Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  Although she knew that his threat was empty because he was trespassing and had forced an entry into her house, she shivered as she recalled her ordeal the first time she had been in a court; and it was true, he had met her, he had been there to comfort her. He had been the only one to comfort her. But she couldn’t imagine that the bulky form walking slowly through the door was one and the same man as the kindly, thoughtful young Simon Bentwood. It was terrible to acknowledge the fact that love could have such power as to change a man into what Simon had become.

  The room began to buzz: the girls were around her, Peg, Fanny, Lizzy, Betty, and Christine Peabody. ‘Are you all right, ma’am? Are you all right, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right. Bring in some tea and . . . whisky,’ she said to Peg, and to the others she said, ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right. Just leave us.’

  She placed the gun on the table and as her hands left hold of it she clasped them together in an effort to stop them trembling, before walking down the room to where Willy was standing beside Steve. Peabody and Biddle were still present and it was Peabody who said, ‘I . . . I think, madam, that Mr McGrath should have attention.’

  She had to lean right down in order to see Steve’s face for he was bent over, one arm still hugging his waist.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  He made no answer, not even to move his head, and so she turned to Biddle and Peabody and said quietly, ‘Can you assist him upstairs to the grey suite?’

  ‘Yes, yes, ma’am.’

  One on each side of him, they went to help him up, but he shrugged them off; and Willy, moving to the front of him, said quietly, ‘Once you get straight you’ll be able to walk, Steve. Look, lift your arms.’

  Steve slowly raised his head and looked up at Willy and did what he was bid; and Willy, linking his forearms under Steve’s oxters, gently brought him upwards, then placing one hand firmly on the bottom of his spine he pressed it, saying, ‘That better?’

  Steve gave him a sickly smile now as he said, ‘Yes. Strangely it is.’

  ‘Phil Spoke knew a trick or two.’

  ‘He must have,’ Steve nodded at him; then looking at Tilly he asked, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a slight quiver to her voice but she repeated, ‘Yes, I’m all right. Can you manage the stairs?’

  ‘Thanks all the same, but if you don’t mind I’d rather make for home.’

  ‘But I think you should be attended to.’

  ‘It’ll . . . it’ll just be a bruise. Winded me for a time.’ He nodded at her.

  She stared at him, then said, ‘Very well, but you won’t be able to ride.’ She turned to Biddle now. ‘Tell Myers to bring the coach round as soon as possible,’ then turning again towards Steve, she took his arm, saying, ‘Come and sit down.’

  Slowly and stiffly Steve walked up the room, but when Tilly indicated the sofa he shook his head, saying, ‘I think I’ll be better standing, if you don’t mind.’

  She looked at him now in deep concern. ‘I wish you’d stay and let me see to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m used to managing. It’s yourself you’ve got to think about.’ With this, he turned to where Willy was standing near him and, moving his head slowly he said, ‘Now have you changed your mind about letting your friends deal with that maniac?’

  Willy did not answer but facing his mother and Steve, he said slowly, ‘She must have got away. Why didn’t she come here to me?’

  ‘Well, I should have thought that was obvious, lad, she knew she would endanger you.’

  ‘Where could she have gone?’ He turned his dim gaze from one to the other, and when neither of them spoke he said, ‘I’ll find her. She can’t have gone all that far, she wouldn’t know how, for she’s never been further than Newcastle in her life.’

  As Tilly looked at her son she hoped from the depths of her heart that his search would be in vain because instinctively she knew that if he were to find her he wouldn’t enjoy her for long. One way or another, Simon would see to that, for she wouldn’t always be there with a gun.

  Nine

  The village was agog. My God! She had started again, that one up there. She had shot the farmer now, and him just going asking if she had seen his daughter. And her fancy man going for him! Well, Farmer Bentwood had seen to him, laid him on his back for close on a week he had, almost put an end to his whoring too, so it was said. But to think she would actually take a gun up and shoot the farmer, him that had been so kind to her in her young days. Why, she had been the cause of his first wedding going wrong; hadn’t she made a scene on his very wedding night, when he’d gone running to her aid and left his bride soured.

  Old Mrs McGrath, now a toothless hag, retold the tale for the hundredth time to her grandson, even going as far as to brag it was her hand that had taken the light from the witch’s bastard’s eyes. But her own son had warned her an equal number of times to stop her chattering, and he warned her now to keep the door closed and her voice down when she spoke of that ’un up there, because, say what you like, she had power. It had already been proved in both ways in their very own family; hadn’t she killed one of them off and raised another to a position he would never have reached on his own, for what had that young snipe learned in a pit that he himself and his brothers hadn’t? Looking back, he reminded his mother that her youngest son hadn’t had a word to say for himself when a lad, timid he had been, skinny, undersized, and look at him now, six foot if an inch and broad with it, and learned they said, book read, and spoke no more like the rest of them. Now who but one with a strange power could have brought that about, he asked his mother yet again, so it behoved her to speak in whispers when she was alluding to that ’un.

  The day following the events at the Manor Randy Simmons brought the news to his master that his daughter had been seen tearing towards the turnpike road the night before, and the same pair of eyes had watched her wave down the horse bus before it reached the turnpike; and she had been alone except for a bass hamper that she carried.

  After hearing this news, Simon Bentwood looked for his wife and found her in the dairy, her arms turning the wheel of the churn. She didn’t stop her work when he came and stood close beside her. Putting out his left hand, for his right one was hanging stiffly by his side, he gripped her free arm and said, ‘You manoeuvred it, eh?’

  Lucy stopped wielding the churn handle and, taking up a large wooden spoon from the bench to the side of her, she brought it down sharply across the knuckles that were gripping her flesh.

  At this, he almost screamed at her, ‘Go on, woman, put my other one out of action! Is that what you’re aiming at?’

  She walked away from him, placing the churn between them, and then she said, ‘Yes, if you handle me in such a fashion again, yes. And aye, I did manoeuvre it. I wasn’t going to see you drive my daughter mad up in that slit of a room, so I told her what to do. Throw filth over him, I said, because what was in her bucket would match your mind.’

  ‘Be careful, woman, careful! I warn you.’

  ‘You can warn me of nothing, Simon Bentwood, no more, no more. I’ve put up with you for years because I loved you. I’ve lived with the fact that your mind was on that woman every minute of your waking hours and I tolerated it because, as I said, I loved you. But no more, after the way you’ve treated your daughter and aimed to break her spirit into submission because you couldn’t bear to think that she would find happiness with the son of the woman that spurned you. I could see you dead tomorrow and not mourn.’ She paused now and stared into his face. His brows were beetling, yet the expression on his face seemed to express more pain than rage, and when she ended, ‘I never in my life imagined I would say those words to you, but they’re true. And I will add to them this: from now on I’m no longer your wife. I’ll cook and clean and work, but I’ll no longer share your bed, not ever again. You’ll have to find solace elsewhere, Simon, to ease the hunger in your heart, but it’ll never again come from me.’

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nbsp; She ran her hands down each side of her white apron before ending, ‘Now if you’ll leave me I’ll finish the butter, but if you don’t then you can get your henchmen to come and do it for you.’ She watched his lips part slowly, his mouth open wide as if gasping at the air. She waited for him to speak but no words came. His lips closed, he made an attempt to straighten his back; then winced inwardly at the pain before turning away and walking slowly out.

  She did not turn to watch his going but, gripping the handle of the churn again, she swung it down and up; and now her own mouth was open wide and the salt tears were raining from her eyes down into it.

  Tilly visited Steve on each of the first three days after the incident at the house. She had wanted to attend him but he had pushed her off as if she were a young girl who had never witnessed bare flesh, so she arranged for Peter Myers to see to him. But it was from the doctor she derived the extent of the injury Steve had received. The impact had split open his groin almost two inches and it had to be stitched; moreover, his whole hip was bruised.

  Tilly had arranged for Fanny to ride over in the trap, taking a hot meal to him and, whilst there, to tidy the cottage. She would like to have carried out the latter duties herself, and doubtless would have done if Willy hadn’t been claiming most of her time.

  Willy had become a problem. Never had she imagined this quiet son of hers could become so intense and show such determination. In a strange way she could see Matthew in him, for Matthew’s one aim in life had been to conquer herself; it seemed now that this trait had also developed fast in Willy. He was more like Matthew’s son than Mark’s but, of course, she should not be surprised at any traits that made their appearance in her son that resembled those in Matthew, for were they not half-brothers?

  Willy was determined to find Noreen, and his main idea was that the best place to look for her would be in Newcastle. But he couldn’t search alone, and so without even asking his mother’s leave he had ordered Ned Spoke to take him in, not on just one or two occasions but every day. He had not even enquired if she would need the coach. This annoyed her, and so she brought it into the open on the evening of the fifth day.

  It was almost dark when he returned. She had gone to the drawing-room door to watch him entering the hall and she saw by the way he walked and the groping movement of his hands held out before him, that his sight at this stage must be very dim, and so she directed him towards her, saying, ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  He lifted his head and, walking more steadily now, he crossed to her, saying, ‘Yes, we had a bite around teatime.’

  She looked from his pale, dust-covered face to his equally dust-covered suit, which spoke of the miles he must have tramped round the city, and certainly not in the main thoroughfare, and she had the desire to put her arms about him and comfort him, while at the same time she knew, should she do so, she would be seeing the boy he once was and not the man he had become.

  She walked just ahead of him, her voice leading him into the middle of the room and to the couch, and there she said, ‘What will you have? Some soup and cold meats?’

  ‘No, no, I want nothing to eat, but . . . but I’d like a drink, a whisky.’

  The surprise she felt she didn’t show in her voice as she repeated, ‘A whisky?’ He hadn’t been a spirit drinker, not even a wine drinker, if he drank anything it was the usual ale.

  She had rung the bell and Biddle had brought in the tray and decanter. She sat down on the couch and, following a moment’s silence, she said, ‘This can’t go on, Willy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For so many reasons.’ She turned her body towards him and her voice was sharp now: ‘You’ll wear yourself out. Moreover, Ned is wanted here, as is the coach. You did not even ask if I might need it.’

  There was silence again for a time before he answered, ‘No, I didn’t because I thought you would understand. Anyway, I would think I was past the stage where I’ve got to ask permission to use the coach. As for Ned, I was under the impression that you gave him me as a guide years ago. He is my man.’

  If in the future were she to try to pinpoint the time when her boy finally went from her, she knew it was now on this beautiful June evening, two days after his twentieth birthday with the scent floating in from the garden, with the air still and the house quiet and seemingly at peace. The love that was tearing at her son had thrust itself between them, severing the bond that had linked them from his birth, and with this knowledge the pall of aloneness settled on her once more. Had there still been Steve in the background waiting, his patience of years proving his stability, the pain would not have been so acute.

  Josefina gone, Steve gone, and now Willy. What was it about her that time and again thrust her out into the wilderness? What had begun it all, this thing that caused her to be misjudged; ostracised, that caused men to love her and hate her and often brought death in its wake? Money . . . yes, money. She felt herself nodding at this realisation. It was as if for the first time her eyes had been opened and she saw from where stemmed her fate, the stolen money, stolen by the McGraths, and discovered by her grandfather and taken from its hiding place by him and Simon Bentwood’s father and hidden in the well of the farm. And it was she herself who, as a child, innocently revealed to old woman McGrath, Steve’s mother, that she possessed a sovereign, a sovereign to go shopping with when it was known that her grandfather had never worked for years, and they were supposed to live from hand to mouth. From that day the McGraths had planned to recover what they thought was theirs, and when all else failed Hal McGrath had determined to get his hands on the money by marrying her. That had been the beginning. And yet not quite: there had been her desire too to read and write. This had brought her within the vision of the parson’s wife, and the parson’s wife, who was young at heart, had besides teaching her her letters, taught her how to dance, and with dancing the image of the witch had been born. And it was strange when she came to think of it, she had never danced since. She was now fifty years old and she had never danced. She had faintly hoped to do so on that New Year’s Eve years ago, but that was the night the mine had been flooded, and that was the night Steve first kissed her as they stood together watching the New Year come in.

  ‘Will you want the carriage tomorrow?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said will you want the carriage tomorrow?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘I can go in the trap, it makes no difference.’

  ‘No; take whichever you want.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right . . . Go to bed. I’m going up too.’

  Willy pulled himself to his feet and when he was facing her he said slowly, ‘I can’t help myself, Mama, I wish I could, but she’s . . . she’s all I want from life. It’s odd, the feeling she creates in me when I’m with her, it’s . . . it’s as if I’d come home. I can’t explain it. I . . . I understand how Josefina wanted to return to Texas.’

  He stopped speaking and turned his head to the side now as if Josefina had suddenly appeared, and he recalled a dream that had been vivid in the night, but had escaped him on awakening leaving only a vague, confused feeling. But now he was remembering it, because in his dream he had been searching in an unknown place and it wasn’t for Noreen but for Josefina. He put his hand to his head. Sometimes over the last few days he had thought he wasn’t only going stone blind but stone mad.

  When he felt the touch on his arm he allowed himself to be led from the room and up the stairs. All his life he had been led here and guided there, and he now felt a fierce urge to throw off the arm that he had leaned on for years and scream to the gods to give him light, at least light enough that he would never need hers or anyone’s guiding hand again.

  Ten

  During the weeks that followed and slipped into months there grew in Tilly a feeling of helpless despair as she watched her son get into the coach that was to take him to Newcastle or Gateshead or Sunderland or Durham. His search had taken the form of
a mania; he had become the object of gossip to the extent that bets were laid on his finding young Noreen Bentwood before her father did, because it was well known that Simon too was searching, not so frequently perhaps but with more advantage.

  During the last two weeks however, there had been days when the carriage had not gone out and Willy had stayed at home and spent the time in his rooms or walking in the gardens. He could do this alone because he knew every path and turn up to where the land drifted away into fields.

  These days had brought relief, she knew, to Ned Spoke, for she guessed he had become weary tramping the streets, his eyes continually searching. But when she had questioned him about the procedure he had made no word of complaint for she knew he was devoted to Willy. This the young man had demonstrated when once she said to him, ‘See that he gets a good meal when he’s out, Ned,’ to which he had replied, ‘He won’t go into an hotel, ma’am, because you see I can’t sit with him, my being dressed as I am. And then I’d be like a fish out of water eating in them places, so it’s usually rough grub, pies and peas, or pork dips an’ such, but it’s fillin’ an’ wholesome and he eats.’ And he added, ‘Well, he knows he’s got to, ma’am, if he wants to go on.’

  Occasionally Steve would relieve Ned. At least on half a dozen Sundays he had acted as Willy’s guide. The last time was the Sunday just gone. It had been a very wet day. September was nearing October, the trees had turned, the grass was yellowing and the land was getting ready for the winter, and on their return Steve had remarked on this, saying to her, ‘Something’ll have to happen to put a stop to this afore the winter sets in or you’re going to have a sick man on your hands, Tilly.’