‘No . . . o, no . . . o, sir.’
‘Well, in ordinary terms it means that you dabble in witchcraft.’
Everyone in the courtroom had their gaze fixed on Tilly waiting for her answer, but she didn’t reply, not even to make a motion of her head, and Simon gazing at her cried voicelessly, ‘She knows as much about witchcraft as an unborn child. Oh, Tilly! Tilly!’
‘Well, do you dabble in witchcraft?’
‘No, sir. No! No!’ Her words were slow but emphatic now. ‘I . . . I never . . . never have, never. I . . . I don’t know nothing about witchcraft.’
‘It has been stated that you enticed the parson’s wife to dance in a place that is usually considered part of holy ground, namely the vestry. Did you do this?’
For the first time Tilly took her eyes from the judge and looked towards Ellen Ross and when Ellen shook her head at her she looked at the judge again, then mumbled, ‘We did a step or two, sir.’
‘She didn’t! I taught her to dance.’ Ellen Ross’ voice ringing through the courtroom caused the whole place to buzz; and now there were two men standing in front of her and talking to her.
The judge struck the bench with a mallet and after the hubbub had slowly died away he, looking at Tilly again, said, ‘You danced in the vestry?’ and after a moment Tilly said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What else did you do in the vestry?’
‘Nothing, sir, only a few steps up and down.’
Looking at the bench once again, the judge was heard to mutter to himself, ‘Only a few steps up and down’; then raising his head his next question was, ‘Do you hold yourself accountable for being here today? Do you in any way think that you are responsible for the death of Burk Laudimer?’
‘No, sir. No, sir.’
‘But you have heard the prosecuting counsel say that you are responsible inasmuch as the accused, Mrs Ellen Ross, would never have gone to your assistance had you not been put in the stocks, and you would not have been put in the stocks had you not been seen to be dancing on holy ground. So can you still say that you don’t feel at least partly responsible for what is happening in this court today?’
As Tilly drooped her head Simon groaned inwardly. These men with their words and their cleverness, they could make out black was white. He allowed his own head to hang for a moment, or was it two or three, but he brought it up sharply as the judge said, ‘Mark my words well, young woman. Now you may stand down.’
He watched her stumbling down the two steps, then being led to the end seat of the front row, and when she sat down he could no longer see anything of her. But the courtroom became astir again. ‘Call Hal McGrath . . . Hal McGrath.’
McGrath dressed in his Sunday best, his hair brushed back from his low forehead, a clean white neckerchief knotted below his Adam’s apple, his grey worsted coat tightly buttoned across his chest, stood with his cap in both hands, his mien that of a quiet country man.
‘You are Hal McGrath? You are said to be the man responsible for putting the girl, Tilly Trotter, into the stocks?’
There was a pause before McGrath spoke, and then he said, ‘Yes, sir, ’twas me.’
‘Why did you do this?’
‘Just . . . just for a joke, sir.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘Well’ – McGrath’s head swung from side to side – ‘I’d been a-courtin’ her and she’d egged me on like; then she threw me off so I suppose, sir, ’twas, ’twas a bit spite in it.’
‘You’re honest, I’ll say that for you.’
Again Simon hung his head and missed something that was being said by the judge, but McGrath’s answer to it was, ‘Yes, sir, I’d heard tell of things she’d done like an’ ’twas a bit odd, but I thought, well, when we were wed I’d knock that all out of her.’
This answer evoked loud guffaws and brought the eyes of the judge on all those present.
‘Do you in any way hold yourself responsible for the death of Burk Laudimer?’
‘Well’ – McGrath looked from one side then the other – ‘no, sir. No, sir, t’ain’t me what hit him.’
‘No, it wasn’t you that hit him’ – the judge’s voice was stern now – ‘but had you not put that girl in the stocks then Mrs Ross would have had no need to go to her rescue, nor to call in the aid of three miners, nor in defence of one of them to strike a blow that inadvertently brought about the death of a man.’ There was a pause now before the judge asked, ‘Do you still want to marry this girl?’
There was another pause before Hal McGrath muttered, ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Then I hope it may come about, and it could be the making of her. Stand down.‘
Simon leant against the door and closed his eyes. He was raging inside. Marry Hal McGrath and be the makings of her. He would do for him first before he saw that happen to her.
‘Call Mrs Ellen Ross.’
The parson’s wife was on the stand. After the preliminary questioning by the counsel the judge addressed her and it was evident to everyone in court that he was speaking to her in a manner that he hadn’t used to any previous witness that day.
‘You are very interested in education, is that not so, Mrs Ross?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Ellen’s voice came as a thin whisper.
‘It is your desire to educate the labouring classes?’
There was a pause, and again she said, ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Have you now come to the conclusion that your decision to do so was ill-advised?’
‘No, my lord.’ Her voice was stronger, her manner slightly more alert, and undoubtedly she had nonplussed the judge for again he looked down at the bench, then on to the head of the clerk before continuing, ‘You don’t think it ill-advised that because you desired to teach three pitmen their letters they are now out of employment?’
When she made no reply to this the judge waited a few minutes before going on, ‘Well now, tell me, do you not think it would have been wiser if you had refrained from teaching the girl, Tilly Trotter, her letters and attempting to coach her into refinements that are far above her station, such as dancing gavottes and such like?’
The whole court stared at Ellen as, her chin coming up now, she said, ‘Country people dance, your honour, farm labourers and such, as do the people in the lower end of this city.’
It was evident now by the judge’s tone that his sympathy for the parson’s wife was waning a little, for his voice was crisp as he said briefly, ‘There’s dancing and dancing as you well know; as the classes differ so do their types of recreation, and this, I think, has been proved by the very fact that this case is being tried in this court today.’
The assembled people watched the judge purse his lips, then look towards an object lying on the bench; and, pointing to it, he seemed to address it as he said, ‘This is the implement that caused the death of a man. Had you any idea that it had a nail in its end when you picked it up?’
He was now looking at her, and her voice trembled a little as she answered, ‘No, my lord, of course not, no.’
‘Why did you aim the blow at the deceased man? Was it because he was one of the men that put the girl in the stocks or was it because he was attacking one of the workmen you had come to look upon as a sort of protégé?’
Some seconds passed before Ellen gave her answer, and then she said, ‘I don’t know, my lord. My intention was to thrust the man aside because I could see that Mr Drew was in a bad way and . . . and the further blow would have felled him to the ground.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The judge was now looking down at the bench again. The court waited; then lifting his head he said abruptly, ‘You may stand down.’
As the defence counsel stepped forward to present his side of the case there was a stir in the middle of the court as a woman fainted, and when they brought her limp body towards the doors Simon was pressed outside into the hall once again, and when he attempted to return into the courtroom it was only to find that the door was closed with someone else having obviously taken hi
s place and pressed against the door. The policeman, remembering the tip, spoke apologetically, saying, ‘Sorry, sir, that’s how things go. You couldn’t get another pin in there.’
Seeing it was no use trying any further persuasion, Simon turned about and pushed through the throng and out into the open air. All he could do now was wait until the case was over . . .
It was almost an hour later when the courtroom doors opened and the people surged through the hall and into the street. It was now that Simon forced his way back through them and into the courtroom. The bench was empty, but before it he saw the parson standing, his wife enfolded in his arms, and about them a number of men. But standing alone at the far end of the long front seat was Tilly, and he made his way straight towards her and without preamble took her hand and said, ‘I was outside, I didn’t hear how it went.’
Tilly looked up into his face and muttered slowly, as if coming out of a dream, ‘She’s free. Thank God!’
‘Come.’ As he turned her about and went to walk up the aisle, he glimpsed from the side of his eye the parson’s wife turning from her husband’s arms and looking towards them.
But Tilly didn’t notice for her head was down, and she kept it down until they were well away from the court walking up a comparatively quiet street and then she stopped and, looking up at Simon, she said, ‘’Twas awful, Simon, awful, to say I was a witch. Simon, what has come upon me?’
‘Nothing, nothing, me dear. Don’t let it trouble you.’
She shook her head hard now as if throwing off his soft words as she said bitterly, ‘But it does trouble me, Simon, it does. I’ve . . . I’ve never done any harm to anyone, not even to wish them harm, that is not until the last business, then I wished, I even prayed, that God would strike Hal McGrath, I did. But that is the one and only time I’ve ever wished bad on anybody. They’re even saying I spirited Pete Gladwish’s dog away. Can you understand it, Simon?’ Her voice had risen. ‘What’ll they say I’ve done next? I’m afeared, Simon.’
‘Now! Now!’ He gripped her hands tightly. ‘No-one’s going to do anything more to you; I’ll keep a lookout.’
‘No, no, don’t.’ She now pulled her hands away from his and began walking up the street again, and she had her head turned from him as she went on, ‘’Tis best if you keep away from me, they’re sayin’ things.’
‘Who’s sayin’ things?’ His voice was grim.
‘Oh, all of them.’ She moved her head wearily now.
‘Well, what are they saying?’
Her voice harsh again, she cried, ‘They’re sayin’ I’m the cause of your marriage going wrong.’
He pulled her to a sharp stop, demanding now, ‘Who said my marriage is going wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s no matter, I just heard.’
‘You must have heard it from somebody. Who said it?’
She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes now as she replied, ‘Randy Simmons has put it about that you’re always fightin’ and it’s ’cos of what happened on your marriage night. Oh, Simon, Simon, I’m sorry.’
‘Damned lot of rot! Never heard such idiot talk in me life. Don’t you believe a word of it.’ He bent towards her now. ‘Do you hear! Don’t you believe a word of it. You know, it’s funny’ – he straightened up – ‘I’ve read things like this, about every now and again a village going mad. They’ve nothing to do except their grind, nothing to interest them after, so they hatch up something like a—’ he had almost brought out ‘a witch-hunt’ but substituted quickly, ‘a scandal and run a gossip shop.’
Slowly she turned from him and began to walk again, and presently she said quietly, ‘If it wasn’t for me granny I would leave the place an’ go miles away. I could get work, perhaps in a big house, somewhere where I wasn’t known.’
‘Well, you can’t leave, you know you can’t, you’ve got your granny, and she needs you, more so now than ever before ’cos she’s lost William.’
They walked on in silence until she broke it by saying, ‘I miss me granda, Simon. He was always kind to me. He never gave me a harsh word in his life. I . . . I suppose’ – she dropped her head slightly to the side as if thinking back – ‘between them they spoilt me. I was lucky to have been brought up by them. Aye, I was.’
He cast his glance towards her. Lucky, she said, and here she was walking through the streets of Newcastle dressed as the poorest of the poor would be in this city. Her short blue coat was green in parts; her serge skirt had been darned in various places near the hem; her hat was a flat straw one and unadorned; her boots had seen better days, one toe showing it had recently been very roughly cobbled. He would like to take her into a restaurant and give her a meal but her appearance might suggest he had picked her up from the street. He wished also he were able to take her into one of the fashionable new dress shops with their huge glass windows and say, ‘Rig her out’; but were he to do so he wouldn’t now be able to pay out of his own pocket. What the old couple didn’t know was that the money had run out some time back, for his father had not only spent his own share, he had dipped into William’s side too; and so he himself had sworn that as long as they needed it the sovereign a month would be forthcoming. Up to the time of his marriage the carrying out of this resolution had been easy, but since, what he had discovered, among other things, was that his wife had a nose for keeping accounts, and he knew that in the future he was going to be hard pushed to explain where the regular payment went.
And so he said, ‘There’s a shop not far from here, would you like some pies and peas? They’re good; I generally have a plate when I come into the city.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘I’m not hungry, Simon.’
‘Aw, come on; you’ll be hungry when you smell these.’ He took her arm and hurried her forward now and within a few minutes they were standing among others scooping up the hot pies and peas, and he smiled at her, saying, ‘Good?’ and she answered, but without a smile, ‘Yes, very tasty, Simon, very tasty.’
As he was finishing the last mouthful of pie, Simon, glancing over the mingled customers towards the open door, saw white flakes falling and exclaimed on a mutter, ‘Oh, not snow!’ then looking at Tilly who had only half finished her food, he said, ‘We’ll have to be moving, Tilly; look, it’s starting to snow.’
‘Aye; I don’t really want any more, Simon.’ She put the plate down.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes; ’twas nice but I’m not hungry.’
‘Come on then . . . ’
Fifteen minutes later they were crossing the bridge into Gateshead amidst heavy falling snow and it was almost an hour later before they came to the outskirts of the village. It was still snowing but not so heavily here, although the ground showed a good spread of it. It was at the point where the roads branched that Tilly said, ‘Stop here, Simon; I’ll make me way over the fields.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’
‘Simon—’ she leant forward and gripped the hand that held the reins and her voice no longer sounded like that of a young girl but of a knowing woman as she said, ‘You know what will happen if you’re seen drivin’ with me through the village. They’ll say . . . ’
‘What’ll they say?’ He jerked his finger towards her. ‘Well, let them say, but you’re not going to end up stiff in the fields because of their dirty tongues, so sit tight.’
She sat tight with her head bowed, in fact she crouched down on the seat hoping that she’d pass unrecognised. Because of the state of the weather there was no-one in the village street, but that wasn’t to say that the sound of a neighing horse or the muffled tramp of its feet didn’t bring at least some of them to their windows.
When they eventually reached the cottage gate it was to see Annie with her face to the window, and as Tilly got down from the trap she said, ‘Are you comin’ in, Simon?’ and he answered, ‘No, I’d better be getting back while the going’s good. But listen.’ He bent towards her where she was standing in the road now, her hand extended on the back
rails, and he leant sideways and covered it with his own as he said, ‘At the slightest sign of trouble, make for the farm . . . I’m going to have a word with young Steve on the quiet; he’ll keep me in touch.’
‘No, no!’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t ask Steve to do anything more, Simon. The poor lad, look at the state he was in; and his arm will never be the same again.’
‘Well, in spite of that he’s still for you, very much for you. He’s a good lad, is Steve. How he came to be bred of that crew, God alone knows. Now look, get yourself in, there’s your granny at the door, you’ll catch your death in this.’
She stared up at him for a moment longer; then in pulling her hand from underneath his she let her fingers rest against his for a moment as she said, ‘I don’t know what I’d . . . we’d do without you, Simon; but please, for your own sake an’ . . . an’ your wife’s, keep your distance.’
He blinked some snowflakes from his eyes before he answered, ‘That’ll be up to me. Go on; goodnight to you.’
‘Goodnight, Simon.’
Annie had the door open and her first words were ‘Oh, lass, I thought you were never comin’.’ Then she added, ‘That was Simon; why didn’t he come in?’
‘He’s got to get back, the roads are gettin’ thick.’
‘Here, give me that coat off you, you look frozen. Come to the fire.’
Tilly had only one sleeve out of her coat before Annie was tugging at her arm and pulling her forward towards the fireplace where she pushed her down into a chair, saying, ‘I’ve got some broth boiling.’ She inclined her head towards the spit. ‘It’s been on the bubble these past two hours. Ah, lass!’ Her voice suddenly sank deep into her chest and, the tears springing from her eyes, she said , ‘I . . . I thought they had done somethin’ to you, kept you or somethin’. I thought you were never coming. I . . . I didn’t know how I was goin’ to go on without you. Aw! me bairn.’
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 13