Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Love & Sorrow (16 page)
Becky and Etta descended on Arran in early December,
1939, knowing only the village where the children were billeted and Becky
decided to go straight to the school. They arrived just as the afternoon
session was about to start and when Val and Scott saw Becky at the school gate
they ran to her.
“Mammy!” Scott shouted. “Can we go home?”
Becky hugged both of them and took a good look. Neither
seemed any the worse off from their stay. Scott if anything seemed to have put
a little weight on his skinny frame.
“Are you both all right?” Becky asked.
Both burst into tears.
“I don’t like it here,” Scott said. “I want to go
home.”
Val snuffled her agreement.
“What’s wrong? Is anybody being bad to you?”
“No,” Val said, “Mr and Mrs Carter are okay, but it’s
not home. Please can we come home?”
“They made us eat a rabbit,” Scott said. “I was sick.”
Before Becky could answer them the teacher of the
one-roomed school appeared to find out what all the commotion was in the yard.
“Who are you?” she demanded of Becky and Etta.
When Becky introduced herself and Etta the teacher
frowned.
“You shouldn’t be here. You’ll just upset the children.
They were only beginning to settle down. Homesickness is quite natural first
time away from home. They’ll get over it soon and be right as rain.”
“No,” Becky said, “they’re going home with us.”
The four children cheered.
“I can’t possibly allow that,” the teacher said. “This
is most irregular. There must be forms to fill out. You’ll need to talk to the
authorities and come back when everything is in order. Unless you do that you
are breaking the law – kidnapping.”
“Rubbish!” Becky said. “They’re my children. You can’t
kidnap your own children. So my two are going with me. What about you, Etta?”
Etta swallowed. “Weel, Ah dinae want tae get intae
trouble with the authorities, but if ye think it’s okay, Becky, Ah’m wi ye.”
“Right, Val and Scott, is there anything you need to
get from the school?”
Both shook their heads.
“Right, we’ll go and pick up your stuff from … Mrs
Carter, wasn’t it? Etta, get your two to take you to where they’ve been living
and meet us at the bus stop. The driver said there’d be a bus back in time for
the ferry.”
The teacher frowned. “I can’t physically stop you–”
“Naw and ye’d better no try,” Etta said.
“But I will inform the police.”
Alan, Etta’s son, laughed. “The school disnae hae a
phone and the nearest polis is twa miles away roon the coast. By the time he
finds oot and gets here on his bike we should be hame.”
Triumphantly, Becky marched her two to the cottage
where they’d been billeted. Mrs Carter, a stout country woman, shrugged when
Becky announced her intention of taking Val and Scott back to Glasgow.
“They’ve both been pining for home, particularly Scott.
They’ve been good, biddable children – not like some of the Glasgow keelies
other folks have had to put up with. What did Miss Owens say?”
“Who? Oh, the school-teacher?” Becky relayed the
conversation and Mrs Carter laughed.
“Oh, yes, she’s a stickler for forms – i’s dotted t’s
crossed and all that sort of thing.” Mrs Carter glanced at the clock on the
mantle-piece. “You’ll have time for a cup of tea and a scone before the bus
while the children collect their bits and pieces – not that they brought much
with them.”
Becky started to apologise for the sparse wardrobe the
children had arrived with but Mrs Carter waved her excuses aside.
“I know, they were just allowed what they could carry
in their school bags. The Woman’s Rural had stuff they’d collected for the
evacuees, but I had some clothes I should have thrown out years ago when my
children grew out of them so I had plenty for your two.”
Back on the mainland and safely aboard a train bound
for Glasgow Central Station Becky and Etta had time to sit back and
congratulate themselves on the successful completion of their daring rescue.
Etta wept copiously at the state of her children’s
heads. Alan’s formerly wavy hair had been shaved off, leaving only an
upstanding tuft – a scalping lock – like an obscene insult above his forehead.
Teena, bereft of her golden curls, now sported a pudding-basin cut complete
with a short fringe which certainly wasn’t worth the title of a can-can.
“Those women – the Women’s Rural or whatever they call
themselves – they were the ones that met the weans aff the boat and herded them
intae a church hall tae parcel them oot. They decided that ony weans frae
Glesca just had tae be lousy, so the easiest thing tae dae was to shave their
heads. Tae think o the time – tae say naethin o the money – Ah spent ivery
Friday night wi the bone comb and the Derback Soap makin sure Alan and Teeny
hadnae picked up ony livestock. Those women wouldnae even take the time to
check for nits – och naw, just shave the lot!”
Becky looked in wonder at Val’s fat bouncy ringlets and
Scott’s still luxuriant, undamaged waves.
“Then how?” she started.
Alan laughed. “When Val saw what was happenin, she said
something tae Scott. Next thing he was on the floor haein a real paddy – it was
rerr, screamin and shoutin, bangin his feet on the floor, the works. Ye could a
heard him clear across the Clyde. One o the women said something tae the others
and picked Scott up and took him and Val away. Next time Ah saw them was at the
village and their hair hadnae been cut.”
“It was Mrs Carter,” Val said. “She said she’d take us.
The other women laughed and said: ‘On your head be it,’ whatever that meant.
She went over our hair just the way you do, Mammy.”
The school bell was clanging to call the children back
into the building for the remainder of the morning’s lessons and mothers were
already turning away from the gates as Becky neared the top of Elderpark
Street.
Catching sight of her friend, Becky waved frantically
and called out in a fashion totally unlike her normal more ladylike behaviour.
Hearing her name shouted like this, Etta left the knot of women she was with
and made her way across to join Becky. By now breathless from her exertions and
from the sheer excitement of her news, it was a moment before Becky could
compose herself sufficiently to say: “Etta, it’s come! That letter … the
official letter and …”
But before Becky could say another word, she saw that
Etta had gone deathly pale.
“Oh, my God, Becky! Whit will they dae tae us? Put us
in gaol? Uch, Ah ken fine we were desperate tae get oor weans hame – but we
should never hae taen the law intae oor ain hauns. Oh, see ma man – he’ll gae
berserk when he hears this. He’ll gae me a right beltin, even though it’s no a
Friday or Saturday.”
Becky put a hand on Etta’s arm to try to stop the flood
of words and finally almost shouted: “Etta! For heaven’s sake stop talking and
listen. All right – I said I had an official letter, but it’s not from the
Chief Education Officer – it’s from Glasgow City council and–”
At these words Etta seemed on the point of collapse.
“God help us! The council. That’s even worse.”
Becky laughed. “Worse? No, no it couldn’t be better.
It’s nothing to do with our high jinks in Arran. This official letter – it’s to
advise me that I’ve been allocated a council house. A council house, no less!
Now, what do you think of that?”
Etta stared as if such news was almost too much to
comprehend. Finally, she grinned. “Ah think yer wan lucky deil – if ye fell
intae the Clyde ye’d come up wi a gold watch. Ah’ll tell ye somethin else.
Wance yer in yer new cooncil hoose ye’ll be that toffee nosed and posh ye’ll no
be wantin tae associate wi a known kidnapper like me.”
***
The council house in nearby Drumoyne was all, and more,
than anything Becky had dreamed of. Four-in-a-block with two houses upstairs
and two down. Ewan and Becky had one of the upstairs houses. A good sized
living room with a smart fireplace for the coal fire, a spanking new kitchen
complete with good deep sinks and a clothes boiler, two bedrooms, and, joy of
joys, a bathroom.
If Becky was in her seventh heaven, it was nothing to
Ewan’s pride of ownership in his very own strip of garden to the side and the
back of the four-in-a-block building. There was even a shared patch of lawn,
complete with clothes poles, and a strict rota setting out whose turn it was to
hang out washing.
Yes, Becky thought, one way and another everything in
the garden is lovely.
However, one night as the family slept uneasily in the
Anderson Shelter in the back garden, the sound of bombs, crashing masonry and
shattering glass grew even closer. When the all clear sounded and they all
trooped upstairs to their home Becky took one look at the smashed windows and
burst into tears.
Ewan did his best to comfort his wife and children but
pointed out: “We’re lucky, Becky. Broken glass we can sweep up. Windows can be
fixed. We still have our house. There must be folks right now looking at ruins
that used to be their homes. But this settles it – the war has started in
earnest now. We’ll have to see about getting the children away back to the
safety of the country.”
Becky looked in horror at her husband.
“Yes,” he went on, “evacuation. It seems the
authorities were right after all. The children would be much safer out of the
city.”
Becky agreed but for this evacuation she would have no
dealings with officialdom.
Instead, through the services of a friend who had a
relative in the country, it was arranged the children would be re-evacuated
privately to the safety of a pig farm in Lanarkshire. However, given the
horrendous treatment meted out to the Govan evacuees on Arran when the children
had had their heads shaved to delouse them before being sent to homes ‘where
they would be made welcome’, even the prospect of the more socially elevated
private evacuation was not enough for Becky.
“No! They’ll have to have someone of their own with
them – a responsible adult who’ll look out for them.”
When Ewan had suggested that Becky should go with the
children she had refused. Her place was at home looking after Ewan.
“Who then?” Ewan said. “Your mother’s out of it. She’s
still in that old folk’s place since her stroke last year. Your Aunt Meg would
love to be with them, but I don’t see her leaving Uncle Jack on his own, and
Uncle Jack can’t just waltz away from his bank. He’s at least four years away
from being able to retire.”
“Well, I wouldn’t trust Erchie on his own with them
even when he is sober. What about your father, Ewan?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Becky. You know what he’s been
like ever since my mother died. Between that and being retired in the spring,
he just creeps around like a lost soul. Nothing to do and all day to do it.”
“Right, Ewan. He’s ideal. He’s retired. There’s nothing
to keep him in town. It’ll give him a new purpose in life, a bit of
responsibility again. Something else – someone else – to think about beside his
own misery.”
A week later Val, Scott, and Grampa Graham set out on
their adventure. This time there were no frantic scenes in the school
playground, no screams at the railway station, and no attempted shearing of
young heads and therefore no need for Val to incite Scott to stage his tantrum
which had saved their hair in Arran.
Grampa Graham, already with a new spring in his step,
was fully in charge and determined that this time everything would go well for
his beloved grandchildren.
***
This time instead of the ultra-correct, say-nothing
postcards from Arran there were newsy letters full of their doings, their new
school, and their joy at living the freedom of an unfettered life in the
country. Becky read Val’s most recent letter for about the tenth time and
smiled.
Yes, it does seem to be going well, she thought. From
what Val says it sounds as if Grampa Graham has found a new lease of life. Just
wait till I tell Ewan this latest snippet.
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.”
***
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.”
***