Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  When she herself had come to work down here late in 1838 the sights, the stench, the weariness, the labour, the long hours in dimness, the vileness of the language, the exposure of the human body in all its undignified postures, and the almost animal viciousness of some of the workers, coupled at the same time with a comradeship which would herd them together in times of stress, brought into her awakening knowledge a side of humanity dragged out of human beings by the environment they were forced to live in. Only in after years, when looking back, had she realised the lessons she had learned in those long months below ground.

  ‘C . . . C . . . Come, you’re all in.’

  She blinked and turned to John who had taken her by the arm, and when he said, ‘I’ll ge . . . get you home and then . . . ’ she cut him short, saying, ‘No, no; there’s no need. I’m all right; Anna will be waiting for you and worrying. I’ll . . . I’ll ride back part of the way with Steve.’

  She turned her head to where Steve was walking a little behind her and she asked, ‘Will you be fit to ride?’

  ‘Aye.’ His answer was brief.

  And now John turned to him and said, ‘W . . . W . . . Would you be able to see Mrs Sop . . . Sopwith home, McGrath?’

  Again Steve paused before answering, when he merely said, ‘Aye,’ not even adding ‘sir’ now.

  Tilly cast her glance back at him and because of the dirt covering his face she could not see the expression on it nor that in his eyes for his head was bent slightly forward and his gaze directed towards the rough tracks as if, she thought, he was making sure of where he planted his feet. Once more she wanted to ask, ‘Are you all right?’ but John was speaking again: ‘I really think I sh . . . sh . . . should go b . . . b . . . back with you at this time of night; McGrath w . . . w . . . will want to get cleaned up and rested. It must have been a pretty stiff time in there.’ He turned and glanced at Steve, but Steve was still looking towards his feet.

  ‘John, please’ – she tugged at his arm – ‘I’ll be perfectly all right. It’s you who needs to get home and rested. Now say no more, Steve will see me to the gate and with a bit of luck I may be able to join the New Year party after all.’

  ‘The staff p . . . p . . . party? Yes’ – John nodded at her – ‘and we have guests c . . . c . . . coming too as you know. But this has certainly put the damper on it for me. If only that one hadn’t died, and Mr Meadows in s . . . s . . . such a bad way.’ He hung his head. ‘The others, well, they can be p . . . p . . . patched up, but I hate to lose a man in the . . . mine.’

  She nodded at him in silence now; she had forgotten about the first man they had brought out. What was his name? Fox. Andrew Fox. Well, she would see to his widow and children. She could do that, and she could erase the fear of the family being turned out on the road. She would give the wife a pension.

  As she walked up the rise into the open air where the sky was high with stars now for the rain had stopped, she looked upwards for a moment as she thought: It’s as if I had just come back.

  ‘Now you’re sh . . . sh . . . sure, Tilly?’

  ‘Oh, John’ – she shook her head impatiently at him – ‘get on your horse and get home. Tell Anna a happy New Year from me. I’ll pop over as soon as possible. Come along, let us get the horses.’ She made to move away, but then stopped and waited. The women and men who had followed them out of the drift, seeing her standing there, stopped one after the other; and when the last one had put in an appearance she spoke to them, saying simply, ‘Thank you very much. Thank you all very much. And I’m sure you men will realise what a great help your women have been to you tonight. And those you have rescued will I am sure want to thank you, too, when the time comes. Please tell Mrs Fox not to worry, she and her family will be seen to. What is more I can tell you now, I intend to build two new rows of cottages in order to house you in better conditions.’

  No-one spoke until she said, ‘Goodnight to you all,’ when, as she turned away there was a chorus of, ‘Goodnight. Goodnight, ma’am. Happy New Year ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’

  When they reached the office, John, as if just remembering something, turned to Steve and said, ‘What about the p . . . p . . . pumps? That water is deep down there.’

  ‘I’ll see to that afore I leave, sir. Sanderson, Briggs, and Morley will deputise for the night; they’ll see to things and I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, well. Thank you, McGrath. Thank you. You’ve had a l . . . l . . . long ordeal and must be very tired.’

  ‘Not when you reckon some of the falls, sir. This one was just a matter of a few hours. I’m sorry about Fox though; he was a good man, in many ways.’

  ‘Yes, yes he was. And you yourself were lucky to c . . . c . . . come out unscathed.’

  Steve did not reply for John had turned to Tilly asking, ‘Now are are you sure . . . ?’ only to be cut off by her voice, weary-sounding now, saying, ‘Yes, yes, John, I am sure. Now please get yourself home.’

  ‘W . . . W . . . Well, if you insist. Good . . . Goodnight, my dear.’

  ‘Goodnight, John.’ She put her hand on his arm and guided him to the door where he turned and called, ‘Goodnight, McGrath.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Alone with Tilly now, Steve, pointing to a chair, said, ‘Sit yourself down, Tilly; you look just how I feel. Would you mind waiting another ten minutes or so?’

  ‘Not at all. Go and do what you have to do.’ Without further words he left the room. With his going her body seemed to slump, and she bent forward and looked at her hands. Like her clothes, they, too, were black with coal dust. When she touched her face she could feel the grit on it and she guessed that her hair would no longer be looking white. Of a sudden she felt weak, almost faint. Twisting her body round, she put her forearm on the rough wooden desk that fronted the window, the window at which she had stood and given in her name before making her first trip into the mine. ‘Tilly Trotter . . . spinster,’ the keeker had said. That memory seemed to belong to another life. But tonight’s memory was fresh in her mind and it was with a deep sorrow that she thought: Why do people have to work and slave like that, to run the risk of being trapped or of dying in the dark? And the answer that came to her was simply, money. Yes, that was it, money. Wasn’t she herself making money out of the labour of these people? Yet were she to close the mine tomorrow, would it help them? No, their condition would be worse than that which they suffered when working down below, for if they were allowed to spend their days above ground the majority of them would starve for there wasn’t enough work to be had for them.

  Sighing now, she leant her forearm on the desk and laid her head upon it . . .

  It was some twenty minutes later when she was startled by a touch on her shoulder and Steve’s voice saying, ‘You all right, Tilly?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. I . . . I must have dropped off.’

  ‘And no wonder. Well, the horses are ready. Come on.’ He took her elbow and raised her up; then lifting the lantern from the table, he led the way out.

  The horses were standing in the yard and after fastening the lantern to the side of his saddle, he came round to where Tilly had one foot in the stirrup and, putting his hand under her other heel, he helped her to mount . . .

  When they reached the cottage she drew her horse to a halt, saying, ‘Come no further, Steve, you’re worn out. Just give me the lantern and I can make my way.’

  When he didn’t answer her, she peered at him, saying, ‘What is it, Steve?’ and when her hand went out and touched his shoulder and he visibly winced and drew his head down, she said again,

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Come on.’ He went to urge the horse forward, but she swiftly leaned across and pulled on the reins, saying, ‘You’re hurt. Your shoulder? Get down. Get down.’ Without further ado she dismounted and went to his side and tugged at the bottom of his coat, saying, ‘Come on, get down.’

  Silently now he obeyed her; then leading his horse, he
took it through the gate and up the path, and she followed.

  When the animals were housed in the rude stable and he muttered, ‘They’ve got to be seen to,’ she said, ‘Go on in, I’ll see to them.’ Again she was surprised when he obeyed her. Quickly she brought water and hay for the beasts, then hurried into the house. Steve was sitting in the old rocking chair to the side of the banked fire. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands slack and joined between them. Without any preamble she stood in front of him and said, ‘Where are you hurt?’

  Simply he answered, ‘My back.’

  ‘Here, let me get your coat off.’

  When he pulled himself to his feet she eased off his coat. His striped blue shirt was black, and she noticed right away that the front of it hung loose but the back seemed stuck to his skin, and when she touched it she saw his teeth clench and his face muscles knot.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ she said harshly. ‘You should have gone to hospital with the rest and seen the doctor. Was it the stone?’He moved his head once, then said abruptly, ‘Aye, it pinned me for a time.’

  Swiftly she went to the fire, took the bellows and blew into the bottom bars. Then she lifted the lid of the big black kettle that was standing on the hob, dipped her finger into it and, finding it hot, took it up and, hurrying into the scullery, she groped in the dark for the tin dish that in her day she had kept under the sink – as Steve had once told her he had never altered anything – and so she found it immediately.

  A few minutes later she set the dish of warm water on the mat before the hearth, then said to him, ‘Get on your knees.’

  Slowly he obeyed her.

  Again and again she wrung out the towel and placed it across the torn shirt on his back, taking off the coal dust while at the same time soaking the garment loose from his skin.

  When at last she was able to pull the shirt over his head, her own features screwed up at the sight of his shoulders. There were three deep cuts on them and, added to this, the skin had been sheared off for some six or eight inches across the shoulder blades.

  ‘Oh, you are a fool you know, Steve. What do you think you’re up to? Playing the brave man with a back like this! It looks flayed.’

  He gave no answer but made to rise from his knees, only to be checked by her, saying, ‘Look, stay where you are; these cuts have got to be cleaned or else you’re in for trouble. I must get some fresh water.’

  When she returned from the scullery, he was no longer on his knees but sitting on a low cracket in front of the now bright fire, and when she began to bathe the raw, coal-dust infested flesh he made no movement whatever. She had been about to say, ‘Am I hurting you?’ but she knew that to be a silly question. He must be going through agony for she was having to rub at the raw flesh to get the dust free. What he needed was to lie in water. Now if it had been summer he could have gone into the river. But it wasn’t summer, it was New Year’s Eve. Strange, but she had forgotten it was New Year’s Eve.

  After she had cleaned the wounds as best she could, she said, ‘What I need is fat. Have you got anything at all like that?’

  ‘There’s a jar of goose dripping in the cupboard.’ He jerked his head, and to this she said, ‘Oh, good, good. There’s nothing better.’

  Gently now, she pressed the goose fat into the raw patches of flesh; and then she asked, ‘Where do you keep your clean shirts?’

  When he pointed to the bedroom and said, ‘In the chest,’ she looked towards the far door, saying, ‘I’ll have to take the lantern for a minute.’

  She was surprised when she lifted the lid of the chest to see what she imagined to be about a dozen shirts lying in a neat pile. He looked after himself, did Steve. And that was good. She liked that.

  In the room once more, she went to put the shirt over his head but he took it firmly from her hands and, getting to his feet, he put it on. Then for the first time he spoke lightly, saying, ‘I’m not going to tuck it into these,’ pointing to his dirty trousers, and he walked from her towards the bedroom. But there, in the doorway, he turned, saying, ‘You could do with having your own face washed, Tilly.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She smiled wearily at him. ‘I think I’ll do just that. And then a cup of tea wouldn’t come in wrong, would it?’

  ‘No, you’re right there, it wouldn’t. Take the lantern into the scullery with you, the fire is enough light for me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will, Steve . . . ’

  It was about fifteen minutes later when they sat, one each side of the hearth, sipping gratefully at mugs of steaming tea that had been laced with whisky, and after Steve had drained his mug he leant forward and, looking towards the fire, said, ‘I’ve known some New Year’s Eves but this is the strangest.’

  ‘I think I could say the same, Steve. What time is it?’ They both lifted their gaze to the high mantelpiece and almost simultaneously they said, ‘Ten to twelve.’

  ‘We should be hearing the hooters soon.’

  She nodded at him, ‘Yes, yes. I’ve forgotten the sound of the ships’ hooters . . . How you feeling now?’

  ‘Much better; a lot of fuss about nothing.’

  ‘Nothing!’ She turned her head to the side. ‘Good job you can’t see your back. And you won’t be fit to go in in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry. Never fear, I’ll be there in the morning.’

  ‘I think you should see a doctor.’

  ‘After you’ve been at me?’ He smiled at her. ‘I don’t need any doctor now. Anyway, I’ve got good healing flesh, it’ll be as right as rain in a few days.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ She reached out now and put her mug on the wooden table, then said, ‘There’s one thing I do know, you’re not moving out of this house tonight again. I’ll make my own way home.’

  As she rose to her feet he too rose, saying quietly, ‘And there’s one thing I know an’ all, and that is you’re not making your own way home. What will happen if you meet up with some of the lads out on the spree bringing in the New Year from here to Gateshead?’

  ‘I can be home within half an hour, and I don’t suppose they’ll start their rounds much before one.’

  She had been smiling gently but now the smile slid from her face as she saw the expression on his, and when he said quietly, ‘Stay and see the New Year in with me, Tilly,’ something in his voice caused her to lower her gaze. Stay and see the New Year in with me. It sounded an ordinary request; but what happened when the church bells rang and the ships’ hooters blared, when the factory buzzers shrilled into the night? You shook hands, you looked into faces as you said a happy New Year, a happy New Year, and those you loved you kissed. Yet she couldn’t be so churlish as to refuse his request. And anyway, they would see the New Year in together were she to allow him to accompany her home. Yet she knew in her heart it would be a different thing to stand in a room, the door closed, waiting for the first sound to herald in the New Year, the year that was to bring happiness, work and money galore, the seeming fervent desire of every ordinary Northerner, for hope sprang eternal in their breasts.

  Her decision was, however, taken from her when from a distance, like that of a hunting horn, came the sound of a ship’s siren, and Steve, turning and looking at the clock, said, ‘It must be slow. Come. Come on Tilly,’ and took her hand and drew her to the door and there, pulling it open, they stood looking out into the starlit night, with the sounds of sirens, hooters and bells filling the air.

  Her hand still in his, they had stood for some seconds silent when, turning to her, he looked into her face and, his voice soft, he said, ‘A happy New Year, Tilly.’

  ‘And the same to you. A happy New Year, Steve.’ He had caught her other hand and was holding them tightly against his breast now and when he murmured, ‘Oh, Tilly, Tilly!’ she went to withdraw from his hold, but he gripped her hands still more firmly, and with the sound of a break in his voice he muttered, ‘Every New Year that I can remember, Tilly, I’ve wished only for one thing, and you
know what that is. No, no; let me speak, just this once.’

  Still retaining his hold on her, he drew her back into the room, pushing the door closed with his foot as he did so, and now to her bent head he said, ‘Part of me, the sensible part of me keeps ramming it home that the situation for me is hopeless, worse than ever it was, you the lady of the manor, me little more than a hewer down the pit . . . well, only a couple of steps up and likely to remain there. Forget her, I’ve said. Marry, I’ve said. And I’ve tried; God knows I’ve tried. Twice I’ve been on the verge of it, only to withdraw because it wasn’t in me to make another woman’s life a hell. One can put up with one’s own hell but inflicting it on somebody else, that’s another thing. But now for the other side of me, the side that lives in a dream. This side sees a man who doesn’t work down the pit, who speaks well, dresses well, can carry himself in any company. This man can go to the lady of the manor and say, “I love you, Tilly. I’ve always loved you. Marry me.” But this fellow only comes alive at night, and he’s never there in the morning. But it’s night now, Tilly . . . No! No! Keep still; just let me hold your hands, just this once, please!’ His voice had risen from a murmur and the last word was not asked in the form of a plea but more of a demand, it was as if he were saying, ‘You owe me something for my constancy over the years,’ and it brought her head up and her eyes, misty now, looking into his. And as she stared at this man whose love had been an irritation to her in her youth, there came over her the most strange feeling, and somewhere in the far recesses of her mind a voice was repeating: How many times can we love? It was a question she had asked herself on the very day Matthew expressed his passion for her, and she knew that she loved him although she had loved his father, and once long, long ago she had loved Simon Bentwood too. And now this feeling was rising in her again, this warmth, this desire to enfold, to be enfolded, this longing to be at one and the same time a wife, a mother, mistress, and friend . . . But she knew that all she could ever be to this man, to this man whom she was seeing with new clear eyes, all she could ever be was a friend.