Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  On one occasion she had paced the floor for hours and the soft padding of her steps had penetrated upwards, and Willy, sleep eluding him too and with ears highly attuned to every sound in the house, had made his way downstairs and, knocking on her door, he had called, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ and she had answered, ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Then after a moment he had asked, ‘May I come in? I can’t sleep either.’

  She had stirred up the fire and they had sat side by side before it in silence for a time, until he said, ‘It’s Steve, isn’t it?’

  She was sharp to answer, ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because I suppose my ears have taken over from my eyes and I read a lot from inflexions, and yours has very little warmth in it now when you talk to him.’

  She hadn’t answered him for a time, then said, ‘We had a difference,’ and to this he replied, ‘Well, I hope for both your sakes it doesn’t last. He’s a good man, Steve, you know, Mama. There’s not a better. He’s honest, true, and he’s been a good friend to you . . . and to me.’

  Honest? she had thought. Devious would be a better word to apply to him.

  Changing the subject, he had said suddenly, ‘I have a feeling, Mama, that Noreen is dead. I dozed off while I was reading and I saw her. She looked changed, really grotesque, but I put my hands out to her and she slapped them away. Then I opened my eyes and the feeling became stronger. It was as if she were in the room with me. But there’s a certainty in me now that we’ll never come together.’

  ‘Don’t say that, dear, just keep hoping. We could hear any day from the agent we engaged; he has already traced her to two places since she left the lodgings.’

  Willy had said nothing to this but had risen from the chair and made his way towards the door. There he had said, ‘Goodnight, Mama,’ and she had answered simply, ‘Goodnight, Willy.’

  And then he had added, ‘Think about Steve.’

  Think about Steve? If she could only stop thinking about Steve . . .

  And now it was December. The snow had come early this year. Twice there had been heavy falls. They’d had no post for three days, but on midday on this Wednesday Jimmy got through to the village and met the carrier and returned with a sheaf of letters, one of which was addressed to Mrs P. Crosby.

  After giving Biddle the letter to take to Peg, Tilly went up into her room and the first one she opened was from Josefina. It was short and very surprising and right to the point. It began simply:

  ‘Mama, I am coming home. I have booked my passage and sail early in January. I cannot wait to leave this land and be once again with you, and with Willy, even with his wife, if Miss Bentwood has returned. I imagined that a rejected love was the most cruel thing anyone could suffer, but I have discovered that there are feelings that can be injured more deeply. Rejection of one’s colour can carry sufficient hurt but when you carry the imprint of two on your countenance then the hurt reaches depths which you didn’t imagine lay within you.

  ‘I realise now that you protected me, even cosseted me, and I long to return to that protection. Your loving Josefina.’

  Tilly sat back in the chair and covered her eyes with her hands for a moment while her teeth pressed into her lower lip. It was as if a daughter of her own flesh was expressing a longing to be with her again. After what had happened of late with Willy and Steve, especially with Steve, Josefina’s return would be all the more welcome, and she experienced a feeling almost akin to joy as she thought of them both being in the house again with her, Willy perhaps seeing Josefina in a different light, that is if Noreen didn’t appear on his horizon again. And as day had followed day she had become more assured that this latter would not happen.

  She had just opened the letter from Katie, which confirmed what Josefina had written, when there came a tap on the door and when she said, ‘Come in!’ Peg entered.

  Immediately Tilly sensed her confusion, and she guessed before Peg spoke what was causing it.

  ‘Can I have a word with you . . . ma’am?’ There was always a hesitancy with all of the Drews between her title of ma’am and her name, even after all these years.

  ‘Of course, Peg. Sit down.’

  Peg sat on the edge of the small padded couch that stood crossways in the middle of the room, and she drooped her head and unclasped her hands before, suddenly groping in her pocket, she drew out a letter, saying, ‘I’ve had word from our Katie.’

  ‘Yes, I thought it would be from her.’ Tilly nodded, then slapped at the letter in her own hand. ‘I’ve had one too.’

  ‘You haven’t read it then?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  Again Peg looked down. Then her voice a mere mutter, she said, ‘She’s sent me the money for me passage, she wants me to go out. What am I to do?’ She raised her eyes now and looked straight at Tilly.

  ‘What do you want to do, Peg?’

  Peg glanced to the side; then lifting her hand, she straightened her cap, pushing at the starched frill that covered her ears before saying, ‘I’m not ungrateful. Believe me I’m not ungrateful. You’ve done so much for all of us, but I’m gettin’ on, Tilly, and somehow I’d like to end me days with our Katie. I’m sorry.’ Peg’s head dropped lower until Tilly said softly, ‘Peg, look at me.’ And when Peg had lifted her head she went on, ‘I’m not going to say I won’t miss you, I shall, there’ll only be Fanny left, but you’ve got to live your own life. And there could be a lot of it left to you yet, for you’re so sprightly and don’t look half your age. And so you write straight back and I’ll do the same; and I’ll also make arrangements for your passage on the next boat out.’

  ‘You won’t want me to serve me notice?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Tilly now got to her feet, Peg also rose, and they stood confronting each other as Tilly said, ‘There’s no need to talk of notice between you and me or any of your family, my family, because that’s how I consider you all, as my family, the only real one I ever knew after I lost the old people. And what’s more you’ll not go out empty-handed, you’ll go out as a well-dressed, well-endowed woman. And if the men are after you for nothing else they’ll be after you for your money.’ She now punched Peg playfully in the shoulder. But Peg, bowing her head again, began to giggle like any young girl until her laughter suddenly sprang into tears. And then they were holding each other, Tilly, too, crying now as she said, ‘There, there. It’ll be a wonderful life for you. You’ll enjoy it. Just think what it’s done for Katie.’

  After a moment they separated and both stood wiping their eyes, smiling now, and Peg said, ‘What about them Indians?’

  ‘Oh, well, I should think by now they’re all dead and buried. Katie’s man has likely polished them off. Oh’ – her voice became serious now – ‘don’t worry about the Indians. As Luisa said, the Civil War was worse to put up with than the Indians. There’s great things going on out there. I often think how different my life would have been if Matthew had survived. We would have had our own big ranch and thousands of head of cattle and horses, and’ – she nodded towards Peg now – ‘that’s what you could have one day, you’ll see. There’s lots of lonely men out there.’

  ‘Oh, Tilly. Oh no, not me. Never again; not at my age.’

  ‘Don’t tell them your age; well, knock ten years off. Anyway, Doug’s a big man now being partner with Luisa; a lot of marvellous things can happen and will happen to you. Well now, go on downstairs and tell the others. I doubt if the lads will be pleased. Yet on the other hand—’ she pulled a long face and nodded towards Peg as she ended, ‘they might take a leaf out of your book and the rest of them follow you. And then where will I be?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no fear of that, Tilly; the lads know where they’re well off. Aye, as our Sam often says, it was a lucky day for the Drews when they drew up alongside of you that special Sunday.’

  ‘And a very lucky day for me, too, Peg, oh yes. But go on now.’

  ‘Thanks, Tilly. I’ll never forget you. None of us ever will.’

>   The room to herself again, Tilly stood looking towards the door. Peg had said she would never forget her. That was very magnanimous of her because at times if she hadn’t hated her she must have disliked her when she saw her as the stumbling block between Steve and herself, for Biddy had made no secret of the fact that in her opinion Steve would have taken up with Peg had Tilly been out of the way. But Tilly had known this would never come about because Steve would never have stayed in this quarter of the country if it hadn’t been for her, even before he discovered his daughter . . . Oh, his daughter. She turned away with an impatient twist of her body and went to the desk and finished Katie’s letter, which told her exactly what Peg had just said.

  The remainder of her mail was dealing with business. After she had gone through all the letters and filed them for answering she rose and went to the window. It had started to snow heavily again, big white flakes, falling slowly and so thickly that she couldn’t see down into the garden. She sighed deeply. At this rate the road could be blocked again and they could be hemmed in for days, even weeks. There seemed nothing to look forward to, until she reminded herself of Josefina’s coming. And on this she gathered up two letters from the desk and went out of the room towards the attic floor and the studio where she could hear Willy playing the piano. He spent most of his time now playing the piano or the violin. He seemed to find comfort in the pieces that he chose; all slow movements. That was how he must be feeling about life, slow, tedious. And for her, too; oh yes, yes, for her too it was slow, and tedious.

  Twelve

  There was a fug of warmth in the room which contrasted with the bitter snow-driven wind outside.

  It was just on one o’clock. The street grating, under which and supported by two planks of wood was a piece of plate glass, at no time allowed very much light into the basement room, but today it could have been a brick wall so thick was it covered with the black slush from the treading feet.

  The lamps fixed to the walls on each side of the table were so placed that they illuminated only the table itself and the double oven fireplace exactly four feet from the end of it. Perhaps this was as well for they shut out from Noreen Bentwood’s gaze a regiment of cockroaches and fearless rats that infested the margin of the basement. So dim were the outskirts of the room that to the vermin it must have been constant night, and the cockroaches, if not the rats, seemed to take this for granted. The two cats that should have been parading the premises were so satiated with food that they slept most of their time, except at night when they escaped to pursue their instincts.

  Proggle’s Pie Shop was situated in an alley off the waterfront. It was open from six o’clock in the morning until twelve at night and was never known to be empty. It was also known that Proggle never kept his cooks longer than two to three weeks at the most. This latest one though had stuck it for seven weeks, but of course that was because her belly was full and she was for the House. But like many before her, she’d leave that visit until the last second if she was wise.

  It was also said that the pastry which had lately come out from Proggle’s kitchen was the best the customers had ever tasted.

  It was this fact and this fact alone that had caused Proggle to keep the lass on so long and to grant her concessions, such as letting her start at eight in the morning and finish at eight at night. At three halfpence an hour and her food, he considered he was paying her well. And so good a hand was she at pastry-making he had offered to take her back when her confinement was over, that’s if she could get someone to take the bairn for adoption. He had talked the matter over with her, saying, ‘What you mustn’t do, lass, is put it out to farm, ’cos if it hasn’t got rickets when it goes in, it’ll have ’em sure as God made little apples when it comes out, for no matter what you pay those bitches they feed the bairns nothing but pap, mouldy bread and whey, sucking at pap bags all day long tied in their boxes. Rabbits in backyards have more scope than those bairns. I’ve seen ’em; so don’t have it put out, lass, have it adopted, or send it back to your people, ’cos whoever they are they brought you up right. I can see that in many ways.’

  He was kindly, was Joseph Proggle, when kindness would benefit him in the long run, but he was right about the baby farmers. Noreen had seen this for herself. There was one place two doors down from where she lodged where the children didn’t cry out aloud, they merely whined in chorus and continuously.

  Noreen lifted up the heavy sneck of the oven door and drew out the iron shelf on which were two dozen round pie tins, the pie crusts raised with a shiny crown from the colouring of burnt sugar with which they had been brushed.

  When she reached the table she did not slide the shelf onto the edge of it, as she usually did, but dropped it with a light thud; then one hand on the corner of the table, the other hugging her waist, she bent over for a moment while drawing in deep breaths of the stifling air.

  It was some seconds later before she straightened herself and, taking up another iron sheet filled with pie tins, she placed these in the oven. Following this, she took a ladle and went to the fire again and there stirred a thick mass of peas simmering in a huge black iron kail pot, before returning to the table once more, tipping out the pies onto a wooden tray which she then carried to the end of the room where, inset in the wall, was a lift. Placing the tray in this, she knocked twice on the wooden side, and a minute later when she saw the shelf move upwards she turned away and, going to the table again, took from a brown bowl a great slab of pastry, threw it onto the floured table and began to roll it out.

  She was only halfway through this process when again she stopped and once more one hand was gripping the edge of the table and the other hugging her waist. It couldn’t be, not yet, if her timing was right. And oh yes, she knew that was right. There were another three weeks to go. So what was this strange pain that was gripping her now?

  Pulling a box towards her, she sat down on it and clasped her hands on the table top and, looking to where a narrow black mass was moving backwards and forwards against the far wall, she whispered, ‘Oh God! Don’t let it happen so soon. Oh God! God!’ As she moved her head the tears sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks; and now, her chin drooping towards her chest, she whispered, ‘Oh, Mam. Mam! Oh, Mam. Mam!’

  She did not think of Willy. Strangely, she rarely thought of Willy these days. At first the temptation to write to him had been so great that she had actually stamped a number of letters and got as far as the post office with them. But there she remembered her father, and she knew that if Willy were to take her back to the Manor – for where else could he take her? – he would not live long, as her mother had suggested, to enjoy his triumph.

  For some time now she hadn’t cared whether she lived or died; in fact, there were nights in that dreadful little room she had rented with the sound of all human activities penetrating her ears far into the night, she had prayed that she wouldn’t see the morning.

  Of late there had come over her an apathy. The only person she wanted to see was her mother, but at the same time she knew that her own condition would horrify her, at least at first.

  ‘Now, now! What’s up with you, lass?’ Joseph Proggle had come down the steps in his slippered feet, and his approach startled her. Jumping up from the box, she muttered, ‘I . . . I was only resting, Mr Proggle, just for a minute.’

  He peered at her in the dimness, saying, ‘You’re not comin’ on, are you?’

  ‘No, oh no’ – she shook her head emphatically – ‘I was just a bit tired.’

  ‘It’s early in the day, lass, to be tired, not yet on one, an’ the shop packed to suffocation. They’re pushing them down scalding, they are. Those peas ready?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Proggle.’

  ‘Well, dish ’em up an’ get another lot on ’cos the way the weather’s shapin’ it’s gona be a full house. And I’ve got an order for six dozen pies for the night, sailors havin’ a beano along at the Blue Sail.’

  He peered at her as she stood rolling out the p
astry; then he said, ‘I’ll get Jenny Blackett to come in and give you a hand round teatime. How’s that?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Proggle. It’ll be a help.’

  ‘She can clean up if nothin’ else . . . My God! Look at that cheeky bugger.’ He took an empty pie tin from the table and heaved it at a rat that was making for the middle of the room. ‘What’s those bloody cats up to?’ He now took his foot and kicked at the larger of the two cats curled up to the side of the oven and when it awoke with a squeal he cursed it further, crying, ‘You’ll end up as pie meat, me lad, if you don’t do your job. You don’t feed ’em, do you?’ He had turned to Noreen now, and she shook her head, saying, ‘No, no.’

  ‘No; that’s right, don’t give ’em a scrap, let ’em work for their livin’ else we’ll have that bloody inspector here again . . . Inspector!’ He spat on the floor, then said, ‘Well, hurry up, lass. When is the next lot due?’

  Noreen turned and nodded towards the other oven and paused before she said, ‘About five minutes, Mr Proggle.’

  ‘Good, good. Send them up straight away.’

  She nodded again, then went on with her rolling.

  It was around about this time in the day that Simon Bentwood left his horse and trap at the farrier’s with instructions to the man not to unharness the animal as he would be no more than half an hour before he was back, because with the change in the weather he’d have to take the road home as soon as possible.