‘Hel . . . Good evenin’, sir.’
‘You’re some way from home, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, sir; I’ve been to Mr Bentwood’s weddin’.’
‘Oh, the wedding. Oh yes, yes.’ He nodded down at her smiling. Then casting his eyes about him, he asked, ‘Did you happen to see a lady on a horse further along this road?’
‘No, sir, no; I haven’t met anyone but yourself.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Good . . . goodnight, sir.’
He rode on again, putting the horse into a gallop, and she watched him for a moment before going on her way . . .
As Mark came to the meadow he took the horse over the stone wall, then again drew it to a stop, and once more he looked about him; then settling himself in the seat, he brought his teeth tightly together for a moment before muttering aloud, ‘Damn!’ She was playing cat and mouse with him: she was very much the cat and he didn’t like being put in the position of the mouse. ‘All prizes must be won,’ she had said, doubtless considering herself as being a very big prize. Well, he’d had enough; he would return home. He had ridden like an escaping hare hither and thither for the past hour, and likely she was back in her house laughing up her sleeve.
What was the matter with him anyway? Why had he allowed himself to get in this state? She was coming between him and his sleep. He felt he would know no peace until he’d had her. But then what? Would the taste of her consume him or would he be brought to his senses and the fire in him quenched? It had happened before. Many years ago, he had become enamoured of a woman, so much so that he had thought life would be worthless without her. Janet, his first wife, had known. He had hurt her terribly but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Once he had conquered, however, the woman had gone sour on him and he had sworn never again, never, never again. Yet here he was galloping the countryside after a will-o’-the-wisp. Except that Lady Agnes Myton was no will-o’-the-wisp, she was a full-blooded, alluring, maddening woman.
He rode along by the wall, jumped a hedge, and came on to the coach road, and in the distance he could hear the faint sound of a fiddle being played . . . Farmer Bentwood’s wedding was still in full swing.
As he put his horse into a gallop he damned and blasted Lady Agnes Myton. He was tired, as he also knew was his mount, and he doubted if he would make home before dark. Again he damned her.
Then at a turning in the road his horse shied from one side to the other as the figure of a boy came bursting through the hedge.
‘What the hell!’ Mark Sopwith pulled himself straight in the saddle and, glaring, bent towards the boy who had paused in his run and was gasping as he spluttered, ‘Sorry, mister. Sorry,’ and quickly drawing in one long breath, he raced off down the road, leaving Mark still glaring after him.
Now what had he been up to? Poaching? But if someone was after him he wouldn’t have stopped to say he was sorry. He turned the horse around, allowing it to move at a walking pace now . . .
Steve McGrath was a good runner. He had won a race at the hill fair last year, beating lads three and four years older than himself, but that race hadn’t taken it out of him like this one was doing. The sweat was running down his groin and his short moleskin breeks were sticking to his buttocks.
He didn’t seem to hear the music until he stopped to hug the end of the brick wall that bordered the farmyard and the gateless drive-in. There was a pain in his chest, his feet were sore and his legs at this moment were like jelly and threatening to give way beneath him. He tried to call out to someone crossing the yard, but his voice came out as a croak.
A minute later he stumbled into the yard and, catching hold of a man’s arm, said, ‘Mister! Mister! Where will I find Mr Bentwood?’
The man turned a laughing face down on him.
‘With his bride, lad, with his bride, where else? Tripping the light fantastic.’ He pointed towards the barn from where was coming the loud noise of the fiddles and the whining of the melodeon.
‘Will you get him, mister, will you get him for me?’
‘Get him for you?’ The man peered down at him. ‘You’re young McGrath, aren’t you? Aye yes, young McGrath. What do you want with him?’
‘I must get him, talk to him, I’ve got somethin’ to tell him.’
‘You can tell him nowt this night, lad; I should say he’s past listenin’.’
‘Mister! Mister!’ He was clutching at the man now. ‘Tell him, will you? Tell him somebody is going to get hurt, somebody he knows. Ask him if I can see him a minute. Go on, will you, will you? Please! Please!’
‘Who’s gona get hurt?’
‘Just . . . just somebody, somebody he knows.’
‘Oh! Oh, well, well, if that’s it.’ The man turned about and with a gait that spoke of his having imbibed not a little from the barrel, he made his way into the barn.
Steve moved to the side to get out of the way of people who were coming and going, all laughing and joking. He stood with his back pressed against the stone wall of the cow byre but keeping his eyes on the great open doors of the barn and, fascinated, he watched the scene within.
The whole place was lit with lanterns. Some people were dancing, and some people were standing drinking, and some were sitting round the walls eating, but all had their mouths open and were laughing.
So immersed had he become for the moment in the scene that he didn’t realise Simon was coming towards him, nor that the bride was standing just within the barn and that she alone wasn’t smiling.
‘What is it boy? What do you want?’
‘Oh. Oh, Mr Bentwood, it’s . . . it’s Tilly. She needs somebody to see to her. I . . . I couldn’t, I mean on her way home, because there’s three of them.’
‘What on earth are you talkin’ about, boy?’ Simon’s brain was not very clear, it was fogged with ale and not a little with happiness and expectation of his wedding night, and his voice now was full of impatience as he demanded, ‘Speak clearly, boy! What you gettin’ at?’
Steve swallowed a mouthful of spittle before he said slowly, ‘She’ll . . . she’ll have to have somebody to guide her home, perhaps more than one, ’cos they’re gona net her.’
‘Net her?’ Simon was now bending over him and he repeated, ‘Net her? What you on about, lad?’
‘It’s . . . it’s our Hal and Mick and Ned Wheeler. Our Hal said, well, she wouldn’t have him the clean way so she’s gona have him t’other way.’ He bit his lip and his head drooped.
Simon straightened his back and looked around him. In his glance he saw his wife staring enquiringly towards him, and he raised his hand as if to say, ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ then taking the boy by the shoulder, he pushed him into the cowshed and seeming now to sober up, he said, ‘Make it quick, boy, explain yourself!’
‘They’re waitin’ for her. They’ve a net rigged up in a tree. She’s strong, Tilly, wiry, an’ our Hal knew she’d fight like a chained bitch, an’ so they’re gona net her an’ . . . an’—’ He turned his head to the side, bit hard on his lip again, then muttered, ‘He’s gona take her down, then she’ll have to have him.’
‘What!’
The boy looked up into Simon’s face which was now twisted in disbelief and he said, ‘He’d murder me if he knew I’d split. But it was our George, I heard him tellin’ me dad and me dad was for it. George wouldn’t go along with them and me dad went for him and said he was soft. And then he said—’ He stopped and shook his head, and Simon cried impatiently, ‘Yes! Yes! What did he say?’
‘I don’t know what it meant, it . . . it was about somethin’ they wanted to find out, it seemed to be mixed up with money, and if he got Tilly he’d find out. It was double Dutch . . . ’
‘My God!’ Simon now pushed his hand up through his hair.
‘You’ll take her home?’
‘She’s gone, boy, this fifteen or twenty minutes or more . . . Come on! . . . No, wait. Where are they going to do this?’
�
�Billings Flat near the wood. Eeh! God, they could have her by now.’ He put his hand to his mouth, then muttered, ‘But I . . . I can’t come along of you ’cos he’d . . . he’d brain me.’
Simon didn’t hear the boy’s protest, he was already running towards the barn where his bride was still standing. When he reached her he took her by the hands and pulled her aside, out into the yard, across it and into the dairy, and there, holding her hands against his chest, he said, ‘Listen, me dear, there’s something come up, I’ve . . . I’ve got to leave you, but I won’t be a half-hour or more.’
‘Where . . . where are you going?’
‘It’s’ – he closed his eyes and shook his head – ‘it’s nothing, just a little bit of business.’
‘Business? Business that can’t wait on this special night! What did that boy want?’
‘He had come to tell me something. I’ll . . . I’ll explain it all when I come back. I tell you I won’t be more than half an hour. Keep things going. Anyway I won’t be missed, only by you I hope.’ He jerked her hard against him and kissed her upon the lips. Then looking at her again, he said, ‘It’s been a grand day, and it’s not over yet, is it?’
‘I hope not.’ She was smiling at him now. ‘Don’t be long.’
‘I won’t, I won’t, I promise.’ He kissed her again quickly; then pulling her out through the door, he pushed her gently towards the barn before he himself turned and ran into the stable.
Simon was quite used to riding bareback though not in tight breeches; but there was no time to stop and saddle the mare, and within minutes he was out of the yard, causing some of the guests to stand and gape as if they couldn’t believe their eyes, for wasn’t that the bridegroom riding out on his own!
Billings Flat was all of two miles from the farm and about half a mile from the cottage. To anyone for whom the name conjured up an open area, this particular piece of land was misnamed, for the path ran at the bottom of a shallow stretch of land bordered on each side by trees which were intertwined here and there with great shrouds of ivy, the Flat itself being more than twenty yards in length and only in winter when the trees were bare did full light penetrate it.
Simon knew that he could cut off a further mile by taking his horse straight across his fields. This would be against his principles for he hated even the hunt to cross his fields either on horse or on foot; but this was a case of needs must when the devil drove, and the devil was driving him now because he swore inside himself that if Hal McGrath had taken Tilly down then he wouldn’t live long to enjoy his victory.
Tilly hadn’t hurried on her way home. Again as of late, she’d had the desire to cry, and that was something she mustn’t do, not until she got into bed because else how would she explain her red eyes to her granny and granda: she was returning from a wedding and they were sitting up waiting to hear all the news. And she knew that she’d have to make things up, at least about herself, how she had eaten a grand tea and drunk Simon’s home-brewed ale, and danced. And then she would have to tell them what the bride looked like and how Simon, too, had appeared. Well, she could be truthful about Simon for she would say to them he looked happy.
She stepped out of the twilight into Billings Flat. She blinked her eyes and turned her gaze towards the ground, being careful where she placed her feet for the roots of the trees spread across the path in places and had tripped her up many a time before today. She had never been afraid passing through Billings Flat. Many people were; the village women in particular would never come this way after dark, for it was said that the long hollow had once been a burial ground, and that at one time it had been dug over and the bodies carted away. But her granda said that this was all nonsense because it would take a few hundred bodies lying side by side to fill the Flat.
She was halfway along it and could see through the dim funnel where the trees ended and the twilight in comparison showed almost bright, when something came flying out of the heavens at her like a bird with extended wings and brought a high piercing scream from her. The thing now had her on the ground trapping her arms and legs and she continued to thrash and scream until the wind was knocked completely out of her as a body, a human body, pressed down on her and fingers digging into her cheeks clamped her mouth shut.
Her eyes, wide in a petrified gaze, were now peering through the mesh of a net and into a face, and she knew the face. There were other figures at each side of her holding her arms tight to the ground. She wanted to yell out in agony because one forearm was being bent over a rut in the path.
She couldn’t believe this was happening to her until Hal McGrath, his breath fanning her face now, said between gasps, ‘You’ve got some fight in you, skinny as you are, that’s your choppin’ ’n sawin’, I’ll . . . I’ll put that to use an’ all. Now listen . . . listen, Tilly Trotter. I asked you squarely, I wanted to court you proper, I gave you a chance but you’d have none of it. Well now, you wouldn’t take it the decent way, you’ll take it t’other an’ when your belly’s full I’ll come an’ claim me own. Your two old ’uns won’t last much longer, then what’ll you do? You know what happens to lasses who get taken down, it’s the house or the whore shop . . . Go . . . God Almighty!’
This exclamation was wrenched from him as Tilly, gathering every fraction of strength she had left in her body, surprised them all by getting one leg free from under the side of McGrath’s body and, twisting herself, brought her knee up with all the force she could muster into McGrath’s groin, so causing him for a moment to release the pressure on her mouth; and now, her strong teeth going through the net dug into the side of his hand.
‘You bloody vixen you! God!’ He thrust his doubled fist between his legs. Then as the men on each side of him scrambled to hold her thrashing limbs she let out another blood-curdling scream. But this was throttled at its height by a hand again clapping itself over her mouth. And now McGrath was growling, ‘Get the net off her; it’ll be here and now. By God! it will. It will.’
When her skirt was flung over her head the hand left her mouth and again she screamed, but once more the wind was knocked out of her body.
It was as somebody laughed that she cried from the essence of her soul ‘Oh God! No! No! No! Please. No! No! No!’ and it was as if instantly He had heard her prayer, for her hands were released and she heard a voice that hadn’t spoken before gabbling, ‘Somebody comin’. Hal! Hal man! stop. Stop! somebody comin’. A horseman an’ more than one about somewhere, I know, I know, I can hear ’em. Let’s be gone! Let’s be gone!’ Then another voice, full of panic now said, ‘Give over, Hal man. Listen, they’re comin’. I’m off. I’m off.’
The next minute the weight was wrenched from her. She lay inert, the skirt and petticoats still over her head, her body trembling from head to foot, aware of her indecent appearance yet not able to exert the strength needed to pull her clothes down and see what was happening about her.
She had a strange feeling on her and felt that she must be going to faint. But she had never fainted before, only ladies fainted, and then only when in church. Dimly she was aware of the sound of thuds and groans and curses and of horses’ hooves trampling quite near her. She heard a woman’s voice and a man’s voice, both strange, then her skirt and petticoats were pulled down from her face and her shoulders were brought upwards, and the woman was saying, ‘Really! Really! They’re savages! Hadn’t I just said they were savages.’ Then turning to the man, she said, ‘Stop him before he kills him, whoever he is.’
Mark Sopwith now ran towards where Simon had Hal McGrath pressed against a tree, his fingers around his throat, while McGrath’s hands were gripping the wrists in an endeavour to free himself.
‘Leave go! Leave go, man! you’ll choke him to death. Leave go, I tell you!’ Mark Sopwith brought the side of his hand sharply down across Simon’s forearm, and as if a spring had released his hands Simon dropped them away from McGrath’s throat and stumbled backwards.
His face was bleeding from a cut above his eye; the sleeve of
his wedding coat was wrenched partly from the shoulder. His head thrust forward, his hands hanging limply by his side now, he stood gasping, his eyes tight on McGrath who, with hands clutching his own throat, sidled drunkenly from the tree.
It was Mark Sopwith who spoke now. Peering through the dusk he said in some surprise, ‘You’re McGrath, aren’t you, the blacksmith at the mine? Yes. Yes. Well! I’ll deal with you later. Now get! Clear out. Go on!’
Hal McGrath didn’t immediately obey the order but, looking from one to the other of the men, he said, ‘’Twas nought to do with either of you, nowt! I was courtin’ her. ’Twas family business, courtin’.’
‘And her screaming her head off? Go on, on your way before I myself decide to have a go at you. And by the way’ – he held up his hand – ‘show yourself at the office on Monday; my manager will have something to say to you.’
McGrath’s face twisted as he stared at the mine owner; then muttering curses, he turned from them.
Both men now went to where Tilly was still sitting on the ground, but Lady Myton was no longer bending over her, she was standing dusting her gloved hands together. Looking towards them, she said, ‘She’s got the shakes, she’s been badly frightened.’
Simon passed her without a word and, dropping on to his hunkers at Tilly’s side, he put his arm around her shoulders, saying hesitantly, ‘Are . . . are you all right?’
The words ‘all right’ had a twofold meaning, and after a moment, as if she were considering, she moved her head slowly downwards.
‘Come on, I’ll get you home.’
When he lifted her gently to her feet her legs threatened to give way beneath her and she leant against him, her head pillowed on his breast.
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 7