The Slanderley Curse: Nuns and Mayhem in Cornwall

The Slanderley Curse

Nuns and Mayhem in Cornwall

Clarice Stasz

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The Slanderley Curse:

Nuns and Mayhem in Cornwall

Clarice Stasz

Copyright © 2022 by Clarice Stasz

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © usedtotech

Cover Photo Source: Fotosearch K2776052

Photo Editor: Jane Skoler

Clarice Stasz, The Slanderley Curse. – 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9967693-8-9

"Appearance blinds,

whereas words reveal."

Oscar Wilde

CONTENTS

To the Reader

A Fortunate Lad

A Dog Rescues

Sea at Last

More Mysteries Emerge

Calm Afore the Storm

More Intrigue

Disappearance

The Curse Revealed

A Confusing Word

Horseless Carriages

A Terrible Turn

A Mysterious Guest

A Secret Revealed

Midsummer Folly

Scatterings

Abroad

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

To the Reader

Rarely do we find complete manuscripts composed by estate servants, let alone by Cornish servants. Herein, Kenal Gundry traces his southeast seaside origins to his service at Slanderley manor, perched on the rough northwestern coast. A pious lad, he shares his wonder at the lives of those to the manor born. Serving during the Edwardian Era, he comes of age during the rapid changes in society. His experiences in WWI are unconventional, thus add to our knowledge of that era.

Of special note is Kenal’s appreciation of Slanderley’s past. Though much family history was lost in the mist of time, he was intrigued by the story of the Nun’s Curse, then watched its power snake through the manor during his tenure.

I should warn you of some grim episodes ahead, lightened by the droll and eccentric ways of Slanderley Manor. The oddities lie in the family lineage, as well as its Cornwall culture.

I must add this account needs what people in the United States would call Parental Guidance Advisement. Sections allude to bodily functions, albeit often in a subtle way.

In editing this manuscript, I have retained hints of Kenal’s dialect. Despite being well-read, he was a terrible speller, so I corrected rather than sic him.

At times I was tempted to correct Kenal’s factual errors, but I chose to keep them without comment. I also retain my British conventions in the U. S. edition, such as Mrs without a period, and could not avoid inclusion of favourite spellings common to our plucky island.

Dame Cecelia Scrivener

Winterfield College, Oxford University

A Fortunate Lad

When the wind whines like an ailing witch as it does tonight, I canna sleep. Like you, I have tricks and games to calm nagging memories. Betimes I count back slowly from a hundred and on good nights drop off before hitting eighty-three. I imagine myself lying in a skiff, the soothing laps of the waves calming me to sleep. Tonight, I choose to remember my childhood days by the coast in Cornwall. Come along with me, to ken my worries. I promise the story, early dark, will turn to better humor.

In case you have nae been here, peer at a map, and see that Cornwall is the big toe of Great Britain. The River Tamar separates us from Devonshire, and has long isolated us from the rest of the country. We donna consider ourselves English; we hold tight to our Cornish ways. Although the Romans came down, they little interfered, thus our ancestors kept fast to their ways and beliefs. We consider ourselves True Britons, for the great King Arthur were one of us.

The coastlines of Cornwall are most inviting, the southern section balmy at times, with palm trees and bright flowers to greet the visitor. Inland, the old mining region, can be rough and hilly. Full of granite and poor soil, dozens of rivers and streams rush down to kiss the sea in congenial bays. Our history prides its tales of fishery and smuggling skullduggery. You know: the Pirates of Penzance, charming onstage, kidnappers and enslavers at their actual.

I grew up in Mousehole [pronounced Muzzle] on the south coast, the fifth son of a fishing family, with two much older sisters. While they were short and wiry like rats, I grew brawny and big-boned with navy black hair, olive skin, and grey-blue eyes. My Tas [Dad] used to tease me that some Portuguese infected the family line a long time back. The worm always do reappear, he'd chuff, but on you tis handsome, Kenal Gundry.

With Tas being out on the boat, sometimes for many days, I little knew him. When he pushed in the back door, followed by my brothers, he’d hug me Mam before collapsing at the table to fill his very hungry stomach. After dinner, he’d go off for a time alone with her, or head out to the pub to meet his friends.

Things changed when I turned about seven. Because I grew big for my age, he early had me sort the catch. Like all those living in the small harbors, I reeked of salt, fish guts, and gull drops, but twere a perfume of honor. I longed to go out in the rough seas. Yet whenever I asked to go out, Tas said, You be too young and would only get in the way.

As a result, I were very close to my Mam, who eased my tears when Tas denied me. I were always at her skirts while she stirred the chowder in the kitchen or picked gooseberries in the woods. She called me her sweet lad and I gloried in her light. She taught me how to repair nets, which led to patching my own shirts. She even showed me how to make the dough for pies.

She were a high-spirited woman, with sea-green eyes and shell pale skin. My first memory is of grasping her hand tight while we walked along Parade, the street fronting the waterfront. She was always talking, pointing out this or that on the ground, a plant or a wiggly bug. Born Annie Angwin, she grew up in Penzance, and had met my Tas while visiting Mousehole with friends. Her Tas was also a fisherman, so she knew the peculiar life ahead, one of days without him and worry over his return. Most of all, she were a devout Chapel [Methodist] woman, who saw to our good Christian upbringing.

When I were six, she sent me to school to learn letters and numbers. My name Kenal refers to ken, to know, and I proved to be a sharp student. Mam were pleased to see me succeed. My sisters, who used to read aloud to her, had long wed and left home, so I now sat by her at night to finger and say aloud words in the Bible verses. Mam knit in the candlelight, its flame glow deepening the wrinkles of her hardy face.

At school, I were cooped up with Mr Creakle and his heavy stick. While we lads struggled on our letters, he crept about the room soundless, as though afloat. His eyes were strangely glassy-colored, his thin lips an odd orange. His seldom smile revealed greenish teeth. He were a typical teacher, in other words, seen by us boys as ugly and shameful. While we feared him, he had one weakness. S.s.s.students, take out your Arithmetic b.b.book. No surprise that away from class we mocked him. I did so once at home, saying Mr C-c-creakle, and Mam smacked me face red.

Truth be, he ran a fair tutoring, one filled with interesting stories and adventures. He were patient while we struggled with inking our letters. In time, I understood his love of books, that there be a secret life within the bindings. Despite being a prankster, I did my reading and more. New words became a wonder, like conquering a twisty new knot. I were so good with my letters that I won a book of poems at the close of my first term. I may not write the Queen's English, but I can read it – just in case you don’t believe me.

We be a close family. When weather was too blustery for the boats to go out, all of us, married children included, gathered at my sister Declan’s large granite house on Parade. She’d wed the youngest son of the wealthy Victor family, the house a marriage gift. Her educated husband was the town clerk. Following an afternoon of chatter and games, my Tas would break into a chantey, my brothers and I soon joining in harmony. Our voices swelled almost-angelic while the women set to the evening meal and the youngest children napped. After feasting, Mam pulled me home because the men took to more singing with their brews. She did not approve of the drinking or the racy lyrics. Truth be, I were often tired and always needed some time to meself each day.

Now fishing is a dangerous livelihood, and was more so then, before fancy new instruments and knowledge of weather helped save lives. As babes, we all learned the story of town hero Tom Bawcock. Mam told it to me late one night while a fierce storm shook the house.

"Twere a terrible winter several hundred years ago, not long after the Spanish burned the town to the ground, along with all the boats. Years of sheer poverty followed, yet our townsfolk struggled and shared to recover. They’d rebuilt cottages, wove nets, and crafted new boats to fish and nourish all.  Everyone worked together so no one family suffered worse than the other. At last a day came to be filled with hope for a full-stomach Christmas dinner, the first in ages.

"Alas, my lad, come November storms of fury lashed the town. Monstrous waves crashed over the sea walls, flooding the Parade, smashing masts and keels. The sun seemed stolen, never to return. No break broke the tempests. Families emptied their larders. Some stripped bark from trees to make into soup, for the deer and rabbits had fled into the highlands. Often people gathered daily in the Chapel to keep warm and pray for assistance.

"One day, during prayer, Tom Bawcock jumped up to shout, ‘We are saved! The Lord has promised!’ He pulled on his oilskin cape and dashed out into the howling downpour.

"What is happening, the people wondered. Tom were not the most able young man. Indeed, it were believed he’d bring poor luck to a boat. He never returned home that night.

The next day at Chapel, during a silent prayer, including for Tom, a great shout pierced the walls. Tom’s voice. ‘Come, we are saved, come out!’ Dashing into the yard, they saw him holding a basket of fish. ‘There’s much more at the boat. Go and share.’ They were shocked to find a haul, seven kinds of fish, more than enough to feed the town for days. The women used them to make pies. A clever one stuck seven fish heads up from the crust, proof of the rich catch. That is what we now call Stargazy Pie.

Later I saw it as a story of hope, for I knew how the weather could turn ferocious, mighty Poseidon stirring up the seas. My Tas spoke direful tales of being tossed under an upturned boat, fearful he’d miss the surface in the black roiling water. This fret was rare for him, because he had the knack. He read the clouds and knew all the coves within safety. Unlike less careful men, he’d come in early with empty net or find a place to hide rather than dare the storm gods.

He were the same with boat rigging and net making, the sea crafts in his blood. They called him the best fisher in the tiny fleet. Other men sent their boys out with Hedrek Gundry to finish their training, for he could turn the clumsiest youth into a capable fisherman. No wonder I resented being kept away from all that skill and challenge.

When my years were about twelve, I were hanging some clothes in the yard with Mam, when what felt like a shower of frozen bullets hit our heads. The hail were so sharp it sliced the vegetable stalks and pierced the fruit. We heard glass breaking at the High Street shops down the slope. Lightening pounded like gunnery while we rushed indoors, our arms bleeding droplets from icy cuts. While we hugged under the kitchen table with furry Morvoren mewling in terror, we shuddered at the roaring rush of water overflowing the nearby creek.

After several hours passing, an early calm plumped down. The hail over, Mam and me ran to the bay, but we could not reach the shore. The Parade were flooded, the wharves torn apart from waves higher than we had ever known.

Our fear that something might happen to the fleet came true. Nearing dusk, a ragged half of the eight boats labored in, one by one, none being those of our Tas or me brothers. We hoped they’d found safety in Penzance. (Later we heard the storm in that town tore up the railroad tracks and even sank a large barge.) Under the dark night of the new moon, Mam and I returned home to light candles and pray for return of our two boats. Two days later we allowed they must have plunged to unmarked soggy graves.

That afternoon a neighbor came calling. She'd seen a boat limp in with two of my brothers aboard. They had left ahead of the small fleet on the day of the storm, and were far north of its main fury. Spying the clouds off to the south, they had pulled into a secluded cove. Relieved to see them, we celebrated through tears, being certain my Tas and two other brothers had gone down.

My poor Mam. Her widow watch had come true. She had little spirit left for other than grief. Too sad to do her chores, she slept or prayed the days away. By then I were as good at domestic chores as a girl preparing for marriage.

One evening Mam called me to her bedside with an odd request. I want you to use the grace of God to guide us. Open your Bible without looking, put your finger on a line, and read.

I did so, and came to this passage:

60 Thou hast seen all their vengeance and all their imaginations against me.

61 Thou hast heard their reproach, O Lord, and all their imaginations against me;

62 the lips of those that rose up against me, and their device against me all the day.

63 Behold their sitting down, and their rising up; I am their music.

64 Render unto them a recompense, O Lord, according to the work of their hands.

65 Give them sorrow of heart, thy curse unto them.

66 Persecute and destroy them in anger from under the heavens of the Lord.

Oh, Mam, it is from Lamentations. How can it help us with our grief? I’m not sure I understand.

Sighing deeply, after a long pause she said, It is about people who are mean to us. Jeremiah is in the dungeon, and feeling helpless. He thinks God has deserted him.

But he prays to God to punish the people who wrong him. That is not Christian.

She explained, Nay, but it is very human to feel that way. Jeremiah comes to see that God will help those who are true to Him. So must we during our time of troubles, which are sure to continue. Promise me you will rise above that early anger and pray to Him for your own deliverance, not deliver pain upon those who hurt you.

I never liked Lamentations, and believed instead that this passage pointed to future difficulties. We’d enough of those, what with my Tas and two brothers dead. We didna even have their bodies to bury. Gruesome dreams of them rotting on the sea floor woke me up screaming. That we were not the only Mousehole family to lose loved ones in that wretched tempest brought us little comfort.

The usual time of mourning over, Mam called a family council. We gathered at me sister Declan’s house, all our faces low and grey. My two remaining brothers, Conan and Goron, led the discussion.

Before you tell us what to do, Mam, we have made up our minds. We will keep fishing. We repaired our boat so we can continue and take care of you. Even if we wed, we will see to your protection. We are firm agreed, and nothing you say will change our minds. We have seen the worst and know what it can do.

Before she could respond, I broke in. Mam, I am old enough to go out with them. I can do more than fix nets and sort the fish.

Ah, Kenal, I canna let you go. I long made a promise to your Tas that you never go to sea, no matter what happened.

I stood up and shouted, What? Why would you make such oath? You know I love the waters. Did he think me not brave enough? Not strong enough?

She said nothing while she poured some tea, the sign I should sit and listen.

Nay, he respected you too much. He said one son must be free, which is why I insisted you do more school than the others. He saw a better future for you.

But what can I do? I am not through school. I have not enough learning to set out. Who would hire me, a poor lad?

I will consult with the curate, and we will pray for an answer. God will guide us. I will also talk with Mr Creakle, who has more practical knowledge.

That were not