Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Love & Sorrow (14 page)
Next day Val told her mother that Gramy and Grampa
Graham had come up with a much better scheme to replace the now despised
elocution. A project that she was sure would make her the envy of all the
rampaging bullies from the ‘Qually Class’. She would take dancing lessons.
On the Saturday evening after high tea Grampa Graham
started outlining their grand plan for dancing lessons.
Ewan scowled. “What’s all this? It’s the first I’ve
heard of it.”
Grampa Graham smiled. “We’ve already talked it over
with Val. She’s all for it.”
Gramy Graham nodded. “Yes, the wee pet, she can hardly
wait to start on her dancing lessons. All excited she is.”
Perhaps it was the fact that everything seemed to have
been decided behind his back – the realisation that it was cut and dried
without any reference to him as head of the house that annoyed him. Whatever
the reason, Ewan, now red-faced with anger, was more upset than Becky had ever
seen him before.
As she wondered how best to deal with the situation,
Ewan demanded: “Just where, might I ask, is the money for this flight of fancy
coming from? For the expense won’t stop at the weekly fee for the lessons. Oh,
no! There will be the expense of kitting her out in a dozen different costumes
– Little Dutch Girl, Irish Colleen, not to mention the full Highland Regalia
and the expense of dance competitions. All a complete and utter, bloody waste
of my hard earned money, if you ask me.”
His parents exchanged a glance, then his mother said:
“Just hold your horses a minute, son. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. It
won’t cost you a penny – we’ll foot the bill.”
“You? God in heaven, mother. Are you daft? I know fine
that father’s got a steady job – but times are hard. Men still get tossed on
the unemployment scrap heap without even a minute’s notice. I’ll not allow you
to waste your money like this.”
Gramy Graham laughed. “Far from being sacked, your
father’s moved a step up. He’s the day supervisor at the destructor with the
night supervisor under him. It doesn’t make a big difference in his pay, but
after all these years it’s enough we can afford to pay for Val’s lessons.”
In the end, as Ewan was always slightly in awe of his
parents, Gramy and Grampa Graham won the day.
Every Friday night after school Becky and Val trotted
along to a rented Govan church hall for Val’s hour of instruction.
Ewan had, of course, been correct. It soon became
apparent that not just one dance outfit would be needed in time, but instead a
whole wardrobe of them. In discussing this with other mothers sitting on the
chairs ranged round the walls of the practice room Becky soon became all too
aware of the costs which could be incurred. She had been saving, in the tea
caddy, the weekly amount that was no longer being spent on elocution lessons
but that was going to be only a drop in the bucket.
Becky frowned as she thought of the expenses. Her new
friend, Hannah Harper, whose own daughter was a gifted little dancer and was
already the proud possessor of the correct outfits for every style of dancing,
leaned forward and said: “Becky, there’s no need to get yourself in a state
about paying for costumes.”
“And just how do you make that out, Hannah?”
“Use your head.”
“Hmph! It’ll take a bit more than that, I’m afraid.”
Hannah laughed. “All you have to do is wait, watch, ask
around – you’ll soon see who is growing out of their outfits, then get in there
quick and make a cash offer.”
When Becky called at Crossloan Road to pick up Scott
she mentioned this conversation to Gramy Graham.
She smiled and said: “I think Grampa already has the
word out for his men to watch for any Highland stuff being ditched in the West
End. Ewan always says it’s amazing what toffs throw away.”
***
It was fast as approaching the date of the annual dance
exhibition to be held in South Govan Town Hall. Thanks to the progress made by
young Val, her teacher decided that Val was proficient enough to take part in
two items on the programme.
For the first part, that of a woodland nymph, Miss
Fraser already had a stock of these hand-made, hand-me-down garments. These
creations she dragged out from their moth-balled hideaway year after year for
the now traditional finale. It was then the simple expedient of each child
either squeezing into an over-tight dress or being tucked and pinned with a
battery of safety pins into one which was sizes to large. None of Miss Fraser’s
woodland nymphs would ever have been allowed on stage in any other attire but
these outfits constructed from sparkly green curtain material. Only one dancer
in the troupe – the Fairy Queen herself – had a custom made costume. The
champion dancer this year, with the much sought-after honour of being The Fairy
Queen, was Val’s bête-noire, Sadie.
For Val’s other part a proper Highland outfit was a
necessity and this Grampa Graham had provided. Becky’s first sight of the
eye-dazzling, garish tartan had startled her, but she kept this opinion to
herself as Val was over the moon with delight.
As the curtain finally rose, albeit after a series of false
starts, the long awaited dance exhibition finally got under way. As if to make
up for lost time a rapid succession of tap-dancers, clog-dancers, and Irish
colleens who shook their fists in the regulation Irish washerwoman fashion
appeared, but no sign of a Highland dancer.
Scott, by now wriggling in his seat, asked again,
loudly: “Where’s Val? I don’t see Val, Mammy. Where is she?”
As she had been doing since the start of Scott’s stream
of questions, Gramy Graham fed him yet another chunk of coconut tablet from her
rapidly diminishing supply. This saw him through a noisy routine of little
drummer girls who, with a measure of expertise, tap-danced and banged on their
toy drums, to end by saluting smartly to the audience before marching off-stage
in rather ragged lines. As the ear-splitting noise of the drums and the clamour
of applause died away Scott entertained himself by chasing down captive bits of
coconut from between his teeth. Then, just as he opened his mouth for the
inevitable question, a lone, aged and decrepit piper marched on stage to the
skirl of his own version of a Highland marching tune. In his wake at last came
the Highland dancers. Although not in the forefront it was impossible to miss
the apparition that was Scott’s sister, Val. The other dancers seemed to be
wearing somewhat muted tartans, but Val in her red and yellow, ‘Dress
Macmillan’ kilt and red velvet jacket stood out like a lighthouse beacon on a
foggy night.
With a shout of joyous recognition Scott yelled: “There
she is! Val! Yoo-hoo.”
When it was announced with a roll of drums, the second
half of the seemingly endless programme turned out to be a rerun of the first
half. This time although the acts and set pieces were identical to those
through which the audience had already suffered the difference was that this
time they were performed by an older group of pupils. Although they were more
confident and polished, they lacked the endearing charm, the
two-left-footedness, of the baby class. Even so, since it was obvious the idea was
to ensure that every single pupil of Miss Fraser had her own three minutes of
fame most people took the view that what could not be cured must be endured.
When the stage-two troupe of Highland dancers appeared
minus the rainbow-hued Val, Scott set up such a hullabaloo in search of her
that a grey-haired lady in front turned to face him. Instead of the rebuke,
which Becky felt he richly deserved, the woman presented him with an entire
paper-poke of long-chewing, teeth-destroying, dentist’s friends toffee balls.
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.
***
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.”
***
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.”
***