Tilly Trotter Read online

  As he was finishing the last mouthful of pie, Simon, glancing over the mingled customers towards the open door, saw white flakes falling and exclaimed on a mutter, "Oh, not snow!" then looking at Tilly who had only half finished her food, he said, "We'll have to be moving, Tilly; look, it's starting to snow."

  "Aye; I don't really want any more, Simon." She put the plate down.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes; 'twas nice but I'm not hungry."

  "Come on then... ."

  I

  Fifteen minutes later they were crossing the bridge into Gateshead amidst heavy falling snow and it was almost an hour later before they came to the outskirts of the village. It was still snowing but not so heavily here, although the ground showed a good spread of it. It was at the point where the roads branched that Tilly said,

  "Stop here, Simon; I'll make me way over the fields."

  "You'll do no such thing."

  "Simon--" she leant forward and gripped the hand that held the reins and her voice no longer sounded like that of a young girl but of a knowing woman as she said, "You know what will happen if you're seen drivin" with me through the village. They'll say

  ..."

  "What'll they say?" He jerked his finger towards her. "Well, let them say, but you're not going to end up stiff in the fields because of their dirty tongues, so sit tight."

  She sat tight with her head bowed, in fact she crouched down on the seat hoping that she'd pass unrecognised. Because of the state of the weather there was no one in the village street, but that wasn't to say that the sound of a neighing horse or the muffled tramp of its feet didn't bring at least some of them to their windows.

  When they eventually reached the cottage gate it was to see Annie with her face to the window, and as Tilly got down from the trap she said, "Are you comin' in, Simon?" and he answered, "No, I'd better be getting back while the goin's good.

  But listen." He bent towards her where she was standing in the road now, her hand extended on the back rails, and he leant sideways and covered it with his own as he said, "At the slightest sign of trouble, make for the farm ... I'm going to have a word with young Steve on the quiet; he'll keep me in touch."

  "No, no!" She shook her head. "Don't ask Steve to do anything more, Simon. The poor lad, look at the state he was in; and his arm will never be the same again."

  "Well, in spite of that he's still for you, very much for you. He's a good lad, is Steve. How he came to be bred of that crew, God alone knows. Now look, get yourself in, there's your granny at the door, you'll catch your death in this."

  She stared up at him for a moment longer; then in pulling her hand from underneath his she let her fingers rest against his for a moment as she said, "I don't know what I'd ... we'd do without you, Simon; but please, for your own sake an...' an' your wife's, keep your distance."

  He blinked some snowflakes from his eyes before he answered, "That'll be up to me. Go on; good-night to you."

  "Good-night, Simon."

  Annie had the door open and her first words were

  "Oh, lass, I thought you were never comin'." Then she added, "That was Simon; why didn't he come in?"

  "He's got to get back, the roads are gettin' thick."

  "Here, give me that coat off you, you look frozen. Come to the fire."

  Tilly had only one sleeve out of her coat before Annie was tugging at her arm and pulling her forward towards the fireplace where she pushed her down into a chair, saying, "I've got some broth boiling." She inclined her head towards the spit.

  "It's been on the bubble these past two hours.

  Ah, lass!" Her voice suddenly sank deep into her chest and, the tears springing from her eyes, she said, "I...I thought they had done somethin' to you, kept you or somethin'. I thought you were never coming.

  I... I didn't know how I was goin' to go on without you. Aw! me bairn."

  "Aw, Granny." It was too much on top of all that had happened, and Tilly leant forward and laid her head against Annie's breast, and the old woman held her tightly while they both cried.

  Then Annie, recovering first, muttered, "This won't get any broth down you an' you're as cold as clay." This latter remark seemed to remind her of William for she now added, "Me poor lad.

  Me dear lad."

  It wasn't until after she had served up the plate of broth and Tilly had forced herself to eat it that Annie now asked, "How did it go?"

  "She got off."

  "Thanks be to God!"

  "What did they ask you?"

  "Aw, Granny." Tilly now put the bowl on to her knees and she bent her head over it as she murmured, "It was awful, awful. All of it was awful, but ... but when the judge asked me had ...

  had I practised witchcraft... ."

  "What!"

  "Aye, Granny. They're makin' out in the village that I'm a witch. It isn't just the McGraths now, "tis everybody, and they're blamin" me for the lot."

  "They're mad, stark starin' mad."

  "And you know what, Granny"--Tilly's voice rose now--"the judge asked McGrath did he want to marry me and he said aye, and he would knock the witchcraft out of me. And the judge said it was a good thing. Aw, Granny, I thought I would die."

  Annie looked at the face before her, the beloved face, and all she saw

  in it was purity. Her bairn was bonny, lovely; aye, too much so really, and in spite of having no figure to speak of, she had something, an air about her, a quality, something she couldn't give a name to. But ... witchcraft!

  What would they say next? But this was serious, very serious, much more so than McGrath's thinking they had money hidden here. Oh aye, more so. Feeling suddenly weak she sat down on the settle by the side of Tilly, and after a moment she said, "Thank God we've got Simon. As long as he lives he'll let nothing bad happen to you." And to herself she added, "Married or no."

  The fire had been banked down. Tilly was lying by the side of her grandmother in the walled bed. She had lain there each night since they had boxed William and set him out on the table in the middle of the room until it was time to take him to his last resting place.

  Her granny was quiet; she didn't know whether she was asleep or not but for herself sleep was far away, her mind was going over the details of the day from the moment she had got off the back of the carrier cart and Mr Fogget, the carter, had pointed out the way to the courthouse. But he had done so without looking at her, and the other passengers from the village had remained seated in the cart and let her go on ahead. No one had spoken to her on the journey, in fact Mrs Summers, whose husband worked in the Sopwiths' gardens, had pulled her skirt aside when she sat down beside her.

  The thought of wanting to die had been in her mind a lot of late but never more so than at the moment when she entered that courthouse. It was as if she was the person about to be judged, and she knew that in a great many minds this was so.

  She lay wide-eyed in the stillness. There were no night sounds tonight, the snow had muffled them. The fire wasn't crackling. The only sounds were the short soft gasping breaths of her granny.

  Then she was sitting bolt upright in the bed, her hand pressed tight against the stone wall to her side.

  Someone was coming up the path. She wasn't dreaming.

  No, she wasn't dreaming. They had stopped outside the door, and now her heart seemed to leap in her breast when there came two short raps on the door.

  She was immediately aware that her granny had not been asleep because now she was resting on her elbow and whispering, "Who in the name of God can this be at this time?"

  As Tilly went to crawl over her to reach the edge of the bed, Annie's hand stayed her, saying, "No, no; stay where you are."

  When the raps came again and a soft murmur came to them, saying, "Tilly! Tilly!" Tilly turned her head to stare down at her grandmother, and although she couldn't see her face she knew that her granny was staring at her, and she whispered, "I think "tis Mrs Ross."

  "Mrs Ross at this time of the night! Dear God! Dear
God! what now?" Annie was muttering as she painfully swung her legs out of the bed. By this time Tilly was at the door and, pulling her coat over her nightgown, she paused before calling, "Who's there?"

  "Me, Tilly, Ellen Ross."

  Tilly turned the key in the lock, withdrew the top and bottom bolts and pulled the door ajar.

  The world outside looked white and against the whiteness stood the small dark form of the parson's wife.

  "Come in. Come in."

  When the door was closed and they were standing in the dark room, Tilly said quickly, "Stay where you are, ma'am, stay where you are till I light the lamp."

  When the lamp was alight it showed Ellen Ross leaning against the door and Annie standing supporting herself against the edge of the table.

  It was as if the heightening of the flame drew Ellen Ross towards the table too and as she came within the halo of the light Tilly glanced at her for a moment; then turning quickly, she grabbed the bellows and blew on the dying embers of the fire. Immediately these flared she turned towards the table again, saying, "Come and sit down, ma'am, you look froze. Take your cape off a minute;" and she put her hands out to take the hip-length fur cape partly covering the long grey melton cloth coat. But Ellen Ross shook her head and, putting her gloved hands to the collar, gripped it as she said, "I...I can't stay, but I had to come and see you to ...ffsay good-bye."

  It was Annie who now spoke, saying, "Well, sit down a moment, ma'am."

  Ellen nodded at the old woman, then took a seat by the side of the reviving fire and as she looked at it her head drooped on to her chest and the voice in which she now spoke was tear-filled. "I ... I had to come and say how sorry I was, I am ... I am for all the trouble I have brought on you."

  Tilly walked slowly towards her now and, standing before her, looked down on the bent head as she said, "There's no blame attached to you, ma'am; there's only one person who bears the guilt for this and that's McGrath."

  "Yes, yes, I think that's right, but ... but my interference hasn't helped; oh no, no, it hasn't helped." She now looked up at Tilly. Her face was wet as she said, "I have ruined George ... my husband's life; he can no longer follow his vocation, at least not in this country. He has already arranged that we should go abroad; he is to be a missionary."

  "Oh, ma'am!" There was a break in Tilly's voice, and again she muttered, "Oh, ma'am!"

  Ellen now looked towards Annie, who was on the settle opposite to her, and she addressed her as if she would understand what she was now about to say. "My

  ... my people want me to return home but ... but that would mean separating from my husband. As much as I would love to, because my family are very understanding people, I feel I must abide with my husband, for that is as little as I can do for all the trouble I have caused him. Where he goes I go, I must go."

  "And you're right, ma'am, you're right."

  "Yes, yes, I think I am. But

  ... but life will never be the same again. I shall carry the burden of that man's death with me to my grave."

  "You weren't to blame for that, ma'am. That part of the business links straight up with Hal McGrath."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right, Tilly.

  But... but tell me, he won't get his own way?

  I mean you will never marry him, will you Tilly? No matter what happens you couldn't... ."

  "Oh no! No!" Tilly was shaking her head in wide sweeps. "Never! Never! I'd sooner die first."

  "And I'd sooner see her dead first." Annie was nodding her head violently now. "I'd kill him afore he'd lay a hand on her."

  The fire suddenly blazed upwards, the lamp flickered, there was a whining of wind round the chimney.

  Ellen Ross shivered; then getting to her feet, she said, "I...I have to return."

  "It must have been dangerous for you coming, ma'am; the roads are bad, an" you didn't carry a light." Although Annie had referred to the roads her words also implied there was danger from another quarter, and to this Ellen answered, "I'm safe in the fact that not many people will venture out tonight, and the snow has made it quite light."

  "I'll put my things on me and go back with you to the crossroads."

  As Tilly spoke the protests came from both Annie and Ellen Ross saying, "No! No!" and Ellen now added, "I'm warmly wrapped and I'm not afraid. Believe me, I'm not afraid. I don't think there's anything could happen to me in life now that could make me really afraid. The last few weeks I have lived with fear and I have faced it, and conquered it."

  "Well, it's good-bye, Mrs. Trotter."

  Ellen walked towards the old woman and took her outstretched hand. "I used to think it would be nice to grow old hereabouts, but it wasn't to be."

  "Good-bye, me dear, and God go with you."

  Tilly had walked towards the door, and when Ellen came up to her she suddenly put out her arms and drew Tilly tightly into her embrace, and after a moment's hesitation, Tilly returned the embrace with equal intensity. Then Ellen kissed her on each cheek and, her face again flowing with tears and her voice breaking, she said, "Promise me one thing, promise me you'll keep up your reading and your writing; no matter what happens you'll do a little each day. Promise me, Tilly."

  Tilly had no voice with which to answer that promise but gulping in her throat and screwing up her eyes tight, she made a deep obeisance with her head.

  "Good-bye, my dear, I'll never forget you. I

  ... I would like to say I will write, but I ... I may not be able to because I ... I prom ..." Her voice ended abruptly and she turned blindly to the door and, slowly opening it, went out into the night and she didn't look back.

  Tilly watched the dark figure seeming to glide over the snow; she watched her go through the gate; she watched her until she became lost in the night; then she closed the door, locked it, bolted it top and bottom, and, leaning her head against it in the crook of her elbow, she sobbed aloud.

  A week went by; then a month; then two months, and nothing happened. Tilly never went into the village, and only from a distance did she see any of the villagers, except Tom Pearson and young Steve. One day she found a couple of dead rabbits in the woodshed; she thanked Steve on the Sunday afternoon when she went down to the burn and saw him sitting on the bank. Sunday being his only free day from the pit he had made it a rule, she knew, to be at the burn in the afternoon; and she was glad of this because it was someone to pass a word with, someone young. But on that particular Sunday afternoon after she had thanked him for the rabbits he had said that it wasn't he who had put them in the woodshed but he had a good idea who had; it would be Tom Pearson because he was known to be a dab hand at poaching. She had felt slightly warmed inside that day knowing that besides Simon and Steve she had another friend, one who apparently wasn't afraid of the villagers.

  One person she hadn't seen even a glimpse of over the past weeks was Hal McGrath, and she wondered if Simon had gone for him. However, she had not asked him because the subject she felt was best buried; and deep in her mind she wished that McGrath could be buried with it.

  Yesterday Simon had brought the sovereign. His face had looked frozen and pinched, and there was a kind of sadness about him. But perhaps it was due to the weather.

  For the past fortnight it had hardly stopped raining, and even under better weather conditions farmers always found this a heavy time. He'd had little to say, just asked them if they were all right and if they had been troubled by anyone. When she had said "No", his answer had been, "Well, that's as it should be."

  When he left without even having a drink of hot ginger beer her granny had said, "He's more troubled than we are, he's not happy, you can see it in his face."

  This morning the rain had stopped but the wind was high and the air biting, and when she was pulling her coat on Annie said, "Don't put your hat on, it'll be blown away afore you get out of the gate. Look, take my shawl"--she pulled the shawl from her shoulders--"put it round your head and cross it over and I'll tie it behind your waist."

  "No, no, Granny"
--she put out a protesting hand--"I'll be all right. I've got me scarf, I'll put that round me head."

  "Don't be silly, girl, that piece of wool wouldn't keep the wind out of a flute. Here"--she was already putting the shawl over Tilly's head; then crossing it over, she turned her around and knotted it under her shoulder blades--"There, at least you'll be warm."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm in the house, aren't I, an' there's a roarin' fire there and enough wood in to keep me going for a week; you've got a four mile walk afore you each way."

  "I don't mind the walk, Granny."

  And she didn't mind the walk. She no longer took the carrier cart into Shields for the necessities because it would already be laden with villagers. Instead she now went into Jarrow for her shopping.

  The shops in Jarrow were of poor quality compared with those in Shields because Jarrow was little more than an enlarged village, nor was the quality of the food as good as that which could be purchased in the market place in Shields. Still, they could live without bread, substituting potato cake in place of it rather than sit that ride out among the villagers, or even walk along the road into Barton village just to get flour; for that way she was sure to bump into one or the other she knew, and someone who didn't want to know her.

  Ready now for the road, she stood waiting while her granny went to the tea caddy on the mantelpiece and took out the sovereign, and as she handed it to her she said, "What would we do without Simon? Although I've cursed that money many a time of late, it helped to put my William decently away." Then her chin jerking, she said, "That'll be another thing to puzzle them, where we got the money for an oak coffin. Well, let it puzzle

  "em; he wasn't going to his last bed in any deal box. Now away with you, and get back well afore dark, won't you?"

  "Yes, Granny. An" mind you don't go outside, or it'll be you who'll catch your death, not me. Sit warm aside the fire. I won't be all that long." She leant slightly forward and touched her grandmother's cheek, letting her fingers linger on it for a moment; and Annie put up her hand and gripped it tight, and, her lips trembling slightly, she muttered,