Love & Sorrow (7 page)
Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Becky, fast approaching her seventh birthday, seemed to
be growing in grace and beauty with each passing day … so ran Meg’s thoughts as
she brushed out Becky’s long ringlets. And now thanks to Miss Edgar’s friend
Abigail Andrews, my old elocution teacher, Becky speaks clearly and well. Meg
felt a glow of pride at the way Becky Bryden was turning out.
Yes, thought Meg, everything has ended up much better
than either Nellie or I could ever have envisaged.
Meg gave an involuntary shiver as she recalled that
terrible morning of Becky’s birth … the pain, the secrecy, the utter sordidness
of it all even without the subterfuge and lies of the nine weary, long months
preceding the birth itself.
Now she had a contented family life, mistress of her
own home, with a husband who not only loved her but was also devoted to Becky.
In the eyes of the world and their church-going friends they were doing their
Samaritan best in helping out a poor overburdened relative.
Still in a rosy glow of happiness Meg allowed her
thoughts to drift, to envisage an even brighter future in which Becky would
fulfil Meg’s lost dreams of becoming a teacher. A fully qualified, successful
teacher …
***
The day started as no other Becky Bryden had ever
before experienced in her short life. When she opened her eyes at six o’clock,
instead of the ritual cup of tea that her Aunt Meg had always handed in to her
in the wall bed in their flat on the Parliamentary Road, she awoke to the
feeling of a rough hand shaking her shoulder, the cold of a strange, unfamiliar
room, and a voice shouting: “Right, Becky, get oota that scratcher. Therr’s nae
call for ye tae lie in yer bed all day. Ye’re no an idle schoolgirl noo, and
Ah’m no yer saft Aunt Meg.”
If Becky had been trying to persuade herself that since
she had left school the previous week her life had not changed dramatically,
then this rude early morning awakening was enough, more than enough, to
disillusion her. The dye was cast and despite how Aunt Meg and Becky’s
complacent, pipe-smoking Uncle Jack, and Becky herself had railed against it,
Becky’s mother had won the day.
The argument had been heated and decidedly acrimonious
and Becky could still hear in her head her mother’s strident voice.
“Rab said it was a mistake tae let Becky stay wi ye
since she started school, but Ah wis sorry for ye. A puir barren childless
woman and Ah had children tae spare even tho my last, wee Elspeth, died of the diphtheria
when she wis four. But noo wi ma girls married and their pay packets gone, Rab
no fit tae go tae sea and withoot a job, all Ah’ve left tae bring any money
intae the hoose is Erchie. Ah need Becky tae come hame, get a job, and bring in
some money. She is ma daughter efter all, isn’t she?”
In this last sentence Becky had thought she had heard
an unusual emphasis and couldn’t understand why it had reduced Aunt Meg to
tears and ended the argument. Of course Nellie Bryden was her mother. The
school register recorded her parents as Mr and Mrs R Bryden, but her address
had always been Aunt Meg’s. No one to her knowledge had ever questioned the
arrangement. Aunt Meg had been kind enough to take her in and feed and clothe
her since she was four and Nellie, with her husband unemployed and a
semi-invalid, had so many other mouths to feed.
Becky sighed and swung her legs out of bed into the
cold room and whatever awaited her in the day ahead. Her mind still dwelt on
the family row but more than anything it was the injustice of it all, the
callous indifference to Becky’s hopes and aspirations and the scant reward to
Aunt Meg for her years of sacrifice and saving. The childless, caring woman had
been more of a mother to her through her years of growing up than this harridan
still bawling at her from the kitchen to: “… get a move on and get oot o that
scratcher.”
Chittering with cold as she flung on her clothes, Becky
felt heat rise to her face in disgust as unbidden came the thought: Can’t she
even use the proper word for bed?
The use of the crude Glasgow vernacular together with
the harsh guttural sounds of her mother’s voice Becky felt were almost as much
a physical blow to her as the sparse living conditions in which she now found
herself. Since she had gone to live with Aunt Meg, Aunt Meg had insisted that
she speak ‘proper English’ and have no truck whatever with anything even
remotely connected with ‘Glesga keelies’.
Yes, Becky thought, Aunty Meg had been grooming me to
make something of my life. With a decent secondary school education and a
fistful of higher leaving certificates under my belt, careful manners and the
right ‘bool-in-the-mooth’ vowels, who knows where I might have ended? But not
here! Most certainly not here!
Becky was still attempting to button up her cardigan
with fingers stiff with cold as she entered the only other room of the tenement
flat. She raised her eyebrows in surprise at the welcome sight of a roaring
fire in the grate, the table neatly set, and her mother in her long sackcloth
apron stirring a bubbling porridge pot with a wooden spurtle.
“So! Ye’re up at last are ye? Weel, sit yersel doon and
get a guid gutful o porridge intae yer belly – for it’s a gey cauld yin oot
therr this mornin.”
Becky squirmed inwardly then, feeling annoyed at
herself for being so negative and judgemental, she tried to make amends.
“That’s very kind of you, Mother. Yes, a bowl of
porridge, that will do nicely. And how lovely it is to come into an already
made and cheery welcoming fire.”
Her mother raised her head and, giving Becky a baleful
look, snapped: “Izzat ye trying for tae be cheeky, ma lass? And forbye therr’s
nae need for aw yer fancy manners in this hoose. Ye’re no at yer Aunty Meg’s
noo.”
The red-faced angry woman unceremoniously dumped a bowl
of porridge on the table in front of Becky.
“Therr ye ur. But don’t think Ah’ll be makin yer
porridge for ye every morn, nor even lightin the fire – that’ll be yer job.
While we’re at it, ma fine Lady Becky, therr’s nae need at aw for ye tae be
cryin me ‘Mothah’, jist try sayin either Mammy or Mither, Ah’m no that fussed
but for the love o the wee man, jist gie aw that la-di-dah stuff a rest.”
Unsure how to respond to this tirade Becky simply
nodded. This seemed to be all that was required of her. “Becky, lass, Ah’m only
sayin these things for yer ain guid. Let’s face it, hen, if ye dae manage tae
get a job in the bakehoose, the rag store, or if ye’re really lucky in
Templeton’s Carpet Factory, if ye keep on talkin all posh yer workmates wull
make yer life a livin hell.”
Becky placed her spoon on top of the porridge feeling
that she had lost whatever slight appetite she had had. The mental image of the
dismal future prospects being laid before her would have sickened a stronger
constitution than hers.
“Thank you for your concern, Moth– er … Mammy. I’m sure
you’re right. In fact I know you are. Even at school the other pupils called me
names.”
Her mother gave as satisfied nod. “If ye kent the rows
Ah’ve had wi that stuck-up Meg ower the way she was bringin ye up. Onywey, at
least ye and me sees eye tae eye, so that’s guid. Noo, sup up yer porridge and
aff ye go. Ye’re young, bright, and strong so therr’s bound be some sort o job
oot therr for ye. Jist jump at the furst job that offers ye the maist wages.
People like us cannae afford tae pick and choose. Remember, if the Guid Lord
had wanted for ye tae be a lady he widnae hae plunked ye doon here in a
tenement flat in Brigton’s Main Street.”
***
As Becky left the small comfort and shelter of the
common close on this cruelly cold January morning she shivered and pulled
closer the ancient shawl her mother had insisted she wear.
Her mother had been adamant: “Aye, ye’ll wear a shawl
like aw the rest o us womenfolk hereaboots. Yer coat will be kept safe in mothballs
and brocht oot o the wardrobe for the Kirk on the Sabbath. Onywey, face the
facts, lassie, whit employer’s gonnae offer ye a job if ye gae in lookin like
some well-heeled toff frae the West End?”
As she pulled the moth-eaten garment closer and tighter
round her neck, Becky had to admit that hating the shawl or not she was indeed
glad of its all-embracing warmth. As she hurried along the London Road Becky
knew that poorly clad as she was, not only did she blend well into the surging
work force around her, she was only one of many such poverty-stricken Glasgow
women destined to work all the hours a caring God sent in some lowly job and to
count herself lucky to get a pittance for her labour.
With these gloomy thoughts Becky, head down against the
biting wind, marched blindly along with the tide of humanity. A voice at her
elbow caused her to raise her head at the same moment as a hand grasped at the
fringes of her shawl.
“Ur ye daft or whit? Ye nearly got yer shawl ironed oot
therr. No tae mention nearly meeting yer Maker.”
Becky gave a puzzled frown and a workman leaning on his
shovel said: “The lassie’s right. She’s jist saved yer life, so she did. Ye
near as dammit ended up under the hooves o that Clydesdale, no tae mention bein
splattered oot under the coal cairt it’s luggin roon the streets.”
Becky found herself looking into the concerned eyes of
the young woman who was still clutching the fringes of the hated shawl.
Before Becky could thank the woman for her help her
saviour said: “Listen, hen, fine weel Ah ken it’s wan hell o a mornin, but it’s
jist the same for the rest o us, so therr’s surely nae call for ye tae go
chuckin yersel under a coal-cairt. Ah mean tae say, things cannae be as bad as
aw that, noo can they?”
Her rescuer had spoken in almost mocking tones and when
Becky met her glance she felt herself match the spirit of merriment implied in
the half-in-fun, whole-in-earnest delivery of the speech. As the relief at
Becky’s lucky escape and the utter stupidity of the situation dawned on them
the girls smiled at each other.
“I do thank you,” Becky said. “Had it not been for you
and your gallant efforts – according to our friend the workman – I’d have been
half way to the Royal Infirmary by now, if not heading for a slab in the
morgue.”
This praise served only to embarrass Becky’s rescuer
who gazed down at her booted feet and toed elaborate patterns in the tarmacadam
of the pavement.
“Och, it wis nae bother, hen. Onytime.”
At a loss to know what next to say to express her
gratitude Becky said: “Anyway, thanks again. I just hope I haven’t kept you
late for your work.”
The young woman raised her head. “Work, did ye say?
Late for ma work? Chance would be a fine thing. If ye must ken, Ah’m job
huntin. That’s why ma mither has flung me oot o the hoose this early. She
cannae thole for tae see me like aw ma brithers, idle, and no bringin intae the
hoose as much as a fudgie for ma keep.”
Becky at once felt a common bond with her rescuer
especially as she knew the same could be said of herself – to date she had been
unable to give her mother even the self-same fudgie, a miserly farthing,
towards household expenses.
When Becky formally introduced herself to her new-found
friend the girl said: “Och, jist caw me Caz. That’s aw Ah ever get. Ma mither
must hae been aff her heid when she labelled me for life as Carolina Rose.
She’s niver saw a rose in ony back court in Brigton and Ah dinnae think she’s
ever been in spittin distance o anybody as exotic as Carolina.”
Becky hoped her smile was suitably sympathetic.
Caz exaggerated her very real shiver. “Ah don’t ken
aboot ye, Becky, but Ah’m fair perished wi cauld.”
Becky nodded. “This windswept corner hasn’t got a lot
going for it, has it? The problem now is; if we’re both looking for work, just
where do we go from here?”
Caz frowned. “Weel, ye please yersel, china, but Ah kin
tell ye wan thing – Ah’m no goin within a mile o the rag store. Ah kin get mair
than enough fleas at hame withoot workin aw day wi the wee tormentors.”
“Can’t say I was too anxious to try for work there
myself, nor even at Paddy’s Market. Also I’d rather give the bakehouse a miss
as well. A neighbour warned me the night shift boss there is to be avoided at
all costs as he is a lecherous old devil, or as she put it: A randy old
bugger.”
“Ah couldnae hae put it better masel. It seems he’s
that guid at the bakin, for want o another word for it, that he’s wantin tae
put a bun in the oven o every daft new lassie that crosses his path and hisnae
the guts tae tell the filthy auld groper tae take a runnin jump tae hissel.”
Although scandalised by the language she had just heard
and the mental picture it had presented, Becky, while glad to have made a new
friend, determined to stick to the subject of job hunting.
“Well then, Caz, apart from the coal yard or maybe even
trundling round with a barrow helping the fishwife blow her bugle, I suppose
that leaves us with only a couple of manufactories on the other side of Argyle
Street – that or the carpet factory.”
Caz grinned. “Templeton’s is nearer, so we’ll try oor
luck therr furst, eh, no?”
Assuming Becky was in complete agreement with this plan
of action, Caz took hold of her arm and like a pair of old school chums they
headed in the direction of Glasgow Green. Some fifteen minutes later as they
approached the imposing, ornate building – Glasgow’s look-alike Venetian
palazzo – Becky felt her new-found confidence rapidly evaporate.
“Oh heavens! Would you look at it. Up close it looks
really unapproachable – just like the king’s palace. Sorry, Caz, I just wouldn’t
have the nerve to wander in unannounced and ask for work. I’d just shrivel up
with embarrassment and be dumb with fright. I’d be a right bag of nerves.”
“If ye think Ah saved yer bluidy life jist so ye could
die o fright at the mercy o some mill gaffer, ye can think again.”
With these words like a clarion call to arms, Caz all
but frog-marched a trembling Becky into the overwhelming grandeur of Glasgow’s
palazzo whose outward appearance of ease, luxury, and indulgence belied the
grim workplace within – Templeton’s Carpet Factory.
***