Tilly True

by Dilly Court

  Dazed with sleep, Tilly’s heart hammered inside her ribcage as if it were trying to force its way out. ‘I done me best. I ain’t a blooming miracle worker.’

  ‘Where’s me dinner? I don’t smell nothing cooking.’

  ‘I can’t cook if there ain’t no food in the larder.’

  Bert fisted his hands. ‘Cheeky little cow. I’ll have to teach you some manners.’

  ‘Hey, guvner.’ A voice from the doorway caused Bert to pause and glance over his shoulder. Clem strolled into the kitchen running his hand through his hair and yawning. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Bert scowled. ‘I caught this bitch napping, that’s what’s the matter. And there’s nothing for supper. I thought I told you to keep an eye on her, you useless piece of shit.’

  Holding her breath, Tilly watched Clem’s face turn to stone and, for a moment, she almost felt sorry for him, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come.

  Clem’s mouth widened in a grin, but his eyes remained narrowed and wary. ‘She probably can’t cook anyway, guv. We’ll go down the pub and get a pint and a pie.’

  ‘You’re paying?’

  ‘I’m paying.’

  ‘You had a good haul then?’

  ‘A couple of dead ’uns, delivered to the beadle all right and proper, ready for the coroner.’

  ‘And they was well heeled?’

  Clem patted his pocket. ‘Well enough, old man.’

  ‘Get your brother out of bed,’ Bert said, slapping Clem on the back. ‘We’ll go to the pub for our supper. I’ll deal with her later.’

  Trembling from head to foot, Tilly held her breath as they sauntered out of the kitchen. She heard Clem shout for Abel, the sound of footsteps on the bare stair treads and then the opening and closing of the front door. She was alone in the house and it was eerily silent. When her heart rate returned to something near normal, she ran to the door, turning the handle and finding it locked, kicking the wooden panels and cursing Bert Tuffin with all the expletives she had ever learned. She must keep calm; it was no use getting hysterical. Fetching a candle from the kitchen, Tilly went upstairs to the first floor landing. There were two bedrooms, both of them sparsely furnished with a bed and a single chest of drawers. Clothes littered the bare floorboards and the bedclothes were rumpled and filthy. The stale smell of unwashed bodies and unclean chamber pots made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. As Clem had said, the windows were barred, and slim as she was, Tilly knew that she could barely squeeze an arm between the iron bars, let alone her whole body. Walking more slowly up the second flight of stairs, she found two more rooms; one empty except for a truckle bed with a sagging palliasse and a small window close to the ceiling. She was about to shut the door when Tilly realised that there was a key in the lock. Snatching at it, she tucked it down the front of her blouse between her stays and her chemise. It might not be of any use, but it gave her a feeling of security. There was only one other room and, as she opened the door and went inside, she thought that this must belong to Bert. It was better furnished than the rest of the house, boasting a large iron bedstead, a tallboy and a washstand minus the washbasin and jug. Cobwebs trailing from the ceiling tickled her face and, as in the rooms downstairs, the strong musky smell of unwashed male hung in a pall over the rumpled bed. There were curtains at the windows, but these hung in tatters and would doubtless crumble to dust if anyone attempted to draw them. On the wall above the washstand there was a single picture. Holding the candle close to it, Tilly saw that it was a faded daguerreotype of a young woman with a sweet face and sad eyes, dressed in the fashion of some twenty years previously. It must, she thought, be Bert’s wife, the mother of his two sons, but what struck her forcibly was a startling likeness to Emily. Was there, somewhere deep down, a soft core beneath Bert Tuffin’s brutal exterior? Had Emily touched something in him that had lain dormant for such a long time that it had calcified into a stone? Tilly went downstairs, wondering if she could appeal to his better nature to let her go, but it was a forlorn hope and she shook with fear at the prospect of spending a night alone in this dreadful house with Bert.

  Forcing herself to be practical, she raked the coals in the range and built the fire up to a cheerful blaze. She put the kettle on the hob, made a pot of tea and ate the last of the bread but, having tidied everything away, she could not settle. Pacing the floor, she waited nervously for the sound of the key in the lock. The hands on the white-faced clock on the mantelshelf barely seemed to move and Tilly was growing more and more apprehensive. She began rummaging through the drawers in the kitchen table searching for a suitable weapon, but the knives were all blunt and round-tipped; they would have a job to cut cheese, let alone stab a man to death. Then, at the very back of the drawer, she found a pair of scissors and she tucked them into her boot. She had barely stowed them away when she heard the front door opening and the sound of loud voices. Backing away towards the scullery, Tilly clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

  The door opened and Bert lurched into the room, obviously drunk and barely able to stand. He staggered towards her, grinning foolishly and waving a stone bottle in her face. ‘Have a drop of tiddley, ducks. It’ll warm the frosty cockles of your heart.’

  Stomping about the room and grumbling, Abel demanded to know what Tilly had done with his sea boots. Tilly ignored him, and dodged away from Bert’s flailing arms. Grabbing his father by the shoulders, Clem guided him to the chair by the fire. ‘Sit down, old man, afore you falls down.’

  ‘I wants a kiss from her,’ Bert said, waving his hand in Tilly’s direction. ‘Come and sit on me knee, pretty.’

  Casting an anxious glance at Clem, Tilly shook her head. Clem took the stopper from the bottle and held it to Bert’s lips. ‘Have another drop, guvner. It’ll make you sleep like a baby.’

  Swigging a gulp of gin, Bert leered at Tilly over the bottle. ‘Sleeping ain’t the first thing on me mind, boy.’

  ‘Where’s me sea boots, you interfering trollop?’ demanded Abel, tipping over a chair. ‘I can’t find nothing now.’

  ‘Out there in the scullery,’ Tilly said. ‘Along with your jacket and cap.’

  Still mumbling, Abel went into the scullery and returned almost immediately carrying an armful of boots, two jackets and two caps, which he dropped on the floor. ‘Get your stuff on, Clem. Leave the old sot to get on with it. We got work to do.’

  Picking up his things, Clem moved closer to Tilly. ‘He’ll be dead to the world in two ticks.’

  ‘What d’you say?’ Bert tried to get up but slumped back onto the chair.

  ‘Told her to mind her manners,’ Clem said, shrugging on his pea jacket.

  ‘Yes, and you’d better have the food on the table when us gets home,’ Abel said, shoving his smelly feet into his boots. ‘Come on, Clem. Let’s see how many jumpers we can fish out of the river tonight. See if we can’t stack the shelves in the dead houses high with their stinking, swollen corpses.’

  His grunted reply was lost as Clem followed Abel out of the room and, with the blood drumming in her ears, Tilly stood petrified. The front door slammed and she was alone with Bert, but he had closed his eyes, his cheeks were stained red and his breath came in snorting snores. If she could just get past him, she might be able to get up the stairs and lock herself in the room with the truckle bed. Hopefully, Bert had drunk enough to make him sleep through the night. Walking on tiptoe, Tilly held her breath – just another few feet and she would be out of the kitchen. Not daring even to look at him, she was about to pass the chair when his arm shot out and he grabbed her skirt, dragging her down onto his lap. His foetid breath stank of gin, sour cheese and onions.

  ‘It’s just you and me now, Tilly me girl.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Let go of me.’ Kicking and struggling, Tilly used her fists, elbows, nails and teeth, but she could not escape. Bert held her with one arm: a band of steel around her waist. Her frantic struggles seemed to amuse rather than annoy him. Grabbing her by t
he hair, he clamped his mouth over her lips, pressing his face over her nose so that in the end shortness of breath forced her to gasp for air. Chuckling deep down in his throat, Bert plunged his tongue into her mouth until Tilly retched; the gin fumes alone would have been enough to stun an ox, but added to the foetid stench of his breath the effect was nauseating. Half suffocated, Tilly went limp in his arms, close to fainting. She could feel his saliva trickling down her chin as he drew back with a drunken laugh.

  ‘Not so full of yourself now, are you, girl?’ Holding her at arm’s length, Bert squinted at her with one eye closed. ‘You’re a mess, d’you know that? What bloke in his right mind would want to bed a slut like you?’

  Fingers clawed, Tilly struck out at his leering face, but Bert was too quick for her and he tipped her onto the floor. He was on his feet before she had a chance to scramble to safety, and, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck, he frogmarched her out of the kitchen, along the passage and up two flights of stairs to his bedroom. Kicking the door open, he picked her up as if she were a featherweight and tossed her onto the bed. The springs groaned in protest and for a moment Tilly felt as though her neck had snapped. She lay for a moment, dazed and in pain, watching helplessly as Bert came towards the bed. This was it, she thought, there was no hope of escape now.

  Lunging forward, Bert tugged at her blouse and the buttons flew off in all directions. Tilly tried desperately to fend him off, but Bert’s face was set in a mask of desire as he ripped her skirt, exposing her bare legs. Instinctively, Tilly wrapped her arms across her chest and brought her knees up to protect her body but, instead of throwing himself upon her, Bert stood looking down at her, swaying on his feet and frowning.

  Lurching away towards the tallboy, he began pulling out the drawers and tossing garments onto the floor. With a satisfied grunt, he seemed to find what he was looking for and tossed a pile of clothes at Tilly.

  ‘Here, put these on. Let’s see what you look like dressed up proper.’

  His large body was between her and the door and Tilly abandoned her first impulse to make a run for safety. Luckily the key was still lodged between her breasts, but the look on Bert’s face made his intentions all too clear.

  ‘Put them on, or do I have to dress you meself?’ Bert’s frown turned into a scowl and he took a step towards her.

  Knowing better than to argue with a drunken man, Tilly slid off the bed and, stepping into a flounced petticoat, she slipped a faded print frock over her head.

  ‘Here, I’ll do that,’ Bert said, as she struggled with the buttons at the back of the bodice. ‘This was her Sunday best. I kept it all these years.’ Having done up the last button, he took a step backwards. ‘Let’s look at you.’

  With her mind racing, Tilly turned to face him and was shocked to see tears well up in his eyes as he looked her up and down.

  ‘Walk about a bit.’ Bert sank down on the bed, watching her.

  Humouring him, Tilly paced the floor. Stopping in front of the washstand she glanced up at the picture of the sad-faced young woman.

  Bert mopped his eyes with the bed sheet and heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘You could almost be her, if your hair was flaxen like little Emmie’s. She were a looker, my Mary, she were a real good-looker.’

  Leaning against the washstand, Tilly lifted her foot beneath the voluminous skirt that twenty or so years ago would have been worn over a crinoline, and slipped her fingers into her boot, feeling for the scissors. Bert was obviously getting to the maudlin stage of drunkenness, but if she offered any resistance he would undoubtedly turn to violence. He was smiling at her now, a silly drunken smile as he lay back against the pillows and unbuttoned his trousers.

  ‘Come over here, pretty. I won’t hurt you.’

  Her fingers latched onto the cold metal of the scissors. Tilly forced her dry lips into a smile and moved slowly towards the bed.

  ‘Come closer.’ Exposing his manhood, Bert held out his arms, grinning at her and winking. ‘Come and let old Bert make a woman of you, like I done to little Emily.’

  Tilly’s fingers curled around the scissors; hearing Emily’s name on his lecherous lips filled her with white-hot fury. How dare this disgusting old man expose himself to her and think she would walk willingly into his embrace. Trembling with fear and revulsion, she stood by the bedside, frozen into a statue.

  Bert patted the bed. ‘Sit down.’

  Perching on the edge of the bed, Tilly clutched the scissors beneath the folds of her skirt.

  ‘Let’s see your titties,’ Bert said, licking his lips.

  Tilly didn’t move; couldn’t move. She wanted to plunge the scissors into his evil heart but it was one thing to want to kill a man and another to carry out the deed. He was fumbling with her breasts, his fingers probing her soft flesh; any moment now he would discover the key and his mood would erupt into rage.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ Bert said, pulling her down so that his mouth latched onto her nipple. Tilly raised her hand, steeling her nerves in readiness to plunge the blades into his neck, but, as she raised her arm, her nipple slid from his lips and his head lolled back amongst the pillows. Leaping off the bed, she stared down at him as he lay snoring, dribbling and still grinning as he slid into a deep, intoxicated sleep. Shuddering, retching and covering her naked breasts, Tilly went through the pockets of Bert’s greatcoat, searching for the key to the front door. Tears of frustration blurred her vision when she found nothing more than a couple of pennies and a pawnbroker’s slip. He lay on the bed, arms spread open, legs wide apart with his boots still on his feet; there was only one place left to look. Holding her breath, Tilly attempted to slip her fingers into the pocket of his breeches, but he grunted and rolled over, gripping her hand and pressing it against the bare flesh between his legs. Weak with dismay and disgust, she hardly dared breathe for fear of waking him, but as he relaxed into a deeper state of unconsciousness she managed somehow to inch her hand free. Backing away from the bed, Tilly saw something white poking out from the pocket of her ripped skirt. She snatched it up and saw that it was the business card that Barney had given her, half in jest. As she tucked it down the front of her stays, her fingers touched the key that by some miracle had not been dislodged by Bert’s fumbling hands. Creeping out of the room, she closed the door softly behind her; she could not escape, but at least she could find sanctuary for one night. She went into the room on the far side of the landing and locked the door. Sobbing with relief, she lay down on the palliasse and cried herself to sleep.

  Tilly opened her eyes and sat up with a start. It took her a few seconds to realise where she was, but it was still dark and she had no idea of the time. The window was high above her head; studying the dark oblong for a moment, she could see pale grey streaks slicing through the night sky. Her first thought was to get downstairs to the kitchen before Clem and Abel returned from working the river and before Bert roused from his drunken stupor. With his sons around, he would be less likely to try to force himself on her; she could not imagine that his male pride would allow him to admit his humiliating defeat of last night although, with luck, he might not even remember it. Making herself as tidy as possible, she unlocked the door, tucked the key into her stays and went downstairs to the kitchen. She would not think about what might happen later in the day; she would concentrate on getting through the next few minutes, the next hour and the next.

  Having raked the fire into life, she fetched water from the pump and put the kettle on the hob. Doing even the smallest task was difficult with hands that shook and the images of last night were still painfully fresh in her mind. Keeping busy was the only way that Tilly had of keeping at bay the sickening revulsion at what had happened and the fear of what was to come. She must not give in; would not give in. She would find a way to escape or she would kill Bert Tuffin even if it meant facing the gallows or a life of penal servitude. But as she grew calmer she realised that violence was not the way: God had given her a good brain and she must use it.

&n
bsp; Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew that Abel and Clem would be returning very soon. Having discovered a sack of flour during her tidying operation of yesterday, she decided that the smell of baking bread would do a lot to sweeten Abel’s foul temper when he came in barking for his breakfast. For once she was grateful to Miss Morris, the cook-general in Barbary Terrace, who had instructed her in bread-making, not out of kindness but as a means of getting out of the hard labour of kneading and pummelling the dough. Even without yeast, Tilly knew she could make a coarse type of loaf that, eaten hot, would satisfy a hungry man’s appetite.

  Clem and Abel arrived as the bread was baking and they stopped in the doorway, sniffing the air.

  ‘So you have got some uses as well as the obvious,’ Abel said, grinning and rolling his eyes. ‘Give the old bugger a good time last night did you, love?’

  ‘Leave her be, Abe.’ Clem dumped brown paper packages on the table. He had obviously anticipated breakfast and had brought with him a fresh supply of bacon, butter and eggs.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, girl. Get cooking. I could eat a whole stable of horses.’ Shedding his cap and pea jacket on the floor, Abel shambled out through the scullery and into the back yard.

  Taking a frying pan from a hook above the range, Tilly was about to fill it with bacon when she realised that Clem was staring at her. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Where’d you get that frock?’

  Shrugging her shoulders, Tilly said nothing.

  Clem came up behind her as she set the pan on the hob. With her hairpins lost somewhere in the depths of the cellar, Tilly had not been able to put her hair up and it hung loose about her shoulders. Clem lifted a tress with his forefinger. ‘He done that to you, didn’t he?’

  He was staring at a purple bruise on her neck where Bert had used his teeth. Tilly nodded.

  Clem was silent for a moment, watching her turn the bacon with a fork. ‘That’s the frock in the picture, ain’t it?’