Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  Tilly could find no words to express what she was feeling. The whole business sounded too fantastic to be believed, yet she knew it was true, too true. They had been living on stolen money for years. They had stolen it from McGrath, but whom had McGrath stolen it from? All that money, all those sovereigns, and she had been the means, the innocent means of giving her grandfather away and of bringing on herself the raping attack tonight. She shuddered visibly and bent her head. She would feel his body on top of her for the rest of her days, and his hands clawing at her bare flesh. Instinctively, she brought her legs tight together under the table.

  ‘Don’t worry, he won’t come near you again.’ Simon’s hand came across the table and covered her joined ones.

  As she looked back into his face she thought, I’ve spoilt his wedding. And yet the question she asked him now had nothing whatever to do with his wedding: ‘Where did Mr McGrath get the money from? Was he a highwayman?’

  ‘No, not him’ – Simon shook his head – ‘he would never have the guts. But his cousin was transported three or four years previous. He was one of three men who held up a coach on its way to Scotland, it was on the road between Gosforth and Morpeth, a lonely stretch. One of the men was shot by the guard, the other two escaped. McGrath’s cousin was picked up from a description some weeks later when he was at the hoppings in Newcastle; one of the gentry who had been in the coach spotted him and informed the constables. It couldn’t really be proved against him, it was only hearsay, but still it was enough to send him to Botany Bay; otherwise it would have been his neck. William’ – he looked towards the bed again – ‘you remember him, don’t you, McGrath’s cousin?’

  ‘Aye, aye, I do indeed. He was a small fellow, quiet, dark, quick on his feet. Around that time there were two or three big hold-ups. They never found who did them, but the money in that box told the tale all right. The only thing I can’t understand, and never have been able to, is why he let Big McGrath have the keeping of it ’cos he himself lived in Glasgow in one of those tenements they said that you wouldn’t house a rat in.’

  ‘Here’ – Annie was now standing by Simon’s side, she had placed a dish of water on the table – ‘let me clean up that cut. You are in a mess. My goodness!’ She dabbed at his face with a wet cloth. ‘This needs a needle and thread else you’re going to have a scar there. Here, dry your face.’ She handed him a rough towel, then added, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do anything with your coat, that’s a tailor’s job. By! your wife will go mad when she sees you. And this to happen on your wedding night. ’Tis sorry I am to the heart, Simon.’

  He stood up and, handing her the towel back, he smiled and only just in time stopped himself from saying, ‘It isn’t every man who saves another woman from being raped on his wedding night and gets his face bashed into the bargain’ because Tilly wasn’t a woman, she was a girl, still a girl, a sweet girl, a lovable girl. He looked at her and as he met her wide, warm, troubled gaze, he turned on himself: Aw, to hell! Let him get out of here and back to Mary. Aye, back to Mary. And what would she say to him? Aye, what would she say? Would she overlook his running off like that and greet him with open arms when he turned up like this? Huh! he doubted it. Well anyway, the quicker he got back and tested her temper the better.

  ‘Goodnight, William. Goodnight, Tilly. Goodnight, Annie.’

  William muttered ‘Goodnight, lad, and thanks, thanks for what you’ve done the night.’

  Tilly gave him no farewell. She just stood and watched him as her grandmother handed him a lantern, saying, ‘You’ll need this now.’

  ‘Aye, yes I’ll need it now.’

  She opened the door for him and as he stepped out into the dark, she said, ‘Tell your wife I’m sorry you were fetched away and are going back to her like this. I . . . I hope she understands.’

  He made no answer, but as he went swiftly down the path towards the gate and his horse he thought, I hope she does an’ all.

  But Mary Bentwood was never to understand this night, nor to forgive him until the day she died.

  Four

  The light of the candle lantern set in the middle of the vestry table illuminated the six faces gathered around it, those of the churchwarden Mr Septimus Fossett and the five sidesmen: Burk Laudimer the wheelwright, Andy Fairweather the carpenter, George Knight the cooper and gravedigger, Tom Pearson the painter and odd-job man, and Randy Simmons, Simon Bentwood’s cowman.

  Mr Fossett had just finished speaking, and it was Andy Fairweather who answered him, saying, ‘Aye, ’tis as you said a serious business. And that’s why we’re here, we’re responsible men, responsible for the conduct of the church. Well, what I mean is to see that those who run it act decent like.’

  ‘But she doesn’t run it’ – Tom Pearson’s voice held a note of protest – ‘be parson that is responsible.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s responsible for his wife.’ Two voices came at him now, Andy Fairweather’s and George Knight’s.

  ‘Aye, well, yes, you’re right there.’ Burk Laudimer was nodding his head now. ‘But she be different class. We knew that from the start. She comes from the gentry, an’ we all know what they’re like. Like bitches in season they skitter about.’

  ‘Aw, shut tha mouth!’ Tom Pearson not only nodded angrily towards Burk Laudimer, but he thrust his pointing finger across the table at him, crying, ‘We’re not talkin’ of bitches but of the parson’s wife.’

  ‘ . . . One an’ the same thing p’raps.’

  ‘Now, now, Burk’ – Septimus Fossett nodded his head disapprovingly down the table – ‘this is no time to be funny, ’tis no light subject we’re dealing with. Now tell us, you’re sure what you saw?’

  ‘As true as God’s me judge. An’ as I said, you haven’t only got to take me word for it, there was Andy. You saw them with your own eyes, didn’t you, Andy?’

  ‘Aye, aye, I did, Burk. You’re right, I did. There they were in this very room, this table pushed back to the wall there, an’ dancin’ they were.’ The carpenter’s voice now dropping to a low mutter, he went on, ‘Astonishin’ it was to see in a place of worship an’ all, their arms about each other. And her singin’! An’ no hymn. Oh no! no! No hymn. A lilt she was singin’, a dancin’ lilt, and as Burk here has told you – I saw it as well as him – when they parted they up with their skirts like a pair of whores on the waterfront at Shields. Halfway up their calves they pulled them, and started prancin’ about. Now ’twould have been bad enough if it had been in a barn or in the room across yonder’ – he thumbed over his shoulder – ‘where she holds what she calls her Sunday school, but I suppose that was too small a place for them to have their fling . . . But now listen.’ He rolled his eyes from one staring member to the other. ‘I’ll tell you somethin’, I don’t blame the parson’s wife altogether. No, no, I don’t, ’cos I think she’s been led astray, aye she has, and by that young Tilly Trotter.’

  ‘Ah, don’t be daft man.’

  ‘Now, Tom Pearson, don’t you tell me I’m daft, I know what I’m talkin’ about.’

  ‘Well, you’re the only one.’ Tom Pearson turned his head away from the table and looked into the deep shadows as he said, ‘Led away by Tilly Trotter! She’s only a bit of a lass, not yet on sixteen.’

  ‘She’s no bit of a lass, not in the ordinary way I’d say. An’ what’s more, she’s above herself, has been for years. There’s always been something fishy about her; an’ about her old grandparents an’ all. Old Trotter’s never done a hand’s turn for years, but they never seem to want. Have you ever thought of that? An’ can you tell me another thing’ – he now cast his glance again around the table – ‘why should Simon Bentwood ride off on his weddin’ night to see that she was all right just ’cos he heard that Hal McGrath was for takin’ her? Leaves his bride he does an’ all the bridal party; in the midst of the jollifications he rides off and comes back hours later, a slit brow, a black eye, an’ his clothes torn off his back through fightin’ Hal McGrath for her. Now I ask you, is th
at usual goin’ on for a groom on his weddin’ day? An’ look at the rumpus that came after. Randy there’ – he pointed down the table – ‘said there was hell to pay. An’ the lads didn’t see them up to bed that night. An’ moreover there was high jinks in the house the next day. That girl, I’m tellin’ you, is a creator of trouble, in fact she’s witch-like in some ways. Have you ever seen the way she looks at . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Tom Pearson got to his feet. ‘I’ve never heard such bloody rubbish in me life.’

  ‘No language in here, Tom. Remember where you are.’ The churchwarden’s voice was stern.

  ‘Not so much rubbish, Tom.’ It was George Knight, the gravedigger now.

  His thin piping voice seemed to check the anger of the two men and they both looked at him, and he, nodding from one to the other, said, ‘That was a strange business about Pete Gladwish’s dog, now you must admit that. It was strange that was. It was.’

  ‘Aye, it might have been’ – Tom Pearson’s voice was also quiet now – ‘but what has that to do with young Tilly Trotter?’

  ‘More than something, Tom, more than something, so some folks say. Pete’s dog was a ratter, you know that yourself, an’ one of the best terriers for miles. An’ the old fellow lived on his winnings, didn’t he? Saturda’ night in the pit I’ve seen that dog kill fifty rats in as many minutes, or less. Aye, or less. Then comes the night that he’s takin’ him over Boldon way, and they meet up with young Tilly on the road, an’ you know what happened? She stroked the dog. Talked to it, Pete said, and the bloomin’ beast then didn’t want to come along of him, tugged to follow her. An’ that night he didn’t even want to go in the pit. Can you imagine a terrier seeing a rat an’ not wanting to go after it? Why, when they see them swarming down in the pit they nearly go mad to get at ’em. But, Pete said, that dog just stood there, dazed like. Well, he knocked the daylights out of it and took it home and chained it up, and what happened? Well, you live in this village as well as I do an’ you know what happened, the dog was gone the next mornin’, wasn’t it, and it’s never been seen hilt nor hair of since. It wasn’t until this business of the weddin’ an’ the sort of enticing away of Farmer Bentwood on the most special night of his life that old Pete got thinkin’ about the night Tilly Trotter stroked his dog; he hadn’t linked it up afore. And to my mind there’s something in it . . . ’

  ‘To your mind, George, there’s always something in it, even in an empty pea pod.’

  ‘Pity the stocks are no longer in the square.’

  ‘Why, are you thinkin’ of sitting in them?’

  Burk Laudimer now turned on Tom Pearson, crying, ‘I don’t know why you were asked in on this meetin’, you’re for her, aren’t you, for the pair of ’em? When they’re dancing on the altar next and drinkin’ out of the font you’ll say that ain’t witchery. Just high spirits, you’ll say.’

  ‘Aye, I might an’ all.’ Tom Pearson nodded at them; then looking up the table to where the churchwarden sat, his face grim, he said, ‘Well, I’ve got a job to finish, I’m off, but have you made up your mind what you’re gona do?’

  Mr Fossett put the palms of his hands flat on the table before him and surveyed the five of them for a moment before he said, ‘Yes, I’ve made up me mind, an’ being churchwarden ’tis me duty as I see it to carry it out.’

  ‘And what are you gona carry out?’ Tom Pearson asked.

  The churchwarden’s head swung from side to side before he answered, ‘Just the fact that the parson will have to put a stop to her gallop, he’ll tell her she must behave or else . . . ’

  ‘Or else what?’

  ‘Well’ – again Mr Fossett’s head was wagging – ‘we can’t have disgrace brought on the church, an’ his wife acting like a light woman can bring nothin’ but disgrace on the church.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re right.’ His supporters nodded confirmation of this; then simultaneously they rose and the meeting was at an end . . .

  Outside in the churchyard they dispersed to go their separate ways, with the exception of Burk Laudimer and Andy Fairweather. As if of one mind they both stood looking up into the darkening sky, then they turned together and walked down by the side of the church and, cutting across between the gravestones, made for a small gate in the low stone wall that surrounded the cemetery. But before going through it, Burk Laudimer came to a stop and, looking at his companion, said under his breath, ‘Do you remember the tale of old Cissy Clackett?’

  ‘Cissy Clackett? . . . You mean Cissy Clackett over there?’ He pointed to the right of him where the tall grass was almost obliterating the small headstones.

  ‘Aye, that Cissy Clackett.’ Burk Laudimer now turned from the gate and made his way into the long grass until he came to a side wall close to which was a headstone so green with moss that the inscription on it was almost obliterated, and he turned to Andy Fairweather and, his words slow and low, he said, ‘She was buried seventeen twenty-four and as the story goes she just escaped being burnt, they had stopped doing them then. But now, listen here’ – he now bent his head close to that of Andy Fairweather – ‘Old Annie Trotter was a Page before she married, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, she was; and you should know ’cos you’ve lived in the village as long as me, and your people afore you. Anyway, the Pages took their names from the male side, didn’t they, but on the female side they were the Clacketts and they went back right to old Cissy here.’ He now went to clap his hand on top of the headstone but stopped suddenly as if in fear, and he rubbed his palm up and down his thigh again before he went on, ‘This thing runs right through families, the female side – always the female side – and from all the evidence we’ve heard the night, an’ what I’ve suspected for a long time, young Tilly Trotter’s picked up the thread.’

  ‘Eeh! Well, ’tis a funny thing to say, Burk.’

  ‘’Tis true, these things run in families, like boss eyes and harelips.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve got to agree with you there; aye, you’re right there.’ They both turned now and made their way back to the gate, through it and into a sunken road that led down into the village.

  Presently Burk Laudimer said, ‘Gona call in?’

  Andy Fairweather hesitated, saying now, ‘Oh, I don’t know the night; I’m not feelin’ too clever, heavy tea I think.’

  ‘Aw, come on, a mug of Bessie’s brew will cure that.’

  ‘I don’t think we should, Burk. If Fossett gets to hear about it he won’t like it.’

  ‘Damn Fossett I say! I do what I like in me own time. I pay me respects on Sunday, I do me duty, but there’s nobody goin’ to stop me wettin’ me whistle when I want to.’

  Andy Fairweather lowered his head for a moment, then gave a shaky laugh and turned with Burk Laudimer round the curve of the narrow street where the houses seemed to bow to each other from each side of the road and into an open square in the middle of which was a round of rough grass, and at the centre of this a flat stone measuring about six foot square.

  On the far side of the green was a row of cottages sitting well back and fronted by small gardens, and on the near side, that to which the two men were now making their way, was a crescent of what appeared to be workshops. The end one gave evidence of being the blacksmith’s shop by the faint glow coming through the open doorway. The wheelwright’s next door was distinguished by its swinging board with its trade mark painted on it. A space divided it from the baker’s shop, and another opening beyond the baker’s provided space for the vehicles belonging to the patrons of the inn. Beyond the inn were two cottages, stone-faced and sturdy looking, one occupied by the cobbler, the other by a breeches maker who was also a hosier, for he could knit stockings as well as any woman, better in fact some said. But then of course he wasn’t really a man, having been stunted in his youth and only four foot in height. The grocer’s shop took up the space of two cottages, and it needed every inch because with the exception of meat, it sold
most things necessary to the village life.

  The crescent now straggled away in an untidy end covered by a row of small cottages which housed the drover, who was also the mole catcher, the thatcher whose wife was the district midwife, and also the families of Andy Fairweather, George Knight, Tom Pearson, Burk Laudimer and lastly the McGraths.