That evening when Ewan finally pushed away his empty plate he said: “That was grand, Becky, just grand.”
Becky laughed. “I see you’ve left the pattern on the plate at least. There was another lovely letter from Val today. They’re having a great time in the country.”
Ewan nodded, then aware that Becky was expecting some comment from him said: “That’s good. And what about Father? How’s he been behaving himself?”
“Funny you should say that. Your dad’s been great. He even sometimes walks the three miles into Biggar to take the bairns to the pictures. But there’s something else …”
“Nothing wrong with the old man is there?”
Becky laughed. “I don’t know that he sees himself as an old man any more. In fact, if Val is to be believed, not only has he discovered the fountain of youth, your father has found himself a girlfriend.”
Ewan’s eyes widened in amazement, but before he could comment Becky went on: “Mind you, I don’t know that girlfriend is an accurate description. She’s a widow-woman, the mother of the lad that owns the pig farm. Seems she’s a rich widow-woman and as Val puts it Mrs Meikle thinks Grampa Graham is the bees’ knees.”
***
Chapter 34
After the Clydebank Blitz of March 13 and 14 and the Greenock Blitz of May 7 and 8, 1941 Becky and Ewan felt themselves very lucky to have escaped with nothing more daunting and life threatening than the shattered window panes experienced the previous November.
However, by early August the tone of Val’s cheerful letters changed. There were now reports from Grampa Graham that he and the bairns – real townies all of them – were becoming more than a little disillusioned with the tram-car-free isolation and ‘nothing much to do’ aspect of country living. They were definitely not looking forward to the coming winter, especially if was to be a repeat of the last with horrendous snowdrifts and cold.
Becky had just finished reading the latest catalogue of moans to Ewan and he commented: “Sounds to me, whether we like it or not, as if they’ll be arriving on our doorstep any day now.”
“And reading between the lines it seems as if your father’s grand romance with the pig-farmer’s mother has hit a rocky patch, if not finished altogether.”
Ewan laughed. “And just as well! Really, think on it. Can you imagine my father at his age getting all gooey-eyed over some old widow-woman? Daft old coot.”
For a moment Becky said nothing, a little startled at the vehemence with which Ewan delivered his opinion of any possible romantic union between the two elderly people.
“Suppose I write today,” Becky finally suggested, “and suggest, if they really want to do so, that they could all come back to Glasgow. There’s really not been all that much in the way of raids in Scotland since May. Sergeant Murray says he doesn’t think there’ll be any more big raids here.”
In the event no second invitation was needed, and it seemed not even the courtesy of a written reply. The next week Becky answered a knock on the door to find the wanderers had returned.
Val, now twelve, had written the Lanarkshire ‘Quallies’ in June and Becky, armed with the result and Val’s report, called on the headmaster of Govan High School – Mr Irvine. He looked carefully at the papers Becky gave him.
“Yes, Mother Graham, Val is certainly entitled to enter first year here in September … but a country school … hmm. I think it would be best if we placed her in the non-academic stream.”
“She was only in the country school for six or seven months, the rest of her schooling was a Greenfield School and I know that has a good reputation.”
“True … but still … she was evacuated at the outbreak of war wasn’t she?”
“For a little over three months. Val is a bright girl. I know she’ll do well.”
Mr Irvine pursed his lips. “I’m reluctant to put a child with this background in the academic stream. In any case, she’s a girl, and likely will be married before you know it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her background.” Becky bristled. “Why don’t you let her into the academic stream for first year. If it proves too hard for her and she doesn’t do well then I guarantee you can transfer her to the non-academic stream with no argument from me.”
“Very well, Mother Graham, you can be quite persuasive.”
So in September 1941 Val started at Govan High School.
Scott was re-established at Greenfield School and Grampa Graham was back in his flat in Crossloan Road.
Becky counted her blessings that in such a time of war she had her family safely round her. Even her fear that Ewan might be called up for the forces was in the past. At forty-two, when the war started, he certainly wasn’t in the first age group to be called up. Now that the restaurant was officially classified as an auxiliary canteen for the shipyard workers and allotted rations accordingly, Ewan’s work there meant that he was not eligible to be drafted into other ‘War-related essential occupations’.
Since the evacuees’ return from the country one thing puzzled Becky and it finally got to the point where she felt she had to discuss it with Ewan.
Having listened more or less patiently to Becky, Ewan said: “For heaven’s sake, Becky. I can’t think what all the fuss is about. If my father doesn’t want to come to our ‘special family teas’ since he’s come back from Lanarkshire, so what? It’s not exactly earth shattering is it? At least it saves from having to listen to all his old stories again.”
“Trust a man to feel that way. Say what you like Ewan but I think Grampa is hiding something. On the odd occasions we have seen him he hasn’t once mentioned the widow-woman. Now he’s taken to dotting back and forward to Partick every five minutes across the Govan Ferry. What exactly is that about?”
Ewan laughed. “Likely he’s just trying to mend his broken heart with a dose of culture at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, now that he’s retired and the time is his own. Let’s face it, the statues, pictures and ship’s models at the gallery are bound to be more uplifting than what he looked at day in day out as the supervisor at the destructor.”
There the matter had rested until the week before Scott’s tenth birthday in November when Becky cornered Grampa Graham in his flat.
“We’re having a wee special tea a week on Sunday. We’d like you to come, but if as usual these days …” Becky’s words trailed off.
“Becky, of course I’ll come,” Grampa said. “It’s not every day my only grandson turns ten, is it? There’s just one thing, Becky.”
“Anything, Grampa. We’ll be only too pleased to see you at the family tea table again. Is there something special you want?”
Looking embarrassed, Grampa Graham started fiddling with his pipe. When the cleaning and tamping in of new tobacco was completed to his satisfaction he looked up with a sheepish grin.
“No, it wasn’t anything special to eat I had in mind. I was wondering … would it be all right with you if … if … Can I bring a friend with me to the birthday tea?”
In the days leading up to Scott’s birthday Grampa Graham made no further reference to his ‘bringing along a friend’. Becky had her own thoughts as to who the friend might be, but she thought it best to keep such preposterous ideas to herself. Time enough to warn Ewan of the extra guest on the big day itself.
However, Becky was so busy with her preparations and with keeping the children from fighting that everything else went out of her mind. When Ewan opened to door to admit his father he was startled to find a tweed-suited elderly woman by his father’s side holding his arm in a proprietorial manner.
As the stern-looking Mrs Meikle was ushered into the living room, there was no shout of welcome from the children. Each raised eyes heavenwards at the very sight of this controlling relic from their exile in the Lanarkshire countryside. Not only had she arrived empty-handed, but as the meal progressed it was soon clear that, filthy rich or not, Mrs Meikle hated money being spent – even if it was not her money. With almost every mouthful of food,
with every dainty sweet bite she lifted from the cake stand she intoned in a voice of doom: “Fair eating money, this is. Just fair eating money.”
Despite this Greek chorus they got through the meal. Scott blew out his candles and Becky handed round the portions of home-made Victoria sponge. On the point of rising from the table Grampa Graham cleared his throat. “Now, I know this is Scott’s big day, but since this is a family occasion this is as good a time as any to say … to let you all know …”
When it looked as if Grampa Graham was at a loss for words, Mrs Meikle folded her arms across her ample bosom, fixed him with a steady gaze and said quietly: “Go on.”
“Mistress Meikle – already known and loved by our birthday boy here and wee Val – Mistress Meikle has this day consented to be my wife.”
A stunned silence greeted this announcement before Scott, the so-called fan of the bride-to-be, lifted an Empire biscuit to his lips and said: “Fair eating money, this is. Fair eating money.”
***
Chapter 35
No shot gun wedding for a besotted young couple was ever more quickly arranged than elderly Mrs Meikle’s unseemly haste in getting Grampa Graham to the altar, or in their case to the Registry Office. In the lead-up to the nuptials it turned out that Grampa’s recent frequent visits to Partick had been to visit his beloved. Doubtless in pursuit of her prey, she had chosen to lodge with a cousin in Dumbarton Road ‘for a wee holiday’.
From all of this it seemed clear to Becky that once having set her cap at the old man, Mrs Meikle was not about to let him escape her clutches. While not entirely happy with the situation, Ewan and Becky could only make the best of it. When Ewan suggested as their wedding gift to the happy couple he would stand the cost of the celebration high tea followed by a visit to one of the city’s cinemas the offer was promptly accepted.
On the big day following the ceremony the family party adjourned to the Ca’dora tea rooms for high tea. While Val and Scott were in their element at the sight of the small collection of French cakes to follow the main course, the bride, resplendent in her best, but somewhat battered, tweed suit and enormous jumble-sale hat, could only reiterate at frequent intervals: “Fair eating money! All this spread, it’s just fair eating money.”
Becky, wearying of this monotonous chorus turned to Ewan and whispered: “It’s not even her money, for heaven’s sake. We’re the ones who should be moaning.”
Ewan grinned and whispered back: “Never mind, Becky. Money is like a god to her. By all accounts the old skinflint’s loaded … not that my father’s likely to see a brass farthing of it.”
In the cinema throughout the performance Becky became aware that everyone who sat behind the still behatted bride would sit for a moment then, usually with a curse, shuffle off to another seat. When the lights came on in the hall for the interval, Becky glanced along the row intending to smile at her new mother-in-law and ask her if she would like a peppermint-cream. Instead she started to giggle and then collapsed into gales of helpless laughter. The bride, already tall and well built, was sitting head and shoulders above everyone else. Between that and the hat it was little wonder that no-one had wanted to sit behind her. Becky, muffling her laughter as best she could, nudged Ewan in the ribs and pointed to the source of her merriment.
Ewan too started to laugh. “Oh, good Lord. She can’t ever have been in a cinema or a theatre before. She doesn’t know … and no-one’s had the gumption to tell her you’re supposed to tip the seat down before you sit on it.”
After a whispered conversation with Val she was dispatched along the row to advise the bride she would be much more comfortable if she cared to lower the seat rather than sit on the rim.
“Talk about a night to remember,” Ewan said at home later. “I hope Dad’s pleased with his new wife. Anyone more different from my mother would be hard to find. There’ll be changes afoot for my father in the not too distant future – and I’ll bet they’ll not be for the better, you mark my words.”
***
Chapter 36
Early in 1942, the year following the wedding, Grampa Graham said to Becky: “We’re thinking of moving out of the Crossloan Road flat.”
Surprised, Becky said: “But you’ve lived there for years, Grampa. You love that wee room and kitchen.”
Grampa Graham nodded but made no further comment. With a flash of inspiration the reason for the move struck Becky.
“Oh, hold on, I see. It’s not good enough for your new wife! With her money she’ll be wanting a real house and not just a tenement flat.”
“Not exactly, Becky. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Elspeth feels the Crossloan Road flat is too big for just the two of us. The more room we have, the more there is to heat and light, the more visitors we’ll be getting to stay from Lanarkshire. And all that will cost good money.”
“But Grampa, apart from anything else the flat’s so handy for Greenfield school. You know how Val and Scott love to pop in and –”
“Lassie, lassie, do you not see – she even grudges the expense of buying the wee sweetie biscuits for the bairns.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Well, Grampa, far be it from me to cause you any extra expense – it’ll be the last time they drop in for a visit. I do assure you.”
“Don’t go into the huff with me, Becky. But you’re right. It will be the last time they’ll have such freedom to come and go. We’re moving come Quarter Day. Elspeth has found us a cheap single end to rent in Golspie Street.”
“What! For heaven’s sake, have you taken leave of your senses? Golspie Street! What in God’s name are you thinking of?”
Grampa sighed. “It’s not me. It’s her. The move is definitely arranged; already she’s unscrewed all the doorknobs inside the flat; she’s bagged the last of the dross from the bottom of the coal bunker – she’s made up her mind.”
After the excitement of the wedding and the subsequent removal of the happy couple to Golspie Street, life once again settled into a routine for Becky, Ewan, and the children. The latter did miss the freedom of popping in to see Grampa every day after school, but there was something else to look forward to. They now had a regular weekly visit with him to the Elder Park and the luxury of some sweets bought on Grampa’s sweetie ration coupons, although they missed the ice cream treats they used to get from Nottriano’s Ice Cream Parlour on Govan Road, now closed and boarded up since the anti-Italian riots of June last year when Italy declared war on the side of Germany. Although no one ever actually voiced the thought, what added to their pleasure was the absence of Elspeth who kept to the seclusion of the single end rather than risk ‘eating good money’ in the form of any off-ration treats Grampa might buy.
One such early spring day with the children happily off on their weekly jaunt with Grampa, Becky, on a whim, decided to do a bit of spring cleaning. Not content to merely brush over the rugs where they lay in the living room, the hint of weak, long-awaited sunshine encouraged Becky to take the rugs out to the green in the back garden. There, after heaving them onto the clothes line, she started to beat them thoroughly with the long-handled, cane carpet beater. Even as she pounded away at them she thought: Why don’t I do this properly … give them a good sponge down with that new cleaning liquid I bought from the Kleeneezee man at the door the other day?
Suiting the action to the thought Becky ran upstairs to the kitchen. Although the metal cap came off easily enough, the cork had been rammed in so tightly it refused to budge. Finally, the corkscrew pulled the cork out but not before the neck of the bottle had been chipped. The raw edge nicked the skin of Becky’s right hand between thumb and forefinger. Determined to press on with her cleaning operations, Becky dabbed at the blood with her apron then headed back out to the garden. Later, with the rugs hung over the washing line to dry, Becky felt a glow of satisfaction at a job well done.
When Becky started to clear the table after feeding Grampa and the children following their outing, the cut on her hand bl
ed again.
“What’s happened to your hand, Becky?” Grampa asked.
Becky dabbed at the tiny cut with the dishtowel. “It’s nothing, Grampa. Just a wee nick in the skin.”
“Well, make sure you keep it clean. Many a soldier in the trenches of the Great War got tetanus from such a cut and as I see, you’ve been out in the garden beating the dust, and the living daylights, out of your carpets.”
Becky laughed.
***
Chapter 37
Becky opened her eyes in a total panic.
Where was she? What had happened to her? Why was she wracked with pain?
Ewan’s voice came from very far away, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Another voice seemingly closer this time said: “We’ve just given her another injection of a sedative to try to calm her down. The blood poisoning is very far advanced. We’ve done what we can to try to localise it but … We’ll give it another couple of hours … but we may have to amputate the right arm at least as far as the elbow to stop the poison spreading and killing her.”
“What about that stuff the other doctor mentioned?”
“Penicillin? That’s what we’re trying. It’s certainly worked wonders with the war wounded since 1940. We’ll have to wait and see how she responds. I’m sorry, but it’s her last and only hope, even if we do amputate there’s no guarantee …”
When Becky again surfaced she remembered the snatches of conversation about an arm being amputated. With what strength she could muster and filled with dread as to what she might find Becky struggled to withdraw her left arm from the confining bed sheets.
A cool hand caught hers and a kindly voice said: “Ah, so you’re awake at last, Mrs Graham. You’re lucky … the doctors did manage to save your arm. I’ll be right back.”
Love & Sorrow Page 14