Becky could not believe how quickly the years were passing. On remarking on this aspect of life to her neighbour across the landing, old Mrs MacAlistair said: “Ah windae worry ower much aboot it, hen, it happens tae aw o us. They say it’s a sign o advancin age when ye start tae find years fleein by and ivery month seems mair like a day.”
Becky laughed. “Advancing years, you say, Mrs MacAlistair? At thirty-seven I’m not quite decrepit yet, you know.”
“Onywey ye care tae look at it, at thirty-seven and the mither o twa weans yer life is ower. Ye’ve tae see tae yer family. So advancin age is aw that’s left tae ye – mibbe between whiles another couple o weans in yer belly afore yer past it.”
A week later Becky awoke to the fact that it seemed only yesterday Scott was a shawl-wrapped babe-in-arms yet today there he was standing before her as the latest entrant to Greenfield School. As if awaking from a deep sleep Becky looked in wonder at her son. Yes, there he was: face scrubbed almost raw, his unruly curls plastered down with an illicit handful of his daddy’s precious Brylcreem, his wee spindly legs encased in short trousers and his feet in the regulation tackety boots – boots more suited to an Irish navvy than to a puny five-year-old.
She fastened his school bag on his back and turned to her first-born. “Mind now, keep Scott tight by the hand till you deliver him safely to the infant mistress, Miss McQuarry, a lovely lady. He’s already been registered so she’s expecting him. I’ll come up at break and feed a wee sweet bite through the railings to the wee pet.”
Val’s lips tightened at these words and Becky, realising her mistake, hurried on: “And a little something for you as well, as usual, Val. You know I wouldn’t leave you out.”
The rest of that morning until break time Becky went about her housework in something of a daze. She agonised over whether or not she had been wise to leave Scott in the not-so-tender mercies of his big sister. Should she herself have gone with him and seen him to the school gates or was it better after all in the long run to give Val this further measure of responsibility in the ongoing battle of sibling jealousy and rivalry?
Becky frowned as she recalled how the curse had again raised its ugly head.
As part of the grand pre-school preparations Gramy and Grampa Graham had appeared on the Saturday before the big day with a selection of gifts. There was: a fully loaded wooden pencil case with a swivelling out tray, a garish design on the lid and the name ‘Scott’ engraved in pokerwork; a multi-coloured sweater which Gramy had lovingly made with odd bits of wool; and the pièce de résistance, a real leather school bag the weight of which would have brought a grown man to his knees.
Far from being delighted with these gifts, Becky had chewed her lower lip in distress at all this largesse bestowed on her son – especially when she caught sight of the look on Val’s face.
Gramy Graham handed Val a stick of barley sugar. “This is for you, Val. We didn’t want to leave you out, but don’t forget when it was your turn to start school you got lots of nice things too.”
Eight-year-old Val remembered. She had hated on sight the little cardboard attaché case: the hand-knitted mitts attached by a cord, to thread through her jacket sleeves in case of loss; and most of all she had loathed the gymslip, bought ‘for her growth’ with its adjustable shoulder strap buttons, made of scratchy serge material which left her thighs red-raw in the cold winter. That detested gymslip was still with her in Primary Three and suitably sponged with a vinegar rag and pleats pressed to razor sharpness every Sunday would doubtless be with her till the end of her primary school days.
Val eyed greedily the spoils bestowed on Scott and after automatically accepting the proffered barley sugar stick she took one look at it and hurled it from her with a howl of protest. The offending sweetie bounced off the wooden mantle-piece then shattered into a thousand glistening pieces on the hearth below.
The afternoon ended in a hurried departure by the doting grandparents; a tearful Scott picking slivers of barley sugar from his sweater where it lay on the chair beside the fireplace; and a screaming-her-head-off Val unable to sit with any degree of comfort on her stinging bare bottom.
So much for the pre-school celebrations, Becky thought as she brought her mind back to the present. One glance at the mantelshelf clock told her it was time she was on her way round the corner to Elderpark Street and on up to Greenfield School. She made it just in time. The bell tolled as a breathless Becky joined the other over-anxious mothers standing on the street side of the railings. Like feeding time at the zoo, the mothers stood with jammy pieces in hand ready to thrust through the bars to be snatched by their supposedly starving children. Of Becky’s own two, Scott was the first to appear, but rather than eagerly putting out his hand for the bit of buttered gingerbread he seemed strangely withdrawn and tearful. He gazed imploringly at his mother with the words: “Mammy, I want to go home. I don’t like school. Don’t leave me, Mammy.”
Other mothers nearby smile sympathetically and encouraged Scott and Becky.
“Uch, the wee darling – his first day at school?”
“Don’t worry, hen. Ma three wus the same their first day – hated it, but look at them noo.”
Becky did look and saw a rampaging mob terrorising other children and leading them into mischief.
“Scott, don’t worry, son. You’ll be fine. When Val brings you home at dinnertime I’ll have your favourite – mince and mashed potatoes. You’ll like that won’t you?”
But Scott would have none of this. All he wanted was home away from this terrible place called school.
As Becky worried about what to do the janitor appeared. When he tolled the mighty school bell, like a well trained army of midgets, the youngsters, all except a now screaming Scott, ran immediately to get to their designated class lines before the redoubtable Miss McQuarry would appear on the scene.
On her arrival, at one glance she caught the sight of one solitary miscreant child hanging on for dear life to the railings and far from the military precision of the ordered class lines. Leaving the janitor to start off the marching, the necessary music already issuing from the piano in the central hall, Miss McQuarry strode purposefully across the playground. She looked through the railings at Becky and said: “We’ve had trouble with this one already this morning. He gave his sister a real showing up.”
Becky wondering what on earth Scott could have done to blot his copy book on his very first morning at school started to ask Miss McQuarry for details, but Miss McQuarry was finished with the mother.
“Right, young man, that’s your mother off home. So let’s have no more of your nonsense. Peel yourself away from those railings. Inside with you or you’ll be at the receiving end yet again for a well earned punishment.”
***
Chapter 18
The Infant Mistress, despite Becky describing her to Val as a ‘lovely lady’ earlier, had a well deserved reputation as a strict disciplinarian, terrifying children and parents alike.
By the time Becky arrived home after the morning break, she was hot and flustered. She didn’t remember being this worried about Val’s first day. Somehow Scott seemed more fragile than Val. She worked herself into such a state that instead of shopping for anything for the children’s mid-day meal she made endless cups of hot, sweet tea in an effort to calm her twanging nerves.
For once in their lives, Becky thought, they’ll have to make do with just jammy pieces for dinner.
One look at Scott when the children returned at mid-day was enough to confirm Becky’s worst fears. The wee lad, still resplendent in his Joseph’s Coat slipover, new short trousers, and brave, tackety boots, never-the-less presented a sorry sight. His good white shirt was hanging awry beneath his pullover, and one top-hose was wrinkled at a rather jaunty angle halfway down his skinny leg. His crowning glory, which Becky had spent hours coaxing into waves and curls, now resembled nothing so much as a bird’s nest.
Worst of all, his normally lovely sea-blue eyes were red from w
eeping and his chubby cheeks tear-stained.
As Becky wiped Scott’s nose she could not help noticing the contrast between him and his rather smug-looking sister. Far from taking part in the ongoing domestic drama she had assumed the air of a detached, wary, but only slightly interested bystander. At the moment Becky was aware of an almost overwhelming urge to smack her first-born soundly on her bare bottom for no other reason than the self-satisfied, smug look on her face as she watched her wriggling brother being cleaned up.
Eventually with a still sniffling Scott toying with his jammy piece Becky turned to Val.
“Now, young lady, there’ll be no jammy piece for you until you give me a full account of this morning’s events. Don’t forget, I put you in full charge of your wee brother.”
Val sat up straight in her chair. “It wasn’t my fault, Mammy. I put him in the right line in the playground. I even waited with him as long as I dared before I ran to my own line with my pals.”
Becky looked long and hard at Val especially when Val said: “Don’t blame me, Mammy. I done what you asked. Now can Ah get something to eat?”
Aware she was losing the ongoing battle to teach her children to speak properly Becky said: “You did what was asked, Val, not done. Honestly, girl, will you never learn?”
Hearing this, Scott under the mistaken belief that since Val was now getting a row his own personal crisis was over, stopped sniffling and quite happily started licking the jam from his fingers. Val, as yet unfed, was not about to see the wee pest get off so lightly.
“Mammy, it was his own fault he got the belt. He was cheeky to the teacher.”
“Cheeky? Scott, the best behaved boy in Govan, cheeky? Certainly not to Miss McQuarry.”
With his halo now firmly in place, Scott smiled his angelic charm.
“I wasn’t cheeky, Mammy. I just did what Val told me. I sat up straight at my desk, folded my arms, and …”
As his words trailed off, Val shot him a warning look before he could say more.
“Nothing wrong with that, sonny. What Val told you was fine. That’s how all good pupils behave. But listen, did Val give you any other advice – tell you anything else?”
A nod from Scott and a murderous look from Val prompted a further question from Becky. “So! There was something else?”
Scott nodded again. “She told me the right way to answer when the teacher called the roll. Told me to get it right to make a good impression.”
“Well, you certainly seemed to have made an impression – but it doesn’t seem to have been the right one does it, if you got the strap?”
“Mammy, when the teacher called my name I just said what Val had told me. We practised yesterday. I said: ‘Aye, Missus, Ah’m richt here.’”
Becky gasped. “You said what? Scott, my wee darling, you know must always speak properly in school. Rightly or wrongly no child is allowed to speak Broad Scots or the Glasgow dialect in school – it’s one language for the street and playground and King’s English for the classroom. No wonder you got the belt.”
Silence greeted this and as Val tried to slink out the door Becky grabbed hold of her.
“As for you, madam – this is all your fault. Just you wait till your father gets home tonight.”
***
Chapter 19
When Becky next popped round to see Gramy Graham she made sure she went alone so she could tell the story of Scott’s first day without the children listening to every word.
“Poor wee darling,” Gramy Graham said. “Mind you, before they’re finished with school they’ll both get many a sore hand from the teacher’s Lochgelly. I can’t say it has done Ewan any harm.”
Becky grinned. “Is that so? Well, it might have made him a biddable pupil, but I can’t say I’ve noticed him toeing the line as a well-trained husband.”
The two women laughed.
“A biddable Scottish husband?” Gramy Graham said. “There’s no such creature – unless he’s been totally henpecked into submission by which time he’s not a man at all, Scottish or otherwise.”
They chatted for a time on other matters before Gramy Graham said: “Mind you, I’m sorry Ewan had to chastise Val. I don’t think for one minute she meant for any harm to come to her wee brother.”
Becky had her own opinion on this overly generous humanitarian theory, but rather than voice it and risk offending her mother-in-law she simply said: “Good of you to say so, but what makes you think that? After all, she can be a real wee madam at times.”
Gramy Graham smiled fondly. “Oh, it’s just her way. She’s the drama queen of this family. Just like Ewan’s sister. Anyway, I do know that she loves the old Scots tongue, so I expect it just slipped out unawares in all the excitement of giving Scott his orders and telling him to mind his P’s and Q’s.”
“As to her being a drama queen, she’s all that and more. But I don’t quite get your drift about her love of the old Scots language. She doesn’t hear it spoken at home, and the accent you and Grampa Graham have is far removed from the coarse way the people round here speak.”
“No secret there, Becky. I know you’re fussy about her speaking proper English but any time she’s here on her own there’s nothing she likes better than to hear Grampa quote some of the old Scottish weaver poets.”
Becky raised her eyebrows and Gramy Graham went on: “She really loves them. I think her favourite is Drucken Tam the Baker. Although when I come to think of it she’s really daft about a poem by a lad called Nicholson, Imph-m, that awfy word imph-m.”
Gramy Graham closed her eyes then quoted:
“Ye’ve heard hoo the deil, as he wauchel’d through Beith,
Wi’ a wife in ilk oxter and ane in his teeth,
When someone cried oot, ‘Will ye tak’ mine the morn?’
He wagged his auld tail while he cocked his horn,
But only said Imph-m! That useful word Imph-m,
Wi’ sic’ a big mouthfu’ he couldna say, aye!”
Becky laughed. “Yes, I could see that one amusing Val, considering the number of times I’ve told her not to say, imph-m, instead of the proper, yes. However, poetry and performing is one thing, she still has to learn to speak properly when appropriate.”
On her way home Becky remained unconvinced about the supposed innocence of Val’s instruction to Scott, but the conversation had convinced her that as soon as she could scrape together enough money Val should have elocution lessons. Aunt Meg had done as much for her and she could do no less for Val.
***
Chapter 20
Becky knew that had Ewan still been unemployed there would not have been a hope of managing to save the requisite half-crowns far less put her grand plan into operation. But Ewan had been happily employed in the restaurant for over five years and although the pay wasn’t tremendous he had a steady pay-packet and in addition he brought home generous helpings of stale pies and odds and ends of food left over at the end of the day which would not keep for the next.
Finally after months of slipping the odd few coppers at a time into the tea caddy Becky had no less than three half-crowns. With the money safely tucked in her purse she set out in pursuit of the one person she knew could help her. Leaving the children in the charge of Gramy Graham, Becky walked round the corner to Craigton Road to catch the yellow tram which would take her back to Bridgeton. For most of the journey she sat lost in her dreams, but the sight of Templeton’s Carpet Factory with its extravagant palazzo-style frontage made her think of the years she had worked there – the long hard years toiling, paying her money every week to Mammy until she had the courage to finally confront her and escape to marry Ewan. Becky shivered. The present even with the Depression was much to be preferred.
The woman she was intent on visiting, Becky hoped, still lived in a tenement near the People’s Palace. Even when she had been Becky’s elocution teacher all those years ago Abigail Andrews had been almost crippled with arthritis and had seldom strayed far from her home where s
he looked after her aged mother.
Arriving out of breath at the top floor flat, Becky tugged at the brass bell pull.
I’d forgotten that staircase, Becky thought. Of course I was just a child then. How on earth, does poor Abigail on her infrequent sojourns into the world manage with that winding, heart-stopping stair which seems to reach skyward for ever?
After a short wait, Becky tried the bell pull again. She could hear the ting of the bell echoing through the hall beyond the door. Then she could hear a voice muttering something she didn’t catch as it approached.
The door opened and a withered old prune of a woman walking with two sticks peered out at Becky.
Her mother? Becky thought. That’s how I remember her mother. But that’s more than twenty years ago.
Coming to her senses Becky, as though addressing someone of an elevated social strata far above her own humble origins, said: “Miss Andrews? Please do forgive my arriving unannounced in this way but …”
The old lady with a joyous cry of greeting dropped her sticks and enveloped Becky in a hug. They stood locked in this embrace for several minutes before at last Abigail clutching both of Becky’s arms pushed them a little apart.
“Becky Bryden! Becky is it really you?”
Somewhat dazed by this unexpected rapturous welcome Becky mumbled: “Yes, Miss Andrews, none other.”
Becky helped Abigail pick up her walking sticks and they moved to the parlour.
“You’ve changed, Becky. Grown into a handsome young woman … and married … with two children I hear. A far cry from the fourteen year-old I last saw. But I would have recognised your voice anywhere.”
Becky felt close to tears. “You said you’d heard about me? How …?”
“Your Aunt Meg’s church and mine occasionally have functions in common and I bump into her from time to time. When I do I always ask after you. You were my star and favourite pupil. You could have gone on to greater things.”
Love & Sorrow Page 10