“Ah don’t think Ah’ll hae tae tell, will Ah? Ah wid bet ye’d dae onythin no tae upset yer precious Aunt Meg.” Mrs Bryden sat back with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.
“You’ve bet on the wrong horse, this time, Mammy. Last week I managed to get time off from the mill–”
“That’s the week yer paypoke wis some hours short! Ye lyin wee bisom! Ye telt me some machine broke doon and ye were aw short.”
“Right. I went to the Registrar’s Office. Did you know you can get a copy of your birth certificate? I’ve got one. It says quite clearly: ‘Becky Bryden, Daughter of Rab Bryden and Nellie Bryden’, and it’s signed by Nellie Bryden. If you try to tell anyone anything else without some witness to the contrary, you’ll just be a crazy old woman. If the Registrar did believe you, who would be in bother for signing an official document to a lie? As for trying anything else to keep me at home to look after you – slavery was abolished years ago, Mammy. Now, I’m going out to meet Ewan.”
On Becky’s twenty-fifth birthday Ewan’s proposal was finally accepted and on St Valentine’s Day, 1925 they were married. Ewan’s Govan granny gave one of her single ends – just vacated – rent free as a wedding present. Mrs Bryden reluctantly attended the wedding and the reception in the Co-op Hall, which was paid for by Aunt Meg and Uncle Jack. Caz did get to dance at Becky’s wedding, albeit somewhat awkwardly being heavy with her fourth child.
In December 1928, following an entire day and night of hideous pain during which Becky prayed for the release of an early death, baby Val finally came into the world. Ewan and the assortment of relatives and friends who came to gaze at and admire the couple’s first baby all marvelled at the fact that the baby had been born on the shortest day of the year. Becky felt she could well have taken issue with this, for as far as she was concerned, far from being the shortest day it had been the longest, dreariest, most ghastly day of her entire life to date. She also silently vowed – never again!
How other women of her acquaintance could produce a child every year of marriage and still come smiling though life, Becky thought, is a complete mystery to me. I’ll certainly steer clear of becoming such a baby factory.
How she would achieve such a miracle was not entirely clear. However, now that the baby was safely born Becky felt her world was complete. She had her own good man, a husband who, unlike many in Govan, brought home to her, unopened, a weekly pay-packet from the yard. Now she had a bonnie baby to love, to care for, and to dress-up like a wee doll.
Yes, Becky thought, it’s all a far cry from living with Mammy’s perpetual complaints about me not doing enough for her and her lay-about Rab who would neither work nor want. She smiled. It’s even further from the stress, hellish noise and frenetic activity of the carpet factory.
As she looked round her home from the comfort of her chair, almost as if taking stock for the first time, she saw the centre of her world in the polished-for-dear-life black range with its overhanging gas mantle, the mantle with her wally dugs, brass candlesticks, tea caddy, and the mantle clock.
Her gaze fell on the recessed wall-bed with its patchwork quilt, the marital bed in which baby Val had been joyfully conceived and later brought into the world. As she cradled the baby in her arms, Becky vowed she would bring up her child to become a decent citizen and far removed from the appearance, manners, and slovenly speech of the archetypical Glesga Keelie.
To this end, Becky, rather than relying on any innate maternal instincts took to spending hours on end in the nearby Elder Park Library perusing volumes on childrearing.
***
Chapter 13
Aunt Meg and Uncle Jack had just left to catch a tram to Parliamentary Road when Becky rounded on Ewan.
“What was wrong with you tonight? You hardly said a word the whole tea-time. You barely answered when Uncle Jack tried to tease you about your football team losing again. It was downright rude of you.”
Ewan nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“It had better be something pretty important to justify your behaviour tonight.”
“It is. I didn’t want to tell you before Aunt Meg arrived and spoil their visit but … that pay-packet I gave you last night … it could be a long time before we see another one. I told you things were deadly quiet at Fairfields. I’ve been lucky till now … but I was in the last batch to be paid off. The yards are closing all up and down the Clyde there’ll be no jobs for draftsmen anywhere.”
Two months later, just a month short of Val’s third birthday there was an addition to the family. Sadly for a hopeful Val this was not the longed-for kitten or puppy, or even a budgerigar or goldfish about which she had been harping on ever since she could string two words together. No, the arrival came in the form of a red-faced, squalling, squirming bundle all happed up in a white knitted shawl. When Val questioned this mystery, she learned that Becky had found the bundle under a gooseberry bush and had, stupidly in Val’s opinion, elected to bring it home to join their family.
Val’s question as to why her mother couldn’t have looked for a gooseberry bush that had kittens instead of a baby only produced puzzling gales of laughter and her query on what exactly was a gooseberry bush and which back court it was to be found in reduced her parents to fits of giggles.
A little later when Val’s dark feelings of sibling rivalry and jealousy erupted into surreptitious nipping of the baby and deliberate acts of petty vandalism on Scott’s few precious toys, Becky again resorted to the volumes at the Elder Park Library.
A study of the latest books on new-fangled child psychology informed Becky that the best way to avoid or at least modify sibling rivalry was to make the child feel useful. This revolutionary idea was that the useful child would soon realise she was an important, vital, highly-valued member of the new domestic set-up and the behaviour of the previously jealous child would miraculously change.
Desperate to try anything, Becky immediately put this gem of wisdom into operation in many guises. With the baby on her knee she would smile at Val and say: “Val, I’m going to give the baby his bath now. Can you please bring over his sponge?” Perhaps it was the novelty of the approach which did indeed seem to work. Toddler Val, a willing slave bursting with self-importance, trotted to and fro in the single end with the never-ending list of nappies, towels, dusting powder and jars of nappy-rash cream.
Yes, thought Becky, the books were right. Val’s behaviour has changed.
Unfortunately, after a very short time the previously sneaky attacks became not only more frequent but more ferocious. She rebelled at being a slave-in-waiting for the baby’s every need and demonstrated this by throwing herself on the floor in temper tantrums, developing a stutter, and, when all her other tactics failed, resorted to wetting the bed.
Becky, at her wit’s end, discussed the matter with Caz on one of her visits to Govan.
Caz, by now the mother of four bairns and heavy with a fifth, grinned at Becky. “Whit wiz it ye were studyin at the library? Whit did ye cry it? Piss-ology somethin or other?”
Becky smiled. “Nearly right, Caz, Psychology, Child Psychology. According to it, if you go the right way about it, you can bring up any child to go the way you want. It’s all very simple really.”
“Simple, ye say? Aye, simple’s the word. Let’s face it, hen, if ye want yer wee girl tae grow up as a nasty piece o goods, stutterin and peein at will aw ower the shop, as weel as rampagin aw ower everythin belangin tae other folk – aye, fine. Yer gaein the right wey aboot it.”
Becky, inwardly seething and hurt to the core by Caz’s outburst, simply said: “Trust you, Caz – you always go right to the heart of a problem, don’t you?”
“Ah’ve had plenty o practice. Ye name it – onythin frae fractious, vomiting weans tae Friday nicht wife-batterin men, randy wi it – Ah’m the authority. If ye really want ma advice …”
Becky nodded.
“It’s like this, hen, forget aw aboot aw that book learnin. If yer Va
l is being naughty, a guid whack tae her bare bahoochie will work wonders. In ma estimation nae bairn wi a sair, skelpit bum iver dun the same mistake twice.”
Staring at her friend in disbelief Becky started to protest, But Caz would have none of it.
“It’s a bluidy true sayin – spare the rod and spoil the child. And by the time ye’ve got half a dozen weans …”
Becky shuddered. “Half-a-dozen temper-tantrum Vals. Perish the thought.”
***
Chapter 14
Ewan’s parents, Tibby and Andrew Graham, lived on Crossloan Road and with this being so close to Becky’s single end on Langlands Road there was naturally much coming and going between the two households. Ever since the births of Val and her brother Scott the elderly couple revelled in their status as grandparents and would answer only to the names of Grampa and Gramy Graham.
Hardly a day would pass without Val saying: “Mammy, can we go round to see Grampa and Gramy Graham after school?”
Becky thus got into the habit of meeting Val at the school gate at three o’clock and pushing Scott’s go-chair between them, the pair would arrive in time for afternoon tea. Grampa Graham who worked on permanent night-shift as the Night Supervisor for Glasgow Corporation Cleansing Department, by three-thirty would be up from his sleep, washed, and dressed in his off-duty finery.
The Cleansing, as Becky discovered when she first met Ewan’s parents, was the polite term for the midgie-men who emptied the middens during the night and transported the rubbish to the destructor on Craigton Road where Mr Graham worked. There the rubbish was sorted into various categories and the combustibles burned.
Becky would also never forget her first sight of Mr Graham – she had never before seen such an eccentric or bizarre style of dressing. For his hours of relaxation at home, like the laird of some country estate, he wore a red velvet smoking jacket, fine moleskin trousers, and, to top his outfit off, a matching red velvet smoking hat with a long silver tassel, the strands of which waved elegantly to and fro as he spoke.
Ewan later confided to Becky that the jacket and hat were perks of his father’s position as Night Supervisor and that: “It’s amazing what some of the posh West End folk throw out.”
With his precious wee grandson on his knee there surely wasn’t a happier man in the entire Second City of the Empire than Grampa Graham as the toddler played endlessly with the fascinating silver tassel.
***
Chapter 15
As the months passed Ewan despaired of getting any paid work. Uncle Jack at the bank had nothing he could offer and although Grampa Graham could possibly have pulled some strings, the only work he could have found for Ewan was as one of the midgie-men as, Depression or not, the Cleansing Department still had to work. This dirty, unpleasant but essential job, cleaning out the city’s middens, was also very hard physical labour and, at thirty-seven, Ewan’s years of sitting or standing drawing in the shipyard hadn’t prepared him for this type of exertion. Although he was willing to try, Grampa Graham ruled out the option.
Becky, in an effort to comfort Ewan, only succeeded in driving him further into despair when she pointed out that they were luckier than most, since both Uncle Jack and Grampa Graham were still fully employed and were more than willing and able to help out financially.
After four months of unemployment and hating accepting handouts from his parents and Uncle Jack, Ewan finally walked into the Langlands Road single end with a smile on his face.
“I don’t suppose you could teach me to make Scotch broth between now and Monday morning, could you, Becky?” He placed a package with half-a-dozen Scotch mutton pies on the table.
Becky looked at the pies and then in puzzlement at her husband.
“What on earth are you up to?”
Ewan laughed. “I was walking down Elder Street and at that workman’s restaurant just up from Govan Road, I bumped into this chap who was standing on the pavement staring up at the shop front. I said I was sorry, but he laughed. He was looking at his sign. The sign writer who’d been doing it for him had fallen off his ladder and hurt his wrist so the sign was left half done.
“I said I was a draftsman and could fix it up for him. So we went into the shop and he made us a cup of tea …”
“Okay, fine, but what does all this have to do with making Scotch broth?”
“I’m coming to that. The owner, Alex, had only bought the restaurant before the yards started to slow down then close, so for a while he thought he was going to have to close too. But he now does a roaring trade in carry-out – broth, mince and tatties, pies and gravy, you name it he sells it.”
“Ewan I’m going to clout you with the frying pan if you don’t come to the point – the Scotch broth.”
“Oh, yes, he needs someone to work in kitchen with him. I told him I was a dab hand with broth.”
“Ewan, how could you? That’s a downright lie.”
“Lie be damned, Becky. But I do admit, I neglected to say I was a dab hand at eating it, not making it. I’m sure I can learn.”
“What has all this to do with the sign? I thought you were going to tell me you had a job as a sign writer.”
“Oh, while we were supping our tea the sign writer laddie came back and said his apprentice would finish the sign in the morning. Alex said I could start work in the kitchen on Monday at seven sharp.”
***
Chapter 16
Becky chewed at her lower lip as she gazed down at her restlessly sleeping son, and wondered what on earth she should do for the best. Like all other mothers and grannies in the tenements all around her Becky was something of an expert in the myriad of tried and tested home-made cures for just about everything from a sore throat to housemaid’s knee. Although she had already fed Scott with the recommended butter-balls rolled in sugar and he now sported an old sock filled with heated salt round his neck and a vinegar-soaked rag on his forehead, he was still no better.
In fact, Becky thought, I have to admit, if anything, the wee lamb seems worse that he did earlier this morning.
With Ewan now off to work and Val safely packed off to school, Becky had more time to concentrate, worry, and fuss over her ailing son. It was almost unheard-of in their neighbourhood to send for a doctor unless actually facing the jaws of death. Becky, in a dither of indecision, agonised over the best course of action. Eventually, feeling herself to be almost at the screaming point with worry, she decided to talk to the neighbour across the landing.
If anyone knows what to do, Becky thought, Granny MacAlistair should. By all accounts she’s brought up a squad of her own bairns. She probably knows more about childhood ailments then any qualified doctor.
Just minutes after she rattled on the brass lion’s head on Granny MacAlistair’s door, the old woman examined Scott. She shook her head.
“That wean needs a wheen mair treatment than vinegar rags. He needs a doctor. Ah’ll wait here wi him and ye, Becky, fling on yer shawl and scoot doon the road tae get the doctor.”
Three-quarters of an hour later Becky closed the door behind the doctor. She stood with her forehead pressed against the rough wood of the lintel. She stared down at her fists clutching the door knob, the knuckles showing white.
Diphtheria! Mammy’s last child – the reason why I went to live with Aunt Meg – died of diphtheria at just about the same age as Scott.
Granny MacAlistair pried Meg’s fingers from the doorknob and led her to sit in the chair beside the fire.
“They’ll no be lang, lass, the doctor said. The men should be here ony minute tae take the wee mite away.”
“Away, Granny Mac, where? In God’s name, where?”
“Tae the fever hospital. Ye don’t want yer wee lass, Val, tae catch it tae.”
At a loud knock on the door Granny MacAlistair, arthritic or not, leapt to her feet to admit two men carrying two long poles wrapped round with canvas. One of the men had a blanket draped over his arm. The brilliant colour of the wool stood out in sharp r
ed contrast with the dark blue of his uniform sleeve. As the blanket-bearing man approached the bed, the other man whispered some words – presumably words of comfort – to Becky but not one word penetrated through Becky’s current living hell.
The man at the bed smiled at Becky then said to his colleague: “It’s no a stretcher job this, Jimmy. We’ll manage just fine wi the blanket alone. The poor wee mite wid be lost, like a pea in a dumpling, if we wis tae put him on the stretcher.”
The ambulance men bent down and with gentle, careful movements peeled back the patchwork quilt. With great tenderness they lifted Scott and wrapped him in the red hospital blanket. When all that could be seen of her son was the mop of damp, disarranged curls, Becky stretched out her hand for one last fond touch of his silken hair.
At a nod from the man carrying Scott the other moved to the door and said: “Right, that’s us, Missus. If ye’ve ony other weans they’ll need tae be kept aff the school. Yer hoose will need tae be fumigated and aw library books will need tae be burnt. That’s the law, hen.”
As if moving in a dream, Becky followed the men through the close as they headed towards the fever van. Just before climbing in, one of the men said: “Yer wee laddie will be at the Fever Hospital, Missus. Although ye’ll no be able tae visit him in the actual ward ye can probably get permission – once he’s a bit better like, tae hae a wee keek through the window at him.”
Becky allowed herself to be led back to her house for the ritual reviving cup of tea. Neither of them voiced the unspoken thought that with diphtheria it might be many a long day, if ever, before they saw Scott again.
Happily, Scott survived the bout with diphtheria and two years later was ready for his first day at school.
***
Chapter 17
Love & Sorrow Page 9
