Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘It is, Annie. It is,’ he said, following her inside.

  ‘I was just saying to William there’ – she thrust her hand out towards the bed that was inset in the wall at the far end of the room – ‘give us one or two more days like this an’ we’ll have him outside.’

  ‘Why not. Why not indeed . . . How are you, William?’

  The man in the bed pulled himself up out of the feather tick and leant forward, holding out his hand. ‘As you see me, as you see me, Simon; no better, no worse.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  As Simon Bentwood spoke he opened the buttons of his double-breasted coat and inserted his finger in his high neckerchief as he exclaimed, ‘It’s been a hot ride.’

  ‘I’ve got something for that. And take your coat off. Ginger or herb?’

  Simon was on the point of saying, ‘Ginger,’ when he remembered that the last pint of ginger beer he’d drunk here had filled him with wind and he’d been up half the night. She had put so much root ginger into it it had burnt his innards. ‘Herb,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Annie.’

  ‘Herb,’ she repeated; ‘I thought you liked ginger.’

  ‘I like them both, but I can have a change, can’t I?’ He flapped his hand towards her, and, laughing, she turned from him and hurried across the long stone-floored room, her humped hips swinging her faded serge skirt.

  When she disappeared through a door at the far end of the room Simon took a seat by the bed and, looking at the old man, he asked quietly, ‘And how goes it?’

  ‘Aw.’ William Trotter now lay back into the denseness of the feather-filled pillows and muttered slowly, ‘Not so good at times, Simon.’

  ‘Pain worse?’

  ‘I can’t say it is, it’s always been worse.’ He gave a wry smile now through his bewhiskered face.

  ‘I might be able to come by a bottle of the real stuff shortly; I understand the lads are going out again.’

  ‘That would be good, Simon. Aw, that would be good. There’s nothing like a drop of the real stuff. But it’s funny that the real stuff has to come from foreign parts, now isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it is when you come to think of it, William; yes, it is. But then of course brandy has to come from foreign parts.’

  ‘Aye, aye; yes, I remember the last lot, I slept like a baby for nights.’ The old man now turned and looked towards Simon and, his words slow and meaningful, he said, ‘Sleep’s a wonderful thing you know, Simon, it’s the best thing that God has given us, sleep. I think He bestowed it on us as an apprenticeship to death, ’cos that’s what it will be, death, just a long sleep.’

  ‘Yes, William, yes, I . . . I agree with you there, just a long sleep. Ah . . . !’ He turned, on a forced laugh, and greeted Annie Trotter as she came back into the room carrying a grey hen by the handle: ‘There you are then. Mind, you’ve taken your time.’

  ‘Away with you. Taken me time! I’m not as young as I used to be; it’s difficult to get under the house, Tilly usually does the crawling.’

  ‘Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, out gathering wood as usual. She’s forever sawing branches off and sawing them up. I’d like to bet there’s not a cleaner line of trees in the county than those in Sop’s Wood. It’s a good job Mr Mark doesn’t mind her stripping the trees head high, but I must say this for her she does it properly, as good as any man, for there’s no sap runs after she’s finished; she tars every spot.’

  ‘I’m worried.’

  Simon now looked at William again and he asked, ‘Worried? What about?’

  ‘Her . . . Tilly. Fifteen gone, coming up sixteen, she should be in place, in good service learnin’ to be a woman ’stead of rangin’ around like a half-scalded young colt; it wouldn’t surprise me if one day she decided to wear trousers.’

  ‘Ho! I don’t think you need worry about that; she’ll never do anything silly, not Tilly, she’s got a head on her shoulders.’

  ‘Oh, I know that, I know that, Simon. The trouble is she’s got too much head on her shoulders. Do you know, she can read and write as good as the parson hissel.’

  ‘And dance.’

  Simon turned quickly to Annie who was in the act of handing him a mug of herb beer and he said, ‘Dance?’

  ‘Aye. You don’t know the latest. It’s the parson’s wife, Mrs Ross.’

  ‘The parson’s wife?’ Simon screwed up his face.

  ‘Aye, aren’t I tellin’ you? She must have thought that Tilly needed some gentlewomanly accomplishments or some such, and so what does she do? She shows her how to dance. Takes her into the vicarage indeed! Plays a tune on the spinet, then down into the cellar they go and there she takes her through a minet . . . no, minuet. That’s it.’

  ‘Mrs Ross, the parson’s wife!’ Simon’s face was stretched now in one wide grin.

  ‘Aye. But oh, Simon, don’t let on. Now don’t say a word ’cos once that got about, God help her. Well, I mean if it was anybody else they could dance until their toes wore down to their knees, but she’s the parson’s wife and as ignorant, so I hear, poor dear, of how to be a parson’s wife as I am to be the lady of the manor.’ Now she was laughing. Her two forearms underneath her flagging breasts, she rocked backwards and forwards for a moment, and the tears were spurting from her eyes as she asked, ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes; she’s there sitting in the front pew every Sunday and that front pew hasn’t seen anything so pretty for many a year, I can tell you.’

  ‘Is she bonny then?’

  He put his head on one side, then thought for a moment before answering. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘she’s more than bonny. But she’s not beautiful. What she’s got is an air about her, she’s alive . . . Aye, that’s the word. Now that’s funny’ – he wagged his finger now at Annie – ‘she’s got the same quality about her as Tilly has.’

  ‘Like our Tilly? And her a parson’s wife! Aw no!’

  This had come from the bed, and Simon turned to the old man and said, ‘Aye, William, it’s a kind of glowing quality, spritey. Aw, I’m not the one for words, I can only say she looks alive.’

  ‘Well’ – William nodded his head slowly – ‘all I can say is, if she looks and acts like Tilly she shouldn’t have married a parson.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, William, Parson Ross had a pretty thin time with the other one. She’d have frightened the devil in hell, she would, and did sometimes I think. But I must confess I meself have wondered if he’s been wise with his second choice. She comes from quite a family I hear. Oh yes, quite a family. Got a cousin or some such in the new young queen’s household, high up at that, so they say. I’m also told that both families were neighbours years ago, away in Dorset. He was the youngest of seven boys, and thereby thrown into the church. Anyway, I can tell you this, she’s made a different fellow out of him. He’s not so much blood and thunder these days, more love thy neighbour. You know what I mean? An’ you know something more? She never takes her eyes off him all the time he’s preaching. I’ve watched her. But on the other hand he never looks at her. He daren’t . . . I think the fellow’s in love.’ He threw his head back and laughed, but it was a self-conscious laugh.

  Annie stood looking at him, her face straight; then she said, ‘But about this dancing. It’s the last thing on God’s earth I would have thought our Tilly would have wanted to do, ’cos as you know she’s only happy when she’s got a saw in her hand or an axe. She can get through a log better than I ever could, an’ she’s dug every inch of that ground out there as well as William ever did. She’s always wanted to do the things that a lad would want to do, an’ it’s worried me. But I think it’s gona worry me more now that she wants to dance.’

  ‘She’s a girl, Annie.’ Simon’s face, too, was straight now. ‘And she might grow into a bonny one I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Aw, I doubt it; she hasn’t a bit of figure to her frame. Comin’ up sixteen, she should be developin’, but look at her! Like a yard of pump water, as straight as a di
e.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time . . . and some fellows like them thin.’ He was smiling now, but Annie shook her head at him as she said, ‘I’ve yet to meet one. Nobody buys a cow with its ribs sticking through if there’s a fat one aside it.’

  ‘She’s no cow and don’t you refer to her as such, Annie Trotter!’

  Annie turned her face sharply towards the bed and cried, ‘An’ don’t you bark at me, William Trotter, else I’ll give you what for! I’ve got you where I want you. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head.’ She now bounced her head at him before turning and winking at Simon; then glancing towards the window, she said, ‘There she comes over the top.’

  Simon now bent his back and looked out of the small window away towards the mound and to where a young girl was leaping down the hill as a wild goat might. Of a sudden she came to a stop, and the reason was evident for there emerged from behind a clump of gorse the figure of a young man.

  ‘Who’s that with her? Can you see, Simon?’

  Simon made no reply but he narrowed his eyes, and it wasn’t until the two figures were halfway down the lower part of the hill that he said, ‘McGrath. Hal McGrath.’

  ‘Oh no! Him again?’ Annie straightened her back, and as she did so Simon turned from the window and put his hand into his pocket; he drew out a sovereign and, handing it to her, said, ‘Better take it afore she comes.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Simon. Thanks.’ She nodded up at him.

  He stared at her for a moment, bit on his lip, then said, ‘What do you think he’s after? Do you think he’s got his eye on her, or is it the other thing?’

  ‘Hopes to kill two birds with one stone I should say.’ They both looked towards the bed. ‘He’s been round here every Sunday for months past.’

  Simon looked at Annie again and his voice came from deep in his throat as he muttered, ‘He won’t give up, will he?’

  ‘Not while there’s a breath in him, if I know anything about Hal McGrath. He’s his father over again, an’ his father afore him.’

  ‘Does she ask any questions, I mean about . . . ?’ He pointed towards her hand that was now clutching the sovereign against her breast, and she blinked her eyes and looked away for a moment before she said, ‘A year or so ago she asked where we got the money from to buy the flour, meat and such. She provides our other needs from the garden and, as you know, she has done since William took to his bed, so I . . . I had to give her some sort of an answer. I said it was money you borrowed from us some years ago. Well, not you, your father.’

  ‘That was as good as anything. Did she believe you?’

  ‘It seemed to satisfy her. I remember she said, “I like people who pay their debts.”’

  ‘Huh! debts.’ He turned again towards the window and, once more bending his back, he said, ‘She’s left him; she’s running like a hare and he’s standing like a stook.’

  When a few minutes later the cottage door burst open it was as if a fresh wind had suddenly blown into the room. Tilly Trotter was tall for her age, being now five foot five and a half inches. She was wearing a faded cotton dress and it hung straight from her shoulders to the uppers of her thick boots, and nowhere was there an undulation. Her neck was long and tinted brown with wind and weather, as was her face; yet here there was a flush of pink to the tint on her high cheekbones. Her eyes, now bright and laughing, looked as if they had taken up the colour of her skin, the only difference being that the brown of her skin was matt while the brown of her eyes was clear and deep. Her hair was dark, darker than brown and thick, and it should at her age have been either piled high on the top of her head or in a decorous knot at the back, but it was hanging in two long plaits tied at the back of her neck with what at one time had been a piece of blue ribbon and joined at the ends with a similar piece. Her mouth, full-lipped, was now wide with welcome as she gabbled breathlessly, ‘Hello, Simon.’ Then without pause she said, ‘Why didn’t you come and rescue me? Do you know who I’ve just been accosted by, an’ that’s the word, accosted, which means waylaid?’ She now nodded towards the bed. ‘That Hal McGrath’s been at me again. You’d never guess, not in a month of Sundays, what he’s just asked.’ She now dropped with a flop on to a wooden chair by the side of the long bare wooden table that was placed in the middle of the room; then leaning her head back on her shoulders, she looked up towards the low ceiling and pulled her nose down as if in an effort to meet her chin before she brought out, ‘He wants to court me. Him, Hal McGrath! And you know what I told him?’ She rolled her eyes from one to the other. ‘I told him I’d sooner walk out with one of Tillson’s pigs. I did! I did!’ She was now laughing loudly.

  ‘Court you!’ Sitting straight up in the bed and his voice a loud growl now, William repeated, ‘Court you!’

  ‘Yes, Granda, that’s what he said. He wanted to court me because he thought—’ The laughter slid from her face, her voice dropped as she lowered her chin on to her chest, and she ended shyly, ‘He said I . . . I was ready for it . . . courtin’.’

  ‘That bloody gormless clot!’

  Annie was now bending over the bed pressing her husband down into the pillows, saying soothingly, ‘There now! There now! Don’t frash yourself. Didn’t you hear what she said? She’d sooner walk out with one of Tillson’s pigs. There now. There now. Settle down, settle down.’

  Simon now stood pulling on his coat; his face was set and stiff, and when he fastened the last button he looked down on Tilly where she was still sitting at the table, her hands clasped on it in front of her now, and he said, ‘Keep clear of him, Tilly.’

  She looked back at him and, her voice as sober as his, she said, ‘Oh, I keep clear of him, Simon, I dodge him whenever I can, but he’s been round here a lot lately—’

  Annie’s voice cut in on her now, saying, ‘Go and get me some water, we’re nearly run dry.’

  Tilly got up immediately from the table but stopped in front of Simon and said, ‘Ta-rah, Simon,’ and he answered, ‘Ta-rah, Tilly’; then moving his head to take in both the old man and woman he brought out on an embarrassed laugh, ‘I came over with me news today but here I am on the point of going and never spilled it . . . I’m going to be married.’

  ‘Married? No!’ Annie moved two steps towards him, then stopped; William sat up in the bed again but said nothing; and Tilly looked up into his face and after a moment asked quietly, ‘Who you marryin’, Simon?’

  ‘Mary . . . Mary Forster. You wouldn’t know her, she’s not from this part, she’s from over beyond Felling way.’

  ‘So far away from your farm!’ It was Annie speaking again, and he turned his head to her and said, ‘Oh, it’s only five miles or so and you know what they say, a warm heart and a galloping horse can jump that.’

  ‘When is it gona be, Simon?’

  He was again looking at Tilly. ‘We’re calling the banns next Sunday,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ She nodded her head and smiled faintly, and there was silence in the room until he broke it with a laugh, and his voice was loud now as he bent towards her, saying, ‘And you can come and dance at me wedding.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded at him now, answering his smile. ‘I’ll come and dance at your wedding, Simon.’

  ‘But don’t bring the parson’s wife with you.’ He had spoken in a mock whisper and he shot his glance towards the two old people before letting his eyes rest on her again; and she too glanced sharply towards her grandparents before she said soberly, ‘Don’t say nothing about that, will you, Simon, because the Reverend doesn’t like her to dance, I mean Mrs Ross.’

  ‘Oh, your secret’s safe with me.’ He had bent forward until his laughing face was on a level with hers, but as he looked into her eyes the smile slid from it, and when he straightened up his voice was hearty and loud once more as he cried, ‘Well now! I must be off, cows can tell the time better than me.’

  ‘Have you still got Randy?’

  He turned to Annie, saying as he made for the door, ‘Oh yes, yes; but he’s so damne
d lazy, he falls asleep with his head in their ribs and his slobbers almost dripping into the milk. But young Bill and Ally are good lads, they’ll come on with the years. Oh, by the way.’ He turned and directed his gaze now towards William, saying, ‘I forgot to tell you, you’ll never guess who applied to me for a job. He did it on the quiet like, on the side – he’d have to of course – Big McGrath’s youngest, Steve, the fourteen-year-old you know. He waylaid me one night last week and asked if there would be any chance. I had to laugh at him. I said, “Does your da know you’re asking to be set on?” but he only shook his head. And then I said to him soberly like, “It’s no use, lad. I’d set you on the morrow because you look strong and fit, but you know what would happen; your da would come after you and haul you out. You are all in the pit, and for good.”’

  ‘And you know what he answered to that?’ He looked from one to the other now. ‘He just said, “Not me, not me for good, I’m getting out,” and turned on his heels. It’s funny, that young ’un isn’t like any of the others, he’s not like a McGrath at all; not as we know McGraths, eh, William?’

  ‘All McGraths are the same beneath the skin, Simon. Never trust a McGrath.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Keep rested now.’ He nodded towards the old man, and William said, ‘Aye. Aye.’

  ‘Ta-rah for now,’ he said, his glance taking them all in, then went out, closing the door behind him.

  Annie was the first to move. She went towards the open fireplace where the kale pot was hanging from a spit and, reaching up to the mantelpiece above it, she took down a wooden tea caddy and placed the sovereign gently in the bottom of it; then replacing the caddy, she turned and, looking at Tilly, said, ‘I thought I told you to go for water.’

  ‘You only said that to get me out of the room, Gran; the butt’s half full outside, you know it is. What’s it you don’t want me to hear?’

  ‘Now don’t you be perky, miss.’