Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Love & Sorrow (3 page)
Each time Meg went to her sister’s home to see wee baby
Becky, inevitably she came away feeling both delighted and downcast. She was
always charmed and re-assured to see how wonderfully well the baby was
progressing in Nellie’s care, but she despaired at the fleeting quality of her
visits and the gnawing certainty that her own darling wee Becky would never in
this life be able to acknowledge her true birth mother.
On this particular evening she was aware of an
ever-growing feeling of resentment gathering strength like a cancer within her
very soul. She was still mentally raw after her narrow escape from the
lecherous lodger as a result of which she was now on the verge of moving to
Miss Martin’s house, and Nellie’s news tonight made her feel as if her entire
world was collapsing round her.
As she made her way back to her lodgings along
Bridgeton’s bustling Main Street Meg replayed in her mind that night’s visit …
“Well,” Nellie said, “it’s mibbe jist as well ye’ll
soon be stravaigin across the Clyde tae Great Western Road –”
Thinking Nellie was referring, however obliquely, yet
again, to her ‘airs and graces’ and meaning that in such a house Meg would be
well suited to the more rarefied, toffee-nosed area of the City of Glasgow Meg
started to protest, but Nellie pressed on.
“Uch, for hivven’s sake, Meg. Therr’s a helluva lot
mair tae life than aw such bloody falderals. Guid God Almighty, if anybody on
this earth should ken that surely to hivven it’s ye, ye daft bitch.”
When Meg insisted she still didn’t know what Nellie was
trying to tell her, Nellie shooed her brood of children into the hall out of
earshot and said: “Uch, ye’re supposed tae be the brainy one o the family.
Ah’ve telt ye once but Ah’ll tell ye again … it’s ma guid man, Rab. He’s fed up
wi yon lang sea voyages and bloody months on end without sae much as a sniff o
the marriage bed. That’s whit for Ah telt ye he’s got himsel a job on the boats
that gae up and doon the Clyde atween the Broomielaw and the likes o Dunoon and
Rothesay.”
Meg realised with a pang that Rab’s totally unexpected
career change very effectively put paid to her frequent visits as she
remembered Nellie’s previous words on Rab’s feelings towards herself.
“Not only will ye be seeing less o Wee Becky, but ye’ll
need tae be payin me a wheen mair … at least another couple of hauf croons a
week should jist aboot dae it.”
Hearing Meg’s intake of breath at this news Nellie went
on: “Think on it, hen. Rab’ll no be gettin sich guid wages for yon skittery wee
trips up and doon the Clyde. Onywey, if yer no gonnae be forkin oot a king’s
ransom for lodgins, ye’ll be able to gie me mair o yer hard-earned sillar tae
keep Becky fed and clothed in ma hoose.”
***
Towards the end of that same week Meg said farewell to
Mrs Farley and later said a tight-lipped hello to old Mrs Martin.
Despite the fact that the main rooms in the house were
high-ceilinged and spacious, the room allocated to Meg proved to be neither and
resembled nothing so much as a nun’s cubicle or a prisoner’s cell.
Meg smiled grimly. Perhaps both descriptions are very
apt for not only will I be living like a nun in this mausoleum, but I’ll be a
prisoner and a slave to the demands, whims, and fancies of that cantankerous
old woman. Oh well, as the saying goes I’ve made my bed, so now I’ll just have
to lie on it.
One consolation was that she still greatly enjoyed her
work in the haberdashery and she knew that in Petronella’s eyes she was a
Godsend as in addition to working hard in the shop Meg also gave of her best to
old Mrs Martin.
Days, weeks, and months drifted past with fewer and
fewer opportunities to visit her daughter Becky and in a quiet spell in the
shop Meg was thinking sadly about this as she tidied up a box of ribbons. Head
bent to her task Meg heard a sound from across the counter and looking up was
astonished to find herself eyeball to eyeball with a beshawled Nellie. Wonder
of wonders there was Becky wrapped up cosily in the shawl. At first too
surprised at this unexpected encounter to think or speak rationally Meg could
only stare in delighted amazement at her visitors.
Nellie finally said: “Don’t worry yer heid, hen. Ah’m
no here looking for mair money, for gie ye yer due, Meg, yer postal orders aye
arrive regular as clockwork.”
Meg nodded, but wondered then why her sister had chosen
to come to the shop.
Before she could ask, Nellie forestalled her. “Ah
happened tae bump intae yer auld landlady and she let the cat oot o the bag as
tae where ye worked. So, Ah thocht tae masel there’s nae time like the present
and jist hopped ontae a tramcaur, and here Ah am.”
Since it would be clear to the most casual observer the
shawlie woman was not in the process of buying anything and was taking an
inordinate amount of time chatting in her loud coarse voice Meg was aware that
Miss Martin was casting meaningful glances in her direction. Even so, Meg,
greatly daring, stretched out a trembling hand to caress the sweet little baby
face peering out from the folds of the shawl.
Miss Martin materialised at Meg’s side and in her most
carefully articulated, down-putting voice said: “Is there something with which
we may help Modom?”
Nellie glared at Meg and gave a mocking tilt of her
head towards Miss Martin, clearly waiting for Meg to introduce her. The uneasy
silence stretched and the moment of opportunity passed. Drawing herself to her
full height, Nellie assumed her best attempt at ‘proper, pan-loaf speech’ and
said: “No, thank ye, my good woman, there’s absolutely nothing here in yer
little shop for me. I think I’ll try some of the better stores in Sauchiehall
Street. Good day to ye.”
With that and a ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ look at
Meg, Nellie, her head held high and cuddling the precious bundle of Becky,
marched out of the haberdashery.
Petronella pursed her lips as the door pinged shut
behind Nellie and turning to Meg said: “Honestly! Some people. Sauchiehall
Street indeed. Paddy’s Market would be rather more to her taste … if her speech
and that flea-bitten shawl are anything to go by. I can’t think why the likes
of her and her snivelling child bothered to come in to my lovely haberdashery
in the first place, can you Meg?”
When Meg’s only reply was a sorrowful shake of the
head, Petronella wiped her hands in a grand theatrical manner as if dismissing
the recent representative of the lower orders. She turned to Meg with a smile.
“Now, what about a cup of tea in the back shop? We could both do with a
reviver, don’t you think? We’ll leave young Cissie in charge for half-an-hour.
It’s high time she was taking more responsibility. Anyway, there’s something I
want to discuss with you in private.”
Over the tea Petronella’s private matter was her hobby
horse about Meg’s social life or rather the lack of it. “There’s another soirée
coming soon at the church hall and I’m determined you will go this time. I’ve
seen the way that young man Jack Dunn looks at you in church since you met him
at the last soirée I managed to get you to attend.”
***
Wee Becky was now a little over a year old and a
bonnier baby was not to be seen in the whole of Glasgow. Although kept busy
with her work at the haberdashery and helping to look after Mrs Martin, Meg
managed to visit her child as often as possible and whenever Rab’s absence at
work presented an opportunity she took advantage of it. On these occasions she
marvelled at her baby’s progress and thanked Nellie for all her help.
However, on one evening in the late summer of 1900 as
the two sisters sat together over a pot of tea, with Nellie’s own children
playing round their feet while Becky slept peacefully, Meg wore a worried
frown.
Observing this for some time Nellie finally said:
“Listen, Meg. For the love o the wee man will ye just stop worryin about
nothin? What’ll happen will happen and there’s naethin the likes o us can do
about it.”
“Don’t worry! Don’t worry,” Meg snapped. “Hmph. That’s
easily said. Do you even know what I’ve been talking about? For heaven’s sake,
Nellie, do you pay attention to nothing that’s going on?”
Nellie glowered. “That’s bluidy charmin, I must say,
especially comin from the likes o ye. Oh, Ah pey attention aw right … damn sure
Ah dae. Ah spend every wakin hour takin care o a houseful of bairns – no
forgettin yer ain wee bas– er, yer ain wee precious Becky. And if that disnae
fit the bill o payin attention, mibbe yer ladyship wid climb doon aff yer high
horse lang enough tae tell me jist whit the hell we’re talking aboot.”
Meg matched stare for stare with her sister before
finally saying: “Nellie, can you see nothing beyond the confines of your own
pathetic little world? What I am talking about, in fact, what the entire
population of Glasgow – with one possible exception – is discussing is the
latest outbreak of plague. The whole city is in a panic. And no wonder.
Imagine! Eleven cases of bubonic plague and another ninety-three contacts under
observation at Belvedere Hospital. Surely even you are concerned about that?”
Nellie pushed back a lock of hair which had escaped the
confines of her dust-cap. Once that had been done to her entire satisfaction,
only then did she deign to reply. “Oh, that? The plague – is that whit yer
gettin aw worked up aboot? Uch, ye cannae believe all them facts and figures
yon Sanitary Chambers is aye churnin oot. Keeps aw them pen pushers in cushy
jobs, if ye ask me.”
Meg pointed an admonitory finger at her sister. “Well
then, I am asking you, aren’t you the least bit concerned? Of course, you are
at liberty to believe whatever you wish, but the fact remains bubonic plague is
quite definitely a force to be reckoned with. The very thought of it here,
rampant in Glasgow, scares me rigid.”
Nellie sighed. “Aye, God help us, ye huvnae changed
much. Ye were aye a worrier. A born worrier, so ye are. Even as a wee girl
playin in the back court ye jist couldnae bear tae get yer hauns aw mucky. As
for rakin through the middens like the rest o us ye’d rather run a mile and tak
a runnin jump intae the Clyde.” After a reflective pause Nellie continued: “A
great worrier indeed. Jist a damn shame ye hadnae worried yersell aboot the
sure-fire consequences when ye done the business wi yon fly-by-nicht so called
boyfriend of yers.”
Meg gasped and it was all of a minute before she could
trust herself to speak. “Nellie! Please. I beg of you. Please do not start that
again. It’s over. Finished and done with.”
Nellie glared back. “Done with ye say? Hmph that’s
rich. Listen ye tae me, hen, it’ll niver be done with. No as long as that wee
wean’s arsehole looks doon. One wey and another ye’ve got that commitment for
life. And don’t ye ever forget it.”
Meg’s lips tightened, but rather than keep a sulky
silence she decided to have it out with her sister. “Why is it, Nellie, no
matter what topic we start to discuss – be it the price of coal, the minister’s
last sermon, or even the bubonic plague – it always comes back to my fall from
grace?”
Nellie allowed herself the ghost of a smile and
relented. “Aye, ye’re right, hen, deid right. God alone kens how we got frae a
killer disease tae ye ain wee bit o bother. Ah suppose it’s because ye’re aye
in ma mind – Ah’ll niver understand how an intelligent girl like ye could –
uch, tae hell, it disnae bear talkin aboot –”
“Right then, Nellie. Don’t talk about it. That’s all I
ask.”
To fill the empty silence between them, Nellie got to
her feet and busied herself about the kitchen, finally returning with the peace
offering of a fresh pot of tea.
“Onywey, therr’s one thing Ah will say. Ah’m mibbe a
hell o a lot better informed aboot the plague than you seem tae think. Fine
weel Ah ken aw the details, whit ye might call the nitty-gritty. The plague was
first reported in Thistle Street and Rose Street. But ye can tak it frae me,
roon aboot here we’ve naethin tae worry aboot.”
Meg frowned. “Nothing! You say there’s nothing to worry
about? How on earth do you come to that conclusion?”
Puffed up with her own importance at her superior
knowledge on the subject, Nellie obviously savoured the moment before saying:
“Ah’m no arrivin nowheres, hen but Ah kin tell ye this … Ah hae it on guid
authority it’s aw been cleaned up – done and dusted. Aye, Swept away.”
Nellie paused for dramatic effect, but before she could
continue Meg said: “For heaven’s sake, Nellie. No one on God’s earth can simply
sweep away the dreaded bubonic plague as if it were the Saturday night detritus
in the common close.”
Nellie gave a mirthless laugh. “Ah’m buggart if Ah ken
whit yer talkin aboot noo. Meg. The fact remains – Ah ken it for God’s truth –
no only hae the Sanitary men disinfected the hooses in yon twa streets, but
they’ve even cleaned oot the very middens, and wid ye believe it. They’ve
whitewashed the landins, the stairs and the closes. Aye, whitewashed them! Wid
ye credit that? So Ah’m sure, in fact Ah’m deid certain, we can noo kiss
guid-bye to ony mair threat of bubonic plague here in Glesga. So ye can jist
stoap frettin. The bairns will be fine.”
***
Ever since the scare about the bubonic plague, which in
their case, thankfully, had come to nothing, each time Nellie had made noises
about the lack of money somehow or other Meg had managed to stretch her wages
to go that little bit further. However, although Nellie had never again
actually demanded money for her ministrations the unspoken but very real
intention was there and the matter was a constant source of worry to Meg.
Yes, Meg thought as she hurried to work on that late
January morning. It’s never-ending. Will there come a time when I can’t afford
to pay the necessary amount?
As always, what made things even harder to bear, the
impossibility of ever having the luxury of being able to discuss her problems
with another living soul meant the questions and worries all kept swirling
around unanswered in her head.
And, thought Meg, as if January isn’t already my most
hated month of the year it’s even gloomier this year with the whole city draped
in hideous black crêpe for the Old Queen’s mourning. No wonder I feel so down,
out of sorts, and utterly depressed. What would I give for even the tiniest ray
of sunshine?
On her entry into the haberdashery she was greeted by a
sombre Miss Martin. Not only was Petronella dressed in black from head to toe,
the shop was festooned in black crêpe. Every available surface from the shop’s
counter to the heavy brass cash-till was covered. Even the elegant chairs set
out for the comfort and convenience of the customers were shrouded. As if this
display was insufficient to show Miss Martin’s due and proper respect for the
newly-deceased Queen Victoria, on the counter itself was an artistically
arranged selection of tippets of black fur, black leather gloves, and
lace-edged mourning handkerchiefs. As a pièce de résistance at the end of the
counter farthest from the door lay black mourning arm bands and a scattering of
black felt diamonds ready to be stitched onto the jackets and coats of a
grieving public.
Feeling some obligation to comment on this impressive
if slightly ghoulish and overdone presentation, Meg blurted out: “My word, Miss
Martin … er … I should say, Petronella, you have been busy. Never in my life
have I seen … such a … well! I suppose the word I am seeking is such an
outstanding display. I’m sure our customers too will be very impressed.”
Miss Martin gave a wintry smile and a regal nod of her
head. “Thank you, Meg, although I am bound to say I did not create this
artistic setting with the sole intention of impressing anyone. No. No! I feel
it is the least I can do to show respect for our wonderful, compassionate,
dear-departed Queen.”
While privately wondering what precisely the Good
Queen, who was reputed to have hated her Second City of the Empire, had ever
done for the starving multitudes in the rat-ridden Glasgow hovels, Meg thought
it best to keep her own counsel. She merely nodded somewhat absently as she set
to work.
Well, Meg thought, staunch dyed-in-the-wool disloyal,
anti-monarchist or not, the way I’m feeling right now with my own raft of
problems, at least my face will give the impression of deepest misery. If any
one of our customers – or Petronella herself – chooses to equate my mournful
expression with deep sadness at the passing of our late, lamented, revered, and
over-indulged Britannic Majesty then jolly good luck to them.
***