Mr Septimus Fossett, as behoved his standing in the church and the fact that he owned the draper’s shop on the outskirts of Harton village, had a house fifty yards away. It possessed all of five rooms and had wooden floors, even in the kitchen. Moreover, the railings on the south side of his back garden touched on the grounds of the first of the gentlemen’s residences which led towards Harton village, then on to Westoe village. But unfortunately and irritatingly so, its back windows looked on to the row of cottages lying down in the valley below. These were the habitations of Rosier’s mineworkers.
As Burk Laudimer and Andy Fairweather entered the inn it was the adult section of the McGrath family that their eyes encountered, for Big Bill the father, Hal, and Mick were seated side by side on an oak settle that ran at right angles to one side of the deep based open fire, and opposite them on a similar settle sat four men, two being middle-aged and two decidedly old-aged. It was the elder of the latter, Charlie Stevenson, now turned eighty, who, wiping his ale-dripping unkempt moustache with the back of his hand looked towards the newcomers and croaked, ‘Hie there, Burk.’
‘Hello, Charlie.’ Burk Laudimer nodded at the old man, then at his companion, saying, ‘Evenin’, Peg-Leg,’ and the man with the rough crutch by his side grinned at him toothlessly and bounced his head two or three times but made no reply.
It was towards the younger of the other two men that Andy Fairweather spoke, saying, ‘Why, Billy, don’t often see you round here,’ and Billy Fogget, the carrier, replied, ‘Visitin’ me sister, Andy, visitin’ me sister.’
‘Who’s lookin’ after your cart?’
‘Oh, me lad is for the next few days, he’s got to learn.’
When Bessie Bradshaw now called from behind the rough counter ‘What’s it to be?’ Laudimer and Fairweather looked at each other; then it was Andy Fairweather who said, ‘Mild.’
Having pulled two stools from under a rough table, they brought them to the front of the fire, placing them between the settles, and the conversation became general, in the course of which most of the attention was given to the carrier for he travelled places and knew about goings on. He told them about taking cartloads of folk up to the New Theatre in Newcastle that had just been opened; that he only charged half as much as they would have paid by coach, but that they paid extra when it was raining for then he supplied covers for them, penny for sacks, tuppence for oilcloth. He told them he had spoken to people who had been to London and had glimpsed royalty; and when he told them he was in Newcastle on June 21st when news had come in that the King was dead and that the young Princess Victoria was now Queen, the four men on the settle sat open-mouthed.
The three McGrath men, too, seemed interested, because Fogget, being a natural storyteller, had the art of holding his audience; that was until Peg-Leg Dickens, speaking for the first time, said, ‘Wonderful thing ’tis to travel. Me, I travelled world till I got this.’ He patted the stump of his leg. ‘But now times are different, nowt happens here, one day like t’other, nowt happens here.’
He was shaking his head as Billy Fogget’s companion Joe Rowlands, who was the hedger and ditcher, put in on a grunt of a laugh, ‘Aa wouldn’t say that. It all depends what you’re after for amusement; aye, it does. I get mine. Things I see nobody’d believe’ – he nodded now towards Burk Laudimer – ‘but Dick and Bessie there.’ He turned his head to include the host and hostess now. ‘They know ’tis right, don’t you, Bessie? Don’t you, Dick?’
‘About Sopwith?’ Bessie Bradshaw heaved up her flagging breasts with her forearms, then laughed and said, ‘Put nowt past the gentry. Never put nowt past the gentry. As for the new ’un, she’s a flyer if I ever saw one. Went past here like the divil in a gale of wind yesterday. Thinks she owns the county that one, an’ not in it five minutes.’
‘What’s this all about?’ Andy Fairweather now looked at Joe Rowlands who, sensing he had the attention of the company, appeared in no hurry to explain further. Taking a long drink from his mug, he then wiped each side of his mouth with his knuckles before directing his gaze down to the floor. And there he let it remain for some seconds; then slowly raising his head he looked around the company from under his brows before saying, ‘I see things on me travels, I see things you’d never believe. First time you see ’em you think you’re mistaken, but not second time. No, not second time.’
‘Well, go on, go on, you’re lettin’ it drip like treacle in the workhouse.’
There was a guffawing now at Burk Laudimer’s remark and old Charlie Stevenson spluttered, ‘Aye, go on, go on, Joe, it’s spice you’ve got in your gob I can tell, I can tell, so spit it out, man, spit it out.’
Joe Rowlands was laughing now at the old man. Nodding his head towards him, he said, ‘Aye, spice. Aye, spice, Charlie, ’twas spice all right. Well—’ his eyes again travelled round the company and, his voice dropping now, he brought them into the circle of expectation by beginning, ‘It was on this night, the night that this village won’t forget, Farmer Bentwood’s wedding, you mind . . . what’s been said about it, an’ the divil’s fagarties that took place. Well, I see some of what happens but only at the end of it. I heard the shoutin’ an’ the bashin’ from a distance. I was takin’ a short cut over from Lord Redhead’s place, you know where our Fanny’s man works on the estate, an’ he had a bit of something for me’ – he nodded and winked knowingly – ‘’twas in the shape of a bird, you understand.’ He pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘So there I was comin’ back pathways, never expecting to meet anybody ’cos I was goin’ to drop down into Billings Flat. Anyway, there was this hullabaloo, an’ me with what I had with me, well, I didn’t want to show me face. I stayed up top of bank. There’s rough ground there, you know round top of Billings Flat.’ He was nodding to each one in turn now. ‘I couldn’t hear exactly what was going on but it was a rumpus right enough an’ voices shouting and horses gallopin’. Then things went quiet and I was just about to get up and continue on me way when I hear the sound of horses coming towards me, and so I lay doggo and there who did I see, eh? Who did I see?’ He paused, but no-one broke the silence. ‘Mr Sopwith himsel’. An’ who was with him? The new lady from Dean House, Lady Myton.’ He paused again. ‘Now there they were right in front of me, an’ I could see them plain from where I was lying atween two boulders. He said something to her which I couldn’t catch; then as if he were picking up a sack of corn he had her off her feet and on her back. But it was no rapin’ ’cos God she was willin’. Aye, God! I’ll say that for him, she was willin’.’
There was silence in the room now; then for the first time one of the McGrath men spoke. It was Hal. His voice quiet, soft and flat, he said, ‘You sure of this?’
The insult to his integrity brought Joe Rowlands to his feet and he barked at Hal McGrath, crying, ‘I’m not a bloody liar! What do you think I’ve been tellin’ you, you think I made it up?’
‘No, no—’ Hal McGrath’s voice was quiet, even pacifying – ‘only it’s a night of tales goin’ round.’ He cast his glance towards the carrier.
‘’Tis no tale,’ Joe Rowlands interrupted him. ‘’Twas as I said, I could hardly believe me eyes the first time but when I came across it again then there was no mistakin’. No, it was no mistakin’. They passed me on the road they did with never a glance in my direction. I touched me cap but neither of them seemed to see me. I was in the ditch when they passed, but happenin’ to go up the bank a few minutes later I saw them cutting up on to the fells an’ it struck me where they were makin’ for, the same place again. Well, I couldn’t beat them to it an’ get there afore they did ’cos it was a good half mile away an’ there were three stone walls to jump, an’ me jumping days are over. But what I did do was to skitter up through Fletcher’s Copse and up to the mound near Trotter’s cottage, and from there if I couldn’t see exactly what they were up to I could tell the time of their goin’ in and their comin’ out. Well, from the time they reached the outcrop to the time they came out of it was a full half-hour, and as
I guessed they didn’t go out the way they came in, but they came out t’other end. They were a good way off from the mound but I could see them clearly although they were protected on each side by trees, and their parting was not “Goodbye, Mr Sopwith.” “Goodbye, Lady Myton,” for she was hanging on to him like a bitch in heat and he was over her likewise. So there it is, the truth.’
He looked full at Hal McGrath, who said, ‘Well! well! Aye, as you said, Joe, the things what happen round here, it isn’t as quiet as you think.’
‘No, you’re right there.’ Burk Laudimer was nodding in his direction now, and not to be outdone in the tale-telling he said solemnly, ‘Things happen in the open and beyond closed doors, which is the worse I wouldn’t know. Andy and I here have just come from a meetin’ in the vestry, an important meetin’, and the result could have percussions on this village. Aye yes; yes, indeed.’
‘What kind of percussions?’ Dick Bradshaw’s voice came from behind the bar and his mind they all knew was linking the percussions with business, and Burk Laudimer, looking towards him, said smarmily, ‘Oh, it wouldn’t affect you, Dick, it wouldn’t affect you. But the vicarage it would. Aye, yes, it would that, the vicarage.’
‘The vicarage?’
‘Aye, the vicarage.’
‘The vicarage?’
The question came from different throats now, then Peg-Leg Dickens said, ‘What’s wrong with parson then?’
‘’Tisn’t parson, Peg-Leg, ’tisn’t parson, ’tis his wife.’
‘His wife?’
‘Aye.’ He nodded at him; then bending forward and his voice dropping a number of tones, he murmured, ‘She and that young Tilly Trotter up to larks in the vestry.’
‘Up to larks?’ The carrier’s round eyes were bright, his face was poked forward. He looked from one to the other; then his gaze resting on the three McGrath men sitting straight and silent, he laughed as he repeated, ‘Up to larks?’ expecting them to join in his amusement. However, they neither smiled nor moved but waited for Burk Laudimer to continue, and he did.
‘Dancin’ they’ve been, dancin’ together, their skirts almost up to their thighs, kickin’ their legs up.’
There was a murmur of ‘Never! never! not parson’s wife.’
‘Aye, parson’s wife.’ His voice was louder now. ‘But I don’t blame parson’s wife, no, no, ’tis young Trotter that I blame, as has been mentioned by Joe there. There was divil’s fagarties to play on Farmer Bentwood’s weddin’ night, weren’t there, but who started it?’ He now turned his head and looked at Hal McGrath and said, ‘No blame attached to you, Hal; no, no, courtin’s courtin’ all the world over, an’ as you said you tried to do it honest with her ’cos she had led you on; if she hadn’t asked for it you wouldn’t have attempted to give her it, would you now? No, no; so no blame’s attached to you. And for Sopwith to sack you, ’twas a bloody shame, ’twas. She’s trouble that girl, she’s trouble. You’re best off without her. Aye, I’d say, ’cos I was just pointin’ out to Andy here back in the cemetery that old tombstone of Cissy Clackett, you know. Remember Cissy Clackett?’ His head was again bobbing from one to the other; and the bobs were being returned, particularly from the two old men. ‘Well, she comes from that stock, young Trotter does. An’ the thread runs strong in the female. As I said an’ all back there in the vestry, it’s a pity the stocks are not in use no more. Aye, it is that, for I’d put her in meself, I would that. An’ as I was sayin’ to Andy here an’ all, there was Pete Gladwish’s dog. That was a funny business now, wasn’t it? Eh, wasn’t it?’
When a silence fell on the room again, Big Bill McGrath turned his head slowly towards the counter and said quietly, ‘Fill ’em up all round, Bessie, small ’uns.’
‘Good, good. Oh, that’s kind of you, Bill.’ They all stirred on their seats.
‘Aye, aye, ’tis.’
After half pints of ale were distributed among the men the conversation flagged somewhat, but when Burk Laudimer and Andy Fairweather rose to take their leave, the three McGrath men rose too, saying it was time for them to hit the road, and they all went out into the dark night together. They did not, however, immediately make their ways to their respective homes, but stood outside the inn talking for quite some time.
Five
Parson Ross was only thirty-five years old but his slightly stooped shoulders, long face, and thinning hair made him appear a man in his middle forties. He was tall and thin, and usually had a sallow complexion, but at this moment his skin was suffused to a dull red, and his wide straight lips trembled slightly as he pressed them together, at the same time shaking his head as he looked at his wife.
Ellen Ross at twenty-six was what could be called petite. She hardly reached her husband’s shoulder. Her hair was light brown, her eyes a startling clear blue; her manner and speech were quick and when she talked she had the habit of moving her hands, each gesture seeming to add emphasis to her words, as they did now. ‘They are spiteful, those men are spiteful. I’ve never liked them from the first. And churchwarden or no churchwarden, Mr Fossett’s an old granny. As for the wheelwright, well!’ She grimaced and threw her arms wide as if pressing something away to each side of her.
George Ross now closed his eyes for a moment as he said with strained patience, ‘You are getting away from the point, Ellen. Were you or were you not dancing with Tilly Trotter in the vestry?’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes! All right, if you say we were dancing we were dancing, but as I’ve already told you, it was the first time it had happened there, and . . . and it was all over in a matter of seconds. And we didn’t move the benches back; we went round the table once.’
Ellen looked at her husband as he closed his eyes again while his head slowly drooped towards his chest and, her voice pleading now, she whispered, ‘Oh! George, George, I’m so sorry if this has distressed you, but it all started so innocently. One day in the summer house after I had taken Tilly for her letters I remarked that there was a barn dance being held outside of Westoe village and I asked her if she was going, and sadly, that was it . . . that was it, George. There was so much sadness in her voice when she replied she never went to barn dances, that in fact she couldn’t dance at all, she had never danced. Well, George, you know yourself what used to happen on birthdays and anniversaries at home when Mother played the spinet and Robert the violin, you were there, and you enjoyed it you did. Our drawing room was gayer than any court ball; you said so yourself.’
The vicar slowly raised his head now and looked with infinite sadness at his wife as he said softly, ‘That was before we were married, Ellen. When you agreed to become my wife you knew there would be responsibilities, and these responsibilities would be heavily laden with decorum. We talked about this, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, George.’ Her voice was flat, her hands remained still, joined tightly together at her waist now.
‘The first Mrs Ross was . . . ’
‘Oh! Oh no! George.’ Her hands had sprung apart and her head was shaking widely. ‘Please, don’t tell me again of the first Mrs Ross’ qualities. If you do I shall scream.’
‘Ellen! Ellen! Ellen! Calm yourself. Dear! Dear!’ He stared sadly at her. ‘I wasn’t going to do any such thing except to admit that an excess of decorum can have its drawbacks when it impinges on happiness.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, George.’ She moved a step nearer to him and, putting out her hands, she gripped his and, looking up into his face, she said softly, ‘I will try, George. Honestly and faithfully, I give you my promise that from today I will try to be different.’
The parson stared down into the face he so dearly loved. Then his nose twitched, his eyelids blinked, he wetted his lips and, his voice now soft and unlike its previous tone, he said, ‘Oh, Ellen, Ellen, I do so want you to be happy, and . . . and, I would like to add, I want you to be free to take the line your active mind directs, but . . . but I am hampered, my very position hampers us both.’
‘I know, I know, my dear.’
‘Well now, Ellen, I’m sorry to have to say this, but you must stop seeing Tilly.’
Now it was her eyes that blinked and her whole face twitched and she glanced to the side before she said, ‘Not even teach her her letters?’
‘Not even that, my dear. They . . . the villagers, they have strange ideas about Tilly, weird, stupid ideas, but these ideas could make them dangerous.’
‘What . . . what kind of ideas?’ Her head had swung quickly round towards him again.
‘Well—’ he became embarrassed for a moment and his lips worked in and out before he answered, ‘She is apparently a descendant of an old lady who . . . who is buried in the churchyard. Her name was Cissy Clackett and she was . . . well, they seem to think she had supernatural powers.’
‘A witch?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose she would in those days have been called a witch.’
Ellen’s hands jerked quickly away from her husband’s and her body bristled with indignation as she cried, ‘And they’re saying that Tilly is a witch! Tilly Trotter a witch!’
‘My dear, you must have realised yourself that most of the villagers are ignorant people and ignorant people thrive on superstition . . . ’
‘But Tilly a witch, huh!’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I have never heard anything so stupid in my life. She’s a sweet, kind, quite innocent girl, and I’ve never heard her say a wrong word about anyone, not even about that horrible McGrath man.’ She paused for a moment while they stared at each other; then in a high, clear voice, like someone asking a question of the platform, she said, ‘Are they intending to burn Tilly Trotter, sir?’
‘Don’t be silly, Ellen.’
‘I am not being silly, at least not any more silly than the villagers or anyone else who takes notice of them.’
‘Ellen!’
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 10