Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Love & Sorrow (15 page)
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. Now 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.”
***
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.
***
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 their
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’.
As Becky looked at her two weeping children she prayed
earnestly that all the blithe, official promises would be kept and that her
bairns would indeed be welcome … and above all well-cared for.
At the final moment of parting Becky gave them a last,
lingering hug and whispered to Val: “Remember now, be a good girl and make sure
you take good care of your wee brother. Promise now?”
After watching the train steam out of the station Becky
turned away and started the trudge home … to an empty house.
***
For Becky the weeks in the aftermath of the piteous
farewells and the departure of her children seemed endless and empty. Apart
from the time when Scott had been at death’s door in the Fever Hospital with
diphtheria, she had never, before or since, been separated from either of her
children. Now her single end, empty and deathly quiet without the vitally alive
presence of Val and Scott, seemed desolate and hardly even a home. To make
matters worse, Ewan’s way of coping with the unnatural situation was to keep
working even longer hours which meant that when he did come home he was tired
and irritable and in no mood to listen to a catalogue of Becky’s moans and real
or imaginary problems.
For want of something else to occupy her hands and
mind, Becky swept, dusted and polished her wee palace until not an inch of
untreated floor, fabric, or furniture remained. The one bright spot in the week
was when postie would drop a postcard through the letterbox. Even that, after
the initial joy of getting it, would soon prove to be an even greater source of
worry. Val’s carefully written, almost over-correct message invariably gave the
impression of having been dictated by her teacher. The terse, stilted sentences
gave away nothing of any worth to indicate what was actually happening.
Becky peered at the latest postcard with its
non-committal: “I am fine, Mammy. Scott is fine, a good boy at school. I hope
you and Daddy are fine too.” She frowned and held the card up to the light
coming through the kitchen window to scrutinise it even better.
Well, there’s a thing, she thought. Either this card’s
been left out in the rain, or postie has dropped it in a puddle, or my poor wee
Val’s been weeping over it.
She was deep in thought when she heard a knock on the
door.
“Oh, it’s yourself, Etta. You’re early on the go today.
But it’s always a pleasure to see you. Come away in and I’ll get us a cup of
tea.”
Becky ushered her friend into her home and got her
comfortably seated beside the fire. It was obvious to the most casual glance
that Etta had been weeping and Becky bustled around at the stove waiting
patiently for Etta to tell her what the problem was.
When Etta did start to talk it was such a jumble of
ill-assorted ideas poured out in a torrent of tears that Becky stopped her.
“Listen, Etta, suppose we take this a bit slower. To let me get the facts
right, can I ask you questions on what I think I’ve gathered so far?”
Etta nodded.
“Right, today you had a postcard from your Alan? Sounds
the same as mine. Just the usual standard stilted message – I am well, hope you
are too, I am happy here on Arran, school is good – have I got it right?”
Etta blew her nose vigorously then with a snort of
disgust said: “That’s it exactly, Becky, exactly, damn near word for word. No
worth a tuppenny dam those postcards … they just say the same bluidy rubbish
week after week. They tell us naethin. An insult tae oor intelligence so they
are.”
Becky nodded. “But that’s old news, isn’t it? We’ve
talked about these cards before. You said something about another letter you
had by the same post this morning. I couldn’t quite catch what you were saying
about that.”
Etta sat up straighter in her chair. “It’s like this,
Becky. John … a cousin of mine … he works on the Clyde ferries. Usually he does
the Rothesay run, but wee while back he was shifted tae the Arran boat. So,
when he was on the island anyway, on his day off, he thought he’d take the
chance tae find oot how my bairns were really gettin on in their evacuation
billets.”
When Etta paused, Becky urged: “Go on, Etta tell me.”
“Ye’re no gonnae like this, but Ah felt it ma Christian
duty tae share this wi ye. Ah don’t mind tellin ye it ferr broke ma hert when
Ah read yon letter frae John.”
Becky felt like strangling Etta who now seemed to be
enjoying the drama of her recitation.
“Remember what that bastard Education Officer telt us?
Aw that guff aboot the evacuees bein made welcome? Well, devil the fear o that!
“John says when he talked tae folks aboot the evacuees
in the pub he was telt there were some ‘private’ evacuees that had been brought
over by their mothers and settled with islanders that wanted tae take them in –
for so much a week … like in a boardin hoose on the holidays. The other
evacuees – the Glesca keelies – that came ower by the barrowload in September
were dumped on whoever had empty rooms without as much as a by-your-leave. Some
o them, he was telt, are fine and got good places but others could be haein a
real rough time.”
“Did John do anything else – except I mean sit in the
pub and talk?”
“Oh, aye, the next time he was on the island for a day
he managed tae get a lift oot o Broderick up the coast a bit tae a wee village.
It turns oot that yer twa are in the same village as my Alan and Teena. He
didnae get tae speak tae yer weans, but he managed tae speak tae Alan. He’s aw
right, but he and Teena dinnae like the food – although he says there’s plenty
o it. John says maist o the teachers frae Greenfield didn’t stay on the island
and the ones that did are all in the town and only come out tae see the weans
in the villages aff and on. And Alan says the village kids make fun of him and
Teena and he’s had a couple of fights.”
“Etta, can you scrape up enough for train and ferry
fares to Arran?”
“Aye, Ah think so.”
“Good, we’re going to Arran to see for ourselves.”
***