Tilly Trotter

by Catherine Cookson

  Simon looked at Tilly again. Her face white, her eyes wide and unblinking, held his for some seconds, until he wetted his lips and went on, "You see, men like the miners were working for starvation wages. Often a husband and wife had to go down below just to keep themselves alive. Aye, and take their young

  'uns with them, five or six years old.

  There were about three dozen Sopwith's men in the village at that

  time living in hovels; and as you know some of them are still there; and your granda was one of them.

  "Anyway"--he inclined his head again towards the bed--"your granda was determined to see what Big McGrath had got buried, but he was at a loss to know where to go for help. Well, he began to walk home. Now on his road he had to pass our farm; and it didn't look as it does today. My father, so I understand, was at the end of his tether both financially and domestically. You see my mother had had five miscarriages before she had her sixth child, and that had lived only a month. Moreover, it was only five months to Christmas and the rent to the owner, Mr Sopwith, was then due. Now old Sopwith was going through hard times too, at least so he gave out; he wasn't as lenient as the present one, with him it was no rent, no farm; and what was more he was badly liked because he had enclosed some free pasture on the north side of his land. People said it was because his own father had had to sell half the estate in order to keep going. But hard times with the gentry and hard times with the people were horses of a different colour. The gentry could still have their servants by the dozen, go up to London Town, lavish presents on their wives and children; but what was more important in the eyes of the ordinary man, they could still eat.

  "Anyway, I'm going off the subject, which your mind is apt to do because these issues are still with us the day. Now who should your granda see when passing the farmyard but my own father. Now it says in the Bible, cast thy bread upon the waters and it shall be returned to you a thousandfold; well, I translate that, Tilly, in this way, do a good turn for anybody and if they're decent folk they'll repay you in some way. So it should happen that a few years afore this when there was a strike at the mine my father had given your granda there free milk, mostly skimmed of course, nevertheless free milk every day during the time they were off; he had also thrown in a stone of taties every week.

  Your granda there never forgot this, so when he saw my father coming towards him across the yard, to use his own words, he thought, here's a man who is as much in need of an extra shilling or two as anybody in these parts, and so what did he do, he told him what he had seen. And my father, after listening to him in silence, simply said, 'Come on, show me."

  "It was a good mile back to the spot and it was getting dark, and when there it took them both every ounce of their strength to budge the stone an inch. But gradually, gradually, they moved it to the side, and there in the dim light below them was a hole, and in it was a tin box.

  Not an ordinary tin box you know, but one of those that travel on coaches, steel bound and locked; the gentry sometimes use them for carrying jewellery or money in when travelling from one estate to another, or in a mail coach when hundreds of pounds had to be taken to where they were building the railroads.

  Anyway"--Simon's voice dropped now--"that box wasn't only full of golden guineas but round it there were a number of leather bags also full. But these ones were mixed with silver.

  "Well, your granda there and my father peered at each other, and it was my father who said, "What about it, Trotter?"' and your granda answered, "We'll take it. But where will we put it?"'

  "My father thought a minute and then said, "I've got the very place, the dry well." It's a well that drained out in my father's time after he had made an extension to the seed room and had roughly slabbed over it. It is three or four years ago since I looked down it. It was still dry then, a bit soggy at the bottom but that's all. Anyway, water or not, guineas don't melt.

  "So they cleared the hole of its secret and they replaced the stone and in the now dark night they skitted along that road, keeping to the hedgerow like two highwaymen with their loot." For the first time Simon's face went into a smile as he added,

  "There's little more to tell. They counted the money. There was close on a thousand pounds. They were both amazed and slightly drunk with the happening, but when they sat down and thought things out they faced a snag, and that was, they wouldn't be able to use the money, not openly, not in any way that would show a difference in their style of living. It was easier for my father because any extra money he had a mind to spend he could put out as profit from the farm, but not so William there.

  William was getting twelve shillings a week; even a shilling spent extra could bring suspicion on him because they knew that McGrath, once he had made the discovery, would have his sons taping everybody in the village and beyond. And so your granda decided to have five shillings a week for as long as it would last, but he would spend it far afield, like in Shields. ...

  So there you are, now you know why I bring the sovereign every month." Simon let out a long, slow breath and leaned back in the chair and ended, "And what McGrath's after an' all."

  Tilly's eyes were wide, her mouth was slightly agape. She stared at Simon for some time before she turned her head slowly and looked towards her grandfather, then towards her grandmother who was seated at the top of the table. But now it was Annie who spoke.

  Sadly, she

  said, "The times, hinny, I've been tempted to ask for more in order to buy you some decent clothes.

  An' I might have chanced it except that I made a mistake one day. 'Twas some weeks after they had brought William back from the pit. They thought he would die an' I couldn't leave him and we were in need of meat, candles, and flour an' such, an' you being on ten years old and a sensible child into the bargain, I told you what was needed. And so I wrapped the sovereign in a rag and pinned it in the pocket of your petticoat an" gave you a penny for the carrier cart into Shields. Well, you came back as proud as punch with all the messages an' the change intact, an' when I asked you how you got on you told me that one woman at the bacon stall wanted to know how a little thing like you had come by a sovereign, an' you said your granny had given it to you to do the messages with. And then you caught sight of Bella McGrath at another stall an' simply to point out to the woman your honesty you said, "That's Mrs McGrath from the village, she knows me an" me granny." An" you went to her and brought her to the bacon stall an' said to her, "You do know me an" me granny, Mrs McGrath, don't you?"' An" Bella McGrath said, "I do, I do indeed. But what for are you askin"?"' An"

  you explained to her about the sovereign." Annie now sighed and shook her head as she ended, "It was from then, hinny, that this business all started. The McGraths knew, like everybody else did, that William being bad, there'd be no money coming in, so from that day to this they've never let up. You see, they think we've got it hidden here. They've worked it out that there must still be a good deal left. That's why Hal McGrath's bent on having you; it's one way of getting his hands on the remainder of it."

  Tilly could find no words to express what she was feeling. The whole business sounded too fantastic to be believed, yet she knew it was true, too true. They had been living on stolen money for years. They had stolen it from McGrath, but whom had McGrath stolen it from? All that money, all those sovereigns, and she had been the means, the innocent means of giving her grandfather away and of bringing on herself the raping attack tonight She shuddered visibly and bent her head. She would feel his body on top of her for the rest of her days, and his hands clawing at her bare flesh. Instinctively, she brought her legs tight together under the table.

  "Don't worry, he won't come near you again."

  Simon's hand came across the table and covered her joined ones.

  As she looked back into his face she thought, I've spoilt his wedding. And yet the question she asked him now had nothing whatever to do with his wedding: "Where did Mr McGrath get the money from? Was he a highwayman?"

  "No, not him"
--Simon shook his head--"he would never have the guts. But his cousin was transported three or four years previous. He was one of three men who held up a coach on its way to Scotland, it was on the road between Gosforth and Morpeth, a lonely stretch. One of the men was shot by the guard, the other two escaped. McGrath's cousin was picked up from a description some weeks later when he was at the hoppings in Newcastle; one of the gentry who had been in the coach spotted him and informed the constables. It couldn't really be proved against him, it was only hearsay, but still it was enough to send him to Botany Bay; otherwise it would have been his neck. William"--he looked towards the bed again--"you remember him, don't you, McGrath's cousin?"

  "Aye, aye, I do indeed. He was a small fellow, quiet, dark, quick on his feet. Around that time there were two or three big hold-ups. They never found who did them, but the money in that box told the tale all right. The only thing I can't understand, and never have been able to, is why he let Big McGrath have the keeping of it "cos he himself lived in Glasgow in one of those tenements they said that you wouldn't house a rat in."

  "Here"--Annie was now standing by Simon's side, she had placed a dish of water on the table--"let me clean up that cut. You are in a mess. My goodness!" She dabbed at his face with a wet cloth.

  "This needs a needle and thread else you're going to have a scar there. Here, dry your face." She handed him a rough towel, then added, "I'm sorry I can't do anything with your coat, that's a tailor's job.

  By! your wife will go mad when she sees you. And this to happen on your wedding night. 'Tis sorry I am to the heart, Simon."

  He stood up and, handing her the towel back, he smiled and only just in time stopped himself from saying,

  "It isn't every man who saves another woman from being raped on his wedding night and gets his face bashed into the bargain" because Tilly wasn't a woman, she was a girl, still a girl, a sweet girl, a lovable girl. He looked at her and as he met her wide, warm, troubled gaze, he turned on himself: Aw, to hell! Let him get out of here and back to Mary. Aye, back to Mary. And what would she say to him? Aye, what would she say?

  Would she overlook his running off like that and greet him with open arms when he turned up like this? Huh! he doubted it. Well anyway, the quicker he got back and tested her temper the better.

  I

  "Good-night, William. Good-night, Tilly.

  Good-night, Annie."

  William muttered, "Good-night, lad, and thanks, thanks for what you've done the night."

  Tilly gave him no farewell. She just stood and watched him as her grandmother handed him a lantern, saying, "You'll need this now."

  "Aye, yes I'll need it now."

  She opened the door for him and as he stepped out into the dark, she said, "Tell your wife I'm sorry you were fetched away and are going back to her like this. I... I hope she understands."

  He made no answer, but as he went swiftly down the path towards the gate and his horse he thought, I hope she does an" all.

  But Mary Bentwood was never to understand this night, nor to forgive him until the day she died.

  The light of the candle lantern set in the middle of the vestry table illuminated the six faces gathered around it, those of the churchwarden Mr Septimus Fossett and the five sidesmen: Burk Laudimer the wheelwright, Andy Fairweather the carpenter, George Knight the cooper and grave-digger, Tom Pearson the painter and odd-job man, and Randy Simmons, Simon Bentwood's cowman.

  Mr Fossett had just finished speaking, and it was Andy Fairweather who answered him, saying, "Aye,

  "tis as you said a serious business. And that's why we're here, we're responsible men, responsible for the conduct of the church. Well, what I mean is to see that those who run it act decent like."

  "But she doesn't run it"--Tom Pearson's voice held a note of protest--"be parson that is responsible."

  "Aye, but he's responsible for his wife."

  Two voices came at Mm now, Andy

  Fairweather's and George Knight's.

  "Aye, well, yes, you're right there." Burk Laudimer was nodding his head now. "But she be different class. We knew that from the start. She comes from the gentry, an" we all know what they're like. Like bitches in season they skitter about."

  "Aw, shut tha mouth!" Tom Pearson not only nodded angrily towards Burk Laudimer, but he thrust his pointing finger across the table at him, crying,

  "We're not talkin' of bitches but of the parson's wife."

  "... One an' the same thing p'raps."

  "Now, now, Burk"--Septimus Fossett nodded his head disapprovingly down the table--"this is no time to be funny, "tis no light subject we're dealing with. Now tell us, you're sure what you saw?"

  "As true as God's me judge. An" as I said, you haven't only got to take me word for it, there was Andy. You saw them with your own eyes, didn't you, Andy?"

  "Aye, aye, I did, Burk.

  You're right, I did. There they were in this very room, this table pushed back to the wall there, an' dancin' they were." The carpenter's voice now dropping to a low mutter, he went on,

  "Astonishin' it was to see in a place of worship an' all, their arms about each other. And her singin'!

  An' no hymn. Oh no! no! No hymn. A lilt she was singin', a dantin' lilt, and as Burk here has told you--I saw it as well as him when they parted they up with their skirts like a pair of whores on the waterfront at Shields.

  Half-way up their calves they pulled them, and started prancin' about. Now "twood have been bad enough if it had been in a barn or in the room across yonder"--he thumbed over his shoulder--"where she holds what she calls her Sunday school, but I suppose that was too small a place for them to have their fling... . But now listen." He rolled his eyes from one staring member to the other. "I'll tell you somethin", I don't blame the parson's wife altogether. No, no, I don't, "cos I think she's been led astray, aye she has, and by that young Tilly Trotter."

  "Ah, don't be daft man."

  "Now, Tom Pearson, don't you tell me I'm daft, I know what I'm talkin" about."

  "Well, you're the only one." Tom Pearson turned his head away from the table and looked into the deep shadows as he said, "Led away by Tilly Trotter! She's only a bit of a lass, not yet on sixteen."

  "She's no bit of a lass, not in the ordinary way I'd say. An' what's more, she's above herself, has been for years. There's always been something fishy about her: an' about her old grandparents an'

  all. Old Trotter's never done a hand's turn for years, but they never seem to want. Have you ever thought of that? An' can you tell me another thing"--he now cast his glance again around the table--"why should Simon Bentwood ride off on his weddin' night to see that she was all right just "cos he heard that Hal McGrath was for takin" her? Leaves his bride he does an' all the bridal party; ha the midst of the jollifications he rides off and comes back hours later, a slit brow, a black eye, an'

  his clothes torn off his back through fightin' Hal McGrath for her. Now I ask you, is that usual goin' on for a groom on his weddin' day? An'

  look at the rumpus that came after. Randy there"--he pointed down the table--"said there was hell to pay. An' the lads didn't see them up to bed that night. An' moreover there was high jinks in the house the next day. That girl, I'm tellin' you, is a creator of trouble, in fact she's witch-like in some ways. Have you ever seen the way she looks at... ?"

  "Oh, for goodness sake!" Tom Pearson got to his feet. "I've never heard such bloody rubbish in me life."

  "No language in here, Tom. Remember where you are." The churchwarden's voice was stern.

  "Not so much rubbish, Tom." It was George Knight, the grave-digger now.

  His thin piping voice seemed to check the anger of the two men and they both looked at him, and he, nodding from one to the other, said, "That was a strange business about Pete Gladwish's dog, now you must admit that. It was strange that was. It was."

  "Aye, it might have been"--Tom Pearson's voice was also quiet now--"but what has that to do with young Tilly Trotter?"

 
; "More than something, Tom, more than something, so some folks say. Pete's dog was a ratter, you know that yourself, an' one of the best terriers for miles. An' the old fellow lived on his winnings, didn't he? Saturda' night in the pit I've seen that dog kill fifty rats in as many minutes, or less. Aye, or less. Then comes the night that he's takin' him over Boldon way, and they meet up with young Tilly on the road, an' you know what happened? She stroked the dog. Talked to it, Pete said, and the bloomin' beast then didn't want to come along of him, tugged to follow her. An' that night he didn't even want to go in the pit. Can you imagine a terrier seeing a rat an' not wanting to go after it? Why, when they see them swarming down in the pit they nearly go mad to get at "em. But, Pete said, that dog just stood there, dazed like.

  Well, he knocked the daylights out of it and took it home and chained it up, and what happened? Well, you live in this village as well as I do an" you know what happened, the dog was gone the next mornin', wasn't it, and it's never been seen hilt nor hair of since. It wasn't until this business of the weddin' an' the sort of enticing away of Farmer Bentwood on the most special night of his life that old Pete got thinkin' about the night Tilly Trotter stroked his dog; he hadn't linked it up afore. And to my mind there's something in it... ."

  "To your mind, George, there's always something in it, even in an empty pea-pod."

  "Pity the stocks are no longer in the square."

  "Why, are you thinkin' of sitting in them?"

  Burk Laudimer now turned on Tom

  Pearson, crying, "I don't know why you were asked in on this meetin', you're for her, aren't you, for the pair of "em? When they're dancing on the altar next and drinkin" out of the font you'll say that ain't witchery. Just high spirits, you'll say."

  "Aye, I might an' all." Tom Pearson nodded at them; then looking up the table to where the churchwarden sat, his face grim, he said,

  "Well, I've got a job to finish, I'm off, but have you made up your mind what you're gona do?"