Tilly Trotter Widowed (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Cookson, Catherine

  But the conditions in Newcastle were nowhere near as bad as they had been when he left the farm. Although it was snowing here there were no drifts, the streets and roads were just black slush. He made his way down to Market Street past the new Law Courts and into Pilgrim Street where he stopped before a doorway on which was a curved brass plate indicating a number of offices therein. On the third floor of the building he knocked on an opaque glass door, then went in.

  A clerk was sitting behind a small desk. He did not look up immediately, he was writing in a ledger, his hand moving slowly, and his paper cuffs hanging almost two inches below the frayed sleeve of his jacket made a small grating sound not audible until Simon stood looking down on the bent head in silence as the man continued to write.

  ‘You deaf?’

  The hand moved over two or three further words before the head lifted, when the elderly clerk, looking over the top of his glasses, said, ‘Not that I’m aware of, sir.’

  The tone immediately aroused the aggressiveness in Simon. ‘None of your bright lip, mister,’ he said. ‘You tell your boss I’m here.’

  He watched the man rise slowly from the chair, go towards another glass door, knock on it, then enter the room.

  It was almost three minutes later when he returned. Stepping aside he left the door wide, saying, ‘Mr Robinson is free now to see you . . . sir.’

  Simon gave him a scathing glance as he passed into the small office where the agent was sitting behind a long substantial-looking desk and on an equally substantial-looking leather chair, and he greeted Simon affably, saying, ‘Ah! Mr Bentwood. Good day to you. It is strange that you should come at this time.’

  ‘Why? You have news?’ Simon sat down opposite the desk, and the agent, nodding his head briskly said, ‘Indeed! Indeed! And I would have had it out to you but for the weather.’ He did not add his thoughts: ‘and to Mr William Sopwith at the same time.’ Hansom his clerk and he had a small wager on who would reach Proggle’s pie shop first. Mr Sopwith had the advantage of a carriage but this man sitting here had the fury of a father to give wings to his feet.

  ‘Well, get on with it, what do you know? Have you found her?’

  ‘Well, yes and no . . . ’

  ‘Yes and no? What answer is that to give! You have or you haven’t?’

  Mr Robinson sat back in his chair and tapped his fingertips gently together as he said, ‘It all depends on a name, a change of name. We have found three young women who apparently don’t want to be found. One goes under the name of Hannah Circle, which is not her name at all; likewise Mary Nugent; and the third one is a Miss Lucy Cuthbertson. Each of these young women has a reason for not wishing to be found . . . ’

  ‘What did you say? Lucy Cuthbertson?’

  ‘Yes, Lucy Cutherbertson.’

  Simon was now leaning forward in his chair. ‘What’s she like? How old?’

  ‘Well, it’s very hard to gauge a young person’s age when they are with child, as are these three young women, but Miss Cuthbertson . . . ’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said Miss Cuthbertson . . . ’

  ‘Afore that. With child you said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said, Mr Bentwood. Now as regards this young lady, she could be eighteen, twenty, twenty-two, what can one say, because the position she holds at present is, I should imagine, very taxing. I have only seen her twice, and then in a dim light when I presented myself as a vermin inspector in her kitchen.’

  ‘You what!’ Simon’s eyes were screwed up.

  ‘A vermin inspector. One has to take on different guises in this business. I had heard there was a young woman working for a certain pie maker near the waterfront and that she was near the time of delivery, so last week I presented myself, as I said, as a vermin inspector. Does the name Lucy Cuthbertson ring a bell for you, sir?’

  Simon was staring down towards the floor through narrowed lids. She was going to have a child. His Noreen was going to have a child. And who could be the father but that blind bastard. He would kill him. Sure as he was sitting here he would kill him. But to get to her first, to get her home. Oh yes, to get her home. He blinked and said, ‘It was her mother’s maiden name.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Robinson’s eyes widened. ‘I think we are on the right track then, sir. Anyway, I would suggest that you go to the shop and ask to see her. Do you know where Proggle’s Pie Shop is, sir, on the water . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Simon had risen to his feet. ‘Who doesn’t know Proggle’s Pie Shop?’

  As Simon now made hastily towards the door, Mr Robinson rose to his feet, saying, ‘I trust if the young woman is whom you hope her to be, you will call and settle your account . . . or should I send the bill on to you?’

  Simon paused for a moment, turned his head and said, ‘Don’t worry; either way you’ll be paid.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Of course.’

  In the street now, his walk almost a run, he dodged in and out of people on the crowded thoroughfare and slithered as he crossed the road between the packed vehicles; then his breath coming short and sending out waves of mist to mingle with the thickening snowflakes, he came to a stop outside the pie shop and stood for a moment, his eyes closed, while the appetising smell of the pies filled his lungs as he drew in a deep breath before pushing his way into the crowded shop.

  It was some minutes before he could get to the counter. At one end of it a young boy was scooping ladlefuls of mashed peas into bowls while at the other end a small sharp-faced, greasy-haired man was swiftly bundling pies into sheets of newspaper seemingly with one hand, while with the other placing numbers on tin plates that were being held out to him by the customers, and, like a magician with a third invisible hand, he was taking money and returning change.

  When Simon managed to push his way along the counter and to stand before him, the man glanced at him for a moment, saying, ‘Plate or paper?’

  ‘Neither. I want to see Lucy Cuthbertson.’

  As if some unseen clockwork had stopped the movements of his hands, Mr Proggle looked at the well-dressed man before him, who by his voice was not a gentleman, but by the cut of his clothes was certainly someone of quality. Swiftly resuming his serving, pushing the paper-wrapped pies or the plates this way and that, he asked, ‘Why do you want to see her?’

  ‘I’m her father.’

  Again the hands came to a temporary halt and the man, now jerking his chin upwards, said, ‘Oh aye. Well, you’ll have to prove that.’

  ‘I’ll prove it, where is she?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait, I’ve got me hands full.’

  Simon now looked over the heads of the crowd of men, women and children and his eyes came to rest on a dark hole that led into the shop, and so, pushing his way through the throng, he paused at the top of the stairs and glanced back at Mr Proggle, who was staring towards him; then he descended into the cellar kitchen . . .

  The first glimpse he had of his daughter, his beloved Noreen, pierced him as would a knife driven into him by a friend. His lass who had been brought up as good as any lady working in this filthy hole. She had her back to him but there was no need to wonder if he was on the right track.

  When Noreen turned from the oven, the big iron shelf in her hand, and saw him standing in the dimness at the foot of the stairs she had to take two running steps in order to avoid dropping the shelf and its contents onto the floor. Then she stood leaning against the corner of the table staring at him, some instinct born of the tie of blood urging her to fly to him and throw her arms around him and feel the protection of his strength, while the knowledge of his temper and the possessiveness of his love brought her back straight and her face stiff as she watched him approach slowly into the radius of the lamps.

  When he didn’t stop at the end of the table but kept coming on she backed from him towards the ovens, saying as she did so, ‘You lay a hand on me and I’ll scream and I’ll have that shopful down on you.’

  ‘Aw, lass! Lass!’ The t
one of his voice, the sorrow in it, the compassion in his look, took the stiffness out of her entire body, and when he stopped within an arm’s length of her she saw that his whole face was quivering.

  His voice low now, even pleading, he said, ‘I’m not going to lay a hand on you, all I want is for you to come home.’

  Again there was the urge to throw herself at him, but the realisation of why she was here in this filthy verminous, stinking place came to the foremost of her mind, and she cried at him, ‘And be made to toe the line again, locked up? Or perhaps you haven’t noticed’ – she now slapped her stomach hard – ‘I’m not alone any more, I’m carrying Willy’s bairn. And what’ll you do if I go back? Kill him, as you promised? Or will you send for him and say marry my daughter and make an honest woman of her? But before you contemplate doing either let me tell you that it was me who did the wooing. Oh yes, you can droop your head, I wanted him, I wanted his child. I thought in my ignorance that if you knew I was bearing you’d see things differently. But you went mad before you even knew we had come together. And now you say come back?’

  Simon still kept his head bent. He knew he wasn’t dealing with a girl any longer but that here was a woman who would go her own way no matter what he did or said. But all he wanted at this moment was to get her back into the shelter of his home because unless he succeeded in doing that he would have lost for good, not only her but Lucy also; and of late it had come to him that strangely he needed Lucy, for lying alone at nights he had realised that what he had thought of as her complacency, good-humoured complacency, had been a form of strength, deep strength. And she had shown him to what depths that strength could carry her these past months, for as sure as he would have killed Willy Sopwith had they met up, she would have done likewise to him if he had laid a hand on her. And he knew now that he needed her, he needed her as much as he needed Noreen, more in fact, because Noreen would, he hated to admit, have inevitably gone from him one day to another man. But Lucy would always have been there. She was there now, and yet she wasn’t there, but once she had her daughter back and knowing he was the means of bringing her back quietly, peaceably, accepting the condition she was in, she would return to the once pliant wife he had come to rely on while not realising it.

  He said quietly, ‘Your mother misses you. She’s not herself any more, she wants you back. And there’ll be no trouble. I promise you. I give you my word on it, there’ll be no trouble.’ He did not add, ‘As long as Sopwith keeps out of the way,’ for he knew he wouldn’t be accountable for his actions if he were to come face to face with the fellow, for the desire to pay off the score between Tilly and himself was still burning in him and could only be achieved through her son.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Noreen’s throat was swelling, and he answered, ‘I do.’ But when she said, ‘And you won’t tie me down in any way?’ there was a slight pause before he repeated her words, ‘I won’t tie you down in any way.’

  She now dusted her hands one against the other, then looked from side to side, saying, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be leaving him in the lurch, he’s . . . ’ She got no further; evidently in pain she pushed past him and gripped the edge of the table and again her hand went round her waist.

  Now Simon was holding her, saying, ‘What is it?’

  She shook her head, unable to speak for the moment; when she did she answered simply, ‘’Tisn’t due for three weeks.’

  ‘But the pain, how long have you had it?’

  ‘A couple of days.’

  ‘Come; get your cloak.’

  As Simon spoke Mr Proggle entered the kitchen, saying, ‘What’s this? What’s this? Now look, where you off to?’ He put his hand out towards Noreen, but it was Simon who answered, saying, ‘She’s off home where she should have been all the time.’

  ‘She . . . she can’t go like this, she’s by the week. She’s leavin’ me in a pickle and I won’t pay her, not me. I can claim for the four days; by the week she is.’

  ‘What does she earn a day?’

  Mr Proggle seemed surprised by the question and the fact that the man was putting his hand into his pocket, and he muttered ‘Penny ha’penny an hour. Good wage at that; six shillings that is.’

  Slowly Simon counted the six shillings onto the table; then staring at the man, he said, ‘You should be prosecuted for keeping anyone working in this hell-hole.’ He pointed now to a cat chewing at the carcass of a rat and to the beetles scurrying around the skirting board, and his lip curled away from his teeth as he said, ‘Slaves have better quarters.’

  ‘A man has to earn a livin’.’

  ‘You mean, has to make a fortune. And that’s what you’re coining up there’ – he jerked his head – ‘and out of the unfortunates. Out of me way!’ He threw his arm wide and nearly knocked the man onto his back; then with his other hand around Noreen’s shoulders he pressed her forward and up the stairs. And now guiding her through the shop amid the curious glances of the customers, they made for the street. There she stopped and, turning her face upwards, she let the snowflakes fall on it for a moment before gazing down the narrow cobbled road towards the waterfront and the dim shapes of the masts of the boats lying along the quay.

  ‘I’ve got the trap at Fuller’s, do you think you can walk that far?’ She nodded but made no reply; nor did she resist when he put his arm around her shoulders and helped her up the slippery bank towards the main thoroughfare.

  It was when they entered the farrier’s and she saw Lady, her head tossing with impatience at being still harnessed to the trap, that she almost broke down and wept. Going to the horse who seemed to recognise her almost instantly, she laid her face for a moment against her cheek. Then moving towards the step of the trap, she was about to lift her foot onto it when again the pain seized her, worse this time, bringing her almost bent double, and Simon, holding her tightly, said anxiously, ‘Shall I take you to a doctor?’

  ‘No . . . no.’ She straightened up. ‘Just get me home.’ Home. It had a wonderful sound as she uttered it, and it sounded wonderful too to his ears.

  Lifting her bodily now, he placed her in the trap, pulled the canvas hood – an invention of his own he had made to keep out the winds – firmly into place; then having settled his account, he took his seat beside her and they moved out and began the journey home. When they crossed the bridge and left Newcastle it was as if they had entered another world, a white snowbound world. Whereas the streets behind them had been lined with slush, the roads before them were bordered in deep white drifts, and the further they went towards Jarrow the deeper became the drifts and the harder the going. At times Simon had to dismount and kick the light snow away to allow the horse passage.

  He had lit the lamps shortly after they passed through Gateshead and now at four o’clock in the afternoon the night had come upon them and it was impossible to see beyond the radius of light given off by the dim lamps.

  Time and again he tucked the rug around Noreen and asked the same question, ‘Are you all right?’

  Sometimes she answered ‘Yes’, and sometimes she merely nodded. These were the times when the pains were gripping her. And she knew now, without having previous experience, that the child within her was trying to kick its way into life . . .

  It was almost an hour and a half later when they reached the turnpike. At this rate another half-hour and they’d be home, but the road that lay straight ahead to the farm was now almost impassable with drifts three feet and more high. There was nothing for it but to take the side road. This would lead through the wood for at least half the remaining journey but there the trees would have taken a great deal of the snow and stopped the drifting.

  He got down from the trap yet once again and turned the horse to the right and up the somewhat sheltered side road that led into the wood, the far edge of which actually bordered his own land or the land that he had thought of as his own and which he had been given notice to leave. But this thought did not enter his mind, all he wanted was to get his lass home and
not least to witness Lucy’s joy at the reunion.

  He had been re-seated in the cart for less than a minute when from out of a snow-covered ditch to the right of them there sprang a young doe. How it had strayed down this far would never be known because the nearest herd was in Blandon Park, and that was all of eight miles away. When the horse reared, then tried to go into a gallop, Simon pulled on the reins and yelled, ‘Whoa there! Steady! Steady girl, steady!’

  But the animal was tired and frightened and it continued to try to go into a gallop; and for a number of yards it succeeded in an ungainly fashion, but then of a sudden it seemed to leap into the air before disappearing into the ground. As it let out an unearthly neigh both Simon and Noreen joined their voices to it as the trap, capsizing, rolled right over pinning them both beneath it . . .

  They were all very still until the horse kicked out with its back leg, and as the hoof struck Simon in the middle of his back he made no sound for he was already unconscious.

  There was silence again for quite some time; then Noreen, her voice like a faint whisper, said, ‘Dad! Dad!’ then louder now, ‘Dad! Dad!’ She tried to move and found her arms free but the seat of the trap was pinning her legs below the knees, and as she muttered, ‘Oh God! Oh God!’ her upper body relaxed and she lay back in the cushion of the snow, and her last conscious thought was, ‘Well, I’m glad we made it up.’

  Thirteen

  When Steve came up out of the drift entrance he paused for a minute, saying to one of the men beside him, ‘Good God, look at that! That’s a contrast if you like. If you want to get in the morrow I can see you having to get your shovels out early on.’

  The man nodded, saying, ‘Aye, aye. The women kept it clear yesterday, but it was nowt like this. Aye, you’re right, it’ll be shovelling white instead of black.’ He gave a throaty chuckle, then went on his way, saying, ‘Night, boss,’ and Steve answered, ‘Night, Dick.’