Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  Then came her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had bought her a new coat and bonnet. The coat was grey cord with blue facings and a cape to the shoulders, and the bonnet was blue velvet trimmed with grey. She had never had anything so smart in her life and she felt that all eyes were on her when she stood up in church to sing on the Sunday morning. When the service was over she had hurried away because there was no father waiting to escort her home; not even Eddie was there to accompany her, for he was in bed with a cold. So she was alone when she met up with Willy.

  He wasn’t astride a horse today, nor was he sitting on the bank fishing, he was walking slowly along the road accompanied by a dog; and it wasn’t a presentable animal, not like their own sheepdogs. He was the first to speak, saying, ‘Why, hello. It’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is me,’ she had answered pertly. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Well, you must excuse me if I didn’t recognise you at first, you look dressed for town and very pretty.’

  ‘Which means I suppose that when I’m not dressed for town I don’t look pretty?’ She was smiling as she spoke and she expected him to laugh, but on this occasion he didn’t. With his face to the side he stared at her before saying, ‘I meant no such thing. I’ve always considered you pretty, more so, rather beautiful at times.’

  She could give no answer to this; no-one had ever told her she was bonny, let alone beautiful. The little mirror in her bedroom had assured her that she was . . . all right, perhaps not as pretty as Maggie Thompson from the village, but much better-looking than the Rainton twins.

  Into her silence he now asked quietly, ‘Will you be out walking this afternoon?’

  ‘I may be,’ she said; ‘I cannot promise. My mother will be making me a tea, it’s my birthday.’

  ‘Oh, may you have many, many more. How old are you? Seventeen?’

  There was a moment before she said with apparent reluctance, ‘No, sixteen.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ It was as if he were recalling the day she had stated emphatically that she was nearly fourteen.

  The dog surprised her now by coming up and sniffing at her and when he licked her gloved hand she patted his head, saying, ‘He’s a friendly fellow. What breed is he?’

  ‘An Irish hound.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Pat. You couldn’t call an Irish hound anything else, could you?’

  ‘No.’ She laughed gently, then said, ‘I must be on my way. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She knew that he hadn’t walked on but was standing still and this caused her step to go slightly awry and she had to check the desire to run. But she told herself, she was sixteen and her running days were over; she was a young woman and from now on must act the part, no matter how she might feel inside . . .

  She didn’t manage to see Willy that afternoon. Her father was out of bed and he never let her out of his sight, not on that day or for some weeks that followed. But when at last they did meet again by the burn it was as if only hours had passed since they had spoken for, standing close to her, he held out his hand and she placed hers in it; then they sat side by side on the bank and talked.

  And so it would happen whenever they could meet he would take her hand, that is if the dark one wasn’t with him. But as time went on she seemed to be there more often than not and when this happened Noreen would merely pass the time of day with them, then walk on. Strangely the dark girl now never spoke in her presence, even though she stared at her all the while.

  This form of occasional Sunday courtship continued. She would be eighteen on Tuesday and today she was going to the river and she prayed that she would find him alone, for the time had come, she knew, for something to be said openly between them. Of late she had felt that if he didn’t speak and so enable her to declare her love for him her body would burst asunder. She knew that he liked her, more than liked her. She could feel it in the touch of his hand, she knew it by the way his narrowed gaze lingered on her, yet he had never spoken one word of love, not even of tenderness. Perhaps, like her, he was afraid of the consequences of a declaration. She knew that her father’s wrath, should he ever hear of her association with this particular Sopwith, would be something that her imagination could not even visualise. And on Willy’s side there was his mother.

  His mother she knew wasn’t a good woman, well not morally good, everyone said so. For years she had been carrying on with the manager of the mine and, as people pointed out, she could build all the cottages she liked and give her pit folk pensions and their bairns boots and baskets of food at Christmas, but that wouldn’t wipe out her sin in the eyes of God. Apparently she had always been a bad woman. Hadn’t Willy himself been born out of wedlock after she had been mistress to his father for years?

  And when he died she went and married his son. And when the son died she returned home with a brown baby that she said she had adopted. Taking all that into account, she was really an awful woman, and yet she must admit that the glimpses she had had of her seemed to belie all these facts. She wished she could meet her and form her own opinion of this woman. She wasn’t afraid of meeting her, not like some of the villagers who’d walk a mile rather than run into her.

  Well, if Willy spoke she’d have to meet her, wouldn’t she? And oh, she hoped it would be soon because every time she was near him the feeling in her was like that of a smouldering fire, which only needed the touch of his lips to burst into a flame. But when that happened the flame, she knew, would engulf not only her but a number of others; and there would be screams of anguish from all sides, particularly from her father. But she felt strong enough to face the consequences, any consequences, if only Willy would speak.

  Two

  It was on this same Sunday morning that the matter of Willy’s association with Noreen Bentwood was being brought into the open at the Manor, and not by Willy or Tilly, although she wasn’t entirely unaware of what was going on, but by Josefina who, in an unusual burst of rage, had screamed her denunciation.

  It should happen that Josefina had made arrangements to go and visit John and Anna who were entertaining for the weekend Paul and Alice Barton, a brother and sister whose home was in Durham. The Bartons were what was known as a county family and whereas the county didn’t visit Mrs Tilly Sopwith, there was no such barrier at the home of Mr John and Anna Sopwith.

  Josefina found Paul Barton good company; he was a foil for her wit. Besides playing a good game of whist and croquet, he was good to watch at cricket.

  Of late there had been a great restlessness in Josefina. She couldn’t herself put a name to it, she only knew that she was tired of the Manor and the way of life in it. No-one with the exception of John and Anna ever visited. If she or Willy wanted to meet people they had to go out, not that that really worried her because she didn’t care much for people. With the exception of Willy and her mama there was no-one she really cared about. And then the feelings that she had for these two people appeared, as it were, to be set on different platforms in her mind.

  For her mama she had an affection, but the feeling she had for Willy she knew to be that which a woman has for a man. She also knew that Willy did not view her in this light but looked upon her more as a sister. And this, coupled with her knowledge that her mama was not really her mama, had caused to grow in her the feeling that she did not belong to anyone in this country. And so there had formulated in her mind a decision concerning her future. Her life presented her with two roads; if she could not walk the one she desired, then she would take the other stoically, and in doing so she might in the end be compensated and the strange void in her be filled.

  But in her cool reasoning she had forgotten to take into consideration that in her small exquisite body were traits of mixed heritage, whose reactions civilisation had merely dampened down.

  The arrangement of the house had been altered over the years. Tilly continued to use the bedroom which had always been hers, and the dressing room adjoining and the closet. She’d also
had a guest room turned into a private sitting room and it was here she spent most of her time, here she kept the books that concerned the running of the household and also those concerning the business of the mine. Gradually she had taken on the management of the mine, though not the practical side. This she still left to John and Steve and his under-manager, Alec Manning; but over the years she had come to know more about the business side of it than any of them, and this knowledge she had gradually imparted to her son. She had also encouraged him to take an active part in the running of the mine, for from a boy he had shown interest in it, and knowing that a choice of careers for him would be limited she saw his interest as a godsend to them both, imagining that whatever happened she would always have him by her side. Even if he married he would want her to remain on here. Well, where else could she go, or would she go, even though there were times when she wished she were miles away?

  All her life she seemed to have been alone; yet not quite alone, for it was true what Steve said, all her life he had been there, and was still there. And for many, many years, too, there had been Biddy.

  Biddy had been dead these last ten years, but as good as Fanny and Peg were, they could not make up for their mother. They had not the wisdom or the warmth. Loyalty, yes. Oh, she couldn’t ask for more loyalty than she still got from the Drew family; and since Fanny had married Biddle, he, too, had joined the clan, as it were, and defended her name against slander.

  It was odd that her name had still to be defended. And yet what had she done over the past sixteen years that would call for defence of her except that she had made an open friend of Steve.

  When in the quiet of the night her body ached for the closeness of another human being and she imagined a face looking at her from the pillow, she told herself she was a fool, all kinds of a fool, and cruel into the bargain, for what had she given this man in return for a lifetime’s devotion? Nothing but her hand, and at rare odd times her tight lips.

  Yet she knew that if she were to stand up before the altar and swear unto God that nothing else had transpired between them, God would not believe her. And after all, who would blame Him?

  She wondered at times how Steve managed to continue in this situation. She wondered if he had a woman on the side, someone whom he took up to that cottage in the hills. Twice he had taken her there but on each occasion the tenants had been present. They were a Mr and Mrs Gray. Peter Gray had been a lead miner who had had to leave the mine when the lead began to poison his system, but he was a man who was very handy and he had extended the cottage on both sides and made a fine job of it. Over the eleven years he had lived there the cottage had grown to twice its size with the addition of a wash-house, a cow byre and a stable, and all built lovingly with the stones he and his wife had gathered from the hillside. But two years ago Peter had died, and Nan, his wife, now an old woman, had gone down into the valley to live with her son. And not once since the cottage had become empty had Steve suggested that he take her up there. Yet she knew that every other week he took leave from the late shift on the Friday night until the Monday morning. She also knew that he paid not infrequent visits to an inn on the Gateshead road, and the reputation of this particular place was anything but savoury.

  And what did all this amount to? That he had a woman. And who could blame him? Not her; although the thought of it stabbed at her and created a pain of jealousy which she would have attributed to a young girl and not to a woman of fifty. But she didn’t look fifty; she didn’t look anything like her age. Nor did Steve. Steve was a year younger than herself but he could pass for a man in his late thirties. There was not a grey hair in his head and his body was straight, which was unusual in a man who had spent so many years going down the drift. But he looked after himself did Steve. As he had once said laughingly to her when she had seen him running across the hills, ‘I’ve got to keep up with you.’

  He often ran with Willy. Willy had to have a guide when he was out running, for the sight of his good eye was slowly deteriorating, and it gave her a keen pleasure to see them both together. Willy liked Steve. But then Willy liked most people. His nature was so kind and embracing that she feared for him at times. Only the good die young, it was said, and she was afraid that the gods might claim their own.

  And then there was Josefina. Josefina liked Willy, and Tilly sensed at times that she might even more than like. Yet you never really knew what Josefina was thinking. As a child she had been open in her love, demanding affection, but as she grew to girlhood and then touched on womanhood a strange reserve seemed to have settled on her. She looked a lot but said little. She had formed disconcerting habits: one such was sitting perfectly immobile for an hour or more at a time. It was as if the real being in her had gone away and left the outer casing without life. On one such occasion she had touched her shoulder, and Josefina turned and looked at her and said enigmatically, ‘Why did you do that, Mama?’

  ‘Do what?’ she had asked her.

  ‘Bring me back.’

  ‘Bring you back?’ Tilly had repeated. ‘From where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Josefina got up and walked away leaving Tilly very troubled. Yet within a short while she had returned to her sharp-tongued witty self. And the incident was forgotten, until it happened again . . .

  Of late there seemed to have been a barrier growing up between them. She was worried about Josefina. And now on this particular Sunday the years were rolled away by a succession of shouts that were touching on screams, and they were coming down from the nursery floor. Tilly’s head jerked backwards. It was as if there were two children up there again and Josefina was having a tantrum because Willy was laughing at her. But there were no children up there now. The whole nursery floor had been given over to Willy. The old school and playroom was now a music room because he loved playing the pianoforte. Also he was quite proficient on the violin. His bedroom was next door.

  The room across the landing, where Tilly herself had once slept, he had turned into a small museum in which every article was made of brass, from coal scuttles down through candlesticks and horse brasses to miniatures of all kinds of animals. Everything was brass. It was a strange hobby, one which was started by Ned Spoke’s uncle, the man who had taught him to wrestle. On Willy’s fourteenth birthday, Ned brought him a brass horseshoe for luck; and with that the collection had begun.

  When something heavy hit the floor above and Josefina’s voice rose to a shrill scream, Tilly ran from the room, along the corridor, and up the stairs to the nursery floor, and for a moment she put her hands over her ears as the voices of both Josefina and Willy came at her. Then she was in the music room and amazed at the sight before her, for there was Josefina flinging music books and sheets here and there, tearing some in the process.

  ‘Stop this! Stop it this instant!’ Tilly was herself yelling now. ‘Josefina, do you hear me! I say stop it!’ At this the girl paused for a moment; then suddenly lifting up the violin that was lying on the top of the piano, she swung it in an arc and sent it flying against the oak cupboard that stood against the far wall.

  ‘Oh no! No! You’re mad. You’re a bitch. Do you hear? You’re a bitch.’

  Tilly became still as she stared at her son now who was on his knees on the floor, his hands searching for the pieces of the broken violin that John had bought him on his sixteenth birthday and which was an excellent instrument and had cost a great deal of money. But it wasn’t that that was freezing her emotions, it was that this gentle son of hers should be so aroused that he would call the girl he thought of as his dear sister a bitch. She had never heard him use a swear word or an uncouth sentence in his life.

  Her head swung towards Josefina, who had rushed across the room and was standing over him. She had taken no notice of Tilly’s presence; it was as if she considered they were still both alone, for now she shouted, ‘I’m a bitch, am I, not to be classed with your pig and cow girl? All right, I’m a bitch, but you, Willy Sopwith, are a bastard, a stupid one-eyed bastard.’
/>
  There were times in Tilly’s life when she knew that she herself had been so consumed with rage that she became unaccountable for her actions, like the day she sprang on Alvero Portes and tore at his face. And now she had sprung again and had gripped Josefina by the shoulders and actually swung her from her feet into the middle of the room, and was shaking her as if she were a rat as she cried at her, ‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare use those words to my son! Do you hear me?’

  Josefina’s head became still for a moment. Fury still spitting from her eyes and her lips, she yelled, ‘Well, he is, he is a bastard. Besides his sight you have kept him in the dark . . . about that, and other things an’ all.’

  Tilly gaped open-mouthed at the slight, dark bundle of rage wriggling in her grasp; then she thrust her away with such force that the girl almost overbalanced, only saving herself by gripping the edge of the piano, at the other side of which Willy was now standing, the broken violin in his hands but not looking at it, for his face was turned to the side, his head moving slightly as he took in the two misted figures before him.

  The sudden and unusual burst of temper was ebbing from him and flowing into him now was a deep sickness lined with sorrow, not so much for himself and what he was hearing, but for the two people that he loved and who were stabbing each other with words, for now his mother was crying at Josefina, ‘He’s no bastard, but you are. Do you hear, girl? You are! You are my late husband’s bastard. Why did I adopt you? Not because your mother didn’t want you, for she knew she would be able to make use of you. No; I took you because I thought it was my duty. But I’m going to tell you something now, girl, and you’ve brought it on yourself: I don’t think my husband fathered you. He swore he didn’t but your mother and her father and brother wanted money, so they named him. And your mother was a loose woman. Now think on that, who’s the bastard?’