Tilly True

by Dilly Court

  Again Tilly nodded.

  ‘I never knew me mum; she died birthing me. The old man never got over it, nor forgive me for it neither.’

  ‘He’s a brute,’ Tilly said, reaching for the eggs.

  ‘He ain’t all bad.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Look,’ Clem said, in a low voice. ‘I don’t hold with what he’s done, but he’s a lonely old man. He was a different bloke while he was courting your sister but now it’s all gone wrong there’s no cause for him to take it out on you.’ Taking Tilly’s hand, Clem pressed a key into her palm. ‘I got this off the old man when he was drunk. Keep it hid until me and Abel have gone to our beds, then get yourself out of here fast.’

  Instantly suspicious, Tilly looked him in the eyes, but his expression was guarded, giving nothing away. ‘Why? Why would you care what happens to me?’

  ‘I don’t. Women is nothing but trouble.’ Clem moved away as Abel came back into the kitchen.

  ‘He’s got you all dollied up then?’ Abel threw himself down on a chair, legs wide apart with his fingers tucked in his wide leather belt. ‘I bet the old man give you a good seeing-to last night.’

  Piling bacon and eggs on a hot plate, Tilly slapped it down on the table in front of him. ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘And you mind your manners, bitch.’ Grabbing her wrist, Abel twisted it until Tilly yelped with pain. ‘Sleeping with the guvner don’t give you the right to sauce me.’

  ‘Leave her be,’ Clem said, scowling. ‘No need for that.’

  Releasing Tilly with a snarl, Abel picked up his knife and stabbed the yellow yolk of the egg. ‘I’ll leave her be, but only until the guvner has had his fill of her. Then it’s my turn.’

  Tilly opened her mouth to protest, but a warning frown from Clem made her think better of it and she went to the oven to take out the bread. In her pocket was the means to escape and she must keep calm. Abel attacked his food, shovelling forkfuls of bacon and eggs into his mouth and somehow managing to hum and chew at the same time. Clem ate hungrily, but quietly, glancing occasionally at Tilly as she cut slices from the steaming loaf or refilled their mugs with tea.

  When he had finished stuffing himself with food, Abel belched and stretched, rubbing his belly and grinning. ‘That weren’t half bad. I’m off to me bed.’ As he shambled past Tilly, he fumbled her buttocks through the billowing folds of her frock. ‘Prime rump,’ he said, chuckling. ‘I’ll enjoy having a piece of that meself.’

  Tilly twisted away from him, glaring but holding her tongue. Her fingers itched to slap his grinning face, but the iron key was heavy in her pocket, reminding her that freedom was just a few yards away.

  As the door closed on Abel, Clem pushed his plate away and leapt to his feet. ‘Give him time to get upstairs and then you make a dash for it.’ Shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out some coins and pressed them into Tilly’s hand. ‘It’s bitter cold – shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have some snow. There’s a pawnshop in Pickled Herring Alley. Get yourself a bonnet and shawl.’

  ‘Why are you doing this for me, Clem?’

  ‘Don’t waste time asking daft questions.’ Taking her by the shoulders, Clem walked her to the front door. ‘Get out quick and don’t stop for nothing.’ Turning his back on her, he clomped up the stairs, making each step echo through the silent building.

  Tilly’s hands shook as she turned the key in the lock; the cold hit her like a slap in the face and she almost choked as the icy air hit her lungs. Dropping the key on the ground and without bothering to close the door, she turned in the direction of the river and ran. Head down, she pelted over the slippery cobblestones, her feet barely touching the ground. In her flight, she hardly noticed the icy wind cutting through the thin cotton of her frock, or the feathery white snowflakes that had begun to tumble from a cast-iron sky. Daylight had not yet struggled as far as the ground in the narrow alley between gaunt warehouses, but Tilly knew the smell of the river, and even if she had had to fight her way through a London particular, she would have headed towards the familiar sounds of the docks: hobnail boots striking cobbles, creaking cranes, the babble of voices shouting, calling, swearing in twenty different languages and the constant rumble of cartwheels, throbbing engines and the sucking, splashing of the Thames surging towards the sea. As she came to the pier heads by Wapping Old Stairs, Tilly had her bearings and she turned to the right, heading in the direction of Tower Bridge Wharf. She had to stop for a moment to catch her breath and it was then that the cold struck into her bones and she could feel her sweat turning to a film of ice. She must get off the main street, dodge into the narrow lanes and alleys, in case Bert had already discovered that she was missing and had decided to give chase. Almost by accident she found Pickled Herring Alley and saw the hanging sign of three brass balls indicating a pawnbroker’s shop.

  She went inside and the smell of must and mildew, mingled with the stench of cats’ piss, almost made her retreat, but at least it was a couple of degrees warmer inside. Peering into the gloom, she had to tread carefully to get to the counter, avoiding piles of shoes, boots, umbrellas, pots, pans and odd bits of furniture. She jumped as a cat shot out of the dark recesses of the shop, arched its back and spat at her and then disappeared over the counter in one mighty leap.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Appearing from behind a curtain, a tall, thin man muffled in scarves and mittens stood behind the counter, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet.

  With her teeth chattering so violently that she could hardly speak, Tilly pointed to a rack hung with shawls, capes and green-tinged cloaks that had been the height of fashion twenty or thirty years ago.

  ‘Two shillings,’ said the pawnbroker, pulling a thick, grey woollen shawl off the rack. ‘Best quality wool, come from a clean house, the old lady dying of natural causes and nothing infectious.’

  Feeling the coarse cloth, Tilly shuddered at the thought of wearing a dead woman’s shawl. ‘That one?’ She pointed to another one further along, dark blue and with a softer sheen.

  He held it up. ‘Fine choice but couldn’t do it for less than half a crown.’

  Tilly hesitated. Clem had given her about ten shillings in small change and it would have to last her until she could get paid work. ‘Throw in a bonnet and some mittens and we got a deal.’ She held up a half-crown piece, just out of reach.

  Angling his head, the pawnbroker nodded. ‘You drive a hard bargain, miss, but I’m a fair man and you look froze to death.’ Reaching up to a shelf, he took down a plain bonnet, old-fashioned but serviceable, and he pulled a pair of mittens from a drawer. ‘Bin darned,’ he said, handing them to Tilly, ‘but what d’you expect for half a crown?’

  Tilly paid him the money and was about to leave the shop when she spotted a strange-looking machine on the far end of the counter. With the shawl wrapped tightly round her head and shoulders, warmth was beginning to seep back into her chilled bones. As she tied the bonnet strings beneath her chin, she glanced at the weird contraption. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘That, miss, is a typewriting machine.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘A type-writer uses it to print out business correspondence – all the most modern offices have them nowadays. Soon handwritten letters will be a thing of the past. What with the internal combustion engine, refrigerator ships, electric lights and all that, who knows where it’s all going to end? Anything more I can do for you?’

  Still staring at the typewriting machine, Tilly shook her head. ‘No, ta. I’ll be on me way.’

  Setting off again, Tilly was glad of the warm clothes, but the snow was falling in earnest, settling on her shawl in freezing clumps and thawing gradually so that she was soon soaked to the skin. She was walking much more slowly now, slipping and sliding on the icy pavements, keeping to the back doubles and narrow alleyways for fear of bumping into Bert. She was used to walking, but she had no clear idea how far it was from Wapping to Red Dr
agon Passage; it seemed like endless miles and by the time she reached the safety of home she was cold, wet and exhausted.

  ‘Gawd’s strewth! Whatever happened to you?’ Nellie stood in the scullery doorway, her mouth open in horror as she gazed at Tilly. ‘And what are you doing home? I thought you was off to India with the reverend gent.’

  ‘I – Oh, Mum, it’s good to be home.’ Tilly’s knees buckled beneath her and she collapsed in a heap on the living room floor.

  ‘Never mind,’ Nellie said, dragging her onto a chair by the fire. ‘Tell me later. Right now we got to get you warm and dry afore you dies of the lung fever.’

  Unable to speak, shivering violently and with her teeth clattering together, Tilly suffered being undressed and being chafed all over with a coarse towel. Wrapped in an itchy blanket, she sat with her feet in a bowl of hot water and mustard, sipping a mug of cocoa laced with several teaspoonfuls of sugar, a treat usually reserved for recuperating invalids or special occasions like birthdays.

  Plucking the sodden frock from the floor, Nellie held it up, wrinkling her nose. ‘Where did you get this rag? It stinks.’

  Tilly shook her head. ‘It’s a long story, Ma.’

  Tossing the garment out into the scullery, Nellie wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Then you’d best start at the beginning. I want to know what’s going on and how you come by them bruises. And don’t give me a tale about banging your head on a door or falling down cellar steps. I seen enough in me lifetime to recognise the results of a good hiding, not to mention teeth marks.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Ma, but only if you promises not to breathe a word of it to Pops. I don’t want him doing nothing stupid, not in his poor state of health.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, me girl,’ Nellie said, throwing a couple of small lumps of coal onto the fire. ‘Get on with it, Tilly, afore the nippers come home for their dinner. You can start by telling me who done this to you, and what you’re doing back here when you was supposed to be going off to India with them missionaries.’

  Skating over the reason why the Palgraves had sent her home and avoiding the mention of anything to do with India, since she didn’t want Ma to think it was just one of her made-up stories, Tilly told her everything that had happened since Bert had abducted her.

  Nellie’s eyes narrowed to slits and her nostrils flared. ‘The bloody brute. You wait until your dad hears about this. He’ll get his mates together and they’ll beat the living daylights out of Bert Tuffin and his rotten sons.’

  ‘No, please don’t tell Pops. Bert may deserve a good thrashing but it won’t serve no useful purpose and he’s a dangerous man to cross. Abel is as bad as he is, but it were Clem what helped me escape.’

  Wringing her hands, Nellie paced the floor. ‘I dunno, Tilly. That Bert ought to be sorted out for good and all after what he done to Emily and now you.’

  ‘That’s just it. Bert’s a nasty piece of work and he’s taken it bad that Pops threw him out of the house. If he’s done this to me, what might he do to you or the nippers if Pops is too sick to protect you all? And there’s Emmie too, and soon she’ll have her baby. What if Bert tries to take them back by force?’

  Nellie frowned. ‘I sent Emily to Poplar to stay with Molly until the babe arrives. With them both in the family way at least they’ll keep each other company, but you can’t stay here, love. What happens if he comes looking for you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Tilly said, edging closer to the fire. ‘Just let me get meself warm and I’ll be away from here afore the nippers get home. You’ll be safer with me out of the way.’

  ‘You’ll go back to the vicar and his sister, then?’

  ‘Yes, I will. I’ll explain everything and the Reverend wouldn’t have the heart to turn me away.’

  ‘You never said why they ain’t off to India. I thought it was all settled?’

  ‘It is. There was a bit of a delay, that’s all.’ Getting to her feet, Tilly wriggled inside the blanket. ‘I need something to wear. I’m freezing.’

  ‘There’s a few things what Emily left behind because she couldn’t fit into them no more. I’ll see what I can find.’

  As Nellie disappeared upstairs, Tilly sighed with relief. Even though she had managed to fend off questions about India with what was really just a small white lie, she knew that Ma would ferret out the truth in the end. Allowing the blanket to fall to the floor, she plucked her cotton chemise off the wooden clothes horse and found that it was almost dry. She was struggling with the laces on her stays when Nellie came bustling down the stairs carrying a bundle of clothes.

  ‘It’s Emily’s Sunday best skirt and blouse, but she won’t be needing them for a few months.’ Dropping the clothes onto a chair, Nellie took the laces from Tilly’s hand, tugged hard and fastened them in a bow. She stood back with an anxious frown puckering her forehead as Tilly slipped her arms into Emily’s cotton blouse. ‘You will come and see us afore you goes off to India, won’t you, Tilly?’

  Fastening the buttons, Tilly kept her eyes down. ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Whatever happens, this will always be your home.’

  ‘I know, Ma,’ Tilly said, close to tears. ‘One day I’ll make you proud of me, you see if I don’t.’

  Nellie wrapped her arms around Tilly, hugging her and then pushing her away as she wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron. ‘You don’t have to prove nothing to me or your dad. Just keep yourself safe, ducks.’

  Twenty minutes later, wrapped in her almost dry second-hand shawl, wearing her secondhand bonnet and mittens and her sister’s old clothes, Tilly set off once again into the snow. In her hand she clutched the business card that Barney had given her, and having left Red Dragon Passage behind she stopped to study the address. Hay Yard, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was a gamble, but she had seen the appreciative gleam in Barney’s eyes when he had handed her the card. Her choices were limited: it was either throw herself on the mercy of the Reverend or pay a visit to his brother’s chambers seeking help and advice.

  The snow had stopped falling and what lay on the ground was rapidly turning to slush, making walking difficult. Tilly was still tired from her long walk home, and taking the decision to use some of the money that Clem had given her she walked as far as Aldgate station and bought a ticket to the Temple. Travelling on the Underground was a new and frightening experience: this must be what it is like descending into hell, Tilly thought, gripping the handrail as she took each downward step. Her fellow travellers hurried past her, moving confidently as if they made this excursion into the bowels of the earth every single day of their lives. Tilly tried to appear unconcerned but the deeper she went the more frightened she became and, fearful that the breath would be sucked out of her lungs, she had to stop for a moment taking in great gulps of air until her heartbeats returned to normal. At last she reached the bottom and, having consulted the map printed on the tiled wall, she headed in the direction of the westbound platform. As the train thundered out of the tunnel, a gust of wind roared along the platform and Tilly had to clutch her bonnet to stop it from being blown away. Forcing herself to get into a carriage she sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, hands clenched and eyes closed, as the train surged forward into the darkness. Opening first one eye and then the other, Tilly glanced at the other passengers in the carriage but they seemed unworried, and gradually she relaxed. By the time the train slid to a halt at Temple station, Tilly was beginning to enjoy the ride and was almost sorry that the experience was over. Emerging into the street, she stopped a respectable-looking old gentleman who wore a bowler hat and carried a furled black umbrella, and asked him for directions to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Pointing with his umbrella, he advised Tilly to follow her nose and go up Arundel Street, cross the Strand and he said, to save herself from getting lost in the maze of back streets, it would be easier to follow the curve of Aldwych, turn up into Kingsway, then second right into Sardinia Street, which in turn would lead her into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. And, he
added kindly, if she had the time, she could take a look at the famous Old Curiosity Shop that Mr Dickens had mentioned in his book of the same name. Never having read anything by Mr Dickens, Tilly did not think she would bother, but she thanked the old gentleman anyway and hurried off to find Hay Yard. She was unfamiliar with this part of London, and emerging into the tree-filled square that was Lincoln’s Inn Fields she paused for a moment, thinking how pleasant it must be in the spring and summer when the grass was not covered with snow and the trees were leafy and alive with birdsong. Barristers wearing grey wigs, with their black robes flying, strode briskly along the pavements, disappearing into the four-storey brick terraces: each set of chambers marked by a brass plate denoting the name of the law firm.

  Feeling small and insignificant in all this hustle and bustle, Tilly kept on doggedly until she found Hay Yard, a narrow cul-de-sac lined with less distinguished looking edifices, only three storeys high. It was mid-afternoon and the light was fading fast. Lumpy grey clouds threatened more snow and the lamplighters had already begun their rounds by the time Tilly found the chambers of Palgrave, Jardine and Bolt.

  As she climbed the front steps flanked by spiked iron railings, Tilly felt her stomach give an uncomfortable lurch. What if Barney was not there? What if he had forgotten her, or, worse still, could not or would not help her? Bracing her shoulders, she gripped the polished brass doorknob, took a deep breath, and went inside. The atmosphere in the narrow hallway was silent and sombre and Tilly found herself tiptoeing. The door bearing Barney’s nameplate was at the far end of the passage and Tilly knocked, waited for an answer, and when there was no reply she let herself in. Perched on a high stool behind a writing desk, a man peered at her over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Yes, miss? Can I help you?’

  ‘I want to see Mr Palgrave.’

  ‘Have you got an appointment?’

  ‘No, he told me to come if I needed advice.’ Tilly held out the business card.

  Climbing down from his stool, he took the card between his forefinger and thumb and nodded. ‘Mr Barnaby, I see.’