Tilly Trotter Read online

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  Tilly

  a novel by CATHERINE COOKSON

  WILLIAM MORROW AND COMPANY, INC.

  New York

  Copyright [*copy] 1980 by Catherine Cookson

  Originally published in Great Britain in 1980 by William Heinemann Ltd under the title Tilly Trotter.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to William Morrow and Company, Inc., 105

  Madison Ave., New York, N.y.

  10016.

  Printed in the United States of America Contents

  PART ONE

  The Old Life

  PART TWO

  The New Life

  PART THREE

  The Workings Of The Witch

  PART FOUR

  And The Bewitched

  PART ONE

  The Old Life

  He urged his horse up the rise, then stopped at the summit as he always did and sat gazing about him.

  The sky was high today, clear and blue, not resting as it usually did on the far low hills away to his left, or on the masts of the ships not so far away that lined the river. From this point he could see the town of South Shields lying in a bustling huddle along the banks of the river right to where it made its way into the North Sea.

  From Tyne Dock to where the village of Jarrow began the land was bare of all but a cottage and a farmstead here and there, but once his eyes lit on Jarrow itself he had the feeling of bustle again, even if it were in a lesser way: the little shipyard he knew would be busy, and at the salt pans along the river where the work would be ceaseless.

  Then came Hebburn. He knew it to be there, but it was obscured from his view by a series of hillocks. Always a shadow of pity rose in him when he looked upon any town, even the great Newcastle, for he could never understand how men, given the choice, would want to live among the bustle and hustle and, for the majority of them, stink and muck. But then again the majority of them had little choice. Yet if the chance were given them would they want to live out here in the open country? ...

  Open country! The words were now scornful in his mind. He looked down towards the earth. There was a mine underneath his horse's feet. How often did the miners enjoy the open country? Once a week? Some of them were so worn out that all the Sunday privilege meant to them was bed.

  He urged on his horse again, impatience in his

  "Get up there!" Now why was it that on this monthly visit to William Trotter he should, winter or summer, pause on that knoll and ask himself questions that had nothing whatsoever to do with him or his life? Here he was a prosperous farmer, well set-up; oh yes, he knew his own value. He would have liked another inch or two to his stature but five foot ten and a half wasn't bad, not when you had breadth to go with it; and the hair on his head was as thick as a horse's mane, and the colour of chestnut into the bargain. As for his face, well, the looking-glass had told him there were handsomer men but they were only to be found among the fops. His was a strong manly face; all strong faces had big noses. His mouth in proportion was large, and that was as it should be. And he had all his teeth; the bottom set as wide as they were high and as white as salt would make them. It wasn't everybody who could reach twenty-four and brag that he hadn't as yet had one tooth broken or pulled. Jeff Barnes had three missing in the front and him not twenty yet, all because he couldn't stand a bit of face-ache, and him the size of a house end! No, his face, as his mother used to say, would get him past in a crowd ... but only just. He used to laugh at his mother: she had been a joker.

  At the bottom of the knoll he was still on a rise and as he turned the horse on to a narrow bridle-path he was now looking over a mass of woody land where in the far distance a row of ornamental chimneys pierced the sky, and on the sight of them he again pulled his horse to a stop; and as he did so he now asked himself: Could the rumour be true? Was the Sopwith mine finished, or running out? Because if it was that would be the finish of the family and the Manor. But in a way it could be the making of himself, it could bring about the realisation of a dream. Yet if the place and the land and farm went under the hammer could he go to Mr. Mark and say, "I have money to buy me farm"? He couldn't for there was very little left of the big lot and the first thing Mr Mark would likely say would be, "Where did you get such money from?" And what would he say to that? "An uncle died in Australia"? People did say things like that. He hadn't an uncle in Australia and Mark Sopwith would know that. There had been Sopwiths in the Manor for the last three hundred years and there had been Bentwoods on Brook Farm for as long, and each knew the history of the other.

  He urged his horse on again and the thought in his mind now was, I hope to God it is just a rumour.

  Aye, I do, for all their sakes.

  He entered a narrow belt of wood and when he emerged a few minutes later it was as if he had come into a new country, so changed was the scene. Beyond the stretch of moorland lay a huddle of houses known as Rosier's Village. They were mean two-roomed, mud-floored, miners" cottages housing the workers in the mine that lay half a mile beyond, and the land between the houses and the mine seemed to be dotted

  with black coal mounds. Although there were only three of them, they nevertheless dominated the landscape.

  As his eyes dwelt on the panorama of industry he wondered how it was that one mine owner, such as Rosier, could flourish when a man of more ability and stature such as Sopwith could go to the wall. He supposed the answer could be given in two parts: first, although, so he understood, Rosier had his troubles with water and explosions and the like, as every mine owner had, his was a shaft mine whereas Sopwith's was a drift mine; and the second part of the answer lay in luck, which, in the coal industry, meant good seams and bad seams, although it was said that luck, bad luck, was just an excuse for poor prospecting.

  Even when he was well past the village the stench of it still clung to his nostrils. He had ridden a further two miles or more before he came in sight of his destination. It was a thatched cottage, and it lay just off the bridle-path sheltered in a flat-bottomed hollow, and within the boundary of the Sopwith estate. It had a large square of cultivated garden in front and a paddock behind, all neatly railed in. Away to the left of him the land dropped slightly before rising to a grass-covered hill which half-way up levelled itself into a narrow plateau, then rose upwards again and on to an apparently flat head.

  He rode down to the cottage, dismounted and tied his horse to the gate-post. When he unlatched the gate and went up the path the geese in the paddock set up a chattering and screeching, and this seemed to be the signal for a door to open. When he reached it he spoke to the old woman standing there, saying, "They're as good as watch-dogs those two."

  "Oh, hello, Simon. Tis good to see you.

  Come away in. Come away in. Isn't it a beautiful day?"

  "It is, Annie. It is," he said, following her inside.

  "I was just saying to William there"--she thrust her hand out towards the bed that was inset in the wall at the far end of the room--"give us one or two more days like this an' we'd have him outside."

  "Why not. Why not indeed... . How are you, William?"

  The man in the bed pulled himself up out of the feather tick and leant forward, holding out his hand. "As you see me, as you see me, Simon; no better, no worse."

  "Well, that's something."

  As Simon Bentwood spoke he opened the buttons of his dou2reasted coat and inserted his finger in his high neckerchief as he exclaimed, "It's been a hot ride."

  "I've got something for that. And take your coat off.
/>   Ginger or herb?"

  Simon was on the point of saying, "Ginger," when he remembered that the last pint of ginger beer he'd drunk here had filled him with wind and he'd been up half the night. She had put so much root ginger into it it had burnt his innards. "Herb," he said.

  "Thanks, Annie."

  "Herb," she repeated; "I thought you liked ginger."

  "I like them both, but I can have a change, can't I?" He flapped his hand towards her, and, laughing, she turned from him and hurried across the long stone-floored room, her humped hips swinging her faded serge skirt.

  When she disappeared through a door at the far end of the room Simon took a seat by the bed and, looking at the old man, he asked quietly, "And how goes it?"

  "Aw." William Trotter now lay back into the denseness of the feather-filled pillows and muttered slowly, "Not so good at times, Simon."

  "Pain worse?"

  "I can't say it is, it's always been worse."

  He gave a wry smile now through his bewhiskered face.

  "I might be able to come by a bottle of the real stuff shortly; I understand the lads are going out again."

  "That would be good, Simon. Aw, that would be good.

  There's nothing like a drop of the real stuff. But it's funny that the real stuff has to come from foreign parts, now isn't it?"

  "Aye, it is when you come to think of it, William; yes, it is. But then of course brandy has to come from foreign parts."

  "Aye, aye; yes, I remember the last lot, I slept like a baby for nights." The old man now turned and looked towards Simon and, his words slow and meaningful, he said, "Sleep's a wonderful thing you know, Simon, it's the best thing that God has given us, sleep. I think He bestowed it on us as an apprenticeship to death, "cos that's what it will be, death, just a long sleep."

  "Yes, William, yes, I ... I agree with you there, just a long sleep. Ah ... to was He turned, on a forced laugh, and greeted Annie Trotter as she came back into the room carrying a grey hen by the handle: "There you are then. Mind, you've taken your time."

  "Away with you. Taken me time! I'm not as young as I used to be; it's difficult to get under the house, Tilly usually does the crawling."

  "Where is she, by the way?"

  "Oh, out gathering wood as usual. She's for ever sawing branches off and sawing them up. I'd like to bet there's not a cleaner line of trees in the county than those in Sop's Wood. It's a good job Mr Mark doesn't mind her stripping the trees head high, but I must say this for her she does it properly, as good as any man, for there's no sap runs after she's finished; she tars every spot."

  "I'm worried."

  Simon now looked at William again and he asked, "Worried? What about?"

  "Her ... Tilly. Fifteen gone, coming up sixteen, she should be in place, in good service learnin" to be a woman "stead of rangin" around like a half-scalded young colt; it wouldn't surprise me if one day she decided to wear trousers."

  "Ho! I don't think you need worry about that; she'll never do anything silly, not Tilly, she's got a head on her shoulders."

  "Oh, I know that, I know that, Simon. The trouble is she's got too much head on her shoulders. Do you know, she can read and write as good as the parson hissel."

  "And dance."

  Simon turned quickly to Annie who was in the act of handing him a mug of herb beer and he said,

  "Dance?"

  "Aye. You don't know the latest. It's the parson's wife, Mrs Ross."

  "The parson's wife?" Simon screwed up his face.

  "Aye, aren't I tellin' you? She must have thought that Tilly needed some gentlewomanly accomplishments or some such, and so what does she do? She shows her how to dance. Takes her into the vicarage indeed! Plays a tune on the spinet, then down into the cellar they go and there she takes her through a minet... no, minuet. That's it."

  "Mrs Ross, the parson's wife!" Simon's face was stretched now in one wide grin.

  "Aye. But oh, Simon, don't let on.

  Now don't say a word "cos once that got about, God help her. Well, I mean if it was anybody else they could dance until their toes wore down to their knees, but she's the parson's wife and as ignorant, so I hear, poor dear, of how to be a parson's wife as I am to be the lady of the manor." Now she was laughing. Her two forearms underneath her flagging breasts, she rocked backwards and forwards for a moment, and the tears were spurting from her eyes as she asked, "Have you seen her?"

  "Yes, oh yes; she's there sitting in the front pew every Sunday and

  that front pew hasn't seen anything so pretty for many a year, I can tell you."

  "Is she bonny then?"

  He put his head on one side, then thought for a moment before answering. "Aye," he said, "she's more than bonny. But she's not beautiful. What she's got is an air about her, she's alive ...

  Aye, that's the word. Now that's funny"--he wagged his finger now at Annie--"she's got the same quality about her as Tilly has."

  "Like our Tilly? And her a parson's wife!

  Aw no!"

  This had come from the bed, and Simon turned to the old man and said, "Aye, William, it's a kind of glowing quality, spritey. Aw, I'm not the one for words, I can only say she looks alive."

  "Well"--William nodded his head slowly--

  "all I can say is, if she looks and acts like Tilly she shouldn't have married a parson."

  "Oh, I don't know, William, Parson Ross had a pretty thin time with the other one. She'd have frightened the devil in hell, she would, and did sometimes I think. But I must confess I meself have wondered if he's been wise with his second choice. She comes from quite a family I hear. Oh yes, quite a family. Got a cousin or some such in the new young queen's household, high up at that, so they say. I'm also told that both families were neighbours years ago, away in Dorset. He was the youngest of seven boys, and thereby thrown into the church. Anyway, I can tell you this, she's made a different fellow out of him. He's not so much blood and thunder these days, more love thy neighbour.

  You know what I mean? An" you know something more? She never takes her eyes off him all the time he's preaching. I've watched her. But on the other hand he never looks at her. He daren't. ... I think the fellow's in love." He threw his head back and laughed, but it was a self-conscious laugh.

  Annie stood looking at him, her face straight; then she said, "But about this dancing. It's the last thing on God's earth I would have thought our Tilly would have wanted to do, "cos as you know she's only happy when she's got a saw in her hand or an axe. She can get through a log better than I ever could, an" she's dug every inch of that ground out there as well as William ever did. She's always wanted to do the things that a lad would want to do, an'

  it's worried me. But I think it's gona worry me more now that she wants to dance."

  "She's a girl, Annie." Simon's face, too, was straight now. "And she might grow into a bonny one I've been thinking."

  "Aw, I doubt it; she hasn't a bit of figure to her frame. Comin' up

  sixteen, she should be developing but look at her! Like a yard of pump water, as straight as a die."

  "There's plenty of time ... and some fellows like them thin." He was smiling now, but Annie shook her head at him as she said, "I've yet to meet one.

  Nobody buys a cow with its ribs sticking through if there's a fat one aside it."

  "She's no cow and don't you refer to her as such, Annie Trotter!"

  Annie turned her face sharply towards the bed and cried, "An' don't you bark at me, William Trotter, else I'll give you what for! I've got you where I want you. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head." She now bounced her head at him before turning and winking at Simon; then glancing towards the window, she said, "There she comes over the top."

  Simon now bent his back and looked out of the small window away towards the mound and to where a young girl was leaping down the hill as a wild goat might. Of a sudden she came to a stop, and the reason was evident for there emerged from behind a clump of gorse the figure of a young man.


  "Who's that with her? Can you see, Simon?"

  Simon made no reply but he narrowed his eyes, and it wasn't until the two figures were half-way down the lower part of the hill that he said,

  "McGrath. Hal McGrath."

  "Oh no! Him again?" Annie straightened her back, and as she did so Simon turned from the window and put his hand into his pocket; he drew out a sovereign and, handing it to her, said, "Better take it afore she comes."

  "Oh thanks, Simon. Thanks." She nodded up at him.

  He stared at her for a moment, bit on his lip, then said, "What do you think he's after? Do you think he's got his eye on her, or is it the other thing?"

  "Hopes to kill two birds with one stone I should say." They both looked towards the bed. "He's been round here every Sunday for months past."

  Simon looked at Annie again and his voice came from deep in his throat as he muttered, "He won't give up, will he?"

  "Not while there's a breath in him, if I know anything about Hal McGrath. He's his father over again, an' his father afore him."

  "Does she ask any questions, I mean about ...

  ?" He pointed towards her hand that was now clutching the sovereign against her breast, and she blinked her eyes and looked away for a moment before she said, "A year or so ago she asked where we got the money from to buy the flour, meat and such. She provides our other needs from the garden and, as you know, she has done since William took to his bed, so I... I had to give her some sort of an answer.

  I said it was money you borrowed from us some years ago.

  Well, not you, your father."

  "That was as good as anything. Did she believe you?"

  "It seemed to satisfy her. I remember she said, "I like people who pay their debts.""

  "Huh! debts." He turned again towards the window and, once more bending his back, he said,

  "She's left him; she's running like a hare and he's standing like a stook."

  When a few minutes later the cottage door burst open it was as if a fresh wind had suddenly blown into the room. Tilly Trotter was tall for her age, being now five foot five and a half inches. She was wearing a faded cotton dress and it hung straight from her shoulders to the uppers of her thick boots, and nowhere was there an undulation. Her neck was long and tinted brown with wind and weather, as was her face; yet here there was a flush of pink to the tint on her high cheekbones. Her eyes, now bright and laughing, looked as if they had taken up the colour of her skin, the only difference being that the brown of her skin was matt while the brown of her eyes was clear and deep. Her hair was dark, darker than brown and thick, and it should at her age have been either piled high on the top of her head or in a decorous knot at the back, but it was hanging in two long plaits tied at the back of her neck with what at one time had been a piece of blue ribbon and joined at the ends with a similar piece. Her mouth, full-lipped, was now wide with welcome as she gabbled breathlessly, "Hello, Simon." Then without pause she said, "Why didn't you come and rescue me? Do you know who I've just been accosted by, an' that's the word, accosted, which means waylaid?" She now nodded towards the bed. "That Hal McGrath's been at me again. You'd never guess, not in a month of Sundays, what he's just asked." She now dropped with a flop on to a wooden chair by the side of the long bare wooden table that was placed in the middle of the room; then leaning her head back on her shoulders, she looked up towards the low ceiling and pulled her nose down as if in an effort to meet her chin before she brought out, "He wants to court me. Him, Hal