Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  ‘Of course. Of course. Where . . . where has it happened, which road?’

  ‘Number four.’

  ‘Number four?’ she repeated. ‘That’s right opposite to where it happened to . . . to . . . ’

  He nodded now at her, saying, ‘Yes, Tilly. It’s a f . . . f . . . faulty seam. And McGrath w . . . w . . . warned us. Well, at least he told Meadows. I c . . . c . . . came upon them discussing it, but Meadows w . . . w . . . wouldn’t have there was anything wrong. I’ve never had m . . . m . . . much faith in Meadows; he never w . . . w . . . went down enough, left it all to Mc . . . McGrath. McGrath is a good enough fellow but he hasn’t the responsibility and n . . . now they’re b . . . b . . . both down there . . . ’

  ‘What do you mean, both down there?’

  He swallowed deeply, then swallowed again, before he said, ‘They’ve been cau . . . caught, and two other m . . . m . . . miners, they were fur . . . further along the road.’

  One hand cupped her cheek now as she stared at John, but without seeing him, for she was in the dark again holding Mark’s twisted body, groping for stones in the blackness to support his back, tapping endlessly on the wall of rock, dropping off to sleep only to be woken by Mark’s groans and at times his screams; and now Steve was down there hemmed in. Was he, too, trapped by the arms and legs . . . or his complete body?

  ‘I’ll have . . . have to get back, Tilly, but I thought . . . ’

  She gave a jerk with her head as if coming out of sleep; then putting her hand on his shoulder, she said, ‘Sit down a moment; you must have a drink. And . . . and listen, I’m coming back with you.’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was definite. ‘I’m the owner, and being so I should be there. But look’ – she turned her head now towards the door – ‘I’ve got to give them all’ – she now waved her hand backwards – ‘some other excuse for leaving because they’re having a party tonight and they are all excited and if they knew about the fall it would spoil everything because the men would go immediately along there. As you know, they were all miners once. But they can’t do anything, can they?’

  ‘N . . . no, no. All that c . . . c . . . can be done is being done.’

  ‘Well now, listen.’ She wagged her finger at him. ‘I’m going to ring for Peabody. He will get you a drink. In the meantime, I’ll tell Biddy and the rest that . . . that Anna is not well and she wants to see me, eh?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you c . . . c . . . could do that. B . . . B . . . But they’ll find out t . . . tomorrow, if not before.’

  ‘Yes, I know they will, but let them have a bit of jollification tonight. You see they’ve invited families and friends and they’ve talked of nothing else for days. I . . . we mustn’t spoil it now.’

  She reached out and pulled on the bell, and almost immediately there came a tap on the door and Peabody stepped into the room. But he didn’t speak, he just looked at Tilly and waited, and she began, ‘It is most unfortunate, Peabody, but Mrs Sopwith isn’t well and she would like to see me. I’m sorry that I’ll miss the party but I’ll leave it all in your hands. You must see that everybody enjoys themselves.’

  ‘Yes, madam. Of course, madam.’ His eyes flicked from her to John, taking in his bespattered apparel, and she knew by the look on his face that he had not entirely believed what she had told him and so, on an impulse, she put in quickly, ‘We must take you into our confidence, Peabody. What I have said is merely an excuse, there has been an accident at the mine. But if I let this be known to the staff, you understand that they will feel it their duty to postpone the party.’

  Peabody stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘I understand, madam, and I shall do as you wish. May I say that I hope the accident isn’t serious.’

  ‘I am afraid it is, Peabody.’

  ‘I’m deeply sorry, madam. And may I add that I think it is very commendable of you to consider your staff in this way and that your gesture will be appreciated.’

  She nodded at him as she said hastily now, ‘Please get Master John a glass of brandy, and on your way give orders for my horse to be saddled. I shall step into the kitchen and tell them before I go to change.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’

  A few minutes later Peabody returned to the morning room with a tray and a decanter of brandy and, after pouring out a good measure, handed it to John, saying, ‘May I ask, sir, if there are any casualties?’

  ‘One d . . . d . . . dead and three injured so f . . . far.’

  ‘Dear, dear! And on New Year’s Eve too. Strange, strange—’ He shook his head before adding, ‘You would have thought that death would have left madam alone on this particular night of the year at any rate. Now wouldn’t you, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, yes.’

  John sipped at the brandy, then watched Peabody walk slowly from the room. Odd fellow, but then any man must be odd to want to become a butler. What had he said? You would have thought that death would have left Tilly alone on this particular night of the year. What a strange thing to say.

  Sixteen

  The light had already faded when they reached the mine, a slight drizzle was falling and it lent a lustre to the numerous lamps swinging backwards and forwards among the men milling around at the entrance to the drift.

  After dismounting, Tilly and John pressed through the crowd of women forming a rough half circle between the stable block to one side of the drift entrance and the offices and storerooms at the other. The half circle was broken by the rolley way that led down into the drift from the level land above, and John had to make way for Tilly as she walked it until the way was blocked by waggons and the women crowded to the side of them. There must have been thirty or more women and children on one side of the waggons alone, yet there was no sound coming from them. Not even the children were crying or whingeing, and Tilly recognised the anxiety that creates silence, and she didn’t break it as faces turned towards her but looked back into the wide staring eyes with understanding.

  Then they were at the mouth of the drift and John was asking, ‘Anything fur . . . further?’

  One of the men said, ‘We’re making progress, sir. We’ve just come out for a breather, the other lads have taken over. Can’t work more than four abreast down there and . . . and the air’s heavy.’

  When Tilly, without speaking, moved past them to make her way into the drift, one of the men put his hand on her arm and said, ‘Oh no, ma’am, no, ’taint safe in there yet. They’re propping up as they go but it ain’t safe.’

  ‘How many men are there down there, I mean in the rescue team?’

  ‘Oh’ – he turned and looked at his mates – ‘about twelve of ours and half a dozen Hebburn men.’

  ‘Hebburn men?’ she repeated. ‘No-one from Mr Rosier’s mine?’

  ‘No, ma’am. An’ there would be more from Hebburn I think but they’re scattered like. You see it’s a night for jollification an’ there’s only the safety men left, and ten to one they’ll be bottled. But Rosier’s fellows would have come if they’d known, no matter what he says, but as I said, ma’am, they go visitin’ the night and nobody’ll likely go back till middle shift the morrow.’

  She now looked past the man and up the slope to where the band of women were divided by the waggons and, nodding towards them, she said, ‘What about the women?’

  ‘What do you mean, ma’am?’ It was another man speaking now.

  ‘Couldn’t they take a turn going in and helping?’

  ‘Huh! You’ve never been in there, ma’am; you’re up to your waist in water in parts an your sweat’s helpin’ to raise the level. You’ve never seen owt like it, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, I have seen something like it, and so have those women standing there.’ She turned abruptly from them and, looking at John now, she said, ‘Come along.’

  It was he who had hold of her arm now, saying sternly, ‘Oh no! Til . . . Tilly. No!’

  ‘Yes, John, yes.’ Her voice was as loud and as stiff as his and, wre
nching her arm from his, she surprised one of the bystanders by grabbing his lamp from him and hurrying into the darkness.

  John was stumbling by her side now protesting all the way, and she stopped abruptly and, her voice quiet, she said to him, ‘I know more about this mine than you do for the simple reason that I’ve worked in it. I’ve walked along this very road, day in day out for months. And I’ve experienced a fall. You seem to forget that. Now let us go and see what the trouble is.’

  Fifteen minutes later she saw what the trouble was. At first the men took her for another man, seeing that she was in riding breeches, but when she spoke they gaped at her open-mouthed and one of them, straightening his back after lifting an enormous piece of rock and handing it to his mate behind him, said simply, ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Slow, ma’am.’

  Her voice had caused a pause in the rhythmic passing of the stones, and in the light of the lamps she looked at the wall of rock some yards ahead, then asked, ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Oh aye, ma’am, aye.’ Several of them nodded. ‘They’re there all right, but it’s far back. There’s a lot down, it’ll take some time yet.’

  She looked down at her feet, she was standing calf-deep in water but, unlike the rest of those present, she didn’t feel it for the soft leather of her riding boots came up to just below her knees. But the men around her hadn’t only wet feet, they were wringing to the skin right up to their waists, and their upper bodies were naked. She turned to John who was speaking to one of the men. He was saying, ‘How long do you think . . . think it will be before you g . . . g . . . get through?’ and the man answered, ‘Couldn’t tell sir, not at the rate we’re goin’. The road’s narrow and the stones have got to be moved well back, else as you see they would soon block this way.’

  While John and the man went on talking she stared at the wall of rock before her and beyond which were Steve and the manager and two other men, and it wasn’t likely with a fall such as this that they would have been able to save a light. And then there was the lack of air. Half an hour could make all the difference; five minutes could make all the difference between life and death when you were short of air. If anything should happen to Steve she would have lost her only lifelong friend. The thought came to her like a revelation. There was no-one alive now that she had known as long as Steve, there was no-one in her life had been so faithful to her as Steve, there was no-one she could talk to now as she did to Steve. If anything should happen to him a new aloneness would enter into her being; only Biddy and Steve were her kind of people and Biddy was old and could die tomorrow. But Steve was young . . . well, in his full manhood, and he could die tonight.

  When she turned about and ran stumbling back through the water of the drift John, coming behind her, cried, ‘Ti . . . Tilly! Ti . . . Tilly, wait! What is it?’

  So swift was she running that he still hadn’t overtaken her before she came out of the drift and into the open air. Straight away, pushing her way through the men, she made for the women and, lifting her lamp high, she yelled into their amazed faces, ‘How many of you have worked down below?’

  To her surprise no-one answered her for the moment; but then a hand went up here and there and a voice said, ‘Me, ma’am. Me, missis.’ Of the crowd on this side of the waggons not more than eight responded; and when, having squeezed herself between two bogies, she put the same question to the women on the other side, she wasn’t aware that she was speaking in a voice no longer representing Mrs Sopwith but that of Tilly Trotter, the girl before she had come under the guidance of Mr Burgess, the tutor, and what she cried was, ‘Will you come below an hour at a time an’ help move the stones back?’

  ‘Aye, aye. Oh aye, ma’am. Anything’s better than standin’ here waitin’.’

  But when the women moved up abreast of the men near the mouth of the drift they were halted with gruff cries of, ‘No bloody fear! You’re not goin’ in there,’ and ‘Those days are gone.’ And ‘It’s men’s work. Now get back, the lot of you!’

  ‘If I can go in there they can.’ Tilly was facing them. ‘For the first turn I’ll take eight women with me. We’ll do an hour at a time.’

  Of a sudden silence fell on them again, at least on the men. They stood stiffly staring at this woman who had made a name for herself, and a queer one at that, but she owned the mine and was willing to go in and hump with the rest, which was something when all was said and done, and her living soft for years.

  When the women pushed their way through the menfolk there were no more protests and Tilly said quietly now, ‘Just eight of you.’ And on this she went ahead, John again by her side and muttering now, ‘My G . . . G . . . God! Tilly. If anything should hap . . . happen to you.’ And now looking at him tenderly and because of the concern on his face, she whispered under her breath, ‘Nothing can happen to a witch, John, that she doesn’t want to happen.’

  And as he said, ‘Oh, Tilly, things li . . . li . . . like that c . . . can court dis . . . disaster,’ she thought painfully, Yes, maybe you’re right. All her life she had courted disaster and this might be just one more time, and a voice cried from deep within her and from out of the pit blackness she remembered so well, ‘Hang on, Steve. Hang on.’ And it sounded as if she were talking to Mark, encouraging him to live, to keep breathing.

  The first shift of women worked like Trojans. They passed the stones back right to the junction of the roads where they were piled up against the walls.

  Against John’s protest, she also accompanied the second batch of women in; but within a short time she had to come out and rest. It wasn’t because her arms or her back were aching, it was the constriction in her chest. Her lungs had been free of dust for years and she was taking badly to it now. She sat in the office quite alone for a time to recover herself. John had gone in again with another shift of men and what was most gratifying was that pitmen from other mines were making their appearance in ones and twos having heard in a roundabout way of the disaster. There were men from as far away as Felling who had walked the six miles in the rain to help.

  When she looked at the round-faced clock on the office wall she thought there must be some mistake for it couldn’t be twenty minutes to eight. Surely she hadn’t been here all of four and a half hours.

  The thought brought her to her feet and she picked up the lamp and went out into the night again. The rain was coming down steadily now but she found it cooling on her face. As she neared the entrance to the drift she felt the excitement: there was no silence now but a combined chatter.

  ‘Ma’am! Ma’am! I think they’re nearly through. They can hear the knockin’ clearer.’

  She said nothing, but hurried through them and, almost running down the rolley way, she came to the junction where the women turned to her with their sweat-smeared faces eager with the news. ‘They can hear ’em plain, ma’am. Heard a voice they did.’

  She passed through them and into the water which now flooded into the top of her boots, but which did not make her shiver for it felt warm, and she looked to where a man was shouting into the stone: ‘That you, sir? You all right, sir?’

  She did not hear the mumbled reply and she only just stopped herself from shouting, ‘Ask if Mr McGrath is all right.’

  A man turned to her now and said, ‘Another hour, ma’am, at the outside should see us through.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ She nodded at him and smiled, and he jerked his head at her and with renewed energy began to lift the great blocks of stone as if they were house bricks.

  It took more than the hour to get through to the trapped men. It was quarter to eleven when they pulled the first man through. He was unconscious but still alive. The second man had a smashed arm and a broken ankle. The manager was in a very bad way, having been pinned down by a beam. The only one who had apparently escaped injury was Steve, but after he had helped to ease the manager through the hole and had himself crawled through he swayed as the men helped him to his feet
. But saying, ‘Thanks, lads, thanks. I’m all right, I’m all right,’ he stumbled unaided towards the junction. And it was there that Tilly saw him, and he saw her. He might have passed her but for the fact that, hatless, her white hair, now looking a dirty grey, caught his eye. He paused before walking towards her and saying casually, ‘What do you think you’re up to?’

  And she, swallowing deeply and blinking at him, said just as casually, ‘I’m after a job.’ The men and women around laughed, but their laughter was high, and had an unnatural sound.

  When John, addressing Steve, said, ‘Are you . . . are you all right, Mr McGrath?’ there seemed to be a pause before Steve answered, ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right, sir.’

  Tilly’s eyes now travelled over Steve. There was no sign of injury on his arms or face but she could see that he must have been up to his neck in water for a time for he was still wearing his shirt and there was a deep rim of black scum around the collar, and she knew enough about the pit to remember where the water last touched it always left its mark. As she stood there the years fell away from her and she was back in this junction watching tiny children crawling out of the side roads, some of the roads no higher than three feet, which didn’t allow for a child to stand up, not if he or she was over six years old. She saw them dragging the iron harness from between their legs or pulling the leather band that was attached to the skip from their foreheads and then dropping where they stood, some of their faces wet with sweat, others with tears, and surprisingly one or two here and there had laughter on their lips.

  The law had been passed in 1842 prohibiting children from working in the mines but little or no notice was taken of it in many quarters, for who was to know what went on down below, and inspections, like miracles, happened rarely. Often, too, the men of the family were with the masters in this, for how, they reasoned, could a man be expected to bring up a large family on a pitman’s wage. No; a shilling a week was a shilling a week, however it was earned.