Tilly Trotter Wed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  She seemed to be reading the words in front of her eyes. Pulling herself upwards again she gripped the bedhead, then took in a long slow breath and looked about her. They had changed the room; naturally in placing the bed by the window they would have to. The little dressing table was in the far corner. She looked towards it. Had she altered much? What little flesh she had seemed to have dropped from her bones and her skin felt dry, particularly her hair; her hair felt husky. She reached out and with the support of a chair, she made her way tentatively towards the dressing table. Before it was a stool with an embroidered top. When she came within reach of it she leaned forward and placed her hands on it and rested for a moment before sitting down. Then she was looking into the mirror . . . staring into the mirror . . . gaping into the mirror.

  Who was that woman in there? She even turned her eyes to the side to see if there was anyone behind her. But no; there was no-one there but herself. Yet she could not recognise the face that was staring back at her. It was an old face, the skin drawn tight over the bones, no wrinkles, just taut skin. But what was that over her brow? It must be a trick of light. She glanced towards the window and looked back into the mirror again, and her hands went slowly up to her hair, her beautiful hair, the hair that Matthew loved. It was piled upwards on the top of her head. Katie dressed her hair every morning. She did it from behind the low bedhead, combing it off her brow. If she had thought at all about her hair it was to think that it wasn’t so thick as usual. But then when one was sick your hair dropped out. But this wasn’t her hair, her hair was a shining brown, in certain lights it shone with gold threads, but the hair that she was looking at was white, dead white.

  As the door opened she turned her head from the mirror and Katie stood looking at her, her mouth wide open, her hands held up as if in horror. ‘Oh, Tilly!’ she said.

  ‘My hair! Katie. My hair!’

  ‘Yes, pet, yes.’ Katie moved slowly towards her. ‘It’s . . . it’s because of what you went through.’

  ‘But . . . but it’s white, Katie.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Tilly, it’s white. But . . . but it still looks good, lovely; in fact, I think it suits you better . . . ’

  ‘O . . . h! Katie. Katie!’ Something clicked inside her head, followed by a grating sound like that of a sluice gate, an unused sluice gate being lifted. The water gushed out on a high cry, it burst from her eyes, her nose, it spluttered out of her throat, even her kidneys were affected. She was swamped in water and so great was the noise she made as Katie held her that the children came running in from their play and stood at the bedroom door and joined their crying to hers.

  Three, who was in the kitchen, taking in the situation, pelted down the hill as if competing in a race, and brought up Luisa. But when she entered the room she did not commiserate with Tilly; instead her face bright now, she said, ‘Good! Good! At last.’ And although she, too, put her arms about Tilly her words weren’t soothing. She did not say, ‘There now. There now. Give over,’ what she said was, ‘Let it come. This is the best thing I’ve seen in weeks, months. Go on, get it out of you. The past is finished, let it flow away, you’ll start again now. Katie—’ she looked at Katie whose face was close to hers and she said, ‘Make a pot of strong tea and lace it with whisky.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am.’ Katie, too, was crying but now she was smiling as she cried and Luisa, left alone with Tilly, drew her to her feet and guided her into a chair, and not until Tilly’s crying seemed that it would never stop did she take a towel and, drying her face with it, say, ‘Stop it! Now stop it! Enough is enough, you’re clear, it’s all washed out. You’ll pick up your life and go on from here, and it’ll be up to you to decide where you’re going to spend it.’

  Thirteen

  It seemed they had been packing for days on end, yet there were only two trunks and four cases, and the cases were mostly taken up with the children’s clothes and toys.

  Katie had a separate trunk. She took a long time to pack it. She would put something in it, then take it out again, saying, ‘Well, I won’t need that back there.’

  After she had said this for the third time in an hour Tilly, making an effort, gave Katie her full attention. It was difficult, she was finding, to force her mind to dwell on any subject for any length of time, but she couldn’t help but notice that Katie had been acting strangely of late. First of all she had put it down to the shock she had sustained; although she hadn’t gone under like herself, nevertheless she had suffered from it.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Katie?’ she now demanded.

  ‘Wrong with me?’ Katie turned towards her. ‘Nothing! Nothing! Nothing that two or three boat journeys and a long bout of seasickness and a ride in a train won’t cure.’

  ‘You really want to go home?’

  Katie paused and bent over her trunk before saying, ‘Well now, what do you think? And imagine you turning up at the Manor without me. Can you hear me ma?’

  ‘You’ve been acting strangely of late, more so since Christmas.’

  Katie straightened her back and looked up at Tilly as she said softly, ‘We’ve all been actin’ strangely of late. I don’t think there’ll be any of us who’ll ever act naturally in our lives again.’

  ‘No . . . no, perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘I know I am.’ She turned away and stood looking out of the window, not speaking, quiet. Very unlike herself . . .

  It came to the night before they were due to leave. Luisa had been hovering about them all day. Only once had she referred to their going. When she said, ‘Like emigrating birds there’s everything pulling you back and nothing’ll make you stay, but I’m going to miss you, Tilly.’

  Tilly had answered, ‘And me you, Luisa. Oh yes, I’ll miss you. But I must go.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, you must go.’

  And then Luisa had added, ‘Is Katie of the same mind?’ Somewhat surprised, Tilly had answered, ‘Yes, yes, of course, as far as I know.’ And to this Luisa had answered, ‘As far as you know,’ and had then gone out.

  It was towards evening when Doug Scott appeared in the doorway. Katie was upstairs with the children and Tilly pointed this out. ‘Katie’s upstairs, Doug; I’ll call her.’

  ‘’Tisn’t Katie I’ve come to see this time, ma’am, ’tis you.’

  ‘Well, come in, Doug.’

  Doug came in. He took off his slouch hat and held it in his two hands. His fingers didn’t fidget but remained still on the brim and he came to the point, saying, ‘Don’t know whether you know it or not, ma’am, but I’ve taken to Katie, think highly of her, very highly of her, and . . . and as I’ve sounded her, she thinks the same of me, so that being the case I’ve done me best to persuade her to stay put an’ wed me. Make it double-like, for as you may know, Miss Luisa, she’s going to wed Mack.’

  At this Tilly’s face showed her surprise, and Doug, now flapping his hat against his side, said, ‘Oh, I seem to have let the cat out of the bag, but she would likely have told you before you left. Anyway, she’s offered me head man under Mack and me own house, this one in fact if you’ll excuse me sayin’ it, ma’am, if I can get settled with Katie.’

  Tilly’s face was now straight and her voice stiff as she said, ‘Well, what does Katie say about this?’

  ‘All she says, ma’am, is that you need her; she came with you and she’ll go back with you, and as you had only one child when you came but you’re taking two back, you can’t manage on your own.’

  Tilly turned her head to the side and looked down the room. Her own sorrow had made her blind to the things that were happening under her nose. Yes, Katie would go back with her, and this man here, this good man, because Doug Scott was a good man, would likely be the last chance she’d have of marrying, for she was no beauty was Katie and she was past the age when she could pick and choose, if ever she had been that age. As if she conjured Katie up by her thoughts there was a movement in the doorway behind Doug, and Katie entered the room. She looked first from one to the
other, then gave her attention to Doug Scott, and her voice was abrupt as she said, ‘Now I told you. I told you.’

  ‘I know what you told me, Katie, but I’ve got the last word in this.’

  Katie now looked fully at Tilly and Tilly at her, and Tilly’s voice was low as she asked the question: ‘If it wasn’t for me would you stay with Doug?’

  ‘Oh’ – Katie tossed her head from side to side – ‘you might as well say to me if it wasn’t for the moon there wouldn’t be any tides, it’s a daft question.’

  ‘Don’t talk silly, Katie, answer me.’ Tilly’s voice was harsh now. ‘Tell me, yes or no.’

  Katie now became still. Her head turned and she looked at Doug, the tall, knotty-muscled, good-looking man, a man she had dreamed about all her life, yet knowing that dreams never came true, not for people like her, plain-faced, dumpy women whose tongues were the only things about them. And this wasn’t always an asset, far from it. But this man wanted her, he had told her that he loved her; he had held her tightly in his arms and kissed her and laughed as he did so for he had to stand her on a block. Never again in her life would she get such a chance of having a man like him; never again in her life would she get the chance of having any man. What was there for her back at the Manor in the way of men? A butler? a footman? They wouldn’t look the side she was on. No, at best it would be some oldish man who had lost his wife and had a houseful of bairns. But here was this good-looking, gay, vibrant man wanting her; and what was more, Miss Luisa was going to give them this house. Imagine her ever having a house of her own, and such a one. But against all this there was the severing of the bond, the strong bond that tied her to Tilly, Tilly Trotter that was, Tilly Sopwith as she was now . . . and who’d be the sole lady of the manor back home. But that wouldn’t do her much good. The only solace in going home would be she’d be rid of her fear of Indians.

  The very thought of an Indian chilled her blood; but again, with Doug to protect her, well, she imagined he’d see to it that no Indian would get near her all the while she was alive.

  ‘Answer me, Katie.’

  ‘All right, I’ll answer you. Yes, if I wasn’t concerned about you an’ the bairns I’d stay along of Doug.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ The reply came quick. Tilly was looking at Doug now as she said, ‘There’s no need to talk about it any more, Doug, she stays.’

  ‘Aw, ma’am!’ His hand came out to hers and after a moment she took it; then they both turned and looked at Katie. She was standing with her head bowed on her chest, the tears were running down her face, and it was Tilly who sounded like the old Tilly, saying now, ‘Stop your bubbling, there’s nothing to cry about. And if I can cross the ocean on my own with two children, then I’ll take word to your mother that you and’ – she nodded towards Doug – ‘and Doug will come over next year or the year after to see her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Katie threw herself against Tilly now, and they clung together for a moment. Then Tilly pushed her away towards Doug, saying now, ‘Take her outside, she’ll wake the children.’

  She stood for a moment and watched the tall spare man with his arm about Katie’s shoulders leading her down the steps; then she closed the door and leant against it and put her hand over her mouth. What would she do without Katie? Apart from the actual help with the children Katie was the only one she could really talk to, the only one who knew all about her and about everything that had happened to her. Oh Katie! Katie! Why had you to go and do this to me? I’ve had enough; I can’t stand much more.

  She pulled herself abruptly from the door, asking now as she generally did in self-criticism: Why had she to become Mark’s mistress? Why had she to marry his son? Why? Why? Why?

  She could give herself no answer except to acknowledge that Katie had to have the chance of loving too . . .

  Four days later at nine o’clock in the morning, she was standing on the deck of the ship. Willy was at one side of her, Josefina at the other. The deck was a-bustle with people, but it was as if she were entirely alone.

  Through her misted gaze she could just make out the line of them on the dock: Luisa standing next to Mack; Doug Scott his hand laid firmly on Katie’s shoulder; they were all waving. Even Three, the proud obstinate Three was waving. She kept her gaze on Katie. The children were shouting, ‘Bye-bye! Bye-bye! Aunty Luisa. Bye-bye, Mr McNeill. Bye-bye, Mr Scott. Bye-bye, Three. Bye-bye, Katie.’ The last they shouted a number of times, ‘Bye-bye, Katie. Bye-bye, Katie.’

  Tilly did not call out, she had no voice. Anyway, whoever she called to, no-one would hear; she was alone as she had never been alone in her life before. She had known loneliness at all levels, but in this moment the loneliness had turned to isolation. Why was it everyone she loved left her? Her granda, her granny, the parson’s wife, Mark, Matthew. Oh Matthew! Matthew! Matthew! . . . And now Katie.

  She forgot for the moment she was going back to John and Anna, two people who did sincerely love her. She could only think of the villagers and those ladies of the county who had scorned her when she was Tilly Trotter, spinster. Yet she had never thought of herself as a spinster until the check weighman had written it down on that application paper the first day she went down the mine. Tilly Trotter, spinster. Then she had become Tilly Trotter, mistress, mistress of a man; following which she had become Mrs Tilly Sopwith, wife. Now she was Mrs Tilly Sopwith, widow, and was likely to remain so for the rest of her days, that is if she were to carry out Matthew’s last request of her. And of course, she would carry it out. It would be easy to do so for she couldn’t see herself ever having any desire to marry again. Oh no! never.

  The figures on the quayside were merely dots now. The children had stopped waving, they were tugging at her hands. She looked down from one to the other; then turning them about, she led them towards their cabin. There she sat on the side of the bunk and as she prepared to take off the children’s outdoor clothes they almost simultaneously climbed up one on each side of her and they put their arms about her neck and Willy said, ‘Oh! Mama! Mama!’ Whilst Josefina resorted to the gesture which she used when she wanted Tilly’s full attention, she put her fingers on her jawbone and turned her face fully towards her; and now her round bright Indian eyes were looking into Tilly’s and what she said was, ‘I love you, Mama.’

  Tilly stared back at the child and for the first time she actually remembered Matthew’s words, ‘Go straight back home, and take Willy, but not Josefina.’ And now she asked herself how she was going to explain this small fragile piece of foreign humanity to those back home. Josefina had said, ‘I love you, Mama.’ The child would call her Mama, and what proof could she give that she wasn’t the child’s mama; Josefina was a year older than Willy but not half his size. There was no birth certificate, nothing in writing to say who she was. Could she yell back at the tongues that would surely wag, ‘She is my husband’s bastard’?

  ‘Mama.’ The fingers were moving on the jawbone again.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘I love you, Mama.’

  ‘I know you do, dear; and I love you too. Yes, I love you, too.’ And at this she pressed her son and her husband’s daughter to her and, looking over their heads, her gaze went across the ocean and to that stretch of land between Shields and Newcastle and she muttered aloud with all the fervour of a deep heartfelt prayer, ‘God help me . . . and her.’

  The End