Tilly True

by Dilly Court

  ‘Go upstairs and sit down, miss,’ Tilly said. ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, that’s if that old dragon-woman will let me in her blooming kitchen.’

  ‘Dragon-woman?’ Barney grinned. ‘Am I missing something here?’

  ‘Best not ask,’ Tilly said. ‘If you take Miss Hattie upstairs, I’ll go and sort the old cow out once and for all.’

  ‘Bravely said, Tilly. You’re a girl after my own heart.’ Winking at Tilly, Barney slipped Harriet’s gloved hand through his arm and led her up the narrow staircase. ‘This isn’t at all the sort of place you should be living, Hattie. I’ll have words with Frank. It won’t do at all.’

  ‘No, please don’t. Not now. He’s so tired, and he’s doing his best.’

  Their voices tailed off as they turned the bend in the stairs. That’s it, Tilly thought, there’s definitely a job for me here, even if they don’t know it yet. Making her way down the uncarpeted stairs to the basement kitchen, Tilly found the dragon-woman sitting by the range smoking a clay pipe, with her booted feet on the brass rail. Mrs Henge glared at her through a cloud of smoke that smelt more like a bonfire burning rubbish than Virginia tobacco.

  ‘I only allows paying lodgers the use of me kitchen.’

  ‘Well you’d better get used to seeing me down here,’ Tilly said, taking a chipped brown teapot from the mantelshelf. ‘You can sort it out with Miss Harriet, but at the moment she needs a cup of tea and I’m making it for her.’

  Ignoring Mrs Henge’s grumbling monologue, Tilly made the tea, and while it was brewing she searched the cupboards for cups and saucers. Eventually, after tipping the mouse droppings onto the flagstone floor and scooping out the dead flies, she managed to find four cups that were not too chipped, and four saucers that didn’t match and were only a bit cracked. With her boots crunching on the carapaces of scuttling cockroaches, Tilly searched the larder shelves. Amongst the empty beer bottles and rusting tins with mildewed labels she found a pitcher of milk, but when she went to pour it into a milk jug the contents slurped into the sink in a sour-smelling, jellied mass.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Tilly said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Ain’t you got no fresh milk?’

  ‘’Ere, that was good enough to make cheese.’ Springing to her feet, Mrs Henge rushed over to the sink, and attempted to scoop the sour milk back into the pitcher with her talon-like fingers. ‘That was for me supper, you interfering besom. Get out of me kitchen afore I forgets I’m a lady and gives you a kick up the arse.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, you old witch. I ain’t afraid of you.’ Picking up the tea tray, Tilly made to leave the room, adding as a parting shot. ‘This place is a midden. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ Closing the door behind her, Tilly felt the timbers shudder as the pitcher thudded against it and smashed. Imagining the mess, she went up the stairs chuckling. At least she had gained one thing from her three-year stint in Barbary Terrace: she had learned to stand up for herself against the bullying tactics of Morris, abetted by the woman who had come in daily to do the cleaning. Before that she had spent long hours peeling spuds in the rat-infested kitchen of the pie and eel shop, and even before that, when she had left school at twelve, she had washed bottles in the brewery for tuppence a day. Up to her armpits in cold water, she had swilled, rinsed and sorted bottles until the skin on her hands and arms was wrinkled and dead-white as a corpse washed up on the foreshore after a high tide. Many a time she had gone to bed hungry and in tears, but she had been away from home and there had been no one to stand up for her – the choice had been stark – survive or go under. From somewhere deep within herself, Tilly had found the will and the courage to tackle each fresh challenge that came her way. It would take more than a toothless old dragon of a woman to frighten her now.

  In the sitting room, Barney stood with his back to the fire and Harriet had curled up in an armchair at his side. Francis, although pale and drawn with fatigue, was pacing the floor. Tilly looked round for somewhere to put the tea tray but the only table was littered with books and papers. Seeing her predicament, Barney stepped forward, clearing the table with a casual sweep of his arm.

  ‘Do you have to behave like a hooligan?’ Francis stopped pacing and glared at his brother. ‘And shouldn’t you be in chambers by this time?’

  Barney grinned. ‘My clerk, Bootle, will cover for me.’

  ‘Your clerk?’ Francis curled his lip. ‘You’re not a qualified barrister yet, Barney. In fact if it weren’t for Uncle Clarence, you’d still be an articled clerk.’

  ‘True, but it won’t be long before I’m called to the Bar.’ Taking a wallet from his inside pocket, Barney extracted a business card and handed it to Tilly. ‘That’s the address of my chambers, Miss True. If you are ever in the need of legal advice, don’t hesitate to call on me.’

  Tucking the card in her pocket, Tilly felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and she dropped her gaze. Barney had a wicked twinkle in his eye, as if he could picture her stark naked and was enjoying the sight. She should have been offended but, if she were honest, it was rather flattering.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Francis said. ‘Don’t tease the girl.’

  ‘As if I would. Don’t be a killjoy, Frank.’

  ‘Don’t call me Frank, you know I hate it.’

  ‘That’s why I do it, brother. I enjoy teasing you. You’re a damn sight too serious by half.’

  ‘Please,’ Harriet said, getting hastily to her feet. ‘Don’t start quarrelling again. Let’s have a cup of tea and forget our differences. You may pour, Tilly.’

  ‘There’s no milk, miss. That old bag ought to be hung up by her thumbs for keeping such a foul kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you, Tilly, we can do without your comments,’ Francis said, looking down his nose. ‘Pour the tea; we’ll have it without milk.’

  ‘Hold on, Frank. There’s no need to speak to the girl like that; she’s not in your employ.’ Barney took a cup of tea from Tilly, flashing her a smile that would melt bricks.

  ‘Ta, but I can speak up for meself.’ Tilly said, attempting to sound prim, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes was too much for her and she suppressed a giggle.

  ‘That’s quite right,’ Harriet said, handing a cup of tea to Francis with a reproving look. ‘Tilly isn’t our servant. She has done this out of the kindness of her heart.’

  ‘Not quite, miss.’ Tilly cleared her throat. ‘I’m available at present; in between positions you might say. I’d be more than happy to work for you and the Reverend if you’ll have me. I’m well trained and honest and I can sort out her below stairs, no trouble.’

  ‘Well, there’s an offer you can’t refuse,’ Barney said, grinning. ‘I’d take you on myself, Miss True, but unfortunately I’m in bachelor rooms and a bit short of funds at the moment. By the way, Frank, old boy . . .’

  ‘No!’ Francis roared. ‘Not another penny. You’ve gone through your allowance from Dolph and I couldn’t give you any more money even if I wanted to, which I don’t. You will just have to learn to live within your means like the rest of us.’

  ‘Oh, Francis, don’t be hard on him,’ Harriet said, biting her lip.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Hat.’ Leaning over the chair, Barney kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll manage one way or another. It was worth a try.’

  ‘You’d better go.’ Taking his tea, Francis went to sit by the window and turned his back on them.

  ‘I can take a hint,’ Barney said, picking up his hat and gloves. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss True.’

  Tilly bobbed a curtsey. ‘Likewise, sir.’ As the door closed on him, she cast an appealing glance at Harriet. ‘You need someone to look after you, miss. I could do it, no bother.’

  Harriet’s gaze shifted nervously to her brother. ‘What do you say, Francis?’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question.’

  ‘Oh, please. Please at least consider it. You know I can’t cook and the dragon-woman scares me to death.’

  Slammin
g his cup and saucer down on a pile of books, Francis jumped to his feet. ‘For goodness’ sake, Hattie. I’ve been up all night, I’m tired and I have still have a day’s work to do. I’ve said no and I mean no. We can’t even think about hiring servants until we know when we can move into the vicarage, and at this rate the old gentleman is going to hang on until the last breath leaves his body.’

  Desperate thoughts raced through Tilly’s head. She couldn’t go home now; couldn’t admit that India had been a fiction and that she was penniless as well as jobless. She couldn’t inflict that burden on the family – and besides that, there was Bert Tuffin. She would have to steer clear of him for a long time. ‘If you please, your reverence, I could work for nothing until you can afford me. I can sleep on the hearth by the fire. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Please, Francis.’ Harriet clasped her hands together, beseeching. ‘Please.’

  ‘Don’t wheedle, Hattie, it’s most unattractive. Barney isn’t the only one who is going to have to live within his means; we must do the same.’ Francis turned to Tilly, his harsh expression softening just a little. ‘It’s out of the question. I’m sorry.’ Striding towards the door, he snatched up his hat and coat and was gone before Harriet or Tilly could say another word.

  Harriet huddled in the chair by the fire, wrapping her arms round her knees. ‘I’m sorry too.’

  Tilly was not going to give in so easily. ‘I can come back, Miss Hattie. Maybe the Reverend will change his mind.’

  ‘Yes, you must do that, Tilly. You simply must.’

  There was nothing for it but to go home. The walk back to Whitechapel seemed to take for ever and Tilly’s feet dragged with every step of the way. Plans formulated in her head and were instantly abandoned as being unworkable. She hadn’t a penny in her pocket and only the clothes she stood up in, and they belonged to Harriet, who had generously said that she did not want them back. It would have been difficult anyway, as to return the clothes would leave her standing in her chemise and stays. Harriet had managed a giggle and said that even Francis would not turn her out in the street in such a shocking state.

  Although it was only mid afternoon when Tilly reached Red Dragon Passage, a foul-smelling, smoke-laden pea-souper had turned the air sulphur yellow tinged with green. Visibility was down to a few yards, and she knew only too well that by nightfall it would be impossible to see her hand in front of her face. Quickening her pace, all that Tilly wanted now was to get home to the warmth and safety of the overcrowded terraced house and the comfort of her family, even though Emily would still be in a state and it would take some quick talking to bring Ma round. She was still trying to think of a plausible explanation for her unexpected return when the rumbling of cartwheels coming up behind made her turn her head. The traffic had lessened considerably as the fog descended, but it was sheer animal instinct that made her hackles rise. Tilly hesitated, her heart thumping in her chest, as she stood poised and ready to run.

  She saw the name painted on the side of the cart too late. Bert had vaulted off the driver’s seat, landing in front of her with amazing agility for a large man.

  ‘I been looking for you, lady. We got unfinished business, you and me.’

  Opening her mouth to scream, Tilly kicked out with her feet, lashing at his face with her clawed hands, but suddenly everything went dark and she was choking on hessian fibres and dust as a sack was clamped over her head. Her feet went from under her and she was upside down, hefted over Bert’s shoulder and thrown into the back of the cart. Unable to see or to put her hands out to save herself, her head hit something very hard and everything went black.

  Chapter Three

  Tilly opened her eyes to suffocating darkness and the acetic smell of old hay; the dust and chaff from the sacking had got up her nose and into her mouth, making her choke. Her whole body was being shaken and jolted about, rolling helplessly on the bare boards of Bert’s cart; for a few seconds she had been so dazed and disorientated that she had not known where she was. Now it was all coming back to her and she realised that her hands were clamped behind her back, bound at the wrists with rope cutting into her flesh. Attempting to move her legs, she found that her ankles were similarly tied. Her first instinct was to scream, to cry out for help, but the soot-laden stench of the pea-souper permeated the sack, muffling the rumble of the cartwheels over cobblestones and the clip-clopping of the horse’s hooves – she knew that no one would hear her; no one except Bert Tuffin. He had sworn to get her, but she had never expected this sort of treatment. He must be a madman if he thought he could get away with abduction. Cold, stiff and scared as well as angry, Tilly curled up in a ball to lessen the bruising effect of being tossed about like a sack of potatoes. Holding her breath, she listened for some clue as to their whereabouts. Faintly, very faintly, she heard the mournful moan of a ship’s hooter and she drew a little comfort from the fact that they must be close to the river. The stinking, muddy banks of the Thames had been her childhood playground and she knew every wharf, quay and slice of foreshore from Tower Bridge to Wapping Old Stairs. The cart veered suddenly, as if turning a corner, and slowly the horse clopped to a halt. Tilly kept very still, her heart thumping and the blood drumming in her ears, every muscle tense and ready to fight.

  Once again, her world of darkness turned upside down and the blood rushed to her head as she was hefted over Bert’s shoulder. Although he didn’t utter a single word, she would have known it was Bert from the rancid stench of his unwashed body and the odour of stale pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes. How could pretty little Emily, who had always been so fussy about cleanliness, have let this gross man touch her? The thought of Bert Tuffin violating her sister’s innocent body and getting her in the family way made Tilly want to be sick. Her forehead crashed painfully against the back of Bert’s thighs as he stopped and she heard the sound of a key grating in a lock, the squealing protest of a door swinging open on rusty hinges and the dull thud as it closed. They were on the move again and now the sounds were just those of Bert’s hobnailed boots clattering across bare boards. The rhythm changed and Tilly realised that they were going down a flight of steps. He came to a halt and she was jerked forward, tossed into a void; she landed on what felt like a brick floor with a painful thud that wrenched a cry from her dry lips.

  ‘There ain’t no clerical gent to save you this time.’ Bert whipped the sack from her head. ‘You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you, miss?’

  Lying on her side, Tilly could see him in outline only, his huge body towering above her. ‘You won’t get away with this, Bert Tuffin. Me dad will be out looking for me. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when he finds you.’

  Bert growled in his throat and, for a moment, Tilly thought he was going to hit her, but he threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Your dad thinks you’ve gone to India with the parson. No one’s going to come looking for you.’

  It was true: Mum and Pops thought she was with the Palgraves and the Palgraves thought she had gone back to Whitechapel. Mum had always said her imagination would get her into trouble one day; that day had come with a vengeance. Shivering, Tilly clenched her teeth to stop them chattering. Bert was moving about the room, kicking at objects and mumbling beneath his breath. There was a tiny flare and a strong smell of sulphur as he struck a match, holding it over the stub of a candle stuck in a bottle.

  ‘Where have you brought me to?’ Gazing around at the bare brick walls, oozing with damp, Tilly’s heart sank as she answered her own question. They were in some sort of cellar, below ground, windowless and very cold.

  ‘No harm in telling you because you can’t escape.’ Bert set the candle down on an upturned tea chest. ‘This is my place in Wapping, and seeing as how you’ve turned your sister agin me, you’ll have to take her place.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ The enormity of what he had just said shafted into Tilly’s brain. ‘You can’t keep me prisoner here. This is 1897; it ain’t the bleeding Middle Ages. You just can’t kidnap a p
erson and keep them locked up.’

  ‘Hoity-toity, aren’t you? Well, I likes a bit of spirit in a woman, although you ain’t a patch on pretty little Emmie with her winning ways. It were harder to get into her bloomers than to get at the buggery Crown Jewels but I reckon I was more than fond of the little bird.’

  ‘You’re a disgusting pig. You touch me and I’ll kill you.’

  Unsheathing a knife from his belt, Bert advanced on Tilly with his arm raised as though he meant to stab her.

  Closing her eyes, Tilly stuck her chin out. ‘Go on then, you bugger, slit me throat. I’d as soon end up dead as bedded by the likes of you.’

  Grabbing her by the hair, Bert dragged her to a sitting position. The pins that had confined Tilly’s guinea-gold hair in a tight bun flew in all directions as he coiled a long tress around his hand. She couldn’t move, her throat was exposed and she really thought her life was going to end, but Bert used the blade to slit the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. Tightening his grip on her hair, he jerked her to her feet.

  ‘It’s your choice. After a few days down here with nothing to eat or drink you’ll change your tune. I’ll have you singing like a little canary and eating out of me hand afore I’m done. You’ll make up to me for what I lost, Tilly True. You’ll warm me bed and you’ll keep house for me and me boys and you’ll like it. See if you don’t.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Tilly said, turning her head away from his foetid breath. ‘You’ll end up in Colney Hatch for sure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Bert let her go with a scornful snort. ‘You won’t be alone long, dearie. The rats will keep you company; just mind they don’t chew your fingers and toes off.’ Chuckling, he stomped up the steps and slammed the door.

  Tilly’s heart sank as she heard the key turn in the lock. At least he had left the candle, but maybe that had been part of his plan. Its flickering beam cast weird shadows on the walls, moving and shifting in a ghostly dance. Part of the cellar was used to house sacks of coal and the remaining space was littered with rubbish. As she peered into the dark corners, Tilly thought she saw something move, catching a glimpse of what looked like a gleaming red eye. Chafing her sore wrists, she forced herself to walk round her prison, kicking over broken boxes, bits of old harness, a chair with three legs and a bucket that had lost its handle. Her searches disturbed several colonies of cockroaches, sending them scuttling for cover across the brick floor. Shaking with revulsion, Tilly continued to look for a means of escape and found none, but it was a relief to find that the gleaming eye had been nothing more than the candlelight reflecting on a broken bottle.