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.”
***
Chapter 2
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 effor
ts – 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.
***
Chapter 3
Later that same evening in the tenement flat in Bridgeton’s Main Street Becky was washing the dishes at the stone sink under the window while her mother sat crocheting by the fireside. Over in the set-in wall bed Becky’s invalid father, snoring loudly, occasionally gave such an earth shaking snort that Becky was in danger of dropping the dish she was drying.
At just such a moment Erchie, Becky’s elder brother, arrived home. As he entered the room in his coal-man’s work garb of moleskin trousers, hessian apron with its leather overlay, and steel-tipped boots he staggered as he negotiated the short distance between the door and the other armchair.
Erchie collapsed in an untidy heap onto the chair, gave a gargantuan belch, slapped his stomach, and demanded: “Rich weel. So where’s ma tea? Ah’m fair starvin, so Ah am. Ah could eat a scabby horse and come back for the driver.”
Silence greeted this overworked Glasgow expression and when neither Becky nor his mother at once rose to do his bidding, he glowered first at one and then at the other female.
“Have youse gone deaf? Ah said, where’s ma f***in tea? Ah’ve did a day’s hard graft humpin bluidy bags o coal up hunners o stairs. Noo it’s wimmen’s work for tae bring me some belly timber.”
When neither woman moved, he roared: “If ye don’t ken a hungry man’s an angry man, ye’ll bluidy soon find oot. Forbye no one o ye has had the common decency for tae loosen aff ma boots for me.”
Becky’s heart sank as she looked at this stinking hulk of a man, a cruel bully, whose very presence seemed to fill the small room with an aura of menace. Unsure of her part in this domestic drama Becky waited with bated breath to see what her mother’s actions or orders would finally be.
With great deliberation Mrs Bryden laid down her crochet on the creepie stool beside her chair, got slowly to her feet, then, standing before her son she peered down at him.
“If ye’d wanted yer tea, therr was a plate o pipin hot stovies on the table for ye at the appointed time – that was the time ye finished yer guid work. In case ye cannae count that was three bluidy hours ago.”
Erchie opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Bryden went on: “And while we’re at it. If that’s ye back on the booze again then either you come for yer tea at the right time or ye can damn well whistle for it. Has that sunk into yer thick skull?”
A bleary-eyed Erchie gazed up at his mother, who gave him stare for stare in good measure. When it was clear he had lost this particular round of the domestic battle, like a petulant child determined to have his own way in at least one area of his life, Erchie said: “Aye, Ah hear ye, Mither. But that disnae answer ma ither question – whit aboot ma boots? They’ll no take themselves aff ma f***in feet will they?”
Mrs Bryden pursed her lips, then called over to Becky: “Becky, fill the kettle and while it’s comin tae the boil for a wee cup o tea for ye and me, Ye can tak aff Erchie’s boots for him. Let the daft eejit sleep aff the booze in his chair.”
As Becky bustled to do her mother’s bidding it was with a heavy heart she realised that this disgusting chore would from now on be hers. Later, having filled a basin for Erchie to steep his foul-smelling feet, Becky, her mother, and a now sobering Erchie sat round the fire and sipped at their enamel mugs of strong tea. With a semblance of domestic peace at least temporarily restored Mrs Bryden turned to Becky.
“Weel noo, lassie. Ye micht as weel tell Erchie yer guid news. Its mair than high time we had a wee bit guid cheer in this hoose.”
At these words Erchie raised his head.
“Are ye mibbe goin back tae the Parliamentary Road tae stay wi yer beloved Aunt Meg? Ah hope tae God, ye are. That wey Ah’ll get ma ain bed back. For Ah don’t mind tellin ye Ah’m gettin bluidy fed up sleepin – or at least tryin for tae sleep – on that decrepit wee creepie bed oot in the lobby.”
Mrs Bryden frowned. “Ah’m gonnae nip that idea in the bud straight aff, Erchie. Ah’m tellin ye this; Becky’s here tae stay. A
nd before ye start arguin the toss wi me listen weel tae whit Ah’m tellin ye. Even though ye are brother and sister, it just wouldnae be seemly tae hae the pair o ye sharin the front room.”
Erchie’s eyes widened and he gave a snort of disgust.
“Seemly did ye say? Ye didnae worry aboot that, Mither, when therr was five o us sleepin head tae toe ben the room.”
“Erchie, that’s enough! Onywey, needs must when the devil drives and ye were aw younger then. But noo – weel the plain fact is ye’re a man, six years older than Becky and with her noo mair like to a stranger than a sister …”
Mrs Bryden paused before she went on:
“In any case, Ah need Becky here tae help me in ma auld age. Ah’ll need her pay packet as weel – especially if ye ever decide tae mak an honest woman o yer fancy piece in Landressy Street – her wi that brood o weans no single wan of which has the same faither. If ye gae aff tae the colonies wi her, ye’ll need every bawbee ye can lay hands on. If Becky wisnae here therr widnae be a penny piece comin intae the hoose tae keep yer faither and me.”
Becky had listened in horrified silence at the dirty linen being dragged out before her and at the prospect of her life to come. Mrs Bryden turned to her, a touch of asperity and rising impatience in her voice, and said: “Weel, Becky, ur ye gonnae tell Erchie yer guid news? Or dae we hae tae wait till the coos come hame afore ye put the puir fella oot of his misery?”
“It’s like this, Erchie,” Becky said. “My news is soon told. I’ve got a job and I start on Monday!”
***
Chapter 4
In the closely-packed tenements of her native Glasgow, buildings alive with squads of children, the ongoing dramas of day-to-day living, the drunken brawling of frustrated, unemployed artisans, and the screams and arguments which ricocheted off the crumbling walls were a permanent feature of life. So common were these sounds, that the only time Becky noticed them was when, for some reason or other, there would be a lull in this vibrant heartbeat. At such times Becky would find herself almost holding her breath as she strained to hear the onset of the next bout of weeping, cursing or raucous singing of some staggering-home, drunken neighbour.
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