Love & Sorrow

by Chaplin, Jenny Telfer

  A final roll of drums from the tap-dancers announced that mercifully the end was approaching and the curtain fell. After several attempts to raise the curtain for the finale it finally rose only to crash halfway down to the platform, there to remain. The scene before the now restive audience was an enchanted forest onto which galumphed the star-spangled, wand-carrying Fairy Queen. Various other nymphs and shepherds wandered their weary self-conscious way through the magic forest and a would-be mischievous band of elfin helpers did unnecessary things around the stage.

  Throughout this pantomime Scott grew increasingly fidgety looking for Val. Obviously the stupid Fairy Queen peering fruitlessly behind one cardboard tree after another couldn’t find Val either. Like an eel, Scott slid from his seat, squirmed past the row of knees and sped down the centre aisle towards the brightly-lit stage to help in the search. Once up the stairs at the side of the platform, blinking in the glare of the footlights Scott’s sturdy little figure became the centre of attention. There were gales of delighted laughter from the formerly semi-comatose audience as an irate Fairy Queen, whose artistic thunder had just been stolen, tried to shoo him off the stage and out of the enchanted forest. Scott body-swerved, avoiding the ever-more frantic swipes from the shiny, beribboned, magical, fairy wand, as he cavorted shouting: “Val, I can see you. This is great fun. Come out from behind that bush. It’s your turn to chase me.”

  The victorious grande-finale descended into utter chaos as the recalcitrant curtain dramatically shot skywards from its previously stuck half-down position bearing with it a shrieking Fairy Queen whose wings had become entangled in the long silken fringes of the curtain.

  ***

  Chapter 25

  That evening, after the fiasco of the dance exhibition Gramy Graham invited Ewan, Becky and the children round to Crossloan Road for a special high tea to celebrate the event.

  Grampa Graham with tears of laughter in his eyes after the concert had said: “Ewan, lad, I hope you don’t mean to chastise wee Scott for tonight. Man, it was grand. The best laugh I’ve had in years. Scott wasn’t really being naughty – he was just being a normal wee lad. After all, it was hardly his fault that without the benefit of a single dance lesson he turned out to be the star of the show.”

  Gramy Graham had obviously pulled out all stops in her baking for the high tea and Becky watched with some alarm as the children stuffed themselves with millionaire’s shortbread, jelly and mandarin oranges, and cherry-topped, iced Empire biscuits, but felt that in Gramy Graham’s home she couldn’t interfere.

  When the dishes had been cleared away and the adults seated in the parlour Ewan turned to Grampa Graham. “Right, father, what about a tune for us? It’s been a while since we heard the wee squeeze box.”

  After the expected ritual persuasion of a reluctant Grampa Graham, he did play for them then insisted that everyone else now had to do his or her turn. Even the normally reticent neighbour Mrs O’Conner, who had joined the tea party, was cajoled into doing her artistic best for the Emerald Isle. All turned now to Ewan.

  “Right,” he said rising to his feet. “To finish off our wee ceilidh, I’ll recite for you a little gem of literature called – wait for it – Cluck, cluck, Aih’m a duck.”

  Howls of protest and gales of laughter greeted this suggestion and the evening ended on this note.

  Just as Becky was about to leave, Gramy Graham pulled her back and uncharacteristically enveloped Becky in a bear hug. Then holding her daughter-in-law at arm’s length she said: “I’ve never said this to you before, but for some reason I feel I must say it now. I’m really glad you married Ewan. A wife like you was exactly what he needed. Becky, you’re a grand lass, even though you can be a wee bit hard on the children.”

  Becky, on the point of tears, quickly kissed Gramy Graham on the cheek and hurried out after her family.

  Next morning as Becky was busy preparing the children for Sunday School a frantic rapping on the door made her look in alarm at her husband. He at once put down his Brylcreem and moved to open the door. On the doorstep was Mrs O’Conner, not the carefully dressed party-goer of the previous evening, but a dishevelled, distraught looking woman.

  “Can you come quick, son?” she blurted out. “It’s your Mammy. She’s been taken bad, really bad.”

  ***

  Chapter 26

  It was fast approaching Hogmanay, that last evening of the year for which every Scottish housewife worthy of the title scrubbed, dusted and polished everything in sight that did not actually move. Becky dived around her single end in a frenzy of cleaning, cooking and baking and found more and more that the children were getting under her feet. Finally, when she could stand their antics not a moment longer they had to go out. She realised it was far too cold to send them out to play either in the dank close or in the filthy back yard, but …

  She lifted down the china teapot in which she stored her carefully garnered horde of silver threepennies and after counting out enough turned to Val. “You were a good wee girl helping Mammy earlier. So how would you like to take Scott to the pictures? There’s a lovely show on at the Vogue. Scott will love seeing all the wee dwarfs and you, you’ll like Snow White.”

  Val’s joyous face was answer enough. No sooner were the children all happed up in their coats, hats and long woollen scarves than Becky felt a frisson of fear.

  Oh! she thought, this is exactly what those over-worked, harassed Paisley mothers did that tragic Hogmanay back in 1929. They sent their children off to a picture-house matinee just so they could get on with their house-cleaning for the New Year. No! Things have changed since the Paisley Glen Cinema fire. The Vogue’s a new modern building and anyway surely such a coincidence is unthinkable.

  Never-the-less, Becky could not resist one last admonition. “Remember now, Val, you’re the big one of the family. You’re in charge of your wee brother. Just see that you take really good care of him. Do you understand?”

  Val, by now hopping from foot to foot in an agony of suspense to be out of the flat and on their way, gave a hasty nod, and unceremoniously grabbing hold of her young brother headed towards the door and an afternoon of freedom in the comforting dark of the picture-house.

  Her mother with a hand on her arm stopped her. “One last thing … you do not buy Scott pink bubble gum or gobstoppers with your spending money … oh, and no sweetie cigarettes either. I don’t want him stuffing himself too full and being sick. Is that clear?”

  In her very evident impatience to escape Val would have agreed to any condition her mother cared to inflict. She gave another quick nod and tightened her grip on Scott, but her mother wasn’t finished. “One last thing …”

  Val sighed.

  “It’s the Vogue you’re to take him to and not that flea-pit of a place you went to last time. Apart from anything else it’s a horror picture there and that would give Scott nightmares. So, off you go now … the Vogue, no rubbishy sweets, and no bubble gum … have a good time.”

  ***

  Chapter 27

  So engrossed was Becky with her many housewifely tasks she was scarcely aware of the short winter’s afternoon speeding by. From the moment the children had left on their picture-going expedition Becky had worked tirelessly without so much as stopping for a cup of tea. Now she had one final task to undertake and after that she promised herself she would sit at the fireside for a break with a reviving cup of tea and a buttered scone. A quick glance at the clock was enough to reassure her she had time in hand before the children would re-appear, full of excitement about the picture they had seen and, of course, clamouring: “What’s for tea, Mammy?”

  Becky hauled a chair across the room to position it under the wooden shelf that ran the length of one wall. She clambered up onto the chair and started carefully lifting down the never-once-used collection of her precious wedding gift from Aunt Meg and Uncle Jack of Willow Pattern dinner plates. With the stack of plates successfully deposited on the kitchen table she gave a sigh of relief. No
w for the massive, heavy soup tureen … big enough to feed an army on the march.

  With a smile at the ridiculous mental image this thought created, Becky geared herself for the physical task of moving the huge dish safely down to the spot on the kitchen table already cleared for it. Balanced somewhat precariously on the creaking wooden chair and with her precious cargo aloft in her upstretched arms she was about to lower it to waist level before attempting to dismount from the chair. At that point, all hell broke loose.

  The outer door of the single end burst open, a blast of freezing air rushed in from the common close beyond and Scott’s wailing voice piteously announced: “Mammy, I’m choking. And I didn’t like the big monster.”

  As Becky struggled to balance herself the tureen slipped from her hands. In a blur of blue and white it flew past her to crash to the floor in smithereens.

  For what felt like an age Becky looked down at the scene below as if not only from a great distance but as if she were a disinterested bystander. Then, she climbed down from the chair and picked her way carefully through the shards of broken china to her weeping children.

  A quick appraising glance told her that while Val was also weepy looking, of the two it was Scott who was the more distressed.

  Becky bent down to him. “What’s wrong, son? And what’s all this talk about a big monster? There’s no monster here, that was just your silly old Mammy perched on a chair and throwing her best china around. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Scott wiped his eyes then his runny nose on the sleeve of his trench coat. For once, Becky bit back the words of admonition which sprang to her lips. Even so, when Scott started to speak Becky spotted that Val gave him a sisterly but warning look. Immediately on the alert, Becky gave Scott another cuddle. “What’s wrong, dear? Never mind, Val, you can tell me. Tell your Mammy what ever it is. But I do assure you there are no monsters here.”

  “No monsters here, Mammy, but big horrible monsters in the picture-house. A bad man killing folks in a wax-works and …”

  Scott paused to draw breath and Becky said: “But I don’t understand, Scott. I was sure you would have loved Snow White. It wasn’t monsters it was wee dwarfs …”

  Even as she spoke the light dawned. Becky turned to Val and the one word ‘Val’ was enough to open the floodgates of tears, tantrums and an outpouring of confessions – sins of omission and commission.

  “Mammy, there was a big queue for Snow White so we went to the Elder instead. Scott likes playing with Plasticine making models … so I thought the big picture was about wax-works and he would like that …”

  Becky frowned. “All very commendable, I’m sure, Val. Just one thing; what exactly was the title of that picture?”

  Val toed patterns in the shards of china still on the floor before finally saying: “It was The Terror of the Waxworks …”

  Becky nodded grimly. Scott, now sensing he was the innocent party in their escapade, blurted out: “I was so scared I choked on my gobstopper. Then hiding under my coat from the monster I chewed on a big button … it came loose … and I’ve swallowed it.”

  The doctor, annoyed at being called out, was anything but sympathetic.

  “The message made it sound like something serious – something sharp. A button will likely dissolve and he’ll not come to any harm. Porridge and soft bread puddings for a day or so and what doesn’t dissolve will pass through. Hardly worth your shilling for calling me out. Good day.”

  ***

  Chapter 28

  For some time now there had been rumours of war and some now argued the inevitability of an outbreak. For Becky, involved as she was in bringing up her little family as best she could, making every halfpenny do the work of ten, war and all its implications seemed but a distant threat.

  However, all that changed one day in March 1939 when Becky and Ewan received a letter from a Mr R. M. Alerdice, Chief Education Officer for Glasgow. The letter, headed, ‘Evacuation of children from Glasgow in the event of a National Emergency’, outlined the plans the authorities had made. Becky read through the letter several times and realised that she, in common with all other Glasgow parents, was asked to consider, and decide, whether or not their children should be included in the arrangements for the crowded areas of large cities. Such plans would mean the children would be relocated to ‘safer places if war should break out’. The children would gather at the primary school nearest to their home and older and younger children of the same family would, ‘as far as possible’, be evacuated together. They would go to the chosen places in the care of their teachers ‘who would remain with them’. If they were to be scattered all over the countryside, Becky wondered, how could a classroom teacher ‘remain’ with all of them? The final promise in the letter was, ‘they – the children – would live in the country where they would be welcome’.

  Following the receipt of the bombshell letter, Becky and other mothers spent many a playtime outside the school gates discussing it.

  One mother said: “Uch, ye can dae whit ye like, Becky, but for me they can gae it any fancy word they like, but naebody … and Ah mean naebody is gonnae tak ma weans away frae me and cart them aff tae strangers in the wilds o Scotland.”

  Becky laid a hand on Liza’s arm. “But, Liza, surely you can see, if war comes, then it stands to reason the children would be safer well away from the city and all its factories, railways, and shipyards.”

  Liza would have none of it. “But bluidy naethin! If some high heid yin o a chief education officer thinks he can dictate tae me, he can jist damned well think again.”

  Throughout the rest of the spring and on into the summer, the rows and blazing arguments raged on.

  Etta, who had a son in Val’s class, sided with Becky that unpleasant as it would be to be parted from their children they would be safer out of the city.

  One day after a particularly upsetting slanging match with Liza, Etta and two other young mothers, Becky gave a grim smile at the thought: Who needs an official war with all this going on? Anyway, it might never happen.

  ***

  Chapter 29

  On the first of September, 1939 the official evacuation got under way. As Becky looked at Val and Scott, already they seemed like strangers from some alien planet rather than her own normal, beloved children. This morning they stood with a cardboard-boxed gas mask slung over one shoulder and over the other a bulging schoolbag. From the latter peeped out a variety of socks, spare underwear, and even the toes of canvas gym shoes, their well-cuffed school sannies. Like all the other children now lined up in the school playground each wore an enamel mug on a string which hung nonchalantly somewhere between the gasmask case and the schoolbag. The final indignity was the detailed, named luggage label which had been previously prepared and then tied securely round the neck of each child.

  Becky looked round at the other mothers, already giving the appearance of being red-eyed and haggard. She saw that many who had previously voiced their fierce opposition to the Evacuation Scheme and all it stood for had obviously caved in at the last minute. Liza was not one of them. She had stuck to her guns and was accordingly keeping her brood of steps-and-stairs weans safe at home and well away from the tears and trauma already apparent in the playground of the designated school that morning.

  Parents had been advised they should take farewell of their children then and there in the school line-up, but if they felt they must, they would not be prevented from marching with their offspring to the nearest railway station. Becky, choking back her tears, chose the latter alternative, although knowing as she did she was merely putting off the inevitable, dreaded moment of parting when she would have to wave goodbye with whatever last reserves of composure she could muster.

  The word of command was given. The military style crocodile marched through the streets. The only sounds to be heard from the marchers was weeping, whispered words of comfort from distraught mothers, and the ring of tackety boots on the cobbles. Shopkeepers stood in silence in th
eir shop doorways; even the normally raucous, bugle-playing fish-wife was subdued; a local postie stood cap in hand as though paying due and proper respect to a passing hearse.

  When the line of children and their supporters finally turned into the railway marshalling area all hell broke loose. In a flash, at the sight of the waiting train, the reality of the coming departure, separation and loss could no longer be delayed. On all sides there were screams, loud weeping and frustrated tantrums from the children and from the mothers an emotional tidal wave of sobbing, keening, and hysteria.

  Surveying this, the headmaster called out something unintelligible which Becky assumed was an instruction of some kind, but no one paid the slightest heed. Next, he blew a blast on his ‘thunderer’ whistle with equally little effect and it seemed that the situation was about to dissolve into utter chaos. Despite his bulk the school janitor heaved himself up onto a nearby wicker hamper. From this vantage point, he clanged the hand-held brass school bell he had had the foresight to bring along. As if miraculously, there was a dramatic and eerie silence. Throughout their schooldays the children had been conditioned to obey this hand-tolled summons immediately or suffer the dire consequences.

  “Right, youse yins,” the janitor shouted into the silence. “Just listen weel tae yer heidmaister. He’s in charge.”

  He jumped down and before the headmaster knew what was happening he was being given a leg-up to the vacated perch. Now he was able to order the children on their way, out of the arms of weeping mothers and off on the first stage of their journey to ‘a chosen place where they would live in the country, in houses where they would be made welcome’.