Tilly True

by Dilly Court

  She was cold, so cold that she had lost all feeling in her feet and lower limbs, and her stomach growled with hunger. Climbing the steep stone steps, Tilly hammered on the door with her fists, shouting for help, but no one came. Thirst was becoming her biggest problem and it was all she could do to stop herself from panicking. She must keep a level head or Bert would have won. Sinking down on the bottom step, she felt the cold stone striking through her clothes and she wrapped her arms around her knees, huddling up as small as she could in order to keep warm. An inky stain was spreading across the floor of the cellar and she realised that it was water seeping up through the cracks. They must, she thought, be very close to the river and the tide was coming in; common sense told her that the water would not rise more than a few inches, but panic was beginning to numb her brain. She was all alone, the candle would not last long and soon she would be in total darkness. The terrible truth gradually dawned upon her: Bert had been right. She had told her family that she was going to work for the Palgraves and she had made up the story about going off to India; they would have no cause to doubt her. That’s what you get, my girl, for telling lies; she could hear Ma’s voice in her head as clearly as if she were standing right beside her. And Miss Hattie and the Reverend thought she had returned to Red Dragon Passage. It was true; no one would know she was missing and so no one would come to her rescue.

  Getting to her feet, Tilly knew she had to keep moving in order to keep the blood flowing through her veins. Glancing at the candle, she guessed that it would last for another couple of hours before it guttered and went out. She would be in the dark then, listening for the scuffling of rats and mice, waiting for the roaches to run over her face and body. Frantically, she began to tidy the cellar, stacking the rubbish in neat piles and filling the four corners so that the centre was clear. The floor needed a good sweep but there was not so much as a hand brush, let alone a broom, and anyway the debris was beginning to float. She needed to relieve herself and there was no alternative but to use the bucket, which afterwards she placed as far away as possible.

  By piling the broken boxes against one wall, Tilly made a makeshift pallet that was just big enough to allow her to lie down if she curled up in a foetal position. Bert had said he was going to leave her down here until she gave in to him, and she didn’t doubt that he meant what he said. She lay down, closed her eyes and said a prayer.

  She must have fallen asleep as suddenly, in the middle of a wild dream in which she was running away from an unseen terror, Tilly woke up with a start. She couldn’t see a thing, not even a chink of light, but she could hear scrabbling and scratching coming from a far corner. Scrambling to her feet, she landed in a pool of stinking river water that had come in with the tide, bringing with it the overflow from flooded privies. Stumbling across the room, she barked her shins on the stone steps as she clambered up them on all fours. Sobbing with relief she reached the door and beat upon it with her fists, shouting, screaming; a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. No one answered her cries for help. She sank down onto the top step, curled up with her arms around her knees and buried her face in her damp skirt.

  How long she remained like this, she did not know. Disorientated in the darkness, Tilly had no concept of time passing; she didn’t know if she was in a waking nightmare or asleep. At times she thought she was going to die, but a small insistent voice in her head nagged her not to give way; don’t let that brute win. Use your loaf, Tilly, that’s what Pops would have said. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, she heard footsteps approaching and the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened and Tilly raised her arm to shield her eyes, blinking in the unaccustomed light.

  ‘Gawd’s strewth, look at the state of you!’ Bert loomed above her, smirking. ‘Not so high and mighty this morning, I’ll be bound.’

  Backing away from him down the steps, Tilly stuck her chin out, determined not to let him see just how petrified she had been. ‘This ain’t exactly the blooming Ritz.’

  ‘You got brass, Tilly, I’ll give you that. Now are you going to be a good girl, or do you want to spend another night in me cellar?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  Bert backed into the narrow hallway. ‘Come on up then, but you try anything and I’ll have you back in the cellar afore you can blink.’

  Tilly followed Bert along the dimly lit passage to a room at the back of the house that appeared to serve as both kitchen and living room. The walls were lined with bulging sacks and tea chests piled one on top of the other. The flagstone floor was littered with muddy boots, torn newspapers, dirty socks and bits of food; it was obvious to Tilly that there had been no woman’s touch in this dwelling for a very long time. A deal table stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by four kitchen chairs, with a wheel-back chair sited close to a rusting black range. The tabletop had almost disappeared beneath a pile of dirty crockery, beer bottles, spilt matches and empty cigarette packets. The smell of stale food, tobacco smoke and sour beer hung in a miasma so thick that it made Tilly retch. The only good thing in the room was a fire burning brightly in the range and a kettle singing on the hob.

  ‘You can clear up in here after you’ve made us a brew,’ Bert said, slumping down in the chair by the range.

  ‘This is a midden,’ Tilly said, shaking her head. ‘You live like a pig.’

  ‘Here, you’d better watch your mouth if you don’t want to go back down the cellar. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head and you’ll do as I says. Now make us some tea and no more lip.’

  Wrinkling her nose, Tilly picked up a china mug that had something furry growing in the bottom of it. ‘This is how you live, is it?’

  ‘Aye, until now – that’s why I needed a woman in the house. You’ll find a sink in the scullery and there’s a privy in the back yard. Don’t get no ideas about running off, though. There’s a six-foot-high wall all round and the gate’s padlocked. You behave proper, Tilly, and we may rub along all right.’

  Reluctantly, Tilly took two cups into the scullery and found the clay sink piled high with pots and pans. The walls ran with damp and fungus grew from the cracks. There was a window but the glass panes were all broken and stuffed with brown paper and rags. Opening the door that led to the yard Tilly realised that Bert had not exaggerated; not only were the soot-blackened brick walls at least six feet in height, but the tops were spiked with shards of broken glass. Just getting to the wall would have been an almost impossible task: Bert obviously used the space to store items as diverse as cartwheels, kedges, coils of rope and chamber pots, perhaps with an eye to selling them. To get to the pump or the privy, she had to negotiate a narrow path between all these obstacles, and, if it was difficult in daylight, Tilly could only imagine the perils of going to the privy in the dark.

  Although the temperature could not have been much above freezing and a dusting of frost softened the contours of the stark shapes, Tilly was desperate for a wash and she stuck her head beneath the pump, letting the ice-cold water run through her hair. She washed her face and hands, shaking the water off for want of a towel. Looking upwards, she realised why no one had heard her frantic cries for help. Bert’s house was squashed in between tall, windowless warehouses. She could just see a forest of tall cranes and the masts of a ship in a narrow slit between the buildings and she could hear the familiar sounds of the river. Shivering, Tilly bit back tears. She couldn’t be more than a mile or two from home and yet she was trapped. Years ago, peering into the window of a pawnbroker’s shop, she had seen a fly trapped in a piece of amber; that was exactly how she felt at this moment. A shout from inside made her jump. All right, Bert Tuffin, she thought, gritting her teeth, I’ll play you at your game, but you won’t win. I’ll get myself out of here if it’s the last thing I do. Rinsing the cups beneath the pump, Tilly went back inside to make a pot of tea.

  Having drunk three cups of the strong brew heavily laced with sugar, Bert belched and got to his feet. ‘I want this lot cleared afore I g
ets home this evening and I expects a hot meal waiting for me and the boys.’

  Revived by a cup of sweet tea, Tilly chose not to argue. ‘What boys?’

  ‘Them what’s coming in the door now.’ Bert chuckled as though he had said something witty, cocking his head and listening to the heavy thud of feet coming down the passage. ‘That’s my boys come home from night work. They’ll want tea and food, so you’d better get busy.’

  ‘How can I cook if there’s no food in the place?’

  ‘You tell Clem what you needs and he’ll get it.’ Picking his greatcoat off the floor, Bert shrugged it over his broad shoulders. ‘Don’t try nothing funny,’ he added as the door opened and two men stomped into the room. Bert jerked his thumb towards the taller and uglier of the pair. ‘Abel won’t take no nonsense from you, so don’t try nothing.’

  ‘So that’s her, is it, guvner?’ Abel said, studying Tilly from beneath thick brown eyebrows. ‘Looks like something washed up by the tide.’

  ‘She’s had a night in the coalhole, so she knows what to expect if she don’t do exactly what we says.’ Bert jammed a cloth cap on his head. ‘I got work to do. Make sure she’s locked in proper when you goes out. I got more than one use for Miss Tilly True.’ Laughing, Bert strolled out of the room.

  Abel stared hard at Tilly, a speculative look in his eyes that were the colour of pale ale. ‘So, you’re the second prize, are you, Tilly? You ain’t as tasty as young Emily, but you look as though you could manage a day’s work. What d’you say, Clem?’

  Shuffling his feet, Clem gave Tilly a sideways glance and then looked away. ‘She’ll do.’

  Standing her ground, Tilly decided that Clem was not an immediate threat. He had finer features and a less threatening manner than Abel, who had a brutish look about him. In fact, beneath the layer of grime and river mud that covered Clem from head to foot, he might even prove to be human. But the impression was fleeting and Clem had turned away and was searching for something in the pile of crockery on the table.

  Abel picked up the teapot and thrust it into Tilly’s hands. ‘Make yourself useful. We’ve been out on the river all night and we want feeding.’

  ‘You show me the food and I’ll cook it, but as far as I can see there ain’t enough to feed a mouse, let alone a rat like you.’ The words were out before Tilly could stop herself and she knew instantly she had made a big mistake. Abel’s hand caught her across the side of her head, sending her flying across the room, and she would have fallen if it had not been for Clem standing in the way. He steadied her but the lid flew off the teapot, covering them both in tepid tea and wet tea leaves. The lid hit the floor and broke into small shards. Abel leapt forward with his hand raised as if to strike Tilly for the second time.

  Warding off the blow with his forearm, Clem shook his head. ‘Leave her, Abe. The guvner won’t thank you for beating up on his totty.’

  Abel’s brows knotted in a scowl and his lips disappeared in a tightly drawn line. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘I’m bleeding starving and you breaking the cook’s arm ain’t going to get us breakfast.’ Clem put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of small change. ‘Here, you go and get some grub for her to fry up and I’ll make sure she don’t make a dash for it.’

  Shaking tea leaves from her skirt, Tilly eyed them cautiously. Abel was definitely the one to watch. He had a mean, animalistic look about him. She had seen his type many times before amongst the labourers who toiled in the dockyards: men who had scant regard for women and would as soon black a girl’s eye as look at her. She could still feel the imprint of his hand on the side of her head. Abel seemed the more dominant of the two brothers and yet, in a strange way, he appeared to pay heed to Clem. Pocketing the money, Abel pointed his finger at Tilly, looking down his arm as if it were the double barrel of a shotgun; he said nothing, but his threatening glance was enough. He swaggered out of the room, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

  Shrugging off his pea jacket, Clem went out into the yard. Through the open door Tilly could hear him pumping water. Perhaps he was washing himself, although neither brother looked as though they were much used to the habit of keeping clean. Seizing the opportunity, she ran to the front door, praying that Abel might have left it unlocked, but her hopes were in vain. She would not cry; she would not let them see that she was deeply anxious and afraid. Walking slowly back to the kitchen, she looked at the mess and her heart sank, but there was nothing for it – she rolled up her sleeves and began to clear the table.

  ‘That weren’t half bad,’ Abel said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his belly. ‘I say we keep this one, what d’you say, Clem?’

  Chewing on a mouthful of bacon, Clem nodded.

  Taking a packet of Player’s Navy Cut from his pocket, Abel selected a cigarette and struck a match on the sole of his boot. He inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke with a satisfied sigh. ‘That’s it for me. I’m going for a kip.’ Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and let out a loud belch.

  Clem looked up from his plate. ‘What’ll we do about her?’

  ‘You keep an eye on her.’ Abel turned to Tilly. ‘Don’t try nothing, you.’ He left the kitchen with a trail of cigarette smoke floating in his wake.

  Having eaten a doorstep sandwich filled with bacon, Tilly was feeling a lot better. She filled a cup with tea and went to sit at the table opposite Clem. ‘Do you always let him tell you what to do?’

  Wiping the remains of egg yolk and bacon fat off his plate with a hunk of bread, Clem gave her a quick glance and then looked away again. ‘No.’

  Tilly tried again. ‘You know you can’t keep me here against me will.’

  Clem munched on the bread, saying nothing.

  ‘It’s against the law to hold me prisoner. You’ll end up in Newgate.’

  ‘It’s not up to me.’ Getting to his feet, Clem went to sit in the chair by the range. ‘Best get on with it. You’ll get it in the neck if the guvner comes home and the place is still a mess.’

  ‘And you’d let him, would you?’ Jumping up, Tilly faced him, hands on hips. ‘You’d stand by and let your old man leather me, would you?’

  Clem eyed her, a dull flush rising from his throat to his cheeks. ‘I won’t have no say in it. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet and just get on with it.’

  Now that he was clean, Tilly could see that Clem was much younger than she had at first thought; he couldn’t be much above twenty-two or three. Scrubbed up, she thought, he might even look presentable if he wore tidy clothes and brushed his hair that was lighter than Abel’s, although that did not make him fair. Clem’s hair was the colour of burnt toffee and his hazel eyes were fringed with thick, dark lashes. Eyeing him more out of curiosity than interest, Tilly wondered if a better person lurked beneath his tough exterior. Abel had been quite happy to see her starve, but Clem had insisted that she would be able to do more work if she had a good breakfast inside her. Turning her back on him, Tilly set to work, but her brain was focused on planning her escape.

  Having cleared the table, throwing rubbish in the fire and piling the dirty crockery on the wooden draining board in the scullery, she found a broom and began sweeping the floor. Clem sat in the chair by the range and it was obvious to Tilly that he was having difficulty in staying awake. His eyes kept closing and his head rolled to the side or flopped down onto his chest, then with a jerk he would pull himself upright and glare at her.

  After a bit, Tilly stopped sweeping. ‘Look here,’ she said, making an effort to sound friendly. ‘I can see as how you’re fagged out. There ain’t no way that I can escape, as far as I can see, so why don’t you go to your bed?’

  His eyes opening wide, Clem stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t care if you falls onto the fire, but you’re in me way. I can’t get to that corner round your big plates of meat.’

  Getting slowly to his feet, Clem shot her a suspicious glance. ‘This had bes
t not be a trick.’

  ‘Get on with you. How can I get through a locked door or over a wall covered in broken glass?’

  ‘And don’t forget, the windows is all barred. This drum used to be the manager’s office what ran the tobacco warehouses; they kept the wages here. It’s harder to get out of than Newgate.’

  ‘I’m not daft,’ Tilly said, leaning on the broom. ‘I’m going to have a few words with your old man when he gets home. Make him see sense, like.’

  Clem’s hollow laughter echoed round the kitchen even after he had left the room.

  ‘You can laugh,’ Tilly said to herself, stabbing at a pile of rotting food with the broom, ‘but I will get out of here, and you’re going to help me, Clem Tuffin. You see if you don’t.’

  Although she had worked with a will, Tilly could see little difference in the state of the room and fatigue was overcoming her. Flopping down in the chair by the freshly stoked range, she put her feet up, just for a moment, and closed her eyes.

  ‘What’s this then?’

  Bert’s loud roar awakened Tilly from a deep, dreamless sleep. It was quite dark in the room, with just a glimmer of light coming from the embers in the range. She yelped as Bert grabbed her ear, dragging her to her feet.

  ‘Lazy little bitch. I told you to clear this mess and you’ve been kipping.’