Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  He was aware that the door had closed and that they were alone, and now he bent his head forward and placed his lips on hers, and when there was no response he asked softly, ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was so like her not to waste words, his sensible, level-headed Noreen.

  ‘Oh, I’ve missed you, Noreen. I’ve searched and searched day after day. Where were you?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  ‘Newcastle?’ He lifted up her hand now and brought it to the top of his chest and, pressing it there, he said, ‘I went through every street in that city, every alleyway, every court. Ned got tired of looking – and you were there all the time. Oh my dear. My dear.’

  ‘Please, please don’t cry.’ It was the first animated sign she had shown, and she put her fingers up and touched his cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever happens, don’t worry.’

  As he went to speak she placed her fingers on his lips, saying slowly and hesitantly now, ‘Listen to me, Willy. Don’t upbraid yourself ever, do you hear me? What happened was because I wanted it to happen, ’twasn’t your fault, so you have nothing to reproach yourself with. Remember that.’

  As he held her hand tightly between his own, his vision seemed to clear for a moment and he saw her face so different, so much older than the memory of it he had kept in his mind during these past months. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin looked grey. Then of a sudden he watched her features go into a grimace. He saw her teeth clamp down on her lip, and in this instant he recognised the face of the woman he had seen in his dream. When she brought up her knees and groaned aloud, he said, ‘What is it? What is it, Noreen? I’ll . . . I’ll get Mama.’

  She gasped and held on to his hand for a moment. Then her legs slowly straightening again, she said, ‘Can . . . can you send for my mother?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He jerked himself up from the seat, almost gabbling now, ‘We’ll . . . we’ll get her here.’ He turned from the bed and groped his way hastily towards the door, for now his vision seemed so blurred he could not even see the outline of the room. Before he opened the door he was calling, ‘Mama! Mama!’ and a second later Tilly who had been waiting outside, said, ‘Yes, what is it?’

  He caught at her extended hand. ‘Noreen . . . she’s in pain, and . . . she wants to see her mother. Do . . . do you think we can get her through?’

  Tilly did not answer immediately, and then she said softly, ‘We’ll do our best. You come away. Peg!’ she called, and Peg came forward and Tilly said, ‘Stay with her until I get back.’

  In the hall she hesitated for a moment before saying to Peabody, ‘Tell Arthur and Jimmy I’d like to see them.’

  She knew that both men, like the rest, would be very tired for it had been no easy task, she knew personally, to carry those two stretchers all the way back here, but she also knew that if she were to ask the Drew men to walk into hell for her they would do it.

  A few minutes later she was facing them saying, ‘I know this is a bit thick and I hate to ask it of you, but she’s in a bad way and she’s asking for her mother. Do . . . do you think you could get her?’

  Without hesitation it was Jimmy who answered, ‘If it is possible we’ll get her here, Tilly. There’s one thing, it’s stopped snowing.’

  It was Arthur who now put in, ‘And when we’re that far, we’ll call in in the village and pick up the midwife. If we can get Mrs Bentwood here, we’ll get her here an’ all.’

  She nodded at Arthur now, saying, ‘That would be a good thing if you could persuade her.’

  ‘We’ll persuade her all right.’ Arthur nodded at her.

  ‘Thanks.’ She looked from one to the other and made a gesture towards them with her hand, then said, ‘Wrap up extra well and take a flask with you.’

  ‘Aw, we’ll see to ourselves, don’t worry.’

  As they turned to leave, Steve appeared at the foot of the stairs. He did not speak but he beckoned to her with a lift of his chin, and as she approached him he said softly, ‘He’s conscious. I told him the lass was all right but he’s asked for his wife.’

  ‘I . . . I have just sent for her.’

  He stared at her for a moment before saying, ‘Well, I doubt she’ll have to hurry. I think he’s on his last legs.’ Her eyes widened slightly as he added, ‘I think his back’s broken, and there’s something gone inside, he’s bleeding.’

  She lowered her head now, and then she asked, ‘Does he know where he is?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, he knows where he is. When he first opened his eyes and looked around he . . . he spoke your name, your old name.’

  She did not ask how he had said her name for she knew it would have been laden with recrimination; yet Steve’s next words belied her thoughts. ‘He didn’t speak it in bitterness,’ he said; ‘I think he knows his time is short and if it’s in your heart to forgive I think you should look in on him, for no man should die in aggravation such as he’s held for so long inside of him.’

  She turned her head to the side and she kept it like that for some time, so long in fact that she became aware of feet and legs scurrying backward and forward across the hall; then lifting her head she looked at him and without a word passed him and walked slowly up the stairs. He followed.

  When she opened the bedroom door she paused, and Steve had to press her forward in order to close the door. Then she was walking slowly to the foot of the bed. There were lamps burning on a table at each side of it and the lights seemed focussed on his face like two beams. His eyes were open, the skin gathered in deep furrows at the corners as if screwed up against pain. His lips were apart and his tongue kept flicking over the lower one as if he were thirsty. This caused her to drag her eyes from him and say below her breath, ‘Does . . . does he want a drink?’

  But before Steve could answer the voice came from the bed, low and thick. ‘No, I want no drink, I want nothing from you.’ There was a long pause while their gaze linked; then his voice came again, ‘You’ve . . . you’ve done enough for me, Tilly, haven’t you? You’ve come in because you know I’m done for but you know in your heart you did for me years gone by. You ruined my life you did. And you know something?’ His hand now came up and gripped his throat, and when he swallowed deeply Steve went to him and, bending over him, said, ‘Don’t talk.’

  Simon swallowed again, then looking at Steve, he said, ‘I’ll talk all I want.’ Now he turned his eyes again on Tilly and, his words coming slower, he went on, ‘What I was gona say was, you were never worth it. You know that? You were never worth it. Lucy was worth t . . . ten of you. Do . . . do you hear? Lucy was . . . ’

  Again his hand went up to his throat; and now Steve, putting his hand under Simon’s head, raised it slightly, then twisting to the side he took a glass from the bedtable and held it to his lips. For a moment Simon gulped at it before pushing it aside, and when Steve laid his head back on the pillow he looked up at him and, after a great intake of breath, he muttered, ‘She’s done for you, too, hasn’t she? Henchman, lapdog, that’s what she’s . . . made of you.’

  ‘Yes, very likely.’

  The quiet retort seemed to silence Simon for a time. Then he said, ‘My girl?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  Simon turned his gaze on to Tilly again who was now standing gripping the brass rail at the foot of the bed, and his voice a croak, he said, ‘She’s carrying a bastard born of a bastard. Well, you might get the bairn but . . . but you won’t get her; I’m . . . I’m takin’ her along of me.’ His voice trailed away as a stream of blood ran slowly down the side of his chin, and as Steve bent over him, Tilly turned from the bed and stumbled out of the room and into the corridor. And there she made for one of the deep stone window sills and dropped onto it and, her hand gripping her brow, she bowed her head.

  Love and hate she knew were divided by a mere gossamer thread, but death was supposed to soften the emotions. That man in there had once loved her, and she him. Oh yes, she him. And it was she who should have h
ated him for being the instrument of shattering her girlish dreams. But she had never hated him, her feelings had not gone beyond dislike and revulsion. But her later rejection of him and the knowledge that she had become mistress to a gentleman had seemed to turn his brain.

  ‘Come away from that cold seat.’ She lifted her head sharply. For a moment she had thought it was Biddy speaking to her – Fanny was very like her mother – and she allowed the younger woman to raise her up. But when she would have led her across the gallery and down the stairs, she stopped her and said, ‘No, no, Fanny; I’ll go to my room. Is . . . is Willy still . . . ?’ She turned her head in the direction of the bedroom where Noreen lay, and Fanny said, ‘Yes. Yes, he’s with her. Don’t worry about her, we’ll see to her.’

  ‘Is she in labour?’

  ‘Well now, she’s in pain and has spasms, but it’s nothing like the labour I’ve had with either of mine. Look, you go and lie down or put your feet up anyhow on the couch. If anything goes wrong I’ll call you. You’ve had about enough.’

  As if their positions were reversed, Tilly walked obediently away from Fanny. Once in her room, however, she didn’t put her feet up but kept them tramping the carpet. The only outward sound in the room was this padding sound, but inside her mind there was a great commotion. Voices were yelling at her, all her own but from different ages: as a child who had asked herself quietly why she hadn’t anyone to play with, it wasn’t only that the village was a way off; then the young girl screaming underneath the weight of Hal McGrath’s body, yelling, ‘No! Oh no!’; the nightmare of the stocks; the even greater nightmare of the courthouse and the question, ‘Are you a witch?’; the voice that yelled in deep bitterness against those who had burned down the cottage; the loneliness that had cried out against the feeling that was engendered against her by the one-time staff of this very house. She had not cried out when twice she had been turned out of this place, that treatment had only filled her with sadness, but she had cried out greatly in bitterness when her son was blinded. Her cries had turned to screams when the Indians had massacred all but her and Matthew; but in the end they had got Matthew. All through her life she seemed to have been crying out, mostly against injustices. The loves she had experienced had always caused her in the end to cry out.

  When the noises in her head became so loud she gripped it with both hands and became still, saying to herself, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

  This was not the first time she had experienced this cacophony of her own voices yelling against her destiny, but tonight there was a difference because all the voices, although yelling loudly, sounded weary. And she was weary, so very weary. Going to the bed, she lowered herself slowly on top of it and, turning her face into the pillow, she wept.

  Fourteen

  It was four o’clock in the morning but it could have been four o’clock on a busy afternoon for the house was abuzz with activity. The men had returned with Lucy Bentwood and the midwife around midnight. They were all exhausted, but Lucy would not rest until she had seen her daughter. The fact that Noreen was pregnant had come as an added shock to her; she had imagined the midwife had been called for one of the maids; neither of the Drew men had enlightened her otherwise. But as she had looked down on this almost unrecognisable girl pity and compassion had fought and conquered the feeling of dismay and shame.

  When they were enfolded in each other’s arms and Noreen was crying, ‘Oh, Mam! Mam!’ Lucy had been too overcome to utter any words, but her soothing hands had spoken for her.

  Later, when she had stood by her husband’s side and he had held out his hand towards her the very act had been one of supplication and it had surprised her. And when she placed her hand in his he whispered, ‘Lucy, I . . . I found her,’ she nodded; then said, ‘Yes, yes, Simon, you found her,’ and he must have recognised the note of forgiveness in her voice, for swallowing deeply again, he said, ‘The child; take . . . take it home. Don’t . . . don’t leave it here.’

  She could not say to him, ‘It must be with its mother, wherever she stays.’

  Again he had to gulp before speaking and, his voice a mere whisper now, he said, ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Lucy. You . . . you were a good wife. You . . . you didn’t deserve my . . . my treatment. And for what, I ask you? For what?’

  ‘Don’t talk; lie still.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m going to lie still for a long time, Lucy; will you say you forgive me?’

  She could not see his face and her voice was breaking as she said, ‘There’s nothing to forgive. It’s life and we’ve lived it as God ordained. Good comes out of bad.’

  ‘You were too good for me. I . . . I should have had her, and she would have brought me more torment than . . . than I’ve gone through already . . . Wish there was time to show you I . . . I could be different. Hold my hand tight, Lucy.’

  She held his hand tight and he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep . . .

  At one o’clock Noreen’s labour pains had started in earnest. With Lucy on one side and the midwife on the other they urged her to press downwards, making encouraging noises, wiping the sweat from her brow, suffering the pain of her clinging nails. Then as the time wore on and the pains became more frequent her strength seemed to become less.

  It was during one such period that Tilly opened the door and, beckoning Lucy towards her, said softly, ‘Steve thinks you should go in,’ at the same time motioning her head back towards the corridor. ‘I’ll stay here.’

  Lucy paused for a moment, looked back towards the bed and the straining girl, then without a word she passed Tilly and made for the room along the corridor.

  Tilly took her place at the other side of the bed from the midwife whose face was running with sweat, and the woman shook her head and muttered, ‘Summit’ll have to be done, she’s about pulled out.’

  Tilly did not ask, ‘What?’ but she bent over Noreen and said softly, ‘Put your hands behind you, dear, and grip the bed rails.’

  Almost immediately the midwife’s voice came at her harshly, saying, ‘She’s tried that! I tell you she’s got no pull left in her.’

  Tilly looked at the woman. From the moment of her entering the house she had seemed to bring the atmosphere of the village with her. She must have come under protest or perhaps out of curiosity, but now she was looking almost as weary and tired as Noreen.

  When Tilly spoke to her now it was as the mistress of the house. She said, ‘You look very tired; go down to the kitchen and send one of the girls up.’

  ‘And what could they do, ma’am, at a time like this?’

  ‘As much as you’re able to do at the moment.’

  ‘Are you tellin’ me I don’t know me job, ma’am?’

  ‘I am simply telling you that I think you need a rest.’ The woman straightened her back, then almost glared across at Tilly, saying, ‘Well, don’t blame me, ma’am, for whatever happens when I’m out of the room.’

  Before she finished speaking there was a tap on the door and Peg entered carrying a tray holding bowls of broth, and Tilly, turning to her immediately, said, ‘Take it across the corridor into the little library, Peg, please, Mrs Grant is going to take a short rest, then come straight back here.’

  Although there was protest in the midwife’s pose as she went out of the door, Tilly also gauged there was a certain amount of relief, for the woman had been on her feet for almost four hours.

  When Noreen began to moan, Tilly caught her hands, saying ‘There, dear, press down. Try. Come on, try.’

  The girl made an effort to obey but there was little pressure in her straining and when she relaxed again, Tilly looked down on her in not a little alarm: if something wasn’t done, she, too, would die. The thought brought her glance towards the far door and the dressing room in which she knew Willy was pacing. It had taken Steve to get him out of the room and she herself had turned the key on this side of the door, but now instinctively she ran to it and unlocked it, saying as she did so, ‘Come in. Come in.’

  When he was
abreast of her she whispered at him, ‘She’s ill, very ill, and weak. Take her hand; talk to her.’

  She led him quickly to the side of the bed and when he placed his hand on Noreen’s she saw that it was received with no answering grip, but Noreen turned her eyes towards him and said softly, ‘Willy?’

  ‘Oh my dear, my dearest, are . . . are you all right?’ It was a stupid question to ask but it was a man’s question, and her answer startled him.

  ‘If . . . if the baby . . . is all right, let . . . let Mother have it, will you?’

  When he made no answer she said again, ‘Will you, Willy?’

  ‘But . . . but you’re going to get well; you’re going to be all right. Won’t she?’ He turned his head towards the hazy figure of his mother standing at the other side of the bed, and when she didn’t speak he gathered up Noreen’s hand to his chest and pressed it tight against him as he muttered, ‘Noreen! Noreen! You must get well. I . . . I need you. I love you.’

  The only answer he received was a groan as another spasm of pain hit Noreen; at the same moment the door opened and Peg came scurrying into the room muttering by way of apology for not returning immediately something about the midwife knocking over the broth.

  Beyond the open door Tilly saw Steve standing beckoning to her. Going quickly to him she pulled the door behind her and looked at him as he said softly, ‘He’s gone.’

  She had been expecting this news yet it brought a strange reaction: she wanted to cry again and a voice from the far past came rising up from the depths of her, saying, ‘Oh, Simon! Simon!’ And the picture that now floated before her mind’s eye was that of the kindly, considerate young farmer who had literally kept them from the borders of starvation for years; and following on this there came an accusing voice that had attacked her again and again, saying, ‘What is it about me that changes people so?’