The change in her was made evident when she no longer bypassed the village on the way to Shields but ordered Ned Spoke or Peter Myers, whoever was driving the coach, to go directly through the village. Also, at times she rode horseback through it, but never alone, always she would be accompanied by one of the men acting as groom. But quite frequently she rode alone to visit Anna and John.
It was Anna who said to her a few days after the eventful Sunday, ‘Is it true what I’m hearing, Tilly, that you went to the village on Sunday and waited for the church coming out and addressed them?’
Tilly could not help but laugh at the term used for her haranguing Parson Portman’s and Mr Wycomb’s congregations and she answered, ‘Yes, quite true, Anna. But I wouldn’t say I addressed them, rather put the fear of God in them . . . or the devil. Yes, the latter is more like it, the devil. They’ve associated me with him for so many years that I felt it was about time I gave them proof of his power.’
‘But why? Why?’ Anna had questioned, her head shaking from side to side. ‘There has been no trouble lately.’
‘No? Willy was struck in the head with a stone; in fact it was almost on his eye, his good eye. I was unaware that the stone-throwing had been going on for some time; it was kept from me so I wouldn’t worry. Well, that’s how these things start. The next move could be setting fire to the barns . . . or even the house. Oh, don’t shake your head like that. Remember . . . or perhaps you don’t but I’ve already been burned out once. They have persecuted me for years and if I intend to go on living at the manor, and I do, Anna, I’m not going to have the children brought up in fear. If anyone’s going to hand out fear in the future it’ll be me.’
Anna’s eyes had widened, her face had stretched as she said, ‘It sounds so unlike you, Tilly. You’ve always seemed to crave peace and you’ve never been the one to retaliate.’
‘That was because I was so fearful of them, petrified of them and what they might do. Yet on looking back, I remember after they burned the cottage down and my granny had died because of it, I lay on the straw in the woodshed and I can recall vividly imagining myself standing in the middle of the village screaming at each one in turn, denouncing them and instilling fear into them. It has taken a good many years for that desire to bear fruit. You know, they say if you wish and think on a thing hard enough you’ll get it in the end, but that saying doesn’t take account of the work, and in my case the anxiety and fear in between.’
John, too, was a little shocked at the stance Tilly had taken. His concern, however, was mainly with regard to her safety. ‘They c . . . could have set about you, Ti . . . Tilly. There’re still some w . . . wild ones in that village,’ to which, touching his shoulder, she had answered with tenderness, ‘John, you know that some brave men are afraid to walk though a graveyard at night. Well, I’ve turned into the graveyard for that entire village,’ and to this all John could say was, ‘Oh, Tilly! What a simile, you . . . you a graveyard. Oh Tilly . . . !’
However, one person, but only one, saw the funny side of the incident, and that was Steve.
During the past month Tilly had made two visits to the mine, once accompanied by John, and once on her own. John, in a tentative way, had suggested that she did not visit the mine unaccompanied. ‘It wasn’t seemly,’ he had said.
To anyone else she would have answered, ‘Why not? I’m the owner, it belongs to me, why shouldn’t I visit it and speak to the men who work there?’ But she merely smiled at him and said, laughingly, ‘Remember, John, I’m no lady.’ And to this, he had screwed up his eyes, tossed his head to the side and, his stammer more evident again, he had spluttered, ‘D . . . don’t say su . . . such things. Tilly, you are as g . . . g . . . good a lady as ever I’ve . . . I’ve met. It m . . . maddens me when you dep . . . dep . . . deprecate yourself. I am con . . . concerned for you simply be . . . be . . . because you are a l . . . lady.’
Dear John. Dear John. Sometimes she thought, of all the Sopwiths he was the best and the kindest. Perhaps, she told herself, she thought that way because he was uncomplicated, he had inherited none of the passions of his father or his brother. In a way he and Luke were alike in temperament, as Matthew and Jessie Ann had been.
They would see Luke soon. He had written to say he was coming, that he was getting leave from his regiment at Christmas and would spend a few days with them. He had never seen Willy since she had returned home and, of course, he hadn’t set eyes on Josefina, and she naturally wondered not a little just what his reaction to the child would be. Yet it didn’t trouble her.
On this particular visit to the mine, she had talked with the present manager, Mr Meadows, and she sensed that he, like John, didn’t welcome her presence. On this occasion the men were coming out after doing a shift and a half, and she had wanted to know why they had been called upon to do the extra work. There was a little water coming in on the B level, Mr Meadows had said. And she had surprised him by answering, ‘There was always a little water coming in on the B level. In my opinion it’s time that area was closed off.’
The sharp retort the man was about to make was checked by his remembering that this woman had once worked down this very mine and had for days lain with the owner behind a fall, the same fall that caused the man to lose both feet. And so he said, ‘There’s been a lot of work, repair work, done on B section, madam.’
‘Then why are you still having trouble?’
God, he thought, the questions women asked! ‘Because, madam,’ he said slowly, ‘this whole mine runs by the side of and in some parts under the river.’
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Meadows,’ she had answered; ‘and that’s why, I repeat, that section should be shut off.’
‘Then you’d better talk the matter over with Mr John, madam.’
She looked at the men who were passing her. They were not only black from head to foot but they were also wet, the wet coal dust was covering them like a black glaze.
She stopped two men. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, looking at first one then the other.
‘Me name’s Bladwish, ma’am, Bladwish.’
‘Bill Thircall, ma’am,’ said the other one.
She smiled at them now before saying, ‘How bad is it down there?’
‘Oh, not all that bad, ma’am. Bit of water. We’ve got it in time; it’ll take somethin’ to get through that now. The river’d have to burst its banks first.’ He laughed.
She looked from one to the other. They must have been down there sixteen to eighteen hours; they looked worn out yet they could still smile, still have a cheery word. And what were they going home to? A two-roomed cottage, a hovel really, like the Drews used to live in, which at one time she had gladly shared with them. Well, that’s something she could do, and would do: she’d build a new row, two rooms up and two rooms down, and a dry closet in the yard. Yes, that’s what she’d do.
As the two men touched their foreheads and moved away she turned and was about to speak to the manager, whose expression was anything but pleasant, when she saw Steve coming up the drift towards her. He was accompanied by three workmen. They were talking and nodding at each other, but when Steve glimpsed her he seemed to pause for a moment before leaving the men. Coming towards her, he touched his cap and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Sopwith.’
It was the first time he had addressed her formally, and she answered in the same vein, ‘Good afternoon, Mr McGrath. I hear you’re having some trouble.’
‘Oh, nothing to worry about.’ He glanced towards his superior, then said, ‘There’s one thing sure, wherever it comes in it won’t be in that spot again.’
‘Don’t you think that section should be closed?’ she now asked.
‘No, no.’ He shook his head in a wide movement; then looking at Mr Meadows, he said, ‘You don’t think so, do you, sir?’
‘I’ve already had my say to madam.’ The manager now turned to Tilly, adding, ‘If you’ll excuse me, madam, I must be about my business,’ then glancing at Steve again,
he said, ‘I want you in for the fore shift.’
It was a moment before Steve answered, ‘Right,’ then looking at Tilly, he said, ‘Can I give you a step up on your mount, Mrs Sopwith?’ and she answered, ‘If you please, Mr McGrath.’
When she mounted she looked down at him and said, ‘Thank you,’ before turning the horse around and taking it up the muddy bank past the stables, the lamp house, and the office.
She had noted Steve’s hesitation when Mr Meadows had told him he expected him to be at work for the fore shift. Like the men, he had likely been below sixteen or eighteen hours. It was now late in the afternoon, in fact it was dusk, and the fore shift went in, she knew only too well, at two o’clock in the morning. From where he lived it would mean getting up at one if he intended to make a meal before going out; and what he would have to do, the men would have to do. Nothing seemed to improve in mines, time, pay or conditions. She had heard of men in other pits striking and she could understand why. Oh yes, only too well she could understand why.
In a thoughtful mood she walked her horse, thinking, I’ve enough money to raise their wages, I could cut down their hours. Yet she knew, as kindly as John was, he’d be very much against this, for any alteration in pay or lessening the men’s time would bring other coal owners, such as Rosier, about their ears. Bonded men were little better than slaves; in fact, looking back, she considered the four male slaves on the ranch in Texas had in many ways lived better than some of her own miners.
But she could alter things, give them decent places to live in, and rent free. She must talk to John about it or perhaps Steve.
As if her thinking had conjured him up, she heard the clip-clopping of the hooves of the old horse on the road behind her and, turning, she drew her horse to a standstill to allow him to come abreast. He was riding the animal bareback and as he jogged to a halt, he said, ‘That’s the first time he’s ever trotted. Do you know, I think he could gallop if he was put to it. There’s life in the old boy yet.’
She smiled at him, then said, ‘You must be very tired.’
‘Oh, not too bad; not too tired to brew a cup of tea if you’ll come in?’
‘No, thank you, Steve. It’s getting dusk, and if I’m not back before dark they’ll have the bellmen out for me.’
They rode on in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, ‘Nice to see you taking an interest in the mine, Tilly.’
‘Yes.’ She half turned her head towards him. ‘It’s one thing taking an interest but another thing entirely, I imagine, to get anything done, I mean make changes.’
‘Oh’ – his chin jerked up – ‘you mean Mr Meadows. He’s a stickler for the rules. I suppose I shouldn’t say it but he’s frightened of the death he’ll never die. To my mind he shouldn’t be in this business at all; either you’re made for it or you’re not. Not unlike being in the army, where you’ve got a better chance of surviving if you come up from the ranks, so to speak. It’s all right being conversant with the technical stuff but if you don’t get the feel of a seam before you touch it, then there’s something missin’. Still, the way things are suits me: I see to below and he sees to up top, most of the time anyway. You’re sure you won’t come in for a cup of tea? It won’t take a couple of minutes.’
They were nearing the cottage gate now and she shook her head, saying, ‘Another time I’d be very pleased to. In fact I must come again and gather up a few more books, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Oh’ – he jerked his head – ‘now don’t be silly, Tilly . . . if it’s all right with me; it’s your cottage. By the way’ – he put his head slightly to the side – ‘you’re looking better, brighter. Your riding likely does you a lot of good. And as I haven’t seen you for some time, I must congratulate you on one ride you took.’
As she returned his gaze she pretended she didn’t know to what he was alluding and her voice had a query in it as she said, ‘Yes, and what ride was that?’
‘The day you put the fear of God into them in the village.’
‘Oh, that! Do you think that’s the right term?’
His laugh now rang out as he answered, ‘No, somehow I don’t. An’ there’s one thing I can tell you, you acted like a dose of senna on half the churchgoers that morning. And through the bits of tittle-tattle I’ve heard here and there I don’t imagine you’ll have much trouble from that quarter in the future. Your fame’s spread even as far as Pelaw. On the way back from Newcastle last week I dropped in at the Stag to have a drink. I’ve never been in that pub afore, so they didn’t know me, and talked freely among themselves. And I can tell you this, Tilly, they were mostly for the stand you made, for you know, like the way Shields feels about Newcastle, Pelaw and up the line feel about Shields, and the villages.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear anyway, it means I won’t have a hunting party coming from Pelaw.’
‘No; nor nowhere else, if you ask me. As one of the fellows said, he had seen you once and he wouldn’t mind having a witch like you sitting at the other end of the table any day. Aw! Tilly’ – his voice suddenly full of concern, he put in quickly, ‘I just said that to reassure you. I mean . . . ’
‘I know what you meant, Steve. And don’t worry, the name doesn’t trouble me any more, in fact I think I’ll cultivate it. Yes’ – she nodded her head – ‘that’s what I’ll do. Anyway they’ve dubbed me a witch for so long I feel there must be something in it.’
‘Never! You’ve got as much of the witch in you, Tilly, as I have blue blood.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure of it.’
‘Then tell me, Steve’ – her voice was serious now – ‘why has the name stuck to me, why have I been persecuted because of it?’
‘Oh’ – he leant forward and stroked the horse’s grizzled mane, then moved his lips one over the other before slanting his eyes towards her and saying, ‘It’s because you’ve got something, a sort of an appeal. No, no’ – he now shook his head – ‘that’s not the word. Attractiveness, I suppose, would be better. Better still’ – his voice sank onto a low note as he ended – ‘fascination. Aye’ – he nodded his head – ‘I think that’s the word that fits you, fascination. You’ve always had it. Don’t ask me what it consists of, I don’t know, it’s just you.’
Her voice as quiet as his, she said, ‘It’s an attribute I could have well done without, Steve.’
‘Aye, from your point of view you would say that, but not from others, Tilly. No, not from others.’
She lowered her head and remained silent, which prompted him almost to shout, ‘Look! We’re out here nattering when we could have been indoors in the warmth; you’re sure . . . ?’
She was sitting bolt upright, the reins tight now in her hands as she said, ‘Bye-bye, Steve. I’ll pop along one day for the books.’
He didn’t speak until the horse had taken a few steps, and then he answered ‘Do that, Tilly. Do that.’ His voice was so low that his words came only faintly to her.
She put the animal into a trot and then into a gallop, and all the while her mind kept pounding with the rhythm of its hooves: fascination, fascination; and she knew that the fascination for her still held with him, and she told herself once more that she must keep clear of him for his own sake, and that if she visited the cottage it would have to be when he was out. But, on the thought, the feeling of loneliness welled in her; of all those about her, with the exception of Biddy, with whom she would like to be on friendly terms it was him; because whatever the tie was, it was there and had been since they were children.
Thirteen
Christmas was a gay affair, made so not only by the children but by their new Uncle Luke. This tall man who crept on all fours and chased them and elicited from the children screams of delight as he pretended to be a monkey and sprang onto couches and over chairs. Not only did the children enjoy him, but so did John and Anna and Tilly, and indeed the whole of the staff were for him: was he not a soldier who had fought the Russians, those strange and
terrible people who lived on another planet? Besides that he was a gentleman, a gentleman who had a civil word for them.
As they said in the kitchen, they doubted if this house had ever heard such laughter and known such gaiety. And they themselves added to it. From Betty up to Biddle and Peabody they each in his own way contributed towards the happiness that prevailed in the house during the holiday.
It was only at night when lying alone in her bed and the echoes of the laughter had died away that Tilly would whisper, ‘Oh, Matthew! Matthew! If only you were here.’ Yet at the back of her mind she knew that if Matthew had been present, the atmosphere might not have been so gay, so free. Matthew had to dominate the scene, he would have had to set the pace, play the practical jokes, as he had done from a boy; yet like most practical jokers he was unable to accept being made a fool of, of being laughed at in return.
John, for instance, had always been laughed at because of his stammer. He was used to it. And Luke, she had found during the last four days, possessed qualities that had hitherto lain hidden. His way with children was delightful. He let them rumple him, climb all over him. This was new to them, for the man that Willy faintly remembered as his papa had never played with him, and the man that Josefina remembered as her papa had hardly ever looked at her. This uncle was certainly a revelation to them and, like all children, they took advantage of it, so much so that on Boxing Day there were tears when Christine was ordered to take them to the nursery and prepare them for bed.
Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 12