Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  My God! My God! Tilly put her hand to her head and, turning about, staggered to the wall and leant her face against it. What had she said? What had happened? In a few minutes of anger she had destroyed the girl’s life. Their association had been wonderful until this very day . . . No, it hadn’t. A denial came at her. For some time now Josefina had been changing and the girl’s attitude towards her had at times been marked.

  Slowly, she turned about and now leant against the wall again and looked from one to the other. Their faces were no longer convulsed with anger. Both seemed to be holding the same expression as they stared at her, and the only word she could put to it was, amazement.

  Piteously now, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ then letting her gaze rest on Josefina, she said softly, ‘Forgive me. Please forgive me.’

  Josefina blinked her eyes, then turned and glanced at Willy before looking at Tilly again, and when she spoke it was as if she hadn’t been screaming her head off minutes before for her voice sounded cool and calm and what she said appeared as if she had given the matter great thought, not that it had been thrust upon her only minutes before. ‘There is nothing to forgive. I, too, should say I’m sorry. And what you have told me is not such a surprise as you may imagine, only I wish I had acted as I felt inclined to some time ago and brought the matter into the open. The only difference your revelation has made is for me to reappraise how I feel inside, and how I appear outside, for I have realised that I am not wholly Indian or Mexican or even Spanish, but I have never imagined there was English blood in me. I’m inclined to believe what you said, that your husband did not father me. If he did it would make our relationship’ – she now glanced at Willy – ‘rather complicated, and I don’t know how you would term it. Seeing that Willy was born of one man and I of his son, we cannot therefore be half-brother and sister. I don’t know what we can be’ – she shrugged her shoulders – ‘that is if I was born of your husband, which, if I am to go by my inner feelings, I would repudiate.’

  Tilly stared into the small, exquisite face. The way she spoke, the words she used, were alien to how she looked, but if ever she’d had doubts before she doubted it now that Matthew had ever sired this girl. And so what was their relationship? If there was nothing of Matthew in her then she would be free to have Willy . . . to marry Willy. There, it was out, the secret fear that she had kept hidden for years, because she had known that Josefina loved Willy. This had been demonstrated since he had met up with Simon’s daughter, not only met up with, but become very interested in. This, too, had been a source of worry, even more so than Josefina’s affection for Willy, for she could imagine how the bitter, frustrated Simon Bentwood would look upon his daughter favouring her son, and he with his handicap.

  She wondered if ever life would run smoothly for her, that she’d ever have a day to call her own, go where she liked, act how she liked. Yes, act how she liked. And if she could only act how she liked at this moment she would take up her skirts and flee from this house to the cottage and throw herself into the arms of Steve. Yes, yes, throw herself into his arms, into his bed. Strange how years could alter one’s feelings. Of all the loves in her life there had never been one like the present, one that exchanged so little yet was so fiercely strong on both sides, like a subterranean torrent ever flowing in search of an outlet.

  ‘May I speak to you alone . . . Mama?’ The last word came hesitant from Josefina. This didn’t go unnoticed by Tilly, and she stared at this girl who had in a way ceased to be her daughter even by adoption and, looking towards Willy, she said, ‘Would you excuse us, Willy?’

  Willy scrutinised them both for a moment through the narrowed lid of his eye, then turned abruptly and left the room. And now Tilly and Josefina were alone, and almost immediately the girl began to speak. ‘Don’t look so worried, Mama,’ she said; ‘it all had to come into the open sooner or later. It’s really later because I’ve been thinking a lot about my beginnings for a long time now and waiting for the opportunity to talk to you about the matter. But I’d rather it hadn’t been in this way.’

  ‘Well,’ Tilly sighed, ‘why did you bring it about then? Why were you screaming at Willy?’

  ‘Oh that!’ Josefina now turned her back completely on Tilly and, walking to the window, she stood looking out for a moment before she said, ‘I wanted him to ride over to Uncle John’s with me. The Bartons are going to be there, Paul and Alice.’ She turned her head slightly now in Tilly’s direction. ‘You know Paul is the only man who has shown any real interest in me; not that I imagine he could ever bring himself to ask me to marry him, but his manner is natural when talking to me. He does not treat me like a black servant when I don’t speak, or show embarrassed surprise at my intelligence and choice of subjects when I do. If you remember, Mama, for a time a few years ago the county doors were opened slightly for us to squeeze through, but apparently their curiosity being satisfied, they were closed again, that is with the exception of the Bartons. But it really didn’t matter because—’ She turned her head to the window again and paused before continuing, ‘I was quite happy to be at home here as long as I was with Willy. He was all the company that I wanted. But I suppose you know, Mama, I love Willy and if, as you say—’ Again her head moved so that she could see Tilly, and then she ended, ‘If, as you say, you don’t think your husband was my father, then I am no relation to Willy and there would be nothing to stop us marrying, except one thing: he has always seen me as a sister and he has been led to think of me that way. But—’ She now walked towards where Tilly was standing and her body seemed to become even smaller with the admission that she dragged from her lips as, with bowed head, she said, ‘There’s another thing: he loves that Bentwood girl.’

  If in an unemotional moment Tilly had been asked which girl she would choose for her son she would, if she were to answer truthfully, have said, ‘Neither.’ But at this moment, if forced to make a choice, she would have plumped for this dark exquisite creature before her, who was now wringing her heart with the unusual expression of sadness on her face, for with this girl Willy’s choice would bring no repercussions, except perhaps raised eyebrows from the county folk and expressions of ‘Well! What do you expect of that set-up?’ from the villagers. But for the Bentwood girl, she guessed that Simon Bentwood would rather see his daughter dead than married to her son. The jungle telegraph worked both ways and over the years she herself had inadvertently, and sometimes deliberately, listened in as the messages dropped into the kitchen quarters. Simon’s tirades against his daughter in his drunken bouts were general knowledge, but it never ceased to amaze her that such love as he professed for herself could turn into a red raw, deep uncontrollable hate. That his wife held no such feelings she had personal evidence of, for on the four occasions they had met during the last fifteen years they had stopped and spoken amicably, both enquiring after the other’s children and both knowing that under different circumstances they could have been friends.

  Of the daughter in question Tilly knew nothing, except that she was a bonny girl with an open countenance. She had passed her when out riding but they had never exchanged a word. She wondered now how she would react to this girl if she ever became her daughter-in-law and, presumably, mistress of this house.

  Her whole body jerked, whether at the thought that had come like a violent stab into her mind or at the shock of Josefina’s words, for she had just said, ‘If I can’t have Willy, I am going back to America to find my people.’

  Tilly’s mouth opened and shut twice before she brought out, ‘You . . . you won’t find them in America. Well . . . I mean not the America from where I brought you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they are . . . they are mostly white people there now.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be accepted, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying, you’d never be accepted, not as an equal.’

  ‘Well, I could find my own people and be accepted there I suppose.


  ‘You . . . you could not endure the life of your own people.’

  ‘What about the Spanish? I can remember speaking Spanish fluently when I was little.’

  ‘That . . . that was the language a lot of Mexicans adopted because they were integrated.’

  ‘So, no-one would have me, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m being truthful, Josefina, for your own good. You are here, you belong here. You . . . ’

  ‘No, I don’t! That I do know.’ The anger was back in her tone. ‘I have known for a long, long time that I’ve no place here, and that only Willy could have made my life tolerable. Well, say what you like, I mean to go back and find out for myself how I’ll be received. I won’t have to ask you for any money, you have been more than generous to me with my allowance over the years, and I have spent very little of it, seemingly because, well, I suppose that some day I knew the time would come when I would leave. And the time has come.’

  ‘Josefina!’ Tilly held out both her hands towards the small figure, saying pleadingly now, ‘Wait! Wait! If you must go back then you must, but . . . but let me make arrangements. I’ve kept in touch with Luisa McNeill over the years. And there is also Katie. She will welcome you and help you.’

  Josefina remained silent. Her dark eyes looked bright but not with the moisture of tears. Tilly had never seen her cry; not even after tumbles as a child she had never cried; yelled and fought, yes, but never given way to tears. But now she saw her throat swelling and she watched her gulp before she spoke. ‘Will you write to them straight away?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, this very night.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Josefina turned away, Tilly had the desire to pull her back and into her arms as she had done when she was a child. As a child she had demanded to be held, to be petted, to be loved; but there was nothing of the child in Josefina now, only a cool aloofness that held one at bay and which was the result of deep conflicts of colour and race, a race that had its beginning in the past so far back that all that surged to the surface now was a strange uneasiness.

  After the door closed on Josefina Tilly sat down on the music stool in front of the piano. About her feet were slithers of broken wood, some a polished brown, some showing a plain surface. As she stared down on them, the thought came to her that they represented her life, for every now and again back down the years something had broken her happiness, dashing it to smithereens. Superstition, jealousy, death had all played their part, and now love, young love had suddenly flared into passion with the result that not only was she going to lose her adopted daughter but there was every possibility that she would soon lose her son. And he was the only human being she loved in life . . . Except, of course, Steve. The ‘of course’ passed through her mind as if her feelings for him were an established and open fact instead of a secret pain known only to herself.

  When she heard the handle of the door turn, she looked over her shoulder and watched Willy enter the room. He did it slowly, turning and closing the door and seeming to pause a minute before making his way towards her. Then one hand resting on the side of the piano, he stood peering down at her. She did not return his gaze but kept her eyes lowered towards the floor once more; nor did she raise her head when he said, ‘Is it true that I was born out of wedlock, Mama?’

  The question sounded so precise, as if a character in a book had suddenly become alive and was speaking his lines. She almost gave voice to a shaky laugh. ‘Is it true that I was born out of wedlock, Mama?’ Not as one of her own people would have said, ‘What’s this I’m hearing! Look! I want the truth, am I a bastard or am I not?’ but, ‘Is it true that I was born out of wedlock, Mama?’

  In an ordinary way she should have been amazed at this moment that her son was still in ignorance of the true nature of his birth. He was nearly twenty years old, he was a man, a big, handsome-looking man; not even near blindness nor the scar across his brow left by the blow that had inflicted him with the blindness detracted from his good looks, and all his life, at least since she had put him in the care of Ned Spoke, he had shown a desire to mix with people, and mix he had. He had attended the fairs and the hill races and the markets. This being so, you would have thought that somebody would, perhaps when in drink, have referred to him as a bastard; but apparently no-one had. Perhaps the condition of his eyes had evoked pity; added to which the very fact that he went down the mine and showed that he wasn’t afraid to use pick or shovel when learning the ins and outs of the business had caught the admiration of other men.

  Yet it wasn’t only with the common man he had mixed. He had, through John and Anna, met members of the county and these, as she knew only too well from personal experience, could convey an insult while smiling into your face, or the inflexion they laid on a few simple words could set a mind wondering. Yet he had escaped all this and here he was asking a question, the answer to which, had she been wise, she would have given him years ago.

  She raised her head and, looking up into his deep brown eyes over which the lids were blinking rapidly now, she said tensely, ‘Yes, it’s true. I lived with your father for twelve years and I nursed him every day of that time. He had, as you already know, been in an accident at the pit which deprived him of his feet. His wife would not divorce him. When she died he wanted to marry me but I said no. I was of a different class. I felt unfit to take on the position of his wife . . . that is legally. You were conceived very late in our association. I would have married him then to give you a legal name but he died.’

  ‘And then you married his son?’

  These words were ordinary-sounding now, but with a note of condemnation in them, and she replied more stiffly still, ‘Yes, I married his son. I married him because I loved him and he was a young man. I had never known the love of a young man.’ At this moment she did not think of Steve, but apparently her son did for his next question brought her up from the seat so swiftly that she almost overbalanced and her voice was loud as she cried at him, ‘No! I am not having that kind of association with Steve.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised that you aren’t because he cares for you.’

  She was silent for a moment before she said, ‘And what gives you that idea?’

  ‘Well—’ He sighed and turned from the piano now and walked away from her towards the table as he said, ‘I may be almost blind but I can still see a little; and then again I don’t discount my hearing. He talks of you. I have learned more about you from him than from anyone else. At one time I imagined he was my father.’

  ‘Willy!’

  ‘Oh’ – he swung round now – ‘don’t say it like that, Mother, as if you were shocked. I’ve always imagined that nothing could shock you; you know so much of the world, and have gone through so much. It would have been the most natural thing that you two should come together now and again. I understand it must have been difficult for you both, you in your position, he in his, but I thought . . . well’ – he shrugged his shoulders and stretched out his arms while she stared at him.

  The young man confronting her now seemed a different being from the one who had entered the room a few minutes ago and said, ‘Is it true that I was born out of wedlock, Mama?’ And now she watched him sigh deeply as he went on, ‘What does it matter how we were born, where we were born, and even who begot us, it’s how we act that matters. You, I think, have acted for other people’s good all your life and without much thanks. Most people seemed to have wrought havoc on you, and I’m, apparently, going to be no exception when I tell you that I’m in love with Noreen Bentwood and mean to marry her, that is if she’ll have me.’

  He took a step nearer to her, his face to the side now, with one eye peering at her, his voice soft as he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’m hurting you. I never want to hurt you. I know how you view Bentwood and I’ve never got to the bottom of why he hates you so much except that you turned him down more than once, but I suppose th
at would be enough to make any man hate. She’s . . . she’s a nice girl, Mama, a lovely girl . . . say something please.’

  She had to force herself to bring out the words, ‘If . . . if she makes you happy that’s everything. Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No. Oh no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, not a word. And . . . and I don’t think I’ve given her a sign because . . . well’ – he gave a short laugh – ‘I’m not exactly the catch of the season.’

  ‘She’d be the luckiest girl alive to get you, and I would think she knows it.’

  ‘I wish I could think like that. She’s been kind to me and—’ He turned away now and walked towards the window saying, ‘There’s no-one I’ve known that I’ve felt more at ease with.’ He did not add, ‘except yourself’ and she closed her eyes tightly and bit on her lip. ‘We’ve sat on the river bank and I’ve held her hand, just held her hand, and it’s filled me with a feeling of . . . Well, I can’t explain it. I suppose one could say peace, and yet no, not peace because there’s a turmoil inside me when she’s near. And what’s more, she takes away that awful feeling of being disabled. I feel whole when I’m near her.’

  He stopped speaking and she saw his face tilted back as if he were looking towards the sky. He seemed gone from her entirely, and the pain in her chest was as if a mill was grinding against her ribs. She had never imagined he felt himself handicapped, he had always been so cheerful, so outgoing as if he took his lack of sight as a natural thing. Her pain increased as realisation seeped into her that her son had not gone from her this day but rather some long time ago; perhaps the very first time he had met up with Noreen Bentwood.