Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Hello, Sam . . . isn’t it hot?’

  ‘Can’t be hot enough for me.’

  ‘You said your clothes were stickin’ to you.’ His sister pushed him and he pretended to fall over, and when he straightened up, he said, ‘Aye, they are, but I like them that way. I’ll think about this all day the morrow.’

  ‘Me an’ all,’ Katie said, nodding her head, and Tilly was amazed when she thought of the morrow and the depth of the pit that this fifteen-year-old girl, who looked twenty if a day, could still smile. Yet because both of them spent most of their lives in the bowels of the earth they seemed to savour the daylight more than she did. Their enjoyment of the sun oozed from them. They walked with their faces held up towards the sky. Funny that, she thought, for she was in the habit of walking with her head down looking towards the earth.

  ‘We’ve been round the cottage; someone’s been sleeping in the byre.’

  ‘Well, they would find good shelter.’

  ‘Aye, there’s that in it.’ Sam was nodding at her. ‘It must be hellish being on the road, not having a roof over your head. An’ there’s many like that the day, God help them. But it won’t go on, not forever.’ He looked at Tilly and, nodding slowly, he repeated, ‘No, it won’t go on forever. We’re comin’ alive to the fact that we’re human beings, not animals, an’ we’ve got the rights of human beings. Things are movin’. The masters will have to look out for themselves afore long, you’ll see. They won’t always have the upper hand, it’ll be wor turn some day. I mightn’t live to see it, but wor turn’ll come, an’ then God help ’em.’

  ‘They’re not all alike, Sopwith’s not bad.’

  ‘There isn’t a pin to choose atween them.’ He leant in front of Tilly and glared at his sister. But she laughed at him, saying, ‘Aw, don’t get on your high horse, man, it’s Sunda’. And anyway, just think where would we be the day if Sopwith hadn’t taken you on and given us the cottage.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have taken us on if he didn’t need men, he didn’t do it out of any charity. None of his kind do owt for charity; they make you pay interest in sweat, all of ’em. An’ the cottage, what is it after all, two rooms.’

  ‘Aw now, our Sam’ – Katie stepped in front of him now – ‘fair’s fair. What did we have in the other place? Mud floors. There’s a solid stone one in this. And the pittle isn’t oozing up a through it from the middens. Now be fair.’

  ‘Listen to her!’ He was laughing now as he looked at Tilly. ‘You haven’t got to ask whose side she’s on. She does as much work for him as a man, an’ he pays her half as much, an’ she still stands up for him. Aw . . . women!’

  ‘Aye, women!’ Katie was nodding at him, laughing with him now. ‘Where would you be without us? I know where you’d be, you’d still be an urge in me dad’s belly.’

  ‘Well, here we are back again.’ They looked at Tilly and she stepped over the broken gate and led the way up the path, and as always she wanted to turn her eyes away from the burnt-out shell of her home. The saddening effect it had on her didn’t seem to lessen, and when she rounded the side wall and came into the yard she stood still, looking towards the byre; then shaking her head, she turned abruptly about and walked back to the gate.

  The brother and sister looked at each other, then followed her in silence.

  On the bridle path Katie said, ‘What time have you got to be in the day?’ and Tilly answered, ‘I’ve got another half-hour ’cos it’s still light, half past six the day.’

  ‘Well, ’tis only on three. I tell you what. Would you like to come back to our house an’ have a sup tea?’

  Tilly smiled down on Katie into the round homely face that would never know prettiness but which had such a quality of kindness in the eyes that to her in this moment it almost appeared beautiful, and she said, ‘Oh yes, thank you very much, I’d like that. Aye, yes, I would.’

  ‘Well, what we waitin’ for?’ It was Sam who now turned from them and strode ahead; and as they followed him they both began to laugh, not knowing why, except perhaps they realised that for a few hours they were free; perhaps because it was a beautiful, warm sunny day; but most of all perhaps they realised they were young and that for a fleeting moment they were experiencing a spurt of joy, which is the natural gift of youth.

  It was a two mile walk to the Drews’ cottage. It lay to the north of the estate, and was reached by an angled bend that led off the coach road. The cottages were situated on the very boundary of the Sopwith estate and within half a mile of the pit. There were sixteen cottages in the two rows. The Drews’ home was in the end cottage of the second row and when Tilly entered it on this hot steamy Sunday afternoon, it appeared to her like a small cramped box after the spaciousness of the Manor. Not only was it small and cramped, but it had a mixed odour which she likened to the smell that emanated from soot and soapsuds, the last soapsuds in the poss tub at the end of the day’s wash, an acrid, body sweating odour. The small room seemed crammed with people and she stood just within the open door as Katie introduced her, speaking first to a big woman whose bony frame seemed devoid of flesh. ‘Ma, this is Tilly, the lass I told you about.’

  The woman stopped cutting slices of bread from a big loaf on the end of a table which was surprisingly covered with a white tablecloth, and she paused for a moment and smiled at Tilly as she said, ‘Well, come in, lass, come in. That’s if you can get in. But, as they say, never grumble about being crowded until you can’t shut your door. You’re welcome. Sit down. Get your backside off that cracket, our Arthur, and let the lass take the weight off her legs.’

  When Arthur, a grinning boy of twelve, sidled off the low stool, then stood with his back against the whitewashed wall near the small open fireplace, Tilly wanted to protest that she didn’t mind standing, but feeling very awkward all of a sudden she sat down on the low cracket and looked shyly around the sea of eyes surveying her. Some were looking at her from under their brows, others straight at her. She was wondering why they were all crammed into this room on this rare and lovely day when she was given the answer; it was as if she had asked for it.

  Continuing cutting the bread, Mrs Drew said, ‘Sunday, we’re all together for Sunday tea. Rain, hail, sun or snow, ’tis one time in the week I have me troubles all around me at one go.’

  ‘Aw, Ma. Ma!’ The same protest came from different quarters of the room.

  ‘Do you like workin’ up at the big house?’

  ‘Yes; yes, thank you.’ Tilly nodded to Mrs Drew, and the big woman, scooping up the slices of bread in handfuls on to a large coloured flat dish, said, ‘Well, it’s one thing, you get trained to be quick in big houses, not like this lot here.’ She pointed to a tall young woman and a smaller one who were taking down crockery from the hooks on an old black-wood Welsh dresser, the back of which Tilly noticed in some surprise was forming a kind of high headboard to a double iron bed along the edge of which were sitting two young boys and a youth.

  ‘Oh, Ma. Ma!‘ It was the same laughing protest.

  ‘Are those griddle cakes finished?’ Mrs Drew now looked towards a plump child who was kneeling before the fire turning pats of round pastry which were resting on an iron shelf, which in turn was resting on top of a flattened mound of hot ash.

  Before the child could answer, Sam Drew, bending over his sister, said, ‘She’s been scoffin’ ’em, Ma.’

  The small girl, her face red from the heat of the fire, sat back on her hunkers, crying, ‘Oh, our Sam! our Sam! I’ve never touched one,’ slapping out at her brother as she said so. And he slapped playfully back at her; then looking at Tilly, he said, ‘This lot must look like a menagerie to you.’

  She smiled but could find no reply to this. He was right, they did look like a menagerie.

  ‘Well, if you’ve got a good memory I’ll start at the top and work downwards. That one over there’ – Sam pointed to a short, thick man sitting at the edge of the table – ‘that’s me big brother, our Henry, twenty-four he is, an’ married, lock an’ ch
ain you know.’

  Ignoring his brother’s clenched fist, he went on, ‘Then there’s me next.’ He thumbed his chest. ‘Then comes our Peg, that one who’s slow with the crockery.’ He pointed to the taller of the two girls moving between the table and the delf rack. ‘And then Bill. He’s seventeen, him sittin’ on the bed, the daft-looking one.’

  ‘I’ll daft you, our Sam, if you don’t look out.’

  ‘I’m lookin’ out, so get on with it.’ Sam grinned at his younger brother, then said, ‘And his two daft companions, there’s Arthur there on the left, he’s twelve, and Georgie, he’s the one that looks like a donkey about to bray, he’s ten.’

  ‘Oh, our Sam!’ This came from different parts of the room now.

  ‘Then there’s our Katie, who’s not right in the top storey . . . ’

  ‘Oh, you wait, our Sam!’

  ‘And the best of the bunch is Jimmy there. He’s a natural scarecrow, aren’t you, Jimmy? A penny a day he can earn standin’ in the fields.’

  ‘Oh, our Sam! Our Sam!’

  ‘And then there’s my Fanny.’ He bent and rubbed his fingers in the thick brown hair of the kneeling child, saying, ‘She’s seven, aren’t you, Fanny? An’ she’s goin’ down the pit next year, aren’t you, Fanny?’

  ‘Now you shut your mouth, our Sam!’ It was his mother turning on him now, no laughter in her face. ‘Don’t joke about her goin’ down the pit. She’s not seein’ top nor bottom of the pit except over my dead body.’

  ‘I was only funnin’, Ma.’

  ‘Well, don’t fun about that; the pit’s got the rest of yous, but they’re not gettin’ her. Nor Jimmy there. There’s two of you I aim to give daylight to.’

  ‘Aye, Ma; aye, you’re right’ – Sam’s voice was very subdued now – ‘’tis nowt to joke about.’ Mrs Drew had stopped pouring out mugs of tea and she now looked at Tilly; but for some seconds she did not speak. When she did her voice, although low, held a deep note of bitterness as she said, ‘The pit took four of mine in seven years, me man included, so you can see me reason for stickin’ out for two of them, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes; yes, Mrs Drew.’

  ‘Well now, that said, let’s eat.’

  It was, Tilly imagined, as if the tall gaunt woman had suddenly turned a knob somewhere inside her being and switched off the bitter memories, for now her voice was jovial again as she cried at her daughter, ‘Peg, bring the china cup, we’ve got company.’

  When Peg brought the fragile china cup and saucer to the table and handed it to her mother, Mrs Drew took the saucer between her finger and thumb and gently placed it on the table; then looking at Tilly, she asked, ‘You like your tea with milk, lass?’

  ‘Oh yes, please.’

  ‘An’ you can have sugar an’ all if you like.’ This was from the upturned face of Fanny. They all laughed and there was a chorus: ‘And you can have sugar if you like,’ in imitation of the small girl, and she, swinging her head from side to side, exclaimed, ‘Aw yous! you’re always scoffin’, yous!’

  ‘And now we’re all here we’ll start. I said, we’re all here’ – Mrs Drew now looked again at Tilly as she placed the china cup and saucer before her – ‘except there’s my Alec. He’s on a double shift – it’s the water down there – he’ll be dead beat when he does come up. Shouldn’t be allowed, twenty-four hours under at one time! And he only a bit of a lad.’

  ‘He’s eighteen, he’s older than me an’ I’ve done a double shift.’

  ‘Oh listen!’ Sam held up his hand. ‘Hero Bill’s done a double shift.’ He leant towards his younger brother now, saying, ‘Aye, but it wasn’t in water standin’ up to your neck.’ Then, his tone altering, he said, ‘Somethin’s got to be done. By God! somethin’s got to be done.’

  ‘Now! now!’ It was his mother’s voice again. ‘’Tis Sunday, we’ve got company, no more pit talk.’

  Since only nine could be seated at the table, two of the younger boys, Arthur and Georgie, remained seated on the bed, and when their mother ordered them to come to the table to get their shives, thick slices of bread with a piece of cheese in the middle, she looked from one to the other as they approached and said, ‘You don’t deserve nowt either of you; ’tis a wonder you’re not in jail.’

  ‘Why, what have they been up to?’ Henry, the married son, said, turning his head towards them. ‘What’s this? What you been up to, you two now?’

  When they didn’t answer he looked at his mother and she, evidently trying to suppress a smile, made her voice sound harsher than ever as she said, ‘What have they been up to? Just tried to burn the Mytons’ place down, that’s all.’

  ‘What!’

  There were splutters from different members at the table. Some of them choked, so much so that Katie had to be thumped on the back before their mother went on, ‘They were scrumpin’ apples an’ one of the gardeners caught them, an’ being kind to them instead of taking them up to the house an’ then callin’ the pollis, he thumped them well and roundly, bumped their heads together, kicked their backsides and set them flyin’. And what do you think they did last night as ever was?’

  ‘Well, what did they do, I’m waitin’?’ Henry asked.

  Again the table was convulsed with laughter, and it was Sam who now said, ‘They stuffed straw up half a dozen drainpipes, you know the old trick, an’ set fire to them.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘At the Myton place? Oh my God! I wish I’d been there. Eeh! you young buggers!’ He turned and looked towards the bed where the two boys were sitting with their heads hanging but with their shoulders shaking with laughter.

  ‘And not content with that’ – the mother nodded at her eldest son – ‘they went back into the orchard and helped themselves to apples, not windfalls this time but from the trees. My God! when they told me that I was sick. To try a second time! God! they’re lucky they weren’t caught. Anyway’ – she grinned now – ‘three good stones of them they brought in. As they said, they could have brought a cartload ’cos everybody was too busy pullin’ the burning straw out of the drainpipes.’

  ‘They’ll end up in Australia those two.’ It was Sam now nodding towards them.

  ‘They’ll never live to reach Australia.’

  As Tilly watched Mrs Drew’s head move slowly back and forward there was rising in her, a swirl of merriment such as she had never felt in her life before, and when Mrs Drew ended, ‘Swing they will, the both of them, from the crossroads an’ we’ll all have a field day,’ the laughter burst from her throat. It surprised not only herself but all those at the table, because they had never heard anyone laugh like it. It was a high wavering sound that swelled and swelled until, holding her waist, she turned from the table and rocked herself. She laughed until she cried; she couldn’t stop laughing, not even when Katie, herself doubled up with laughter, put her arm about her and begged, ‘Give over. Give over.’ Nor when Sam lifted her chin and, his own mouth wide, cried, ‘That’s good. That’s good.’ And he kept repeating this until he realised her face was crumpling and that the water running down it was no longer caused by merriment; and so, straightening up, he looked round the table and raised his hand, saying, ‘Enough is enough.’

  The noise in the room gradually subsided, and Tilly turned to the table again and, her head bowed, murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry, lass? You’ve got nowt to be sorry for. We’ve never had such release in this room for many a long day. It’s good to laugh, it’s the salve for sores. Aye, it’s the salve for sores. Drink your tea, lass.’

  Gratefully now Tilly drank her tea. Then she looked at the sea of faces about her, warm, caring faces, and she thought she had never felt such closeness as there was in this family. Most of them spent their lives underground, even the girls; but there was a happiness here that she envied, a happiness here that she longed to share. She looked across the now silent table at Mrs Drew as she said, ‘It’s lovely tea, lovely.’

  Five

>   It was Guy Fawkes Day, and afterwards Mark Sopwith always looked back on this particular day as the time when the catastrophe began.

  It started badly. Eileen Sopwith was still weepy over a letter she’d had from Matthew saying he hated the school and wanted to come home; added to this, she was irritated by the fact that her husband’s son, Harry, the only issue of his first marriage and now in his second year at Cambridge studying law, had decided – without asking her permission – to join them for the long Christmas vacation. She had never liked Harry, although since her marriage to his father she had seen him only during the school holidays. But even as a boy his manner had annoyed her. He had an air of aloofness that was disconcerting and when she looked at him she saw his mother in him and so was reminded that she wasn’t the first woman in her husband’s life.

  That she was of an intensely jealous disposition Mark had found out after Matthew was born, for she begrudged his affection for the child feeling that it detracted from his love for her. Even after John was born and she had decided to become an invalid, her jealousy hadn’t lessened. Her possessiveness for the children, he understood well enough, was designed to alienate their affection away from himself so that he would be more likely to turn to her, not to receive love but to give it in the form of petting and fussing.

  She liked to feel his fingers going through her hair, she liked to feel him fondling her hands, even stroking the pale skin of her arms inside the elbows; but never did she allow his hands near her breasts, she was an invalid now and mustn’t be distressed in that way. Had she not borne him four children? Was he not satisfied? He was forty-three years old and she thirty-eight. Good moral people should be past that kind of thing. It went with the begetting of children and Mark knew only too well she had begot all she intended to beget.

  But as yet on this day it wasn’t she who was the main issue.