Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  Jane Forefoot-Meadows was on her feet now, her face diffused with a natural colour. She cried at him, ‘She will never let you have the children! Make up your mind to that.’

  ‘She mightn’t have any choice. Anyway, I have them now, Mother-in-law’ – his voice was ominously quiet – ‘possession is nine points of the law. What if I decide to keep them with me?’

  ‘She’ll fight you. She’ll bring up your constant infidelities which amounted to cruelty. Yes, cruelty! That’s what she can charge you with. Just you wait and see.’

  Speechless now, he watched her flounce round and sail out of the room, and as the door banged to behind her he gripped hold of each side of the chair and actually shook it in a spasm of anger while with his head down on his chest he brought out, ‘Damn and blast you and her to hell’s flames!’

  The next morning there was an argument between Mark and Jane Forefoot-Meadows with regard to the counting of time. She had arrived on the Monday afternoon and she said she was going to leave on the Thursday morning.

  To this he had replied coolly, ‘The children were to stay with me three days and they either stay with me three full days, returning on the Friday morning, or they do not return to Waterford Place at all.’

  That he was utterly in earnest Jane Forefoot-Meadows realised. Nevertheless she did not comply with this demand without protest, and in no small voice.

  Katie was downstairs collecting the children’s lunch, and Tilly, hearing the noise from above combating even Mrs Forefoot-Meadow’s voice from the master’s bedroom, hurried up to the nursery floor and when she pushed open the schoolroom door it was to find Matthew and Luke rolling on the floor, their battle being egged on with cries from Jessie Ann and John.

  Having separated them, she held them apart. Luke appeared to be on the verge of tears but Matthew’s face was merely dark with anger.

  ‘Now what is this all about?’ Tilly demanded. ‘Fancy wasting your time fighting. What’s come over both of you? What I should do is knock your heads together. Don’t you know that your father can hear you down below?’

  ‘We . . . we can hear Grand . . . Grandmama yelling,’ John stammered.

  Tilly turned a warm affectionate glance on the small boy and he laughed back at her; then loosening her hold on the two boys, she said, ‘There now, make it up. But why on earth are you fighting anyway?’

  ‘It was ’cos of you, Trotter,’ Jessie Ann put in pertly.

  ‘Me?’ She looked from one to the other of the boys, and while Matthew stared back at her, Luke hung his head and Jessie Ann went on, ‘Luke said he was going to marry you when he grows up and Matthew said he wasn’t ’cos he’s going to marry you himself.’

  She should have laughed, she should have pulled them into her arms and said, ‘You silly billies,’ but as she looked at them the old fear erupted in her. Men, they either loved her or hated her, but whichever line they took it led to trouble, now even trouble among children.

  She was saved from making any comment to the boys by Katie entering the room carrying a laden tray, and as she lowered it on to the table she turned quickly to Tilly, saying, ‘Anything wrong, lass?’

  ‘No, no; they were just having a bit of carry-on and I came up to see what it was all about.’

  ‘They were fighting,’ put in the ever informative Jessie Ann. ‘Matthew and Luke, they were fighting about who’s going to marry Trotter.’

  Katie was on the point of bursting out laughing when the look on Tilly’s face prevented her; but being Katie she had to see the funny side of it, and so, pulling the cloth from over the covered dishes, she said, ‘Eeh! well, I think they’ll have to take their turn ’cos there’s three of our lads are after her an’ all.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ When the side of Matthew’s hand came sharply across Katie’s arm she winced and cried, ‘Here now! None of that,’ and Tilly, grabbing Matthew by the shoulder, shook him as she demanded of him, ‘Say you’re sorry to Drew.’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  She straightened up. ‘Oh then, well you shan’t, but don’t you come fussing around me or expect me to tell your father what a fine fellow you are.’ She turned on her heel now and marched out of the room, but she had just reached the top of the nursery stairs when Matthew caught up with her and, grabbing her apron, he pulled her to a stop. His face was scarlet, his lips were trembling, his round grey eyes were bright, and when he muttered, ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Trotter,’ she, too, felt a moisture in her eyes. It was something for the great Master Matthew to say he was sorry; he had certainly changed. When she put her arm around his shoulder she found herself suddenly hugged to him, and she stroked his hair, saying, ‘There, there now.’

  When he looked up to her the moisture had deepened in his eyes and was lingering on his fair lashes, and his voice sounded tight as he said, ‘I don’t want to go back with Grandmama, Trotter; none of us do.’

  ‘But you’ll have to.’

  ‘But why can’t we stay here? You could look after us, and Drew, and I wouldn’t mind going to school from here as long as I could come back. Can’t . . . can’t you persuade father to keep us?’

  ‘It . . . it doesn’t seem to lie with your father, Matthew, it’s your mother who has to be persuaded to come back. You understand?’

  He moved his head slowly and lowered his eyes as he said, ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Then his head jerking upwards, he blinked at her as he now brought out rapidly, ‘I . . . I meant what I said, I won’t let Luke marry you, I’ll . . . I’ll marry you when I grow up. I . . . I know it isn’t the right thing for a gentleman to marry a menial but it’s different with you because you can read and write. You’ll let me marry you, won’t you, Trotter?’

  ‘But I’m nearly twice your age, Master Matthew.’

  ‘Oh, I know that and I don’t mind, because you’d be able to look after me better, being older. And anyway, you’re not really twice, only six years, and if I know you’ll marry me it would be something to look forward to because the holidays are very boring at grandmama’s.’

  ‘Well; just as you say then, Master Matthew.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Trotter, thank you. You know what, Trotter?’ His voice sank to a whisper. ‘A boy at school told me he had once kissed a girl right on the mouth, but I didn’t believe him because I know that you cannot kiss anyone on the mouth until you are married. Can you, Trotter?’

  ‘Er’ – she gulped in her throat – ‘no. That’s right, Master Matthew, that’s right.’ He now smiled at her and she gulped again before saying, ‘Go along and get your dinner and . . . and tell Drew that you’re sorry.’

  ‘Yes, Trotter, yes.’ He backed two steps from her, then turned and ran into the schoolroom, while she stood at the top of the stairs not knowing whether to laugh or cry. You can’t kiss anyone on the mouth until you are married. Who’d have thought that went on in Matthew’s head, him of all people, the terror, the little upstart that he was, or had been. Growing changed people; it was changing herself, and with the change came wants, just starting in that eleven-year-old boy, but galloping in herself now.

  She hurried down the staircase and to her duties.

  Two

  The children had been gone a week and Master Harry had left yesterday, not for the University but for France again. From what Tilly had overheard in conversation between him and his father, his friend who was half French had a sister and for most holidays, the sister and her parents returned to a castle in France, a chateau they called it. The master had explained that to her last night; he had talked about his son in snatches all the evening. ‘He wasn’t always gay like this, you know, Trotter,’ he had said; ‘he was a very solemn child and a more solemn youth. I am glad he has these friends in France because it has shown me another side of him. He is quite the man of the world, don’t you think, Trotter?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s a very nice young gentleman, Master Harry, very likeable.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, very likeable. I wonder if he’ll marry this F
rench girl. Her name is Yvette. Nice name for a daughter-in-law, Yvette . . . Do you miss the children, Trotter?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, yes, sir, very much. The house is so quiet without them.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Everyone seems to have deserted us at once, even Burgess.’

  ‘His cold was very heavy, sir. I think it was wise of him to stay in bed for a few days, colds can be catchin’.’

  ‘He lives entirely alone, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That must be very trying. I’d hate that, to live entirely alone.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t think he minds so much, sir, he . . . he kind of loses himself in books.’ She smiled now. ‘He has hardly anything in his house but books, just the bare necessities and books.’

  ‘You have been there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I . . . I have been a number of times, but . . . but I went on my half-day on Sunday.’

  ‘How does he manage to cook for himself?’

  ‘Oh, his wants are very few, I think; he . . . he mainly lives on porridge and milk most times, and a little mutton now and again.’

  ‘Really! Does he have a meal when he’s here?’

  ‘Well’ – she turned her head slightly to the side – ‘he sometimes has a snack in the kitchen, sir.’

  ‘In future, Trotter, see that he has a good meal on each of his visits. And I think it would be a kindness if you slipped along and took him something hot now that he’s unwell, or send one of them from downstairs.’

  ‘I would very much like to take him something, sir. It . . . it wouldn’t take me long, I could be there and back within the hour.’

  ‘Well, do that, do that. And you needn’t hurry; you’ve hardly been out of doors for days.’ He paused before he ended, ‘Do you find it tiresome to be tied to this room and me?’

  ‘Tire-some!’ Her lips lingered over the word; then she shook her head and her smile widened as she said, ‘Oh no, sir, no; there’s nothing I would like to do better. It has been like a—’ She looked to the side, then lowered her head, and he said, ‘Been like a what?’

  ‘A kind of new life to me, like the things Mr Burgess used to talk about, bringing one alive.’

  ‘Looking after me has been like that to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He stared at her for a long moment before he said quietly, ‘You don’t ask much from life, do you, Trotter?’

  ‘Only peace, sir.’

  ‘Peace!’ The word was high, and he repeated it, even louder now and on a laugh, ‘Peace! At your age, girl? ’Tisn’t peace you want at your age, it’s excitement, laughter, joy.’

  She returned his stare. He seemed to be forgetting her position, and not only hers but also that of the very young who had at one time worked for him. There had been very little excitement, laughter and joy for those who had had to tear a living out of the earth, whether above or below it. What she had meant to convey to him by saying she wanted peace was the peace wherein she could work without fear, without having to fight against the waves of resentment.

  ‘Why are you looking so stiff-faced? Have I said something to annoy you?’

  Again she didn’t answer him, at least not immediately, because masters or mistresses didn’t trouble whom they annoyed. In her class, servants were there to suffer annoyance. He was in a way placing her in an awkward situation. As the saying went, she was neither fish, fowl, nor good raw meat. At times she didn’t know where she stood with him, as servant, or nurse, or confidante, especially when he talked to her about the children and his son, Harry, and even his mother-in-law; although one person he never mentioned was his wife.

  She said flatly now, ‘What I meant, sir, was all I desired was to work in peace, and . . . and out of that could come a bit of laughter now and again, but as for excitement and joy, well—’ Her voice sank low in her throat as she ended, ‘It doesn’t come to everybody, sir.’

  His eyes held hers now as he asked, ‘Don’t you want it to come to you, Trotter?’

  And she dared to answer, ‘What one wants and what one gets are two different things, sir. I . . . I haven’t as yet seen much excitement and joy among the people I know, except on fair days when some of them get drunk. All they seem to do most of the time is work and . . . ’

  She was startled by the movement that he made. Swinging out his arm, he almost knocked over the jug of fruit juice standing on the table with a glass beside it. Only her own quick movement stopped it from tumbling to the floor, and after she had steadied it she stood back from the long chair and looked at him in astonishment, for his look was almost ferocious as he cried, ‘What is in your mind, Trotter, and in the minds of most of your class is that you are the only people who suffer indignities, the only people that joy doesn’t touch, the only people who haven’t any chance of excitement, these you make yourself believe are prerogatives of the upper class. Now am I right?’

  She dared to answer him but in a very small voice, ‘Well, aren’t they, sir?’

  ‘No, they are not, Trotter; money, position, titles, none of these bring happiness. Excitement perhaps when one has the money to run an estate and shoot, or money enough to seek big game, that kind of excitement, but joy, real happiness, is no more the prerogative of the rich than it is of the poor, it is something that is within you. Yes, yes, of course’ – he jerked his head up and down as if answering some remark of hers now – ‘I know what you’re thinking: you don’t go hungry when you’ve got money, you can be sick in comfort, like me’ – he now spread his arms wide – ‘my money and position enables me to have someone like you to wait on me hand and foot – foot! that’s saying something – whereas if I were a poor man I wouldn’t be able to enjoy these privileges. Granted, granted, but if I were a poor man, Trotter, I wouldn’t be weighed down with responsibilities, I wouldn’t be afraid of public censure, I wouldn’t have to conform to patterns that are against the grain; I wouldn’t have to keep up a way of life I can’t afford, I wouldn’t have a thousand and one things that irk me; and if I were poor I wouldn’t have to lie here, Trotter, thinking about ways and means of how I’m going to carry on now that the mine is no longer working.’

  He turned his head away and pressed his lips tightly together, and, her voice soft and contrite, she said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t upset me’ – he was looking at her again – ‘I’m just trying to explain something to you.’

  ‘I . . . I know, sir, and I understand.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I . . . I haven’t the words to explain how I understand but . . . but I do.’

  He let out a long breath and slumped against his cushions, then smiled ruefully, saying, ‘Well, if that’s the case we’re getting some place, and at the beginning of this conversation, if I remember rightly, you were about to go some place.’

  She answered his smile now by saying, ‘Yes, sir, to Mr Burgess.’

  ‘Well, get yourself away before the sun goes down. Enjoy your walk, and give him my best respects. Tell him I miss his conversation and’ – he brought his head forward towards her – ‘his titbits.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir, and I . . . I won’t be long.’

  ‘Take your time, but get back before dark.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I’ll be back before dark.’

  When the door closed on her he screwed his eyes up tight as if trying to blot out the mental picture of her, then muttered to himself, ‘Oh! Trotter. Tilly Trotter. Tilly Trotter.’

  Mr Burgess was delighted to see her.

  ‘What have I done to deserve such kindness, I’ll never be able to eat all that.’ He pointed to the cold chicken, the meat pie, the bread, cheese, and slab of butter, among other things, on the table, and she answered, ‘Well, if you don’t you’ll never be able to get out of that chair. And just look at your fire, it’s almost dead. I thought you said there was a boy brought your kindlin’ and coal in?’

  ‘I . . . I did, he does, bu
t he hasn’t been for the last two days, he mustn’t be well himself, it’s these bitter winds. Do you know there was frost on the window pane this morning and here we are at the end of April? I long for the summer.’

  ‘You’ll never see it if you don’t look after yourself.’ She bustled about the room and he smiled at her as he said, ‘You’d make a marvellous mother, Trotter; you’re just like a hen, be it a little tall.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Burgess!’ She flapped her hand at him. ‘I don’t take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Well, you should because the master thinks you’re a wonderful hen.’

  ‘Mr Burgess!‘ Her tone was indignant even while she suppressed a smile, then she added, ‘I don’t feel like a hen.’

  ‘No, my dear, I’m sure you don’t; you’re more like a peacock. Given the right clothes you could outdo any peacock.’

  ‘Tut! tut!’ She turned away from him. ‘I think your cold’s addled your head. Anyway, hens, peacocks and the rest of the farmyard, if you don’t make yourself eat I’ll ask the master if I can send one of the girls over to see to you, and you won’t like that, will you?’