I have emailed the Raeburn Archives for an expert to assess whether the painting is a Raeburn who was born  1758; Raeburn would only have been 13 years old, so could not maybe have painted the picture unless posthumous to Jolly’s death. Though he did paint Sir William’s daughter Eglantine.

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk: Slash and Burn

Slash and Burn, 8 April 2002.

My trip to Belfast threw up a surprise encounter. On Saturday Mike (a friend I met some years ago) introduced me to Richard who, it turned out, was a Scotsman lurking behind his acquired northern Irish accent. Richard was originally, from Dumfries and Galloway. Richard conformed that he not only knew of the Jollyss but said that they wore wigs to hide their frizzy hair, the gene-pool having been so diluted that Jolly’s genes have not strained out. He said he knew a Jean Jolly, before he left for Ireland. He maintains that Jean Jolly traced her family back to the slave and that he married a girl from Dunragit, down the coast from Stranraer. Apparently, William Maxwell got angry and beat him to death. He said that Jean Jolly would be 70 now if she were still alive.

Richard said the Jollys have a kind of grey frizzy hair when it has not been straightened, shaved or covered by a wig.

I returned to the Doon of May last night and it seems the whole sky, in all its vermilions and puce, was greeting me. Turning from the coast up the Culshabbin Road there was a gorgeous sunset. I got a direct and an extremely fortunate lift from a boat-and-plane-enthusiast.

Once the sun went down, I noticed what seemed like a forest fire that seemed a quarter of a mile wide over beyond the entrance to the Doon.  It’s a bit early for slash and burn. On close inspection it looked like a make-shift runway at night or the site of a plane crash. I’ll check it out later on the way to Roy’s.  There was also black smoke billowing on the horizon beyond the clear-fell and the loch. It would be a great background for the book, though it smacks of ‘Gone with the Wind’.

There are two new arrivals plus a baby; Gareth and Hazel have come down from Glasgow and might move into Maddy and Tristan’s bender. It is strange when people arrive. It reminds me of what the Wild West must’ve been like, with the odd wagon arriving at a settlement. White Settlers again. This really is an alternative existence.

Tomorrow, I finally get to gaze upon the face of the portrait of Jolly. It will be strange knowing what I already know. 

The Fallen~Sparrow~Hawk; The Commercial, Port William

The Commercial, Portwilliam.      April 3, 2002

I decided today I would go to Portwilliam on the rumour that the Commercial Public House was owned and run by members of the Jolly family. I would have to be discreet. I took the bus from Newton Stewart following a lift from Tristan. I was extremely exhausted. I sat in the Commercial in the company of the landlady and a ginger stray stretched luxuriously in front of an open fire. Her husband, a beefy dark-haired man in his early fifties emerged from the back. He turned out to be loquacious, explaining he had had the pub for a year and was building up custom. He was at present levelling ground out back to make space for two static caravans. His eyes were a translucent brown and I tried to see the face of the slave in his strong jaw-line and deep-set eyes; his hair lacked the legendary frizz. A character came in briefly. He looked like a big English school boy in kaki shorts. When he left the landlord said, “His mother’s just died. He’s burying her tomorrow. Brilliant musician”.

“What’s his name?” I asked in an attempt to get to the subject of surnames”. The landlord said a name I can’t now recall… (Means to an ends).

“Is that a common local name?” I asked, getting warmer.

“Well, yes” said the landlord.

“What are the other local names”, I queried. He reeled off a couple and after a pause he said, “Jolly”.

Bingo! I thought.

“That doesn’t sound like a typical Scottish Name”, I said rolling my cigarette with an air of indifference.

“Well”, he said “There is a rumour…..”

The landlord explained that the Jollys made every attempt to straighten their hair, even to the point of shaving it off. It is well suspected there might be Negro blood there but, the family being reportedly rough Celtic- Rangers-staunch-catholic bunch. I would have to go to Dunragit, but broaching the subject of their slave ancestor would be a very delicate matter.

The landlord turned out not to be a descendant of the young slave and did not confirm the rumour that The Commercial had been owned by them in the past. He did confirm, a) that the Jollys have frizzy hair and, b) that they are a rough lot even down to the children and c) that they all live in Dunragit.

The landlord wanted to know, once I had opened the subject of the slave Jolly, who he married. I told him I was due to visit Monreith House on the Tuesday 9^th and Wednesday 10^th April in order to see the portrait and go through some papers and books of Jolly’s owner to establish how much William Maxwell paid for him. I will research his burial, marriage and arrival and the descendants. Where is he buried?