Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Love & Sorrow (8 page)
Later that same evening in the tenement flat in
Bridgeton’s Main Street Becky was washing the dishes at the stone sink under
the window while her mother sat crocheting by the fireside. Over in the set-in
wall bed Becky’s invalid father, snoring loudly, occasionally gave such an
earth shaking snort that Becky was in danger of dropping the dish she was
drying.
At just such a moment Erchie, Becky’s elder brother,
arrived home. As he entered the room in his coal-man’s work garb of moleskin
trousers, hessian apron with its leather overlay, and steel-tipped boots he
staggered as he negotiated the short distance between the door and the other
armchair.
Erchie collapsed in an untidy heap onto the chair, gave
a gargantuan belch, slapped his stomach, and demanded: “Rich weel. So where’s
ma tea? Ah’m fair starvin, so Ah am. Ah could eat a scabby horse and come back
for the driver.”
Silence greeted this overworked Glasgow expression and
when neither Becky nor his mother at once rose to do his bidding, he glowered
first at one and then at the other female.
“Have youse gone deaf? Ah said, where’s ma f***in tea?
Ah’ve did a day’s hard graft humpin bluidy bags o coal up hunners o stairs. Noo
it’s wimmen’s work for tae bring me some belly timber.”
When neither woman moved, he roared: “If ye don’t ken a
hungry man’s an angry man, ye’ll bluidy soon find oot. Forbye no one o ye has
had the common decency for tae loosen aff ma boots for me.”
Becky’s heart sank as she looked at this stinking hulk
of a man, a cruel bully, whose very presence seemed to fill the small room with
an aura of menace. Unsure of her part in this domestic drama Becky waited with
bated breath to see what her mother’s actions or orders would finally be.
With great deliberation Mrs Bryden laid down her
crochet on the creepie stool beside her chair, got slowly to her feet, then,
standing before her son she peered down at him.
“If ye’d wanted yer tea, therr was a plate o pipin hot
stovies on the table for ye at the appointed time – that was the time ye
finished yer guid work. In case ye cannae count that was three bluidy hours
ago.”
Erchie opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Bryden went
on: “And while we’re at it. If that’s ye back on the booze again then either
you come for yer tea at the right time or ye can damn well whistle for it. Has
that sunk into yer thick skull?”
A bleary-eyed Erchie gazed up at his mother, who gave
him stare for stare in good measure. When it was clear he had lost this
particular round of the domestic battle, like a petulant child determined to
have his own way in at least one area of his life, Erchie said: “Aye, Ah hear
ye, Mither. But that disnae answer ma ither question – whit aboot ma boots?
They’ll no take themselves aff ma f***in feet will they?”
Mrs Bryden pursed her lips, then called over to Becky:
“Becky, fill the kettle and while it’s comin tae the boil for a wee cup o tea
for ye and me, Ye can tak aff Erchie’s boots for him. Let the daft eejit sleep
aff the booze in his chair.”
As Becky bustled to do her mother’s bidding it was with
a heavy heart she realised that this disgusting chore would from now on be
hers. Later, having filled a basin for Erchie to steep his foul-smelling feet,
Becky, her mother, and a now sobering Erchie sat round the fire and sipped at
their enamel mugs of strong tea. With a semblance of domestic peace at least
temporarily restored Mrs Bryden turned to Becky.
“Weel noo, lassie. Ye micht as weel tell Erchie yer
guid news. Its mair than high time we had a wee bit guid cheer in this hoose.”
At these words Erchie raised his head.
“Are ye mibbe goin back tae the Parliamentary Road tae
stay wi yer beloved Aunt Meg? Ah hope tae God, ye are. That wey Ah’ll get ma
ain bed back. For Ah don’t mind tellin ye Ah’m gettin bluidy fed up sleepin –
or at least tryin for tae sleep – on that decrepit wee creepie bed oot in the
lobby.”
Mrs Bryden frowned. “Ah’m gonnae nip that idea in the
bud straight aff, Erchie. Ah’m tellin ye this; Becky’s here tae stay. And
before ye start arguin the toss wi me listen weel tae whit Ah’m tellin ye. Even
though ye are brother and sister, it just wouldnae be seemly tae hae the pair o
ye sharin the front room.”
Erchie’s eyes widened and he gave a snort of disgust.
“Seemly did ye say? Ye didnae worry aboot that, Mither,
when therr was five o us sleepin head tae toe ben the room.”
“Erchie, that’s enough! Onywey, needs must when the
devil drives and ye were aw younger then. But noo – weel the plain fact is
ye’re a man, six years older than Becky and with her noo mair like to a
stranger than a sister …”
Mrs Bryden paused before she went on:
“In any case, Ah need Becky here tae help me in ma auld
age. Ah’ll need her pay packet as weel – especially if ye ever decide tae mak
an honest woman o yer fancy piece in Landressy Street – her wi that brood o
weans no single wan of which has the same faither. If ye gae aff tae the
colonies wi her, ye’ll need every bawbee ye can lay hands on. If Becky wisnae
here therr widnae be a penny piece comin intae the hoose tae keep yer faither
and me.”
Becky had listened in horrified silence at the dirty
linen being dragged out before her and at the prospect of her life to come. Mrs
Bryden turned to her, a touch of asperity and rising impatience in her voice,
and said: “Weel, Becky, ur ye gonnae tell Erchie yer guid news? Or dae we hae
tae wait till the coos come hame afore ye put the puir fella oot of his
misery?”
“It’s like this, Erchie,” Becky said. “My news is soon
told. I’ve got a job and I start on Monday!”
***
In the closely-packed tenements of her native Glasgow,
buildings alive with squads of children, the ongoing dramas of day-to-day
living, the drunken brawling of frustrated, unemployed artisans, and the
screams and arguments which ricocheted off the crumbling walls were a permanent
feature of life. So common were these sounds, that the only time Becky noticed
them was when, for some reason or other, there would be a lull in this vibrant
heartbeat. At such times Becky would find herself almost holding her breath as
she strained to hear the onset of the next bout of weeping, cursing or raucous
singing of some staggering-home, drunken neighbour.
A somewhat lesser cacophony had been with her since
early childhood and she had learnt to accept it as an essential element of
tenement living. Strangely enough it was only after she had moved to stay with
her mother in the Main Street flat that such noises had begun to annoy her in
any way and then, as today, actually intrude on her sensibilities.
This is ridiculous, Becky thought for the tenth time in
as many minutes, the noises off are only different in scale and volume from
those I regularly heard around at Aunt Meg’s flat in the Parliamentary Road, so
why am I making such a fuss now?
Becky knew in her heart the answer to her question. She
was desperately unhappy at having had, arbitrarily, to leave the comfort, the
tender loving care of Aunt Meg’s home. Not only was she depressed and
miserable, but she knew she was hypercritical of everything in the Bryden’s
flat. To make matters worse she was keenly aware of how stressed and anxious
she felt at the dawning of each new day in having to cope with her job at the
carpet factory. If she were being honest with herself, Becky knew she was
piling all her frustrations, uncertainties and misery onto the one element of
her daily life at which she could openly rail and complain.
Sitting by the fireside trying to relax after yet
another hard day’s graft at Templeton’s she heard the one sound which not only
set her teeth on edge, but these days was slowly but surely driving her to very
edge of insanity.
“Oh, no! Not again. Honestly, Mammy, I don’t know how
you can stand it. Can’t you at least bang a broom handle on the ceiling? Let
her know you are aware of the noise and that it is disturbing you?”
With a tut of annoyance Mrs Bryden laid down the sock
she had been knitting.
“Becky, ye’re the one with the ladylike feelins. So if
the squeaky pulley from upstairs bothers ye that much, jist ye bang awa at the
ceilin tae ye hert’s content. But Ah’ll tell ye this noo – it’ll no dae ye, nor
onybody else for that matter, one damned bit o guid. The auld besom will jist
bang back doon tae us the then we’ll hae e’en mair noise.”
Becky sighed. “Well, then if that’s the case, why on
earth don’t you tell her to her face? At least give her the chance to oil her
pulley. Surely that’s not too much to ask, now is it? Aunty Meg would never
have put up with this. She would have resolved such a situation amicably at the
very outset.”
On the point of resuming her knitting, Mrs Bryden cast
a baleful look over the top of her spectacles at the red-faced, irate Becky.
“Oh, aye. Yer wonderful Aunty Meg, she could dae naethin wrang – no accordin
tae ye anyroads. Weel, put it this wey, Ah’m no yer sainted Aunty Meg, but Ah’m
enough o a guid neebor for tae realise it’s no up tae me tae dictate tae ony
auld widow woman, far less the Widow Wilson upsterrs, hoo tae spend her
precious bawbees. Believe me, that same Aggie Wilson would right soon gie me
the edge o her tongue for interferin wi her business. Aye! She can be a right
nippy sweetie that auld woman.”
Becky opened her mouth to protest but her mammy wasn’t
finished yet. “Listen, Becky, Ah micht no hae aw the airs and graces o yer
beloved Aunty Meg, but even Ah ken one important fact o life – ye jist hae tae
learn tae live and let live. And if truth be telt, Ah’ll bet ye a silver
sixpence that the Raffertys below us, they–”
Becky broke in: “You mean that couple downstairs with
the six children?”
“The very ones. Weel, Ah’m certain sure that mony a
time they could see us far enough. Especially when mibbe they’ve jist got their
squad o weans aff tae sleep and they’re hopin for a bit o peace and quiet, then
oor Erchie gets sterted wi his daft cantrips. Reelin in drunk as a lord,
singing his herrt oot about his Granny’s Hielan Hame, fallin ower the creepie
stool to collapse intae the chair, and droppin his boots fae a great height
ontae the flair. Dae ye no think that the Raffertys can hear aw that stramash?
Aye, we must be a real trial tae the Rafferty clan, but guid neebors that they
are Ah don’t recall them iver complainin tae me or iver wance bangin a broom
handle on the ceilin neither.”
As Becky was finally drifting off to sleep later that
evening she smiled to herself. On reflection, between the sounds of screaming
children, mewling cats, fighting dogs, scrabbling rats in the back-court
middens, the rushing of many waters from the stair-head cludgies, perhaps one
squeaking pulley wheel was not after all such a trial. Live and let live.
***
As the weeks passed the two new gophers settled into
the job at the carpet factory. The friendship between the girls slowly ripened
to the point where not only would they help each other through the hazards,
trials and tribulations of each working day, but they would exchange
confidences.
Becky raised her head from the task in hand, that of
again sweeping a vast expanse of the floor of the mill, to see Caz approaching
her with arms over-loaded with heavy bales and her eyes brimming with tears.
Close to Becky she indicated a man standing at the far end of the enormous
looms by a backward nod of her head.
“Watch oot for that new gaffer. Whitever he tells ye
tae dae, dae it bluidy quick. A holy terror that man and English tae boot. Ye
can hardly mak oot a word he says.”
With that hastily delivered warning Caz hurried on her
way leaving Becky in a state of nerves at this new, as yet ill-defined, menace.
When she could not prolong the sweeping of the floor
any longer, Becky reluctantly headed towards the end of the room to replace the
massive broom in the store cupboard. As she passed the new English gaffer she
kept her head down and her eyes averted hoping thus to make herself as
inconspicuous as possible.
After all, she thought, no point in looking for extra
work or trouble when it can be avoided.
She turned away from the cupboard and thought she had
safely negotiated her way past the gaffer when a shout behind her meant her
sigh of relief was premature.
“You girl! Yes, you. A word.”
Becky looked round and seeing that all other girls
within earshot were busy at the gigantic looms with a sinking heart realised
the raucous summons must be for her. She trailed her way back to stand in a
state of fear and trembling before the giant of a man.
He thrust a paper bag into her hands and barked out the
words: “Eat my pie.” Then he turned on his heel and marched back to the small
enclosure that served as his work area.
Thoroughly bemused by this strange order Becky set off
in search of her friend.
If anyone would know what to do it would be streetwise
Caz.
But luck wasn’t with Becky; Caz was nowhere to be
found. Becky then remembered that Caz had said she couldn’t understand a word
the man said, so perhaps Caz wouldn’t be much help anyway. Becky on the other
hand had had no problem understanding – he had said quite clearly: “Eat my
pie.”
Was it some form of initiation joke? Becky wondered.
Like the time I was sent for a left-handed hammer. Or maybe someone had given
the Englishman a Scotch mutton pie and he didn’t like it and gave it to me
rather than see it wasted.
With a shrug Becky happily ate the pie as she went
about her work. About half-an-hour later a purple-faced gaffer came rampaging
through the weaving shed shouting: “Where is that bloody girl? Where the ’ell
is she?” When he spotted Becky he bore down on her. “Well, you’ve taken your
time, ’aven’t you?”
Becky gaped at him open-mouthed.
“When I tell you to do something, you do it. That’s an
order and you bloody do it. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pushed his face to within inches of Becky’s face.
“Well then. So where in God’s name is it? Where’s my bloody pie? My stomach
thinks my throat’s cut.”
Where did the stupid man think the pie was?
When Becky still made no answer the gaffer said: “I
asked to you ’eat my pie. Surely that was clear even to your scant
intelligence. Stick it on a shovel and warm it over a gas ring.”
Becky felt herself shrivel up inside. This story would
haunt her for the rest of her working life in Templeton’s Factory. If her work
mates had thought her a stuck-up idiot before, surely this mistake would add
fuel to their habitual mockery of her ‘bool in the mooth’ accent.
***