Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  The scream that ran through her head seemed to be mixed up with the lark song and she pulled herself upwards crying loudly, ‘What is it? What is it?’ She felt his arms flailing and realised that she must have slipped while she dozed, for her groping hands now found his head resting against a stone. Now she was to the side of him, her arms about his shoulders pushing him upwards, and when his scream turned to a shuddering moan she felt his face pressed tight into her shoulder and she stammered, ‘Are . . . are . . . are you in pain?’

  His mouth was moving against her neck; she felt his tongue come out and he gulped several times before he said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘’Tis bad?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word seemed to have required effort and she could feel the air leaving his chest and his shoulders hunching.

  She said in an apology now, ‘I . . . I must have dozed an’ you slipped. Look.’ She put out one hand now and felt the twisted surface of the stones to the side of them, and coming to a crevice she put her hand in and pulled gently, then a little harder, and when she felt the stone was tightly fixed she said again, ‘Look, if you could put your hand in here and hang on for a few minutes, I . . . I could rake some stones and props from along there and build up under you so as you could rest. It’s . . . it’s the way you are lying that’s hurtin’ you. Can you do it?’

  He twisted his body round and her hand guided his into the small cleft, and now he muttered, ‘Yes, yes; go ahead.’

  Like a mole now she scrambled here and there and pulled the loose debris towards him. Once she lost her direction and when, feeling the wall again, her hands didn’t find him she yelled, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m here.’ His voice came from just to the side of her, not an arm’s length away, and she gasped as if in relief and stumbled towards him, dragging two broken props.

  As she gradually built up the mound she kept easing him upwards, saying, ‘Is that better?’ and when he didn’t give her any answer she knew that the angle of the stones was still not right.

  Not until she had built up the support until it had almost reached her waist did he say, ‘Yes, that’s better, thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Is . . . is the pain any easier?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s bearable now. It’s . . . it’s mostly down my right side; I don’t feel much at all in the left leg.’

  ‘Well, your right is just caught a little bit just round the ankle.’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s likely cramp.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it could be cramp, sir.’

  She slumped down exhausted by the side of the pile, and presently he said, ‘Where are you, Trotter?’

  ‘I’m here, sir.’

  ‘Would . . . would you give me your hand, Trotter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She put her hand out gropingly towards him, but when she felt his fingers entwine with hers she could feel her change of colour even in the darkness. Just a short while ago she had been holding him, his face had been pressed into her neck, and his head had lain between her breasts, but that contact was different from this. He had asked to hold her hand.

  ‘Hands are comforting things, don’t you think, Trotter?’

  ‘We’d . . . we’d come badly off without them, sir.’ She felt she had said something funny and she smiled in the darkness, and as if he had seen her smile he answered, ‘Indeed we would, Trotter. Indeed we would. How old are you, Trotter?’

  ‘Coming up eighteen, sir.’

  ‘I never knew you were in the mine. In fact if I had known this was your intention I would have endeavoured to put you off.’

  ‘I . . . I needed work, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that, but this is the lowest type of work for a woman, and I shouldn’t think you’re suited to it.’

  ‘They tell me I’m quite good at it, sir.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since three days after I left the Manor, sir.’

  He didn’t speak for some minutes and then he said, ‘I should have seen to you but . . . but as you know the house was in an upheaval.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh, I understand, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the farm to your friend Bentwood? He was a friend, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You stayed there after the fire, didn’t you?’

  ‘Only for a short time, sir. I . . . I left the day me grandma was buried. I went back to the cottage. That’s . . . that’s when you found me there and kindly offered me the post.’

  ‘But . . . but why couldn’t you stay on the farm? I am sure he could have found you something to do. I thought about that at the time. Why didn’t you?’

  When she didn’t answer he said, ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, I appear to be probing into something.’

  Her fingers were now gripped so tightly that she wanted to cry out, and when the darkness was filled with a long shuddering groan she got to her knees; then putting out her other arm, she placed it around his shoulders and held him to her, saying, ‘There, there. There, there.’

  ‘Oh-my-God!’ He released the grip on her hand and she put it up to his face. It was running with sweat. Tears in her eyes now and in her voice, she said, ‘If only I could do something for you.’

  It was a long moment before he answered, ‘You are doing something for me, Trotter, you’re here. There . . . there, it’s gone, I don’t feel anything at all now. It just comes in spasms. I . . . I suppose I’m not used to pain. When I come to think of it, I’ve never been ill in my life. Toothache yes. I . . . I once had two teeth pulled and I remember I raised Cain . . . What is it? What is it? Oh, please, don’t cry. Now, now, don’t cry like that. Look—’ his hand was on her cheek now and his voice was soft as he said, ‘What am I going to do if you fail me? I shouldn’t have thought you were the kind to have vapours, Trotter?’

  ‘N . . . no , sir; I’ll never have the vapours.’

  ‘Good; I really didn’t think you would. Sit by me and rest. You know I . . . I don’t think we should be talking, they say it uses up the oxygen. But . . . but the air seems quite clear. What do you think?’

  She sniffed and said, ‘Yes. Yes, sir, it does since the dust’s settled. Would there be any way fresh air could get in, sir?’

  He thought a moment before he answered, ‘No, I don’t think so, Trotter, not from inside anyway. If this fall is not too thick and it hasn’t affected the main roadway there’s a chance there might be a crevice among the stones. Yet—’ his voice sank almost to a whisper as he ended, ‘I think that’s too long a shot to hope for.’

  The grip of his fingers slackened once more and she realised he had fallen asleep again, but now she made no effort to rouse him because she, too, was feeling tired and she told herself she’d have a doze for a little while, it would do her good, and also pass the time until she heard them knocking, because that’s what they did, the rescuers, they knocked on the stones and you answered.

  How many times had he said he was dry during these last hours, or was it days? It must be days. Her head was muzzy, she wanted to sleep. It was some time ago that he had said, ‘The air’s going, Trotter, start knocking again.’

  She had knocked for a short time, but she had no strength in her arms now, they didn’t seem to belong to her, she just wanted to sleep. But when she fell asleep she was always awakened by his groaning. He didn’t cry out loudly any more, he just groaned, and when it went on too long she forced herself to kneel and hold him.

  She was holding him now and he was gasping for breath. She no longer said, ‘Does it hurt?’ or ‘They’ll come soon, sir,’ and when his words came slow and soft, as if pressed down by the atmosphere, saying, ‘I . . . I think the end is almost near, Trotter,’ she did not contradict him, for she knew within herself the end was almost near. But somehow she wasn’t afraid, she would be warm if she was dead. She felt sure of that, warm all the time. Not like now, burning one minute and cold the next, but just warm and comfortable.

  ‘It’s all righ
t. Sit down, you’re tired. Just give me your hand.’

  She slumped down again while keeping hold of his hand.

  ‘Do you believe in God, Trotter?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Sometimes yes and sometimes not. My . . . my granny did, and granda too.’

  ‘They were a nice couple.’

  ‘Yes, yes, they were.’

  ‘Trotter.’

  ‘Yes?’ She was aware that she wasn’t adding ‘sir’ so much now when she answered him, but what did it matter?

  ‘I’m going to tell you something. I . . . I was lonely this morning. Or was it yesterday, or some other time? But I remember I was lonely, and now I don’t feel lonely any more. Strange, but I don’t.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said wearily. She wished he would stop talking so she wouldn’t have to answer. She felt a bit sick, more than a bit sick, she was feeling bad, real bad.

  As if he had heard her wish he said no more, and after a time she forced herself to kneel up and to put her ear towards his mouth to see if he were still breathing. And when she slumped down again it was to ponder on the thought that the reverence she seemed to have had for him while in the Manor was gone. He could have been the check weighman or the agent or Sam . . . Sam had wanted to marry her, he had told her so, and contrary to what she had said to Simon her reply had been no, and a definite no, even though she had said it in a nice way telling him that she didn’t want to marry anybody yet, but that she liked him. And in answer to a further question he had put to her, she had said, no, she hadn’t anybody in her eye. Sam would be very sorry about her going. Would Simon? Yes, oh yes, Simon would be sorry. And he’d blame himself. Anyway, why bother to think. Her teeth were chattering again. Why was she cold? It wasn’t cold in here, anything but. She moved slightly to make her position easier on the stones because the way he was holding her hand her arm was being pressed against the jagged end of a prop. Then a most strange thing happened: the wall of rock just below where the master’s feet must be pinned opened and out stepped her granny and granda, and they came and sat one each side of her and she felt a happiness that she hadn’t experienced before. And it didn’t matter that they didn’t speak or answer her questions, they were there.

  It was three and a half days before the rescuers got through to them, and the way hadn’t been made through the fall of stone. This would have been impossible because the fall had blocked the main road too. They came through the side of the drift, just a foot to the side of where the last prop had been pulled from the roof. When they found them they knew it was impossible to remove Mark Sopwith without amputating both feet, in fact one leg below the knee. As for the girl, she was still breathing when they brought her out but they thought there was little chance that she would live. They carried her through the crowd lining the bank; sightseers had come from as far away as Newcastle and Gateshead because it wasn’t every day that the owner of a mine got a taste of what his men often got. Such was the feeling.

  It was as they placed Tilly in a covered cart that Biddy pushed her way forward and demanded, ‘Where are you takin’ her?’

  ‘The hospital, the workhouse hospital in Shields.’

  She turned and looked at Sam; then they both stood and watched the tailboard being put into place.

  ‘Has she got a chance?’ It was Katie now speaking to one of the men, and his answer was, ‘Hard to say, lass, but I doubt it. The only good thing that can be said for her is she’s whole, unlike the boss who’s lost his feet.’

  ‘My God!’ The murmur carried the news round the crowd.

  When half an hour later they moved the closely wrapped form of Mark into the daylight an open landau was waiting with planks laid from door to door, and a mattress on top of these; and so with one man at each horse’s head and another two supporting the temporary platform on which Mark now lay, they slowly drove him home.

  PART THREE: THE WORKINGS OF THE WITCH

  One

  For one full week he existed in a nightmare in which he imagined that he had no feet. As a child he had been subject to bad dreams; an unknown fear would overtake him and when he went to scream no sound came and he would wake up sweating, the bedclothes in a heap about him.

  As he grew older the intervals between the nightmares lengthened but the intensity remained, and in some way his mind had taught him to recognise the experience of the nightmare when in the midst of it and he would wake himself up, saying, ‘It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream.’

  But now the nightmare had been with him solidly for seven days and when he was in the midst of it he would yell at himself, ‘It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream,’ but unlike his awakening in years past he now recognised the nightmare as real, and not being able to bear the thought he forced himself to descend into the phantasy of the dream again. When on the seventh day he could no longer dream he made himself look down the bed towards the hump of the wire cage that covered the place where his feet should be and, even now clinging to his dream, he told himself they must be there because they were paining.

  As he gazed down the coverlet a strange face intruded itself in front of the cage and a strange voice said, ‘Ah! we’re awake. There now, you feel better this morning?’

  He looked up at the bulbous bosom covered in a white starched apron and at the round face above it topped by the frilled white cap, but he made no reply, and the voice went on, ‘Now we’ll have some soup, won’t we?’

  A minute later he almost screamed aloud as the nurse, her arms underneath his oxters, attempted to prop him up against his pillows. What he did was to take his hands and with all the strength he could gather push violently at her; and as she reeled away the set smile slipped from her face and, indignantly, she said, ‘Now! now! I was only trying to make you comfortable.’

  ‘Well, don’t do it like a dray horse.’ His voice sounded strange to his ears – it was hoarse, cracked.

  ‘Doctor Kemp is on his way up,’ she said stiffly.

  His answer was to turn an almost ferocious glance on her. There was a wild anger inside of him, he wanted to claw, smash, rend. He looked down at his hands where his fingers like talons were grabbing up fistsful of the silk counterpane.

  The door opened and Simes stood aside and ushered Doctor Kemp into the room.

  The doctor was a small man. He looked robust, jolly and well fed, and his voice matched his appearance in heartiness. ‘Well! well! now this is better, we are really awake at last. Well done! nurse. You’ve got him looking bright and . . . ’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Both the doctor and the nurse stared at him in amazement and when he added, ‘Get out!’ while flicking a finger in the direction of the nurse, Doctor Kemp put in, ‘Now! now! what’s all this about?’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mark now lay back on the pillow, grabbed the front of his head with outstretched hand and cried, ‘Don’t ask such bloody silly questions.’ And glaring again at the nurse, he said, ‘Did you hear me? Get out.’ And on a wave of indignation the nurse went out.

  ‘That isn’t very kind.’ Doctor Kemp’s face was straight. ‘Nurse Bailey has looked after you very well this last week.’

  Had he been conforming to pattern Mark should have said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but what he did say was, ‘Tell me about this!’ stabbing his finger towards the bottom of the bed.

  ‘Ah well, it had to be done.’

  ‘Why? In the name of God, why? Couldn’t they have removed the stones?’

  ‘Yes, they could’ – Doctor Kemp’s voice was as loud as Mark’s now – ‘but you would have been dead by the time they got you out, along with those attempting to move the fall from the inside. I did what I had to do.’

  ‘You did it then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I amputated, and only just in time. They were going rotten on you, man. You’ll be lucky even now, let me tell you, if you get off without gangrene setting in.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, that’s good to know.’

  ‘Well, you’re alive, you should
be grateful.’

  ‘What! you’ve taken off my feet and you tell me I should be grateful!’ The spittle ran down his chin as he finished, and he wiped it roughly off with the side of his hand.

  ‘Life is life after all. It could have been worse.’

  ‘Could it? Really! tell me how.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell you how.’ The doctor was standing close to him now, his plump body pressed against the side of the high bed. ‘You could have been blinded, as one of your men was three years ago; you could have been caught up to the hips with no hope of ever getting out of that bed again; but as it is you’ll be able to get about on a wooden leg and with the help of crutches.’

  Mark closed his eyes, then sank deeper into the pillows. Of a sudden his anger seemed to be seeping away with his strength, he felt tired. It seemed a long moment before he spoke again, and then he said, ‘Eileen, I suppose she was told?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she hasn’t been?’

  ‘No. But your mother-in-law came. She stayed two days, but you didn’t recognise her or anyone else at that time. I told her I would keep her informed, which I have done.’

  ‘And Eileen didn’t come?’ The words were soft, almost as if spoken to himself, but the doctor answered, ‘She’s a sick woman, you must take that into account.’

  Mark turned his head slowly and looked at Doctor Kemp, and he said, with almost a sneer on his face, ‘I wish I were as well as she is at this moment. As for being sick, you know how sick she is, don’t you, doctor?’

  ‘She has the usual woman’s complaints.’ The doctor had turned from the bed now and was going through his bag which he had placed on a table, and he said, ‘I must have the nurse in, and if I may offer you advice I would say be civil to her because you’re likely to be together for some weeks yet.’