Tilly Trotter (The Tilly Trotter Trilogy)

by Catherine Cookson

  It suddenly sprang to Tilly’s mind to answer, ‘Bitches!’ but instead, she said, ‘If they hadn’t their fine clothes on they’d look like ordinary women.’

  At this Biddy put her head back and laughed, then slanting her eyes towards Tilly, she said, ‘You’re learnin’, lass. Aye you’re learnin’. Put me in mind of what me granda used to say, so me mother told me, when she used to come back from her place at the castle and talked about the ladies and gentlemen there. He used to say, “Aye; aye, lass; but just remember they’ve got to gan to the closet like ye and me”.’

  Tilly pressed her lips together, then said, ‘How right you are.’ After a moment Biddy asked, ‘Where’s your apron; I thought you were goin’ to wear it, the one that you made?’

  ‘The master didn’t like it; he . . . he told me to take it off.’

  Biddy was looking squarely at her now. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I . . . I suppose he just didn’t like it.’

  Biddy turned from her and, reaching out, gently lifted up the elaborate iced pudding reposing on a shallow cut-glass dish, the base of which was surrounded by coloured crystallised flowers, and she gently shook her head but made no further remark, and Tilly, divining her thoughts, turned away . . .

  The dinner lasted about an hour and a half. Snatches of talk and laughter seeped into the hall, but later, after the company had retired to the drawing room the laughter and talk became louder, the scent of cigar smoke filled the house, and the air seemed filled with jollity. Definitely so in the servants’ hall, where they were all tucking into the remains of the feast.

  Tilly had had a tray brought upstairs so that she could be on hand if the ladies should require her. She had forgotten to show them the way to the closet, but none of them seemed to have been in need of it so far. It was eleven o’clock and she’d been up from six that morning and now, right or wrong, she was sitting in the armchair, her head nodding, when she heard the chatter outside on the landing.

  She was on her feet when the door opened and the three women came into the room. Passing her as if she were non-existent, they flopped down here and there on the chairs. Then one laughing said, ‘I need the closet,’ and another answered, ‘Me, too; but I’ll have to wait until I get home and get out of me stays.

  ‘Do you think you’ll last, Bernice?’

  ‘Well, if I don’t . . . pop goes the weasel!’

  Standing at the far end of the room, beside the door leading into the dressing room, Tilly could hardly believe her ears. They were coarse these women, yet they were ladies, in fact two of them were daughters of men with titles. They had acted like great dames a few hours ago, now, full of wine and food, they were talking no better than those they employed; in fact, there were some ordinary folk who didn’t discuss such things, personal things.

  ‘Me cloak, girl!’

  She walked swiftly across the room and, taking a cloak down from the wardrobe, she tentatively held it out to the woman. ‘That isn’t mine. Don’t be stupid, girl! The brown velvet.’

  She brought the brown velvet and helped the owner into it. Then taking another cloak from the wardrobe, she stood with it in her hand looking towards the two women, and one of them said, quite civilly, ‘That’s mine.’ Then they were all ready to go and, laughing and chatting, they went from the room without a glance in her direction. And yet, strangely, she knew they were as aware of her as she was of them. Snatches of their conversation came to her as she followed them down the corridor.

  ‘Did you see his face when Albert mentioned Agnes’ new bull?’

  ‘’Twas naughty of Albert, and Mark was mad.’

  ‘What d’you think of the other?’

  ‘Don’t really know. Could be.’

  ‘I thought I’d have the vapours when Stanley grumbled about his feet and the gout.’

  ‘’Twasn’t intentional, ’twasn’t.’

  ‘God! I want the closet.’

  Tilly didn’t know if she were supposed to follow them downstairs and help to see them out, but she didn’t go. Mr Pike was there, that would suffice. The bull they were referring to was likely Lady Myton’s new lover, and this must have displeased the master. They were as she had dubbed them at first, bitches, three bitches.

  The door could hardly have closed on them when the master ordered to be carried upstairs, and when she saw his face she knew he was in a temper.

  The men carried him past her and into the closet; afterwards they sat him in a chair beside the bed. When they had gone he called to her in the dressing room, his voice imperious, ‘Trotter! Trotter!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ She stood in front of him and when he looked up at her without speaking she said, ‘Have you had a good evening, sir?’

  ‘No, Trotter,’ he replied, ‘I have not, as you say, had a good evening.’ He spaced the words. ‘How many friends can you expect to have in life, can you tell me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘If you have two, you are damned lucky, but I don’t think I have one, not a true friend. A man who was a true friend would control his wife, at least her tongue, when in company. Trotter, those three ladies came tonight to find out something. Have you any idea what it was?’

  She stared unblinking at him as she said, ‘No, sir,’ knowing now that she could truthfully have said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s just as well. Here, pull this shirt off me.’ He tore at his cravat, and when she had stripped him down to the waist he said as he always did now, ‘I can manage.’ She had already laid his nightshirt on the bed. There was no nightcap beside it, for he was strange in that he didn’t like nightcaps. And yet most gentlemen wore nightcaps, so she understood. Perhaps it was because he had never powdered his hair or worn a wig. But then lots of gentlemen didn’t wear wigs today or powdered. Even so, she would have thought they all wore nightcaps.

  ‘Get yourself to bed, you must be tired.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, Trotter. By the way’ – he paused – ‘it was an excellent meal. I’ve never tasted better. Tell cook that.’

  ‘I will, sir. She’ll be very pleased.’

  In her room, she sat for a while in the chair by the side of the bed. She was feeling sad inside, sad for herself, but more sad for him: he hadn’t enjoyed the evening, yet everybody else in the house had. Of course, she couldn’t speak for the guests.

  She rose slowly and undressed and got into bed.

  She did not know how long she had been asleep but the crash woke her, bringing her sitting upright and wide awake all in a moment. The noise had come from the room beyond the closet and the dressing room. Had . . . had he fallen? Had he tried to get out of bed and knocked something over?

  She was out of the door, along the corridor and into the bedroom before she had even given herself the answer to the question, and there before her, showing up faintly in the glow of the night candle in the red glass bowl, was the overturned side table, the water carafe not broken but half empty now as it lay on its side, and a glass that had snapped clean in two. Also spread about the floor were a number of books and as far away as the fire, lying on the rug, was the square brass travelling clock.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’ She had gone round to the other side of the bed. He was lying back now on his pillows, his face twisted. ‘I . . . I had an accident, the table toppled.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry, I’ll soon clear it up.’

  He roused himself, saying, ‘The glass, mind your feet.’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. Just lie still.’

  She lit the candles; then taking one, she hurried through the dressing room and into the closet. As she was picking up the pail and cloth there was a tap on the door. When she opened it, there stood Katie and Ada Tennant. For some time now they had been sleeping up on the nursery floor, while Biddy, Peg, and Fanny went to the back lodge which was now their home.

  ‘What . . . what’s happened? We heard the crash.’

  ‘It’s all right.
He . . . the master upset the table, the side table.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Tilly?’

  ‘No, no, Katie. Get back to bed.’ She now looked at Ada Tennant who was hanging on to Katie’s arm. She seemed frightened. She was a silly girl, vacant in some way, and her mind, what little she had, was open to all impressions. And so she reassured her now, saying, ‘It’s all right, Ada, nothing’s happened. Go on back to bed.’

  As Ada nodded her plump face at her, the thought came to her that in a few years time she would look like Mrs Brackett, because like her, she was always eating.

  When the girls had gone she closed the door, then went swiftly through the dressing room and into the bedroom. He was lying as she had left him, his head back, his eyes closed.

  After picking up the debris from the floor and sopping up the water from the carpet, she took the pail and the broken glass into the closet and left it there. She would deal with that in the morning. All she had to do now was to fill the carafe again and give him a clean glass.

  He was sitting propped up against the pillows when she returned to the bedroom and, going to him, she said, ‘Is . . . is there anything more I can do for you, sir?’

  His eyes were wide open and he continued to stare at her, and then he said slowly, ‘Yes, Trotter; sit down here beside me.’ He patted the side of the bed.

  ‘But, sir.’

  ‘Trotter, please.’

  Her hand went instinctively now to the front of her nightdress. She hadn’t even got her dressing gown on. She said softly, ‘Will you excuse me a moment, sir, while I get me dressing gown?’

  ‘No, Trotter, I wouldn’t excuse you a moment. Just sit down as you are.’

  Slowly she obeyed him.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  She gave him her hand, and when he took it he turned it over until her palm was upright. Then he placed his other hand on top of it and, his voice now like a low rumble in his throat, he said, ‘During these past months I’ve been very lonely, Trotter, but never so much as tonight . . . downstairs.’

  Her surprise overcame her feeling of apprehension for a moment and she managed to bring out, ‘They . . . they are your friends, sir.’

  ‘No, Trotter, no; I have no friends. I am going to tell you something, Trotter. Those men who were here tonight all have mistresses. Two are kept in Newcastle and one in Durham. One of those gentlemen has lost count of the number of mistresses he has had. And their wives know of these kept women, yet they live an apparently normal life. But me, I had one affair, not my first I admit, but the only one during the time of my second marriage, and what happens? I lose my wife and my children, and because my wife leaves me I am shunned. Had she chosen to stay, my escapade would merely have been a talking and a laughing point among my so-called friends. Can you understand it, Trotter?’

  She made no answer. She couldn’t. She knew what he had said was true, but the unfairness of it provided her with no words of consolation.

  ‘I sound full of self-pity, don’t I?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, what do I sound like to you?’

  This she could answer without taking time to consider. ‘Somebody lonely, sir.’

  ‘Somebody lonely.’ He repeated her words. ‘How right you are, Trotter. Somebody lonely. But it does nothing to help a man’s ego to admit that he’s lonely. You know what an ego is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, it is . . . it’s his pride, it’s that thing inside of him which tells him he’s a great I am. Both big and small men are born with it. Strange’ – he gave a huh! of a laugh here – ‘but the smaller the man the bigger the ego. You see, the small man’s got to fight to prove himself. But here am I, neither big nor small, and my ego has dropped to rock bottom. It must have, to make me act as I have done tonight in order to bring you to me.’

  He turned now and looked at the righted table and he said, ‘I upset that lot purposely because I wanted you here near me.’ He did not turn his head now and look at her, but feeling her hand stiffen in his, he said, ‘Don’t . . . don’t be afraid of me, Trotter.’

  ‘I’m not, sir.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then why did you shrink from me?’

  ‘I didn’t shrink; I . . . I was only surprised, sir.’

  ‘And shocked?’

  ‘No, sir, not shocked.’

  ‘You know what I’m asking of you, Trotter?’

  She looked down to where their clasped hands lay on the padded eiderdown and she moved her head once as she said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And—’ His voice scarcely a whisper now, he asked, ‘are you willing?’

  Her head was still down as she answered him bluntly, ‘No, sir.’

  When his fingers withdrew from hers she raised her eyes and looked at him and said, ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, sir. I . . . I would do anything for you, anything but . . . but . . . ’

  ‘Lie with me?’

  Again her head was down.

  ‘You . . . you don’t like me?’

  ‘Oh yes; yes, sir.’ She instinctively put out her hand towards his now; then withdrew it as she went on, ‘Oh yes, sir, I like you. I like you very much, sir.’

  ‘But not enough to comfort me?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right, sir. And . . . and it would alter things.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It . . . it wouldn’t be the same, me going around the house, I—’ She turned and looked across the dimly lighted room now and it was some seconds before she could find words to express her feelings, and then she said, ‘I . . . I wouldn’t be able to keep my head up.’

  Again he made a small sound like a laugh in his throat, then said, ‘That is what is known as working-class morality.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Trotter. But tell me, have . . . have you ever loved anyone?’ He watched her chest expand underneath the cotton nightdress, he saw her neck jerk as she swallowed deeply, and when he insisted, ‘Have you?’ she said ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he? Does he love you?’

  ‘I . . . I think he does in a way, sir.’

  ‘In a way? What do you mean in a way?’

  ‘Well, it would be no use, sir, ’twouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Oh! Trotter. Trotter!’ The sound of his laughter was more defined now and he shook his head as he said, ‘You’re unfortunate, Trotter. It would appear that you only arouse the love of married men. I suppose he is married?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is it the farmer?’

  When she actually started, he said, ‘Oh, don’t be upset; I’m sure your secret must be suspected by a number of people for it isn’t every bridegroom that leaves his bride on his wedding night to go to the assistance of a beautiful young girl. Nor does a man take her into his house in spite of his wife’s protests. By the way, I’m just guessing at the last. When I found you living in the outhouse I thought something was amiss in the farmer’s household for you to have returned to the ruins of the cottage . . . So, Trotter, you’re in love with a man who can never mean anything to you. What are you going to do? Spend your life fighting against frustration until you’re a wizened old maid?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Her voice was clear now. ‘I shall marry . . . Some day I shall marry and have a family.’

  He peered at her now through the lamplight and her answer seemed to deflate him still further, for he lay back on his pillows and sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Her voice conveyed her feelings.

  ‘It’s all right, Trotter, it’s all right. But stay. Would . . . would you do something for me? It’s not going to hurt you in any way. But it’ll bring . . . well, it’ll bring to life a sort of fancy I’ve had of late.’

  ‘Anything I can, sir.’

  ‘Well then, lay yourself on top of this bed with your head on the pillow facing me.’

  ‘Sir!‘ She was on her feet now, her hands joined together at her
waist, and he said, ‘It is nothing much to ask. I won’t hurt you in any way, I’ll be under the clothes and you’ll be on top of them. I just want to see you lying there.’

  He watched her head slowly droop until her chin was on her chest. He watched her turn slowly and walk round the foot of the bed and to the other side. He watched her pull her nightdress up slightly and her bare knee touch the coverlet. Then after resting on her elbow, she lay straight down. He watched her stretch out her hand and push her nightdress well down over her knees. And now they were lying, their faces opposite to each other.

  When he lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek, Tilly closed her eyes and told herself loudly in her head not to cry, because if she cried it would be the undoing of her, for pity for him would swamp her and she would no longer lie on top of the bedclothes.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, Trotter. You know that?’

  She made no answer.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something. I dislike your name very much, I hate it every time I’ve got to say it, it’s a harsh name, Trotter. Your name is Tilly and Tilly sounds so nice, gay, warm. A Tilly, I feel, could be no other than nice. I think of you as Tilly.’

  ‘Oh, sir.’

  His fingers now were moving round her eye sockets as he said, ‘You’ve got the strangest eyes, Trotter, they’re so clear and deep. That’s why people take you for a witch.’

  Again she said, ‘Oh, sir.’

  ‘And you know, I don’t think they’re far wrong. I was thinking the other day it’s a good job that you hadn’t been born into the class because you would have played havoc there. There would have been no peace for any man who set eyes on you.’

  She had to speak or cry, and so she said, ‘That isn’t right, sir. Some people . . . some men dislike me wholeheartedly.’

  ‘It’s only because they want you.’

  ‘No, sir. No, sir. ’Tis something in me. Women dislike me too. That’s the hardest to bear, women dislikin’ me.’

  After a moment his hand left her face and he lay looking at her. Her eyes were shaded now, and he let his own travel down her shape underneath the cheap nightdress.