Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  Tilly felt the colour flooding over her face and she said on a slightly defensive tone, ‘Well, not exactly his . . . his woman, I thought you were to be married. He gave me that impression.’

  ‘Naughty of him! Very naughty of him! He’s a tease, you know.’

  No, Tilly didn’t know that Steve was a tease, but what she was gathering, and quickly, was that this woman, this daughter of his, had undoubtedly been brought up among the class. Her manner, her way of speaking all portrayed this: the words naughty, very naughty, the way she said them, he’s a tease, all held an indefinable something that spoke of a different world, a world in which she herself lived but was not of it because she hadn’t been born to it. This woman was Steve’s daughter and Steve had been a working boy and was still a working man, yet this girl had evidently been brought up in an environment which had soaked into her until now she appeared . . . of the blood, so to speak, which belied the conversation with regard to heredity that she’d had with Willy just that very morning.

  ‘Your son is not well at present?’

  ‘No; he, I am afraid, has just escaped pneumonia but he is recovering.’

  ‘I should like to meet him some time if I may.’

  ‘You will be very welcome.’

  There was a silence between them now, until Steve’s daughter broke it by putting her head back and calling, ‘Have you dropped down the well?’

  ‘No, m’lass, I haven’t dropped down the well.’ Steve came out of the scullery rubbing his hair with a towel, and Phillipa, getting to her feet now, said, ‘I must be off. Lance is meeting me with the coach in Harton at three o’clock. He’s attending a meeting on the Lawe with sea captains and such about some cargoes.’

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Oh, a week at the most.’

  ‘What about your horse, if Lance is meeting you?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll stable it and one of them will pick him up tomorrow. By the way, Lance would like you to come over on Sunday if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘I have nothing better to do.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Well, goodbye’ – she had turned to Tilly – ‘I was going to say Mrs Sopwith, but may I call you Tilly? I’ve always heard of you by that name.’

  ‘I’d be pleased if you would . . . Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Tilly watched Steve throw aside the towel, rub his fingers through his hair, then escort his daughter to the door and down the path. She saw him put his hands under her oxters and heave her upwards, and although the rampant jealousy of this young woman had gone, the sight of the tenderness with which he treated her and the friendliness that existed between them, which was almost like a comradeship, touched some sore point in her heart and she turned from the window and went and stood before the fire, looking down at it, waiting his return.

  His face was straight when he entered the room. And it remained so while he poured himself out another cup of tea and sat down on the settle; then in a sober manner he said, ‘Sit yourself down; you’re in for a long session.’

  Seated before him, she kept her eyes intently on his face. When he was young his affection had created in her an irritation mingled with pity because of the love she could never give him, and as a man his concern for her had created in her nothing but a deep thankfulness, until it had grown into something much stronger, but never had she felt resentment against him. Yet at this moment when she knew that she must still be in his thoughts as dearly as ever and that her rival, so to speak, was no rival at all, she felt an irritation rising in her that bordered on aggressiveness, and just as it happened at other times in her life when she’d had the urge to strike out, so now she wanted to bring her hand across his face, which, had she done so, would no doubt have revealed to him her true feelings more than any words might have done . . . All these months he had been laughing at her; the secret that she thought she held was no secret at least from him; he had made her suffer in imagining that he was tired of being the friend, the sustainer in time of trouble, and was putting a definite end to it.

  As he put the empty cup back on the table he broke in on her thoughts, saying, ‘I don’t suppose you remember the day I came to the house and stood round near the wall and I told you I loved you and even tried to blackmail you into returning some affection by reminding you I’d killed our Hal for you . . . eh?’ He brought his eyes to hers but she made no answer, and he went on, ‘No, it’s likely too far back to remember. And it’s of no consequence. Anyway, from then I still kept on hoping, that was until I heard you’d taken up with your master. It was then I left home and travelled about a bit. I was in lodgings when I met Phillipa’s mother. She was the same age as me, just on nineteen, and it was strange but I’d never had a woman in my life afore because, you see, I only wanted you.’

  She didn’t lower her eyes and cast her glance down on this, but she looked straight at him and listened to him now as he continued. ‘I was scared to death when I knew Betty was going to have a baby, and her brother and father were for hammering me and dragging me to the church. But I couldn’t face it. I did a bunk. And so did Betty. She went to Hartlepool to an aunt of hers who wasn’t very fond of her parents. It was in a roundabout way that I heard the child had been born and that it was a girl and that it was to be put out for adoption. Funny, but that did something to me. I sought Betty out and told her I was making decent money and would support the bairn. She agreed. She was working in a mill at the time. Then within a couple of months she wrote me and told me that she had met a lad who was willing to marry her but that he wouldn’t take the bairn on and so she was again going to put it out for adoption. Now it’s strange how things come about, but the owner of the mill had a daughter who had been married eight years and without the sight of a child in view and, as things get about, she had heard of the obstacle to Betty’s marriage while she was visiting her father. She and her husband lived on the island of Jersey. So Betty was approached with regard to the adoption. But at the time she didn’t know who it was who wanted the child, she only knew it was going to a very good home. So she told me that she was going to let her go. Well, what could I do? I remember going to see her, and there was the child in the cradle. And I knew then that I didn’t want to let her be adopted but that there was no other course open. By the way, the name on her birth certificate was Mary not Phillipa, but it should happen that her adoptive grandmother had been named Phillipa and her new mother decided to call her that.

  ‘Well—’ He now rose to his feet and went to the mantelpiece and took a pipe from the rack and from a tin a long plug of tobacco; then sitting down again, he proceeded to shave the end of the plug into his pipe as he went on, ‘Time passes. It has a habit of doing that, but every now and again I would think of the child: she would be three; she would be four; she would be ten; what was she like? During all this time I’d had a longing for bairns, for a family of me own, and twice I’d been right on the rim of getting married. Oh yes’ – he nodded at her as her eyes widened – ‘within a fortnight at one time. And I had to run again.’ He smiled wryly now. ‘She was going to have me up for breach of promise, that one. I settled with her for nearly all me savings. The other one was sensible, she knew I wouldn’t make a good husband.

  ‘When Phillipa was eleven her adoptive mother died, but before she did she told her who her real parents were. Well, the news was a shock, as could have been expected, to this young girl. But she was filled with curiosity, and so she makes a trip from Newcastle to Hartlepool on her own and there she found that her own mother had died the previous year and her husband years earlier, but that she had a father, a real father, who was alive. The old aunt gave her this information. Her father’s name, she learnt, was Steve McGrath and the last that had been heard of him was that he was working in a pit further north.

  ‘Anyway, two years later when she’s on holiday from her private school, and was supposed to be visiting a school friend she finds me, so it was about seventeen years ago when a
young and beautiful girl knocks on the door. I can see her now’ – he turned his head to the side – ‘standing very upright, straight-faced, just about there’ – he pointed to the table – ‘and saying, “I’m Phillipa Coleman. My real mother, I understand, was named Betty Fuller, and you, I understand, Mr McGrath, are my father.”

  ‘You know, Tilly’ – he leant towards her now, the look in his eyes was soft and tender like they must have been on that day – ‘if God had opened the clouds and dropped an angel at my feet I couldn’t have been more surprised, or pleased. But pleased isn’t the word to describe my feelings on that day. This girl, this lady, because she looked every inch a young lady, was my daughter, and, you know, it was strange but from the word go we clicked, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘And that’s how it’s been ever since. Well, the next visitor I had was her adoptive father, Jim Coleman, a man who loved her as if she were his own. Well, we talked, and the outcome was I was invited to his home, his mainland home. He had two, one in Newcastle, strangely enough, and the one in Jersey; and stranger still, we became friends. Then there came on the scene Mr Lancelot Ryde-Smithson. That’s a mouthful for you if you like. He was the man who wanted to marry her. She was sixteen and he was seventeen years her senior, but she loved him and he doted on her. He was French on his mother’s side and a charming man, and very wealthy into the bargain. Well the Ryde-Smithsons are, aren’t they? You know’ – he nodded at her – ‘the steelworks and such.’

  Ryde-Smithsons, the steelworks and such. Yes, indeed.

  ‘Anyway, Mr Ryde-Smithson and I talked. We were men of different worlds, but almost the same age and we understood each other. And that’s how it’s been up till now. I was at their wedding, a big affair, just before you arrived home from America. It was held at her father’s place in Jersey. And you know, Tilly, it was a wonderful feeling to be accepted by everybody, but . . . but mostly by her and Lance. He was a great man, he still is. They live in France most of the time. I’ve been there to their home and played with me grandchildren. Aye, grandchildren, I’m a grandfather. Two lovely children, Gerald is twelve now, and Richard ten. And you know something more, Tilly? If I had any sense I’d have been away from your mine and this place years ago because I’ve had offers that would make a man dizzy, and from Mr Coleman, an’ all. And why haven’t I accepted any of their offers? Well, Tilly, some people would say it is because I am a bloody fool. And sometimes I thought they were right. Oh yes, yes.’ He shook his head and, his face unsmiling, he repeated, ‘Yes, yes; many a time I thought they were right. And not more so than early on when you went off abroad with Mr Matthew. That nearly finished me. Well, it did finish me, and I’ve asked myself time and time again why I stayed on in this place in that bloody little mine because, Tilly, it is a bloody little mine; bloody in more ways than one. There’s hardly a day goes by but I fear to see water rushing towards me. Oh yes, I know everything’s been done that can be done, but nevertheless it is a bad-tempered bloody little mine. And this cottage’ – he waved his hand round – ‘very nice, very nice, but I exaggerated its charm when I first came into it. And you know why, I’ve got no need to tell you, it was just so that I’d be near you. Anyway, your presence was full about me here, you’d lived in it. Then off you go to the Americas, so why did I stay? There was Phillipa and Lance and Jim Coleman, all of them wondering what on earth was the matter with me, turning down a nice house in Jersey or a fine house in Jesmond as Jim Coleman once offered me. But not for nothing of course, he was a businessman. As he said, he wanted someone who could handle men, and apparently, Tilly, I have that talent. And there I was letting it go rotten here, so to speak.’ He sighed now and, looking into her face, he said, ‘I’m laying it on thick, I know, but I’ve waited a long time, Tilly. And over these last years acting as your sort of henchman, friend of the family, yet not accepted at the Manor because of what one might hear from the village, that damned narrow-minded sanctimonious little cesspool. I sometimes think of this place, you know, Tilly, when I’m sitting in Jim Coleman’s dining room at a table that’s laden with silver, some pieces so heavy the weight would fill a skip, and accepted there, an’ all. But here I’m Stevey McGrath, son of that old hag in the village, with a brother that’s got a reputation that stinks and a nephew that’s been along the line twice. Anyway, Tilly, there it is: I’ve had me say. It’s been grinding in me for years. And I’ve got to say this, I don’t think . . . well, in fact, I know I couldn’t have stood the situation as it’s been between you and me if I hadn’t had Phillipa as an outlet, so to speak, for the strain’s been hellish at times. So there it is, Tilly.’ He looked at her softly for a moment without speaking, and at this point she could have dropped into his arms, but he began again, and what he said now brought her slumped body straight and tightened the muscles in her face. ‘And now, lass,’ he said, ‘I’m going to give you the ultimatum I should have given you years ago. You marry me or I take the belated offers and move. I’ll give you a little more time to think it over because there’s the responsibility of Willy and next year he’ll be coming into his own I suppose, and if he were to marry, well, that would be one of your problems solved. Yet if Noreen doesn’t turn up I doubt if there’s much hope of marriage coming his way, and so you might feel obliged to stay with him. But whether you’d see me as dowager master of the hall’ – he pulled a face here – ‘dowager isn’t the right word but you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s up to you. I might as well tell you while I’m on, Tilly, that I’ve had a very good offer and it’s open until February next. That leaves you three or four months to sort things out finally, although I’d be happier if I could know by . . . well, say December.’

  Tilly stared at this man, this person standing before her whom she had grown to love as she imagined she had never loved Mark or Matthew, and he was talking about his love for her in a fashion that one might use in a matter of business, small business, for his statements had been cool, concise. He had made no attempt to take her in his arms and kiss her, no attempt to speak of his need of her or give her the opportunity to speak of her own need of him. She couldn’t sort out her feelings at the moment, she only knew she felt utterly deflated while at the same time hurt, and angry.

  For a moment he appeared like the old Steve when he put his hand out and gripped hers, saying, ‘Don’t look like that, Tilly. All this I know has come as a bit of a surprise to you, but life’s like that. You should know better than anyone that life is full of surprises, especially where feelings are concerned. Anyway, my dear, it’s up to you.’

  Yes, it was up to her.

  Slowly she pushed his hand away from hers and, rising to her feet, she looked into his face and she repeated her thoughts and his words, ‘Yes, it’s up to me, Steve. Thank you.’ She inclined her head towards him and she took no notice of the pained and troubled look that came into his eyes but, turning from him, she went towards the door, opened it and walked slowly down the path. She knew he was close behind her but she didn’t look at him, not even when he helped her up onto her horse, not until he said, ‘Tilly’ and the name was filled with a deep plea did she turn her gaze to him and say quietly, ‘I’ll be seeing you, Steve.’ And with that she rode off.

  Eleven

  He was gone from her, as surely as if he had married that woman who had turned out to be his daughter. The Steve who had coolly given her an ultimatum was in no way related to any of his other selves which he had presented to her over the years. All these had held that quality of kindness and devotion that she had come to expect. Never, never could she have imagined that Steve would change, not towards her, for hadn’t he been obsessed with her, and that was the word, obsessed with her from when he was a boy, in a way as much as Matthew had been.

  But Steve had changed, and not a little of the hurt inside her was due to the fact that she didn’t know anything about this other Steve. The man who had presented the ultimatum was a man of parts, a man who mixed with the gentry, while she herself who had lived with t
hem, been mistress to one and married another, was still on the outside of the charmed circle wherein moved the class. But he was mixing with them, thick with them so to speak, for the Ryde-Smithsons were class, and the Colemans, oh yes.

  For years now she had longed to be one with this man and she knew that she had deluded herself into thinking that marriage to him was impossible because of the vow she had given to Matthew never to marry again, for inside herself she recognised the truth, and the truth was that the shadow of that vow had grown dim, very dim a long time ago, and that one of the real reasons that had kept her from marrying Steve was merely the fact that she couldn’t see him acting as master in this, a manor house. Yet she knew now that he had in a way as much experience of such houses as she had, more in fact, for he had been accepted by their occupants: as he had so graphically stated, he had sat at their table where one piece of silver was so heavy it would weigh a skipful of coal.

  The Steve who had dedicated his life to her was no more and she could blame no-one but herself for the loss, but the hurt this knowledge brought to her was intensified by the fact that during his periods of frequent absences at weekends he had not been relieving his needs up in the cottage in the hills with some woman, or indulging in the inn on the high road, but was being entertained by his daughter and her people. She would have rather, much rather, known that he was assuaging his natural appetite than playing the father and being accepted by a class of people with whom she had imagined he could never mix, the class which, incidentally, ignored her.

  He had given her until December to decide. Well, she had decided already.

  In the weeks that followed this revealing day Tilly’s spirit had risen up in her, especially so at night when, her pale reflection staring back at her from the mirror, she had cried at it: Who does he think he is anyway? Steve McGrath who has hounded me with his love all my life now to give me an ultimatum? And to say he couldn’t have borne the situation between them if he hadn’t had the consolation of his daughter. It was galling to think now that she herself hadn’t really held him all these years.