Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  Her stomach seemed to be loose within its cage, her whole body was trembling, she had the desire to be sick.

  ‘Try not to worry. I . . . I might just be imaginin’ things but I thought it best to put you on your guard. Anyway, I’d hurry up now and get back afore dark.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Steve. And . . . and thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Tilly. I wish I could do more, I wish—’ he put his dirty hand out towards her, then withdrew it sharply and saying, ‘Take care. Go on now, an’ take care,’ he turned from her and hurried away.

  She, too, turned and walked along the road, but she didn’t hurry because of a sudden her legs seemed to have lost their power.

  Like a child who didn’t know which way to turn, she wanted to sit down on the side of the road and cry until someone should come to her aid. Well, there was only one person who could come to her aid and as soon as she got back she would go to him. She’d risk annoying his wife, but she’d go to him.

  Her arms were breaking. Although she had only bought a half stone of flour, a pound of bacon ends, a pound of hough meat, a marrowbone and a few dry goods, each mile she walked seemed to add to the weight, and she had just passed the Rosier village and was within the last mile home when she smelt the smoke. At first she thought it was Mr Sopwith’s woodman burning the scrub; he liked his places kept clear did Mr Sopwith. Of course he hadn’t the men now to do all he would like on the estate and some of it was like a jungle, so he seemed pleased that she kept the little wood clear of brambles and undergrowth. She stopped for a moment and changed the half stone of flour over into the crook of her left arm and picked the bass bag up with her right hand. But as she went to walk on again she put her head back and sniffed. The smell of burning was heavy, not like brushwood or leaves burning.

  She had gone another hundred yards or so when she paused for a moment; then some instinct rising in her, she actually leapt forward and ran. Leaping and stumbling, she came to the beginning of the bridle path that led to the cottage, and there, her head back and her mouth open, she cried aloud, ‘Oh Lord! Lord!’ for a great pall of smoke was blotting out the road and the surrounding sky.

  When she came in sight of the cottage she let out a high cry, dropped her packages, oblivious at the moment that the flour bag had split, and raced towards the blazing building. There were a number of people standing on the pathway and one of them caught her arm and said, ‘It’s no use. Everything possible’s been done, but it’s no use.’

  Her wild agonised glance looked up into the face of Mark Sopwith, then at the other three men standing near. One she vaguely recognised as the pitman Mrs Ross had defended and the other two looked like Mr Sopwith’s men. She actually grabbed at Mark Sopwith’s coat as she cried, ‘Me granny! Me granny!’

  ‘It’s all right, she’s safe. It’s all right. Come’ – he took her arm – ‘she’s round the back with the farmer.’

  When he went to draw her over the vegetable patch giving the blazing cottage a wide berth, she pulled herself to a halt for a moment and, looking at the flames leaping heavenwards through the aperture that had once been the roof, she moaned aloud, and Mark Sopwith said, ‘Come. Come.’

  At the back of the house she looked towards the woodshed. All the wood had been dragged outside, but she recognised that only half of it was lying about. The byre door was open but there was no-one in there. She glanced at Mark Sopwith again and he motioned his head down towards the bottom of the garden where stood a rickety outdoor closet and next to it an equally rickety shed in which, over the years, unused or worn-out household objects had been thrown.

  She now pulled herself away from Mark Sopwith’s grasp and raced towards it.

  Gasping, she stood gripping each side of the doorway. Lying on some sacks was her granny, and kneeling by her side and almost taking up all the remaining space were two people: one was Simon and the other was a young girl she hadn’t seen before.

  Simon immediately got to his feet and, holding her arms, said, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’

  ‘What . . . what have they done to her?’ Her voice was high, almost on the point of a scream, and now he gripped her shoulders as he shouted at her, ‘It’s all right! It’s all right! I’m telling you.’

  ‘They . . . they burnt her?’

  ‘No, no’ – he shook her again – ‘we found her down here. She’s . . . she’s had a bit of a seizure.’

  ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ She thrust past him and dropped on to her knees beside the inert figure and tenderly now she cupped the wrinkled face between her palms and whimpered, ‘Oh, Granny! Granny!’

  The girl kneeling opposite her said in thick rough tones, ‘Don’t frash yourself, lass; you can’t do nowt by frashing yourself. She’s alive. It’s just likely a stroke she’s had. Me Aunt Hunisett, she got a shock when they told her her man was drowned, she went just like this, but she’s alive the day and well, as well as can be expected. There now. There now.’ The girl put out her hand and patted Tilly’s shoulder and Tilly, looking through her streaming eyes at her, whimpered now, ‘They’re cruel. They’re cruel.’

  ‘Aye, those are the very words our Sam said; cruel buggers, the lot of ’em. ’Twas him an’ me saw the fire first an’ the poor old girl going mad outside. We tried all we could with buckets from the rain barrel but it was like spittin’ against the wind. Then the old lady here up and had a seizure, fell at our feet she did. ’Twas no use puttin’ her into one of your outhouses, they were too near the house, this was the only safe place, and I stayed alongside of her while our Sam ran back to the big house. An’ it was fortunate Mr Sopwith was just mountin’ to go to the mine, an’ he galloped along here. But what could he do? Nowt, because the whole place looked like hell let loose. But he was in a state ’cos he thought you were inside, miss, an’ he gallops off again to the farmer, so our Sam said, an’ he comes tearing up with his men, an’ that’s the whole of it. Except the farmer there.’ She nodded her head towards the opening of the hut. ‘They had to stop him going in. And I think he would have gone, only a lad from the village said you had gone shoppin’, and at the news he went down like a pricked balloon. There now. There now, I talk too much. But I always do in cases like this, accidents like. When me dad was killed in the pit two years gone I never stopped talkin’ for a week.’

  Tilly looked at the girl. She didn’t look much older than herself but she sounded like a woman. She said to her now as if she could give her the answer, ‘Where am I going to put her? She can’t stay here, she’ll die of cold.’

  The girl considered for a moment, her head on one side, then said, ‘Well, we’re packed like sardines since we got the push from Rosier’s an’ the cottage; but we were lucky to get into Mr Sopwith’s row. They’re a bit cleaner his cottages, but no bigger. One room’s got a stone floor and that’s something. But there’s nine of us there still.’ She smiled. ‘As me ma says, if you can’t lie down to sleep tack yoursel’ to the wall. We’d find a corner for you; as you say, the old girl can’t stay out in this.’

  ‘You mean . . . you mean your mother wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘No, me ma won’t mind; she takes life as it comes. As she says, she had to take us an’ we’ve been far from God’s blessin’.’ Her smile had turned into a wide grin and for the moment Tilly almost forgot she was in the midst of tragedy. Here was someone kind, a stranger, an utter stranger offering to take them in, and making light of it.

  Her attention was brought from the girl as Annie stirred and slowly opened her eyes. Her hand came up and grabbed at Tilly’s arm, and her mouth opened and shut but no sound came from it.

  ‘It’s all right, Gran, it’s all right. It’s going to be all right. I’m here, I’m here.’

  Again Annie’s mouth opened and shut but still no sound came from it, and the girl at the other side from her remarked, ‘Aye, she’s had a stroke an’ I bet it’s down the left side.’ She now lifted Annie’s left arm and when it dropped lifelessly back on to her skirt she nodded a
t Tilly and said, ‘Aye, I thought so; it’s usually on the left side.’

  At this point Simon’s voice came to her, saying, ‘They’re not going into the house, neither of them, I’ll take them back home with me.’ And Mark Sopwith’s reply was, ‘That’s good of you, I’m glad of that. They were a decent couple and they brought the girl up well.’

  When Simon entered the hut again Tilly looked at him with the feelings of her heart shining through her wet eyes, and he said to her, ‘Move out of the way a minute.’ Then nodding at the girl at the other side of Annie, he added, ‘You’ll both have to get outside because I’ve got to lift her up.’

  ‘But you can’t carry her all the way.’

  ‘I’m not aiming to.’ He glanced at Tilly as she made for the door. ‘I’ve got the farm cart outside. I was on the road to the miller’s when I met Mr Sopwith. The cart’s at the end of the bridle path.’ He stooped down and gently gathered Annie up into his arms and, his body bent, he eased himself out of the hut doorway; then hitching his burden close up against his breast, he cut across the vegetable patch, round the side of the blazing cottage and through the gate into the road where there were now a number of villagers standing, and when, passing through them, he heard the remark, ‘’Tis a blaze, isn’t it?’ he paused and cried at the man, ‘Yes, ’tis a blaze, and somebody’s responsible for the blaze, and by God! he or they’ll suffer for it.’

  Their faces shamefaced, some of them looked away, while others continued to stare at him; but no-one gave him any answer. And when Mark Sopwith led Tilly through the gate they had the grace to turn their heads away; that was until, as if digging her feet into the ground, she pulled herself to a halt and, looking around them, she cried, ‘You’ve given me a name, you say I’ve the power to curse, well, if me granny dies, I’ll curse each and every one of you. Remember that. You’ll do no more to me or mine without paying for it! No, by God! you won’t.’

  The eyes blinked, here and there a head bowed as if in fear, one or two turned away; then, her glance full of scorn sweeping over them, she hurried on, without the aid of Mark Sopwith now, and he, turning and looking at the villagers, said sternly, ‘She’s right. Someone will pay for this.’

  When one man dared to voice his opinion and say, ‘Fires are apt to start in thatched cottages, sir,’ he turned on him, saying, ‘This fire was deliberately set. There was almost a bonfire blazing in the centre of that room when I first saw it. It was a prepared fire, and the scattered wood from the shed adds proof to this. Now you can go back to the village and tell them what I said, someone will pay for this, not only because it is my property but because of the damage that has been done to two people, whose only crime was to keep themselves to themselves. Now get away with you, all of you, you’ve seen enough . . . I hope.’

  Without further words they obeyed him, some hurrying along the bridle path; but when these came in sight of the cart with the inert figure lying along it and the girl kneeling beside it, they stayed their step. Mr Sopwith was one thing but Simon Bentwood was another, for hadn’t he put it around that should anyone lay a finger on the pair up at the cottage they’d have to answer to him; and they guessed what the result of his answer would be, it would be the horsewhip, and he had a thick, strong arm. So they climbed the banks and made their several ways back to the village by varying routes.

  But Simon drove straight through the village, straight through the main street that had as many people in it as was to be seen on a fair day, but no-one called to him; no-one passed any remark, but all their eyes noted the girl in the back supporting the head of the old woman who looked dead . . .

  ‘What in the name of . . . !’

  Mary Bentwood’s voice was cut off by Simon saying, ‘Get out of that! Out of the way!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Walking sideways through the kitchen door with Annie in his arms, he almost yelled now, ‘You heard. I said get out of the way.’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper now as she followed him up the long, stone-flagged kitchen to the door at the far end. But he didn’t answer her, he simply turned his back to the door, thrust it open with his buttocks, stumbled across the hall and into the sitting room, and there he laid Annie on the couch. Then straightening his back, he turned to his enraged wife, saying a little more calmly now, ‘They’ve burnt them out.’

  ‘Burnt them out?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said, right down to the ground. It’s a wonder they spared her.’ He looked down at the inert form of Annie.

  ‘And the other one?’ Mary Bentwood now jerked her head backwards towards the door, and Simon, putting stress on the name, said, ‘Tilly? Tilly was in Jarrow shopping, and she came back to find a blazing house.’

  ‘I hope her conscience is pricking her then.’

  ‘Oh, woman!’ he glared at her now; then walking sharply across the room he said, ‘She’s got to have a doctor.’

  ‘Here’ – she reached the door before him and she stood with her back to it facing him – ‘let’s get this straight, Simon Bentwood. What do you intend to do with these two?’

  ‘What do you think? They’re staying here for the time being.’

  ‘Oh no! no! they’re not. A sick woman like that and her, that girl!’

  ‘Mary’ – he leant towards her, his voice deceptively soft now – ‘I’ve told you before, they’re my lifelong friends. Until I can get them fixed up some place they’re staying here.’

  Mary Bentwood pressed her flat hands to each side of her against the door now and, her broad chest heaving, she said, ‘I’ll not have that girl in my house.’

  ‘Well, that’s where we differ. I’m going to have her in mine, Mary. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been grumbling for weeks that you haven’t enough help in the house so she can come to your assistance in that way.’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll walk out, I’ll go home.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s up to you. Now get out of me way!’ He took her by the shoulder and thrust her aside almost overbalancing her, leaving her standing in the doorway glaring after him as he hurried across the hall; her face was red, her eyes wild with temper that touched on fury.

  In the kitchen Tilly was standing near the dresser. Her face was devoid of all colour, her eyes looking like saucers in her head, and when she said, ‘Can I go to her?’ he said, ‘In a minute, Tilly. I’m going to send Randy for the doctor. Just take your coat off and sit down by the fire. Make a cup of something, Peggy.’

  The woman standing at the far end of the kitchen peeling potatoes turned her head in a nonchalant way and said, ‘Aye, master, aye.’

  When Tilly hesitated to walk towards the fire he took her arm and, his voice a whisper now, he said, ‘It’ll be all right, it’ll be all right. I’ll . . . I’ll explain things to you in a minute.’ And then he left her.

  She was standing by the fire looking down on the big black pan simmering on the hob when the far door opened and Mary Bentwood came slowly into the room, and walking past Tilly as if she weren’t there, she spoke to her woman, saying, ‘Leave that and see to the churn in the dairy.’

  ‘But I’ve just come from there, ma’am,’ Peggy Fullbright said.

  ‘Then go back again.’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  As soon as the woman left the kitchen, Mary Bentwood walked towards the fireplace and, standing in front of Tilly who had been awaiting her coming, she ground out between strong white clenched teeth, ‘You’re not staying in my house, girl! You understand? Your granny can stay until she’s fit to be moved but you’ll find some place else to sleep.’

  ‘Aye, she will, and it’ll be upstairs for the present.’

  They both swung round towards the door where Simon was standing. He moved to the table and, looking at his wife, his voice harsh and deep, he said, ‘Let’s hear no more of it. She’s staying; they’re both staying until I can get them fixed up in a place of their own. This much I’ll grant you. I’ll see t
o the business right away.’

  He hadn’t looked at Tilly, but now he said, ‘Go in to your granny, she’s in the front room.’

  Tilly looked from one to the other before, her head bowed, she turned and went hastily from the kitchen. But no sooner was the door closed on her than Mary Bentwood cried, ‘By God! I’ll make you pay for this day. You see if I don’t. Oh! you see if I don’t.’ Her last words were slow and ominous and to them he replied on a long sigh, ‘Everything in life has to be paid for and I’ve never been in debt yet, so there’s no doubt, my dear, that you will, and with interest.’ He turned and he, too, went out of the kitchen and towards the sitting room.

  PART TWO: THE NEW LIFE

  One

  Four days later Annie died. She died without speaking except through the pain and love she expressed with her eyes whenever she looked at Tilly; and she was buried three days afterwards. A very short laying-out, as the men said in the yard, but the quicker the old ’un went the quicker the young one would leave and things would get back to normal.

  Besides the new parson the Reverend Portman, George Knight the gravedigger, the master, and that Tilly Trotter, there was one other person whose presence surprised them as much as did the presence of Tilly, the latter only because everyone knew it wasn’t right for a female to attend a funeral, especially that of a relative. But Mark Sopwith’s appearance in the cemetery just as, with the help of Tom Pearson and the hedger, they were carrying the coffin from the cart, caused eyebrows to be raised. He had ridden up to the gate, left his horse there, then joined the small cortège to the graveside.

  When the first clod fell on the coffin Tilly closed her eyes tightly and her mind gabbled, Oh, Granny! Granny! What am I gona do without you? Oh, Granny! Granny!