Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  She stood shyly by one of the long windows that were on each side of the front door. Simon’s father had had these put in some years ago at his own expense and had had to pay tax for doing it, so she had been told. As she stood looking on the gay milling scene she chided herself for wondering at this particular moment if the money for the windows had come out of the same coffer as the monthly sovereign, and she was telling herself to stop it, because the matter seemed to be getting between her and her wits, when she heard her name being called loudly, and she turned to see Simon coming down the two steps that led from the front door. The next minute he was holding her hand and she was looking into his face. His eyes were bright, his mouth was wide. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he cried at her. ‘I thought you weren’t coming. And why didn’t you come to the church, eh?’ He was bending towards her, his face level with hers. ‘Come’ – he was pulling her now – ‘come and see Mary.’

  He tugged her up the steps and into the farm sitting room to where his bride was standing in her white dress.

  Tilly mouthed her good wishes as her granny had told her to. ‘I hope you have a very happy life,’ she said, ‘and never want for nothing; an’ that’s from me granny and granda an’ all.’

  ‘Oh thank you. Thank you.’ The words were polite, stilted. The lids blinked rapidly over the blue eyes and as the bow-shaped mouth moved into a wider smile Tilly thought grudgingly, She’s bonny, I suppose, and I can see what got Simon. Oh aye. Her look went to where the white lace dipped deeply between the full breasts, then swept downwards to the tight-laced waist, and as her eyes lowered towards the floor her practical mind told her that there was all of ten yards of satin or more in the skirt of the dress.

  ‘Oh, how kind of you.’

  She found herself nudged aside by the churchwarden and his wife, Mr and Mrs Fossett. Mrs Fossett was being gushing, as usual. ‘Oh, you do look beautiful, Mrs Bentwood. And what a wedding! What a spread! The village has seen nothin’ like it for years.’ Then came the sting as it always did from Mrs Fossett’s barbed tongue. ‘’Twas . . . ’twas a pity though you couldn’t have been married in our church. Oh, that would have given the stamp to the day. But there, there . . . I would like you to accept this little gift. It’s really nothing, although it’s very old, it belonged to my great-grandmother.’

  As she spoke she was unwrapping a small parcel, and when the paper fell away it showed a flower vase of no apparent attraction.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’

  As Tilly looked at the bride she was asking herself if that was all she was ever going to say; but she was wrong, for now the new Mrs Bentwood led the way to a table at the end of the room and there, from amid a number of presents she picked up a fluted sugar basin and, holding it up for all to see, she said, ‘Mr Sopwith himself called in earlier on and brought us this. It’s a present from his wife.’ There was a pause before she ended, ‘It’s solid silver; it’s from their collection.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Mrs Fossett’s voice was cool. She nodded her head, then said, ‘Very nice. Very nice.’

  ‘Enough. Enough of presents for the time being. Come on, it’s time we had something to eat . . . Mrs Bentwood—’ Simon now playfully caught hold of his bride’s arm and in a masterful voice demanded, ‘Aren’t you going to see to my victuals, woman?’

  There was general laughter and the company in the room followed the bride and bridegroom outside on to the lawn. All except Tilly. She remained behind for a moment and looked round the room. She had often been in this room. She’d had her dreams about this room. It was a bonny room; it wasn’t like other rooms in the house, dim because of the small windows. Old Mr Bentwood had known what he was doing when he’d had these windows put in.

  She turned and made for the door and as she did so she saw Mrs Ross, the parson’s wife, passing, and Mrs Ross saw her and, coming quickly up the steps, she said, ‘Hello, Tilly,’ and not waiting for Tilly’s greeting, she added in a voice that was low and rapid and was backed by a mischievous gurgle, ‘Have you seen the vicar? I should have been here an hour ago but I got caught up with a class.’ Her voice sank even lower now and her eyes seemed to sparkle more as she brought her face close to Tilly’s and whispered, ‘I’ve got three pitmen. Aha! Aha!’ Her head moved in little jerks now. ‘What do you think of that? Three pitmen!’

  Tilly’s voice was as conspiratorial as hers and her eyes shone as she repeated, ‘Three . . . for learnin’?’

  ‘Ssh!’ The parson’s wife now looked from side to side. ‘Not a word. They came of their own accord, said they wanted to learn their letters. Of course it’s dangerous’ – she straightened her back – ‘I mean for them. Should Mr Rosier get to know they’ll be dismissed their work. Dreadful. Dreadful, when you come to think of it.’

  ‘’Tis, ’tis awful.’ Tilly nodded vigorously. ‘Just because they want to learn their letters!’

  ‘They were as black as the devil himself.’ The parson’s wife was gurgling again. ‘They hadn’t washed, you see. Well, if they had got tidied up to come to the vicarage someone would have noticed. But they were supposedly on their way home from their shift, as they said.’

  ‘But where did you learn them? I mean, where did you take them?’

  ‘In the summer house at the bottom of the garden.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Ross!’ Tilly had her hand over her mouth now. Then her face straight, she said, ‘What about the parson?’

  At this Mrs Ross cast her eyes towards the ceiling and said, ‘Heigh-ho! Nonny-no! Skull, hair and feathers flying.’

  ‘He’ll be very vexed?’

  Mrs Ross now turned her head to the side as if considering, then said, ‘I really don’t know, Tilly. I’ve thought about it and somehow I think he might even turn a blind eye . . . seeing they are men. Oh, it’s different for men. As you know he doesn’t hold with women learning. I can’t understand that about Geor . . . Mr Ross, because he is wide you know, Tilly, very wide in his views.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, Mrs Ross. Yes, I know. Oh my!’ She looked past the parson’s wife out on to the lawn as she whispered now, ‘They are sitting down at the tables. Should we be going?’

  ‘Dear! Dear! Yes.’ Mrs Ross swung round so quickly that the skirt of her grey alpaca dress formed itself for a moment into a bell and it looked to Tilly as if she were about to run down the steps and across the lawn. This thought made her want to laugh; just think of the faces if the parson’s wife was seen running across the lawn! She loved Mrs Ross. She did, she did . . . Could you love a woman? Yes, she supposed you could, like you loved God. And she was the nearest thing she knew to God. Eeh! that somehow sounded like blasphemy. Yet she was. Yes, she was; she was better and kinder than anybody she knew. What’s more, she was of the class, and you didn’t get much kindness from the class, did you? Not really. You usually had to work for the kindness you got from the class. And yet the class, in the form of Mr Sopwith, had been kind to her granda and her great-granda by letting them have the cottage. But then her great-granda had worked for the Sopwiths from when he was six years old, and her granda had worked in the Sopwith mine since he was eight. Still, he hadn’t got the cottage because he had worked in the mine, because so many men worked in the mine and they didn’t get cottages, he had got the cottage because he had dived into the lake in the bitter cold weather and saved Mr Mark Sopwith, as he was now, from drowning. The lad had gone out in a boat when he shouldn’t and it had capsized and he couldn’t swim, and his father had been on the shore and stood there helpless, and her granda had dived in and brought him out almost dead. The young lad had survived without hurt, but her granda had always had his chest after that. Her granda shouldn’t have been in the Sopwith grounds that day, he was after a rabbit and could have been had up for poaching, but old Mr Sopwith, who was religious, said that God had sent him, and for saving his son’s life he had let him have the cottage free for as long as he should live.

  Her mind was wandering. Everybody was laughing and shouting all up and dow
n the tables and all towards the bride and bridegroom. Someone pushed a great chunk of hare pie in front of her. She didn’t like hare, it was too strong, but she nibbled at it out of politeness.

  She lost count of the time she sat at the table. Everybody was talking, but she hadn’t much to say. Mrs Ross was now at the top table seated next to the parson, and she herself was stuck between Mr Fairweather and Bessie Bradshaw, the wife of the innkeeper. She didn’t know Mrs Bradshaw very well, only that no-one ever called her Mrs Bradshaw, it was always Bessie. She knew Mr Fairweather because he was one of the sidesmen at the church, but she had never liked him, he always sang the hymns louder and longer than anybody else, and his amens were like an echo, they came so long after the prayer was finished. But now he was laughing a lot; he’d had his tankard filled four times to her knowledge. There was a tankard of home-brewed beer in front of her, too, but she had only sipped at it because it was bitter; it had a different bitterness to the herb beer her granny made, she liked that.

  The whole table now seemed to rock to its feet as somebody cried, ‘The fiddlers! The fiddlers!’ and there at the other side of the lawn two fiddlers were dragging their bows across the strings while the man with a melodeon began to pull it in and out.

  She was glad to get to her feet, but as she was lifting one booted foot decorously over the form she squealed and almost jumped in the air; then turning angrily about, her face flushed, she stared at Mr Fairweather and in no small voice she cried, ‘Don’t you dare do that to me, Mr Fairweather!’ whereupon Andy Fairweather, the usually staid church sidesman, put his head back and laughed, saying, ‘’Tis a weddin’, girl. ’Tis a weddin’.’

  ‘Wedding or no’ – she backed from him, her hand to her bottom – ‘you keep your hands to yourself.’

  There was much laughter from the bottom of the table and as the company made towards the far end of the lawn somebody chokingly spluttered, ‘Andy Fairweather put his finger in her backside.’

  ‘Never! Andy Fairweather? Ho! Ho!’

  ‘’Tis the wedding. ’Tis the wedding. There’ll be more than backsides probed the night.’

  She wanted to go home, she wasn’t enjoying this wedding, not a bit. But she had known she wouldn’t before she came.

  ‘Here, Tilly! What you looking so solemn about?’ It was Simon, and once again he had hold of her hand. ‘Not a smile on your face. I saw you at the bottom of the table. And what was that business with Andy Fairweather?’

  She turned her head to the side, then looked down as she simplified things by muttering, ‘He nipped me . . . my . . . ’

  ‘Oh! Oh! . . . Andy Fairweather nipped your . . . ? Well! Well?’

  As she looked into his face she saw that he was straining not to laugh; then his mouth springing wide, he said, ‘See the funny side of it, Tilly: Andy Fairweather nipping anybody. My! The ale must have spread right down to his innards for him to do that. Next time you see him in church claiming kinship with the Almighty, just think of him the day, eh?’ He jerked her hand in his and she bit on her lip and began to laugh. ‘Come on, there’s a nice lad over here, his people are neighbours of Mary’s. Come on, give him a dance.’

  ‘No! No!’ She pulled back from his hand, but he held on to her tightly, saying, ‘Look, I won’t enjoy me wedding if I see you sitting with a face like a wet weekend. Come on.’ But as he tugged her across the lawn, weaving in and out of the company, his wife’s voice suddenly arrested him, saying, ‘Simon! Simon! Come here a minute.’

  He stopped and looked over the heads of the group surrounding her and, his chin up, he called to her, ‘In two ticks, Mary. Be with you in two ticks.’ The next minute he had pulled Tilly to a stop opposite a young boy of seventeen. ‘Bobby, this is Tilly, a great friend of mine. Now I want you to look after her, give her a dance. What about it?’

  ‘Aye, yes, yes, Simon.’

  Simon was now peering down into Tilly’s face. His own mock stern, his voice imitating a growl, he ordered her, ‘Enjoy yourself, Miss Tilly Trotter. Do you hear? Enjoy yourself.’ Then on a laugh he patted her cheek and turning from her hurried to his bride.

  Tilly looked at the boy and the boy looked at Tilly, and neither of them found a word to say to each other.

  When in embarrassment she turned from him and went and sat on a weather-worn oak bench that was set against a low hedge bordering the lawn, he paused for a full minute before following her and taking his place by her side.

  Then together they sat in silence and watched women clearing the tables and carrying the remnants of the food around the side of the house and into the barn where later in the evening the jollification would continue.

  The lawn finally cleared, the fiddlers and the melodeon player struck up a lively tune, and almost immediately Simon, leading his bride into the middle of the lawn, cried, ‘Come on, let’s go!’ And this was the signal for the men to grab their partners and start the dance.

  The musicians played polkas and jigs, and the dancers danced, some in step and some out of it, stopping between times to refresh themselves from the barrel. Once Simon waved to Tilly telling her to get to her feet, but she shook her head.

  She was on the point of getting up and walking away from her tongue-tied companion when she saw Simon weaving his way towards her. Then he was standing over them, looking from one to the other and demanding, ‘What’s the matter with you two? This is a wedding not a funeral! Come on.’ He pulled her up, and the next minute he was whirling her over the grass. One, two, three, hop! One, two, three, hop! They went into the polka and, laughing, he cried to her, ‘By! you’re as light as a feather.’ Then bending his mouth down to her ear, he said, ‘She taught you well.’

  She had no breath for speaking and so she just shook her head at him and went on lifting her feet: One, two, three, hop! One, two, three, hop! When he almost swung her into the air, so light did she feel she could imagine she hadn’t any boots on.

  At last the music stopped; he held her tightly against him for a moment; then looking down into her face, he said, ‘What about that, eh?’

  ‘’Twas wonderful, Simon. Wonderful.’

  ‘Well, you go on now and take Bobby.’

  ‘No! No! I’m not going back to him, he’s never opened his mouth.’

  ‘Well, did you open yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then . . . I’ve got to go, but enjoy yourself.’ His face became straight for a moment as he ended, ‘I want you to enjoy yourself, Tilly, and be happy with me the day.’

  She could find no answer to give him, not even to say politely, ‘I will, I will. Don’t worry, I’ll enjoy meself.’

  ‘Simon!’ A man was pulling at his sleeve. ‘Your missus is calling you. By! you’re going to get it.’

  ‘Oh aye. Oh aye. Comin’ George. I’m comin’.’ Without further words he turned from her.

  She watched him but he did not make directly towards where his wife was sitting below the house steps; instead he went towards the beer tent, and when he was handed a tankard of beer she saw him put it to his mouth and almost drain it at one go.

  He would be drunk before the night was over. Men usually got drunk on their wedding night, at least those who drank did. Would she like the man she married to get drunk on her wedding night? A stupid question to ask herself ’cos she would never marry. With or without the chance she would never marry.

  She looked about her. What could she do? Who could she talk to? There were three old village women sitting alongside the wall at the far end of the house; she’d go and talk to them, she was used to talking to old people. She got on well with old people; likely it was having lived with her granda and grandma all these years . . .

  Two hours later, when the light was beginning to go, she knew she could now make her excuses and go home. She had talked to the old women, she had been in the kitchen and helped to wash up, she had been in the barn and filled plates with odds and ends and carried empty ones back into the house. The guests had now sorted themselv
es out, those who were going home had already left such as the parson and Mrs Ross and the old people who were tired. One brake-load had set off an hour ago back to Felling. She went up the steps into the house to say goodbye to Simon and his wife. There was nobody in the front room. She went out into the passage, then into the hall; and there they were, he had his arms around her and was kissing her.

  Her muttering, ‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ brought them apart, yet still holding.

  ‘’Tis all right, Tilly, ’tis all right.’ His voice was slurred and he held out one hand towards her, but she remained standing, saying, ‘I’m off now; I just wanted to say thank you.’ She didn’t look at Simon but at his wife. ‘It . . . it was a lovely wedding. Goodnight.’ She was about to add, ‘I wish you happiness,’ when Simon made to come towards her but was stopped by his wife, her hand on his arm. He remained still, asking now, ‘You’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Aye, of course, thank you. Thank you.’ She nodded to both of them, then backed into the doorway before turning and going hastily out.

  She had begun to make her way towards the farmyard when she saw Mr Fairweather and Mr Laudimer, another sidesman at the church, standing together. They were laughing and had their hands on each other’s shoulders. She didn’t want to pass them. She looked towards the far end of the lawn. There was a gate that led into a meadow, and further on there was a bridle path that would bring her out near the toll bridge and the coach road, and from there she could pick up her usual route home.

  A few minutes later she had let herself through the gate and had walked across the meadow and swung herself over a low stone wall and so on to the bridle path that ran alongside it.

  She must have gone about a mile along the path when she saw galloping towards her a horse and rider. Jumping to the side she pressed tight against the hedge to allow them to pass, but the man drew the horse up almost opposite her. She recognised him as Mr Sopwith, and he, recognising her, said, ‘Hello there.’