Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  She went into the room now and, standing a little distance from Mark, she said, ‘Could I ask a favour of you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Trotter, anything. You know that I will grant you anything within my power.’

  ‘May . . . may I have this afternoon off, sir?’

  When he put his head back and laughed she smiled widely. After the rumpus of that meeting it was good to hear him laugh. ‘Of course, Trotter, you may have the afternoon off. I think we should arrange that you have more afternoons off, you spend too much time in the house and’ – he paused – ‘and in this room.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind that, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad you don’t, Trotter. Are you thinking of going into Shields or taking a trip into Newcastle?’

  ‘No, sir, neither.’

  ‘Oh.’ He waited, his face full of enquiry, and now she put her second question to him. ‘Did you know, sir, that Farmer Bentwood’s wife had died?’

  His eyes held hers, but even before that her face had flushed with the question she had put to him, for she was remembering the confession of her feelings on a certain night some months ago.

  ‘Yes, yes, I knew, Trotter.’

  She could now feel her face stretching in amazement. When she found her voice she wanted to demand, ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’ but the thought came to her, How did he know? Someone must have told him. Such a thing wouldn’t be of any interest to the viewer or the agent who sometimes called about the mine; perhaps it was Mr Tolman or Mr Cragg. And then she knew who had brought the news, Mr Burgess. Her voice was quiet when she said, ‘Does . . . did anyone else know, sir, that she had died?’

  ‘Yes, Trotter, Burgess.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You may wonder why he didn’t mention it to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s because I told him not to.’

  Her face again stretched; then he was going on, ‘I had my reasons, Trotter, very good reasons. If Farmer Bentwood wants you he’ll come for you, that’s how I see it. If I loved someone and I knew they were available I would make it my business to go to them and tell them how I felt.’

  ‘It . . . it wouldn’t have been right, sir, if . . . she’s only been gone a short while.’

  ‘Almost six weeks, Trotter.’

  His eyes had never left her face. ‘As for not being right, that’s damn nonsense. I needn’t ask if he’s written to you because, had he, you wouldn’t be showing so much surprise and agitation now.’

  When she bowed her head, he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you were to wait . . . in fact, I think it would be better if you were to postpone your visit. Give him time to—’ When he stopped abruptly she raised her head and looked at him, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  They looked at each other for a moment in silence, then she said, ‘May I still have the afternoon off, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Trotter.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I . . . I shall see to your lunch first.’

  As she turned away, he lifted himself up from the chair by his arms as if to follow her or speak; then dropping back, he turned his head and looked over the wide sill and out of the window, and he thought, If she goes, what then? . . . Dear God! Let’s hope Burgess is right.

  ‘I am going on an errand,’ she said to Biddy.

  ‘You’ll be blown away, lass.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, the sun’s shining.’

  ‘Won’t be for long.’ Katie had come in through the back door on a gale of wind and, thrusting her thick buttocks out, she pressed the door closed, saying, ‘Phew! that was a narrow escape. A slate came off the roof and almost slid past me nose. Boy! one of those could cut you in two . . . Where you goin’, Tilly?’

  ‘I’m just going on an errand.’

  ‘Oh.’ Katie knew when to stop asking questions, but she added, ‘Well, if I were you I’d put a scarf round me hat else you’ll be leapfrogging across the fields after it.’

  ‘Stop your chattin’,’ her mother said to her now. ‘Get about your business and let Tilly get away . . . Make the best of your walk, lass; you don’t get out enough.’

  ‘I will.’ She nodded at Biddy, then went out and with the wind at her back she had to stop herself from running.

  She was well away from the house when her desire to run was frustrated by the wind now being in her face, and she had to battle against it, holding her hat on with one hand and keeping the front of her skirt down with the other.

  She took the road along the bridle path and past the cottage. Here, she stopped for a moment, her back to the wind, and gazed at the charred walls. The tangled grass had grown up almost to the ground-floor window sill. It seemed a long lifetime away since she had lived there, so much had happened to her, yet she hadn’t moved more than two miles away from it. She cut through Billings Flat; then to avoid the village she climbed the steep bank, went through the rock strewn field and so on to the fell proper. Coming to a low stone wall, she sat on top of it and as she threw her legs over she scattered a few sheep sheltering on the other side. As they ran from her she laughed out loud. It was good to be out in the air and the wind. She had the desire to run again, but now she was approaching the farmland and she might meet up with Randy Simmons or Billy Young or Ally Taylor.

  She saw none of the hands until she reached the farmyard proper, and it was Randy Simmons she saw first. He was coming out of the byre directing a heifer by prodding its rump with a sharp stick, and he became still as he stared at her while the animal galloped away to the end of the yard. And he didn’t move until Bill Young shouted, ‘Where’s this ’un off to?’ Then he, too, stopped after he had brought the animal to a halt, and from each end of the yard they looked at her.

  Turning her back to the wind, she was now facing Bill Young and she called, ‘Is . . . is Mr Bentwood about?’

  Pushing the animal forward now, Bill Young came up to her and stared at her for a moment before saying, ‘Well, no, no, he’s not, Tilly.’

  ‘Tell you where you’ll find him.’

  She turned now in the direction of Randy Simmons and waited for him to speak again, and after a moment of staring at her, he thumbed over his shoulder, saying, ‘Workin’ in the bottom field in barn down there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned away from them. She was facing the wind again and she heard Bill Young’s voice raised and Randy Simmons’ answer him, but she couldn’t make out what they said.

  She went up the road and through a gate into a field. Once inside, she had to skirt it as it had been freshly ploughed up. Then she was in a grass meadow, and down in the dip at the very end of it lay the barn.

  She was running now, letting the wind carry her right to the very doors. They were closed but not locked. She pushed against one and it gave way almost a foot, and then it stuck. As she went to squeeze through the narrow aperture her hat caught against the edge of the closed door and pushed it over her eyes. When she pushed it back she was through the door but could go no further for to her amazement she was standing within a few inches of the flanks of a horse, and when it lifted its back leg and struck the rough stone floor she gasped and pressed herself against the inside of the door, then moved along it.

  Why had he brought his horse in here? Was he using it as a stable now? Had he got more horses? She blinked in the dimness and peered about her. Then her eyes became wide and fixed, her whole body frozen. She had stepped into her dream of Simon and herself loving, but now the dream was a waking nightmare. She was looking at him. He was naked except for a pair of white linings, and these hung loose. His body was twisted round and he was supporting himself on one knee. As he grabbed for his coat and pulled it in front of him the woman on the straw raised herself on her elbow. She was completely naked. She had been laughing, but now her face took on a look of haughty surprise. Yet she made no move to cover herself. But when she exclaimed in a high tone that could have indicated that a servant had come into a room unannounced, ‘Really! that girl,’ there erupted from Ti
lly a long drawn out moan; and now she was squeezing through the door again, and once more her hat was tilted over her eyes. Again she was running and when the wind lifted her skirt up almost around her waist, she paid no attention to it.

  She was going through the meadow gate, and when of habit she turned to close it she saw him standing outside the barn she didn’t stop to close the gate, nor did she skirt the field, but she ran straight across the furrows, then tumbled over the wall and ran and ran, and didn’t stop until she reached the dimness of Billings Flat. There, leaning for support against a tree, she put her arms around it, unheeding now when her hat fell to the ground, and she moaned aloud making unintelligible sounds, for her mind, as yet, was not presenting her with words which would translate her feelings, for it was filled with a picture, a number of pictures. She saw herself standing before the master and he saying, ‘Wait until he comes for you . . . ’ He had known. He had known what was going on. And with the same woman, too, who had ruined his life. And the picture of Randy Simmons telling her where she would find his master and the jumbled words when Bill Young must have gone for him, knowing what she would find. And what had she found?

  The picture expanded. It covered the tree trunk; it spread over the copse, up the bank, getting wider and wider, the two forms filling it! the man like a baby with his mouth to the breast, the contorted limbs, and then the woman sitting up shameless.

  Nowhere in the picture did she see Simon’s face clearly, because in this moment she knew she never wanted to see his face again.

  Easing herself from the tree, she picked up her hat, then leant her back against the bole. Why wasn’t she crying? Her whole being inside was torn to ribbons so why wasn’t she crying? She wasn’t crying because she mustn’t cry. She had to go back and face them all. Mrs Drew would be kind, and Katie and Peg. She mustn’t have kindness at this moment, she couldn’t bear kindness. Ever since her granny had gone she had longed for kindness; kindness had meant everything to her; but kindness now would break her. What she wanted now was somebody to fight with, to argue with. That was strange, because she had never wanted to fight in her life, nor argue, but she had the desire now to strike at someone and, as if that person was herself, the fool that was in her, the romantic silly fool, a girl, even a child, she took her doubled fist and drove it into her chest, and such was the force of the blow, it brought her shoulders hunching forward.

  After a moment she put on her hat, straightened her coat, wiped her wet soil-covered boots by twisting her feet this way and that on the grass, rubbed the mud from the bottom of her skirt; then, her walk slow now, she made her way back to the house.

  ‘You haven’t been long, lass,’ said Biddy, looking at her closely, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘The wind’s chewed you, you looked peaked.’

  ‘Yes, it’s strong. I’ll just go up.’

  ‘I’ll send you a tray up, lass.’

  The words had followed her down the kitchen, and without turning, she said, ‘Thanks. Ta,’ and went through the hall and up the main staircase, across the gallery, down the landing, and into her room.

  She went to flop down on the bed but stopped herself. It was as if a voice, very like her granny’s, said, ‘Don’t sit down; you’re not strong enough to stand it,’ so she took off her things, tidied her hair, put on her uniform, and was about to leave the room and go about her duties when Katie knocked on the door and, not waiting for an invitation to enter, opened it, bent down and picked the tray up from the carpet; then coming further in, she placed it on the little table under the window, saying, ‘I buttered the scones. Me ma’s just made them fresh. Look’ – she turned her head to the side – ‘is owt wrong with you, Tilly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aw, you can’t kid me. Can’t you tell me?’

  ‘No, no, Katie. Perhaps some other time.’

  ‘Is it that Steve lad?’

  ‘Steve? Oh no! No!’

  ‘All right, I’ll leave you, but by the way, he, the master, he rang.’ She jerked her head backwards. ‘An’ Mr Pike was down in the cellar and Phyllis was across in the stables, so me ma sent me up. Oh Lord! he scared the daylights out of me, Tilly. Eeh! I think you’re wonderful the way you manage him. The way he looks at you, you feel like a plate of glass.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Oh, he just wanted some letters taking out to catch the coach . . . Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, Katie, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be seein’ you then.’

  ‘Yes, aye, Katie.’

  She remained standing while she drank the tea, but she didn’t eat any of Biddy’s scones; then taking in a long shuddering breath, she went out and along the corridor and into his room, prepared for the questioning. But the wind was taken completely out of her sails when, after staring at her for some seconds, he made no mention of her having been out, or of the purpose of her errand, but, as if she had just a moment before left the room, he said, ‘I think I’ll go down into the drawing room tonight, Trotter. You know, at one time I used to play the piano. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, is there?’ He held them both out and turned them back to front a number of times. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a hobby, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then tell Leyburn that he’ll be needed. And also I think I’ll dine downstairs tonight. Yes, yes, I will. It’ll be a change. See to it, will you, Trotter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She stood outside the door for a moment, her lips held tightly between the thumb and the joint of her first finger. He knew, he knew what she would find . . . Yet how could he have known? And why hadn’t he said something? Why? because it was likely too delicate a matter for him to bring up. The woman who had been his mistress now finding her amusement with his tenant. Oh, she was sick, sick. She wished she was miles away. Nothing good ever came her way; nor would it as long as she remained here. She wished it was bedtime for now she wanted to cry. Oh, how she wanted to cry.

  It was as if he was doing it on purpose, it was well past ten and he was still downstairs. They had brought him down at five o’clock and he had played the piano, and every now and again some of them had crept into the hall and listened outside the drawing-room door; and they all said he played ‘Lovely’.

  He dined at seven o’clock. Afterwards he again went into the drawing room but now he played at patience.

  Not until half-past ten did he give the order to be taken upstairs and then straight into the closet where he stayed for almost another half-hour.

  When he appeared in the bedroom he was changed and ready for bed.

  The house was quiet now; the lights were out except for those night lights in the gallery and in the corridor.

  The bedclothes were turned back, his night table was set, the fire banked down; and she was now standing some distance from the bed, as she always did, saying, ‘Have you got everything you require, sir?’ and to this he didn’t answer as usual, ‘Yes, thank you, Trotter,’ but said, ‘No, no, I haven’t; and I’m very tired. And I’ve made this night last out as long as twenty.’ And when her eyes widened slightly, he said, ‘As soon as you came in that door this afternoon you expected to be met by a battery of questions, and what would have been the result? Well, from the look on your face I judged that most surely you would have broken down; and then the whole household would have been aware of your private business. Well now, they’re all in bed . . . we hope. Anyway’ – he jerked his head upwards – ‘there’s only the two maids upstairs, and they should be asleep by now, so come—’ He held out his hand and, his voice dropping to a gentle softness, he said, ‘Sit down here near me and tell me what happened.’

  She couldn’t move, she could hardly breathe, the avalanche was rising in her, but she mustn’t, she mustn’t cry; they likely weren’t asleep up there, they would hear her.

  ‘Come.’

  She was moving towards him now and the touch of hi
s hand drained the last strength from her.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  Her head was hanging; she was looking down on to the brown velvet of his dressing gown and to where her hand lay in his on top of his knees.

  ‘Tell me. What happened? What did he say?’

  Still she couldn’t speak.

  It seemed a long while before he said, ‘He told you he was having an affair with Lady Myton, didn’t he?’

  When she moved her head from side to side, he said, ‘Then what happened? You must have found something out?’ There was an impatient note in his voice now.

  She lifted her face to his. She was gulping in her throat now, the lump there was choking her.

  When the tears seemed to spring from every pore in her body and the constriction in her throat was like a knife tearing at her gullet, his arms came about her and he pulled her towards him and smothered her crying in his shoulder, saying, ‘There, there, my dear. There, there! no-one is worth such tears. Ssh! Ssh! Ssh! Come’ – his voice was a whisper – ‘you don’t want to waken the whole house, and after my long, long night of keeping them all at bay.’

  Long after her paroxysm had passed he held her to him; then when at last she raised her head he took a large white handkerchief and gently wiped her face, and she said, ‘Oh, sir, I’m . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry for crying; you wouldn’t be a woman if you didn’t cry . . . My father had a saying about ladies who cried, he said tears were from a woman’s weak kidney.’

  She did not respond to this with a smile and he, making a little movement with his head, said, ‘And this is no time to joke. I will ask you just one more question, perhaps two. First, did you talk to him?’