‘Aw, Granny.’ It was too much on top of all that had happened, and Tilly leant forward and laid her head against Annie’s breast, and the old woman held her tightly while they both cried. Then Annie, recovering first, muttered, ‘This won’t get any broth down you an’ you’re as cold as clay.’ This latter remark seemed to remind her of William for she now added, ‘Me poor lad. Me dear lad.’
It wasn’t until after she had served up the plate of broth and Tilly had forced herself to eat it that Annie now asked, ‘How did it go?’
‘She got off.’
‘Thanks be to God!’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘Aw, Granny.’ Tilly now put the bowl on to her knees and she bent her head over it as she murmured, ‘It was awful, awful. All of it was awful, but . . . but when the judge asked me had . . . had I practised witchcraft . . . ’
‘What!’
‘Aye, Granny. They’re makin’ out in the village that I’m a witch. It isn’t just the McGraths now, ’tis everybody, and they’re blamin’ me for the lot.’
‘They’re mad, stark starin’ mad.’
‘And you know what, Granny’ – Tilly’s voice rose now – ‘the judge asked McGrath did he want to marry me and he said aye, and he would knock the witchcraft out of me. And the judge said it was a good thing. Aw, Granny, I thought I would die.’
Annie looked at the face before her, the beloved face, and all she saw in it was purity. Her bairn was bonny, lovely; aye, too much so really, and in spite of having no figure to speak of, she had something, an air about her, a quality, something she couldn’t give a name to. But . . . witchcraft! What would they say next? But this was serious, very serious, much more so than McGrath’s thinking they had money hidden here. Oh aye, more so. Feeling suddenly weak she sat down on the settle by the side of Tilly, and after a moment she said, ‘Thank God we’ve got Simon. As long as he lives he’ll let nothing bad happen to you.’ And to herself she added, ‘Married or no.’
The fire had been banked down. Tilly was lying by the side of her grandmother in the walled bed. She had lain there each night since they had boxed William and set him out on the table in the middle of the room until it was time to take him to his last resting place.
Her granny was quiet; she didn’t know whether she was asleep or not but for herself sleep was far away, her mind was going over the details of the day from the moment she had got off the back of the carrier cart and Mr Fogget, the carter, had pointed out the way to the courthouse. But he had done so without looking at her, and the other passengers from the village had remained seated in the cart and let her go on ahead. No-one had spoken to her on the journey, in fact Mrs Summers, whose husband worked in the Sopwiths’ gardens, had pulled her skirt aside when she sat down beside her.
The thought of wanting to die had been in her mind a lot of late but never more so than at the moment when she entered that courthouse. It was as if she was the person about to be judged, and she knew that in a great many minds this was so.
She lay wide-eyed in the stillness. There were no night sounds tonight, the snow had muffled them. The fire wasn’t crackling. The only sounds were the short soft gasping breaths of her granny.
Then she was sitting bolt upright in the bed, her hand pressed tight against the stone wall to her side. Someone was coming up the path. She wasn’t dreaming. No, she wasn’t dreaming. They had stopped outside the door, and now her heart seemed to leap in her breast when there came two short raps on the door.
She was immediately aware that her granny had not been asleep because now she was resting on her elbow and whispering, ‘Who in the name of God can this be at this time?’
As Tilly went to crawl over her to reach the edge of the bed, Annie’s hand stayed her, saying, ‘No, no; stay where you are.’
When the raps came again and a soft murmur came to them, saying, ‘Tilly! Tilly!’ Tilly turned her head to stare down at her grandmother, and although she couldn’t see her face she knew that her granny was staring at her, and she whispered, ‘I think ’tis Mrs Ross.’
‘Mrs Ross at this time of the night! Dear God! Dear God! what now?’ Annie was muttering as she painfully swung her legs out of the bed. By this time Tilly was at the door and, pulling her coat over her nightgown, she paused before calling, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Me, Tilly, Ellen Ross.’
Tilly turned the key in the lock, withdrew the top and bottom bolts and pulled the door ajar.
The world outside looked white and against the whiteness stood the small dark form of the parson’s wife. ‘Come in. Come in.’
When the door was closed and they were standing in the dark room, Tilly said quickly, ‘Stay where you are, ma’am, stay where you are till I light the lamp.’
When the lamp was alight it showed Ellen Ross leaning against the door and Annie standing supporting herself against the edge of the table.
It was as if the heightening of the flame drew Ellen Ross towards the table too and as she came within the halo of the light Tilly glanced at her for a moment; then turning quickly, she grabbed the bellows and blew on the dying embers of the fire. Immediately these flared she turned towards the table again, saying, ‘Come and sit down, ma’am, you look froze. Take your cape off a minute;’ and she put her hands out to take the hip-length fur cape partly covering the long grey melton cloth coat. But Ellen Ross shook her head and, putting her gloved hands to the collar, gripped it as she said, ‘I . . . I can’t stay, but I had to come and see you to . . . to say goodbye.’
It was Annie who now spoke, saying, ‘Well, sit down a moment, ma’am.’
Ellen nodded at the old woman, then took a seat by the side of the reviving fire and as she looked at it her head drooped on to her chest and the voice in which she now spoke was tear-filled. ‘I . . . I had to come and say how sorry I was, I am . . . I am for all the trouble I have brought on you.’
Tilly walked slowly towards her now and, standing before her, looked down on the bent head as she said, ‘There’s no blame attached to you, ma’am; there’s only one person who bears the guilt for this and that’s McGrath.’
‘Yes, yes, I think that’s right, but . . . but my interference hasn’t helped; oh no, no, it hasn’t helped.’ She now looked up at Tilly. Her face was wet as she said, ‘I have ruined George . . . my husband’s life; he can no longer follow his vocation, at least not in this country. He has already arranged that we should go abroad; he is to be a missionary.’
‘Oh, ma’am!’ There was a break in Tilly’s voice, and again she muttered, ‘Oh, ma’am!’
Ellen now looked towards Annie, who was on the settle opposite to her, and she addressed her as if she would understand what she was now about to say. ‘My . . . my people want me to return home but . . . but that would mean separating from my husband. As much as I would love to, because my family are very understanding people, I feel I must abide with my husband, for that is as little as I can do for all the trouble I have caused him. Where he goes I go, I must go.’
‘And you’re right, ma’am, you’re right.’
‘Yes, yes, I think I am. But . . . but life will never be the same again. I shall carry the burden of that man’s death with me to my grave.’
‘You weren’t to blame for that, ma’am. That part of the business links straight up with Hal McGrath.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, Tilly. But . . . but tell me, he won’t get his own way? I mean you will never marry him, will you Tilly? No matter what happens you couldn’t . . . ’
‘Oh no! No!’ Tilly was shaking her head in wide sweeps. ‘Never! Never! I’d sooner die first.’
‘And I’d sooner see her dead first.’ Annie was nodding her head violently now. ‘I’d kill him afore he’d lay a hand on her.’
The fire suddenly blazed upwards, the lamp flickered, there was a whining of wind round the chimney. Ellen Ross shivered; then getting to her feet, she said, ‘I . . . I have to return.’
‘It must have been da
ngerous for you coming, ma’am; the roads are bad, an’ you didn’t carry a light.’ Although Annie had referred to the roads her words also implied there was danger from another quarter, and to this Ellen answered, ‘I’m safe in the fact that not many people will venture out tonight, and the snow has made it quite light.’
‘I’ll put my things on me and go back with you to the crossroads.’
As Tilly spoke the protests came from both Annie and Ellen Ross saying, ‘No! No!’ and Ellen now added, ‘I’m warmly wrapped and I’m not afraid. Believe me, I’m not afraid. I don’t think there’s anything could happen to me in life now that could make me really afraid. The last few weeks I have lived with fear and I have faced it, and conquered it.
‘Well, it’s goodbye, Mrs Trotter.’ Ellen walked towards the old woman and took her outstretched hand. ‘I used to think it would be nice to grow old hereabouts, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘Goodbye, me dear, and God go with you.’
Tilly had walked towards the door, and when Ellen came up to her she suddenly put out her arms and drew Tilly tightly into her embrace, and after a moment’s hesitation, Tilly returned the embrace with equal intensity. Then Ellen kissed her on each cheek and, her face again flowing with tears and her voice breaking, she said, ‘Promise me one thing, promise me you’ll keep up your reading and your writing; no matter what happens you’ll do a little each day. Promise me, Tilly.’
Tilly had no voice with which to answer that promise but gulping in her throat and screwing up her eyes tight, she made a deep obeisance with her head.
‘Goodbye, my dear, I’ll never forget you. I . . . I would like to say I will write, but I . . . I may not be able to because I . . . I prom . . . ’ Her voice ended abruptly and she turned blindly to the door and, slowly opening it, went out into the night and she didn’t look back.
Tilly watched the dark figure seeming to glide over the snow; she watched her go through the gate; she watched her until she became lost in the night; then she closed the door, locked it, bolted it top and bottom, and, leaning her head against it in the crook of her elbow, she sobbed aloud.
Seven
A week went by; then a month; then two months, and nothing happened. Tilly never went into the village, and only from a distance did she see any of the villagers, except Tom Pearson and young Steve. On the day she found a couple of dead rabbits in the woodshed she thanked Steve on the Sunday afternoon when she went down to the burn and saw him sitting on the bank. Sunday being his only free day from the pit he had made it a rule, she knew, to be at the burn in the afternoon; and she was glad of this because it was someone to pass a word with, someone young. But on that particular Sunday afternoon after she had thanked him for the rabbits he had said that it wasn’t he who had put them in the woodshed but he had a good idea who had; it would be Tom Pearson because he was known to be a dab hand at poaching. She had felt slightly warmed inside that day knowing that besides Simon and Steve she had another friend, one who apparently wasn’t afraid of the villagers.
One person she hadn’t seen even a glimpse of over the past weeks was Hal McGrath, and she wondered if Simon had gone for him. However, she had not asked him because the subject she felt was best buried; and deep in her mind she wished that McGrath could be buried with it.
Yesterday Simon had brought the sovereign. His face had looked frozen and pinched, and there was a kind of sadness about him. But perhaps it was due to the weather. For the past fortnight it had hardly stopped raining, and even under better weather conditions farmers always found this a heavy time. He’d had little to say, just asked them if they were all right and if they had been troubled by anyone. When she had said ‘No’, his answer had been, ‘Well, that’s as it should be.’
When he left without even having a drink of hot ginger beer her granny had said, ‘He’s more troubled than we are, he’s not happy, you can see it in his face.’
This morning the rain had stopped but the wind was high and the air biting, and when she was pulling her coat on Annie said, ‘Don’t put your hat on, it’ll be blown away afore you get out of the gate. Look, take my shawl’ — she pulled the shawl from her shoulders – ‘put it round your head and cross it over and I’ll tie it behind your waist.’
‘No, no, Granny’ – she put out a protesting hand – ‘I’ll be all right. I’ve got me scarf, I’ll put that round me head.’
‘Don’t be silly, girl, that piece of wool wouldn’t keep the wind out of a flute. Here’ – she was already putting the shawl over Tilly’s head; then crossing it over, she turned her around and knotted it under her shoulder blades – ‘There, at least you’ll be warm.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m in the house, aren’t I, an’ there’s a roarin’ fire there and enough wood in to keep me going for a week; you’ve got a four mile walk afore you each way.’
‘I don’t mind the walk, Granny.’
And she didn’t mind the walk. She no longer took the carrier cart into Shields for the necessities because it would already be laden with villagers. Instead she now went into Jarrow for her shopping.
The shops in Jarrow were of poor quality compared with those in Shields because Jarrow was little more than an enlarged village, nor was the quality of the food as good as that which could be purchased in the market place in Shields. Still, they could live without bread, substituting potato cake in place of it rather than sit that ride out among the villagers, or even walk along the road into Harton village just to get flour; for that way she was sure to bump into one or the other she knew, and someone who didn’t want to know her.
Ready now for the road, she stood waiting while her granny went to the tea caddy on the mantelpiece and took out the sovereign, and as she handed it to her she said, ‘What would we do without Simon? Although I’ve cursed that money many a time of late, it helped to put my William decently away.’ Then her chin jerking, she said, ‘That’ll be another thing to puzzle them, where we got the money for an oak coffin. Well, let it puzzle ’em; he wasn’t going to his last bed in any deal box. Now away with you, and get back well afore dark, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Granny. An’ mind you don’t go outside, or it’ll be you who’ll catch your death, not me. Sit warm aside the fire. I won’t be all that long.’ She leant slightly forward and touched her grandmother’s cheek, letting her fingers linger on it for a moment; and Annie put up her hand and gripped it tight, and, her lips trembling slightly, she muttered, as she was wont to do when her feelings were troubled, ‘Aw! lass. Aw! lass.’
Turning quickly away, Tilly went out, but she was no sooner on the path than the wind caught her skirt and swirled it up to the bottom of her coat and when she reached the gate she turned, laughing, and waved her hand to Annie who was at the window and indicated what the wind had done to her skirt. And Annie waved back.
The shortest cut to Jarrow led through Rosier’s village but she always skirted that; news spread, at least bad news and who knew but the Rosier villagers would hold her responsible for the three pitmen losing their jobs, and their cottages. The Rosier pit lay about a mile from the village, and she skirted that too. Once or twice when she had seen the men coming out of the gates following their shift, to avoid running into them she had swung herself over a wall or hidden in a thicket, until they were past.
But this morning, on a narrow path, her head down against the wind, she glanced upwards to see a solitary pitman coming towards her. He wasn’t a man but a young boy, and when he came nearer she stopped, as he stopped, and as she exclaimed brightly, ‘Why! hello, Steve,’ he said, ‘Hello, Tilly.’
‘Just finished a shift?’
‘Aye, but it’s been over half an hour or so. I . . . I had something to see to, that’s why I’m late gettin’ home . . . Where you goin’?’
‘Into Jarrow for some groceries.’
‘Oh, aye. Aye.’ He nodded his head in understanding; then looking about him, he said, ‘How long will it take you?’
‘
Oh, I should be there in another twenty minutes or so and I spend about half an hour in the shops. It takes me about three hours altogether.’
He shook his head as if that wasn’t what he was meaning, then said, ‘Would you like me to come along of you?’
‘Oh no, no.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘An’ look at you, you’re dead on your feet. Have . . . have you been on a double shift?’
‘No, no; just the twelve hours.’
Some part of her mind repeated, Just twelve hours. Twelve hours down there! She said, ‘’Tis a long time to be down below, an’ you must be hungry an’ want a wash.’
‘Aye, both.’ He laughed now; then his face becoming suddenly serious, he stepped close up to her and, half turning his back against the wind, he asked, ‘Has anybody been about your place lately, Tilly?’
Her face and voice were serious as she answered, ‘No, nobody.’
‘You haven’t seen our Hal or Mick, nor our George?’
‘No, no, none of them. Why?’ She swallowed deeply now before she could ask the question, ‘Are they up to something again?’ She watched him droop his head; and now she was looking down on to his greasy black cap as she again said, with a tremble in her voice now, ‘Are they?’
The wind carried his answer away and she bent down and said, ‘What did you say?’
He lifted his head to the side and the whites of his eyes seemed to grow larger in his black face and she watched his mouth open and shut twice before he said, ‘I think they’re hatching something, Tilly. What, I don’t know. They’re wary of me, never say nowt in front of me. An’ since our Hal gave me this’ – he lifted his arm upwards – ‘he hasn’t touched me again because me ma threatened him. But . . . but I think you’d better be on your guard, Tilly. I . . . I think you should get in touch with Farmer Bentwood and tell him what I’ve just said.’
Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy) Page 14
