The Stone Book Quartet

The Stone Book Quartet
Alan Garner

A classic work of rural magic realism from one of Britain’s greatest children’s novelists.Through four interconnected fables of a way of living in rural England that has now disappeared, Alan Garner vividly brings to life a landscape situated on the outskirts of industrial Manchester.Smiths and chandlers, steeplejacks and quarrymen, labourers and artisans: they all live and work hand in hand with the seasons, the elements and the land. There is a mutual respect and a knowledge of the magical here that has somehow, somewhere been lost to us. These fables beautifully recapture and restore that lost world in simple, searching prose.

ALAN GARNER

The Stone Book Quartet

The Stone Book

Granny Reardun

The Aimer Gate

Tom Fobble’s Day

FOR RALPH ELLIOTT

CONTENTS

Cover (#ueef8cbc2-0cb9-5b36-9df0-97b9886820ea)

Title Page (#u62dedb69-4d10-53da-acb0-3ed815e58eec)

Dedication (#ube6f3d0c-01ee-5a87-bbcc-98311de3d79a)

The Stone Book (#u6c4592e2-00bb-51a1-9210-ae73d08a0cc1)

Granny Reardun (#u2c80a106-5420-5b08-8398-0ca6d037a5e0)

The Aimer Gate (#litres_trial_promo)

Tom Fobble’s Day (#litres_trial_promo)

P.S. (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

A Biographical Sketch

The Intense Gaze of My People (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Book (#litres_trial_promo)

What the Papers Said in 1978

A Thirty-Second Exposure (#litres_trial_promo)

Read On (#litres_trial_promo)

Must Reads

Find Out More (#litres_trial_promo)

If You Loved This, You Might Like… (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Praise (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

THE STONE BOOK (#ulink_e93f5ecd-6db3-511a-b3d4-730a87e2d712)

A bottle of cold tea; bread and a half onion. That was Father’s baggin. Mary emptied her apron of stones from the field and wrapped the baggin in a cloth.

The hottest part of the day was on. Mother lay in bed under the rafters and the thatch, where the sun could send only blue light. She had picked stones in the field until she was too tired and had to rest.

Old William was weaving in the end room. He had to weave enough cuts of silk for two markets, and his shuttle and loom rattled all the time, in the day and the night. He wasn’t old, but he was called Old William because he was deaf and hadn’t married. He was Father’s brother.

He carried the cuts to market on his back. Stockport was further, but the road was flatter. Macclesfield was nearer, but Old William had to climb Glaze Hill behind the cottage to get to the road. The markets were on Tuesday and Friday, and so he was weaving and walking always: weave and walk. ‘Then where’s time for wedding?’ he used to say.

Mary opened the door of Old William’s room. ‘Do you want any baggin?’ she said. She didn’t speak, but moved her lips to shape the words.

‘A wet of a bottle of tea,’ said Old William. He didn’t speak, either. The loom was too loud. Mary and Old William could talk when everybody else was making a noise.

‘Is it sweet?’ he said.

‘Yes. I made it for Father.’

‘Where’s he working?’

‘Saint Philip’s,’ said Mary.

‘Haven’t they finished that steeple yet?’ said Old William.

‘He’s staying to finish. They want it for Sunday.’

‘Tell him to be careful, and then. There’s many another Sunday.’

Old William was careful. Careful with weaving, careful carrying. He had to be. The weight could break his back if he fell on the hill.

‘Mother!’ Mary shouted up the bent stairs. ‘I’m taking Father his baggin!’

She walked under the trees of the Wood Hill along the edge of Lifeless Moss.