Love & Sorrow

by Chaplin, Jenny Telfer

  “What exactly do you mean, Miss Andrews?”

  Abigail smiled kindly, as at a not-too-bright child. “With your personality, your drive, your beautiful vowels – you could easily have become a famous actress. I expected at least you would have gone on to study and become a teacher. Quite the most promising of all my students. Of course, I understand you had no choice but to go back to your mother when she needed you. But still a great loss.”

  With a rueful smile Becky said: “The beautiful vowels were thanks to your expert tuition – and of course to Aunt Meg paying for my lessons. Alas, they didn’t do me much good working in Templeton’s Carpet Factory … but that’s in the past.” Becky paused, aware of and now embarrassed about the twenty-three year lapse in time since she had last visited Miss Andrews. “I really must apologise for not having been in touch with you before – I was just a child of fourteen when I went back to live with my mother … it was an upsetting time and I was angry and confused … my speech was so unlike that of others around me that I suppose I resented the difference and … maybe blamed both you and Aunt Meg for it … and by the time I got over that …”

  “Life went on?” Abigail smiled. “As you say, that’s all in the past and there’s nothing we can do about it. You’re here now, and I assume not simply to reminisce …”

  “Do you still teach?”

  “Yes, I may look more decrepit than you remember – none of us is getting any younger – but I’m only sixty.”

  That means when I last saw her, Becky thought, she must have been the same age as I am now, thirty-seven.

  “I have a real little drama queen in my family, my eight year-old Val, and she is the reason I have come to see you today.”

  “Right, Becky, if you’d like to help me, I think we should have some tea over which you can tell me all your news and about little Val. We can also discuss arrangements for lessons.”

  ***

  Chapter 21

  Throughout the rest of that autumn and well into the cold days of the winter every Saturday afternoon without fail Becky left Scott with his adoring Gramy Graham and she and Val took the yellow tram to Bridgeton. Ostensibly, the journeys were to see Caz and her family but, of course, the hour of tuition with Miss Andrews was paramount.

  Towards the end of November, Abigail took Becky aside. “I am really pleased with the progress Val has made. With your permission, of course, I’ve decided to enter her for a poetry reading competition.”

  Becky’s eyes widened in amazement. “I can hardly believe that. She must be really good – for when I was your pupil you never entered me for any elocution exams or competitions.”

  With a mischievous gleam in her eye Abigail tapped Becky’s arm. “No need to fish for compliments, Becky. The opportunity somehow never arose in your case. But this is different.”

  “Different? In what way different?”

  “Let’s just say, then I didn’t have the useful contacts I have now. But the thing is, what do you think of the idea? I do hope you’ll agree – in any case I’ve already been teaching Val the test piece, so it would certainly be shame to waste all that effort wouldn’t it?”

  Becky didn’t need to give the matter a second thought, so gratified was she at the very though of her daughter being considered sufficiently skilled in proper speaking to be entered in an elocution contest.

  The evening of the contest finally came. In a small draughty hall in Partick’s Dumbarton Road a group of sixty would-be elocutionists gathered, each with a band of supporters, braving the January weather. For Val, Becky had dragooned Grampa and Gramy Graham, assorted friends, schoolmates, and some church members into attending. They arrived early, saving a seat for Abigail while Val trooped off backstage to join the other hopefuls and have a last practice at her soon to be publicly performed poem.

  At almost the last minute before the performance started Abigail arrived. Her two sticks soon cleared passage for her from the aisle to the seat between Becky and Grampa Graham.

  “Sorry I’m late, Becky, but I don’t move as fast as I used to. The thought of clambering off and on a tramcar was too much. I got a taxi. We’re in for a treat. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth before a rallentando on the piano by a self-important, ramrod-stiff-backed woman announced the evening was about to commence.

  Grampa Graham turned to Abigail to whom he’d just been introduced. “This should be grand. There’s nothing like a good session of Rabbie Burns’s poetry especially in January.”

  Abigail frowned. “Oh! But I rather think …”

  Her words were drowned in a crashing of chords from the over-enthusiastic pianist at the side of the stage which startled the audience into attention. A large, overdressed lady came to the centre of the stage and announced in ringing tones: “Welcome, one and all. We’ll start straight away with the junior poetry reading. All thirty boys and girls will recite the test piece – a gem of literature titled: Cluck, cluck Aih’m a duck.”

  Becky could not resist stealing a glance at her father-in-law. His face bore a mixture of amazement, disappointment, and resentment. By the time the test piece had been recited twenty times with another ten still to go it was obvious that Grampa Graham was not alone in his displeasure. From the captive audience came the sounds of much shuffling of bottoms on hard wooden seats; much rustling of sweetie pokes, caramel and chewing gum wrappers; and the scuffling of shoes and booted feet on the wooden floor.

  When Val had finished her piece and, as far as Grampa Graham was concerned, covered herself with glory, he obviously considered the evening over. However a warning look from Becky and his wife’s hawser-like grip kept him chained to his seat. When the last contestant had finally stumbled his weary way through, Cluck, Cluck, Aih’m a Duck, the comment rhyming with Duck from the man in seat in front of them, drew a reprimand of: “Language, please, there are ladies present,” from Gramy Graham and a quickly hidden smile from Grampa.

  ***

  Chapter 22

  After the poetry speaking competition, Val puffed up with pride at her success in her first bout of public speaking, insisted on taking her tin medal to school to show off to her teacher. It was doubtful if ever before any pupil at Greenfield School had enjoyed such a distinction and with the ever present emphasis on ‘proper speaking’ Val became something of a teacher’s pet. She was even paraded round the other classes to demonstrate the shining example of speaking the ‘King’s English’ as opposed to the guttersnipe language of the Glasgow dialect and the native Scots tongue.

  Val so enjoyed her celebrity status that daily her speech patterns became more and more exaggerated and stilted. Soon her tortured vowels and prissy manners made her the butt of her immediate schoolmates and some of the older boys and girls in the Qualifying Class took to chasing her home and shouting obscenities at her. Gradually the bullying made Val miserable and Becky began to wonder if in her quest for perfection she had unleashed a monster into her daughter’s life. Before she could reach a decision on what to do for the best, Grampa Graham, seeing his beloved Val cast in the role of a victim, stepped in.

  “Becky, I know you set great store by all this elocution nonsense, but Val’s got her medal to prove she’s the best. Can you not just leave it at that?”

  Although Becky was annoyed at Grampa Graham’s interference she knew that in his direct, blunt approach he had echoed precisely her own thoughts on the matter. Even so, she felt herself to be on the horns of a dilemma. She suspected that Miss Andrews had come to depend on the weekly tuition fee and would therefore be loath to part with Val. The medal winner herself by this time was in no doubt – she agreed with Grampa.

  Becky chewed at her lower lip as she thought: The only loser in this will be Miss Andrews – fine recompense for the sterling efforts in producing a champion poetry speaker. I suppose a letter would do … but, no, that’s the coward’s way out … yes, I’ll just have to go and tell her in person.
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  It was with a feeling of impending doom that Becky finally made her way over to Bridgeton for the dreaded meeting. To make matters even harder, Miss Andrews gave Becky the same rapturous welcome as on her first visit to broach the subject of Val’s lessons. As they sat over their teacups, Becky felt she was almost choking over the cream sponge as she put off the moment of truth. Placing her cup down and clearing her throat preparatory to launching into her much-rehearsed speech Becky took a closer look at her old friend and mentor.

  There’s something different about her today, Becky thought. Oh, yes! Her hair! She’s just had a Marcel Wave and doesn’t she look smart without that awful stretched cardigan and work pinny – it looks like her teaching triumph in producing a winner has gone to her head. Oh, God, how in heaven’s name can I now tell her of Val’s decision to quit?

  However, before Becky could start her speech, Miss Andrews, after rather self-consciously patting her exaggerated hair style, leant forward and said: “Becky, there’s something I have to tell you and I do hope it won’t come as too much of a shock. But rules are rules and must be followed.”

  Becky, completely at a loss to understand what Miss Andrews was talking about, mumbled: “Rules? What rules are those, Miss Andrews?”

  “It means that since I’ve been appointed an official adjudicator for many, if not all, public speaking events in the Glasgow area, I’ll no longer be able to teach or have any pupils of my own.”

  As the facts finally dawned on Becky she felt as though a great weight had been lifted form her back. She reached over to clasp Miss Andrews’ hand. “Congratulations, Miss Andrews. What an honour – an adjudicator no less. I am really delighted for you. Please, please don’t worry for a moment about Val …”

  A slight frown creased Miss Andrews’ brow. “Oh, but I do worry. You see it’s all due to Val and her triumph in winning her medal and also to my other prize-winning students in higher grades that the powers-that-be have elected me to the Board of Adjudicators.”

  They sat for a while longer chatting then as Becky was leaving Miss Andrews said: “Thank you for being so understanding. You have no idea how anxious I was about telling you.”

  On her way back to Govan on the tramcar Becky thought: Amazing! Half the things we worry about – agonise over – never actually happen. So let this be a lesson to you Becky Graham.

  ***

  Chapter 23

  Next day Val told her mother that Gramy and Grampa Graham had come up with a much better scheme to replace the now despised elocution. A project that she was sure would make her the envy of all the rampaging bullies from the ‘Qually Class’. She would take dancing lessons.

  On the Saturday evening after high tea Grampa Graham started outlining their grand plan for dancing lessons.

  Ewan scowled. “What’s all this? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Grampa Graham smiled. “We’ve already talked it over with Val. She’s all for it.”

  Gramy Graham nodded. “Yes, the wee pet, she can hardly wait to start on her dancing lessons. All excited she is.”

  Perhaps it was the fact that everything seemed to have been decided behind his back – the realisation that it was cut and dried without any reference to him as head of the house that annoyed him. Whatever the reason, Ewan, now red-faced with anger, was more upset than Becky had ever seen him before.

  As she wondered how best to deal with the situation, Ewan demanded: “Just where, might I ask, is the money for this flight of fancy coming from? For the expense won’t stop at the weekly fee for the lessons. Oh, no! There will be the expense of kitting her out in a dozen different costumes – Little Dutch Girl, Irish Colleen, not to mention the full Highland Regalia and the expense of dance competitions. All a complete and utter, bloody waste of my hard earned money, if you ask me.”

  His parents exchanged a glance, then his mother said: “Just hold your horses a minute, son. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. It won’t cost you a penny – we’ll foot the bill.”

  “You? God in heaven, mother. Are you daft? I know fine that father’s got a steady job – but times are hard. Men still get tossed on the unemployment scrap heap without even a minute’s notice. I’ll not allow you to waste your money like this.”

  Gramy Graham laughed. “Far from being sacked, your father’s moved a step up. He’s the day supervisor at the destructor with the night supervisor under him. It doesn’t make a big difference in his pay, but after all these years it’s enough we can afford to pay for Val’s lessons.”

  In the end, as Ewan was always slightly in awe of his parents, Gramy and Grampa Graham won the day.

  Every Friday night after school Becky and Val trotted along to a rented Govan church hall for Val’s hour of instruction.

  Ewan had, of course, been correct. It soon became apparent that not just one dance outfit would be needed in time, but instead a whole wardrobe of them. In discussing this with other mothers sitting on the chairs ranged round the walls of the practice room Becky soon became all too aware of the costs which could be incurred. She had been saving, in the tea caddy, the weekly amount that was no longer being spent on elocution lessons but that was going to be only a drop in the bucket.

  Becky frowned as she thought of the expenses. Her new friend, Hannah Harper, whose own daughter was a gifted little dancer and was already the proud possessor of the correct outfits for every style of dancing, leaned forward and said: “Becky, there’s no need to get yourself in a state about paying for costumes.”

  “And just how do you make that out, Hannah?”

  “Use your head.”

  “Hmph! It’ll take a bit more than that, I’m afraid.”

  Hannah laughed. “All you have to do is wait, watch, ask around – you’ll soon see who is growing out of their outfits, then get in there quick and make a cash offer.”

  When Becky called at Crossloan Road to pick up Scott she mentioned this conversation to Gramy Graham.

  She smiled and said: “I think Grampa already has the word out for his men to watch for any Highland stuff being ditched in the West End. Ewan always says it’s amazing what toffs throw away.”

  ***

  Chapter 24

  It was fast as approaching the date of the annual dance exhibition to be held in South Govan Town Hall. Thanks to the progress made by young Val, her teacher decided that Val was proficient enough to take part in two items on the programme.

  For the first part, that of a woodland nymph, Miss Fraser already had a stock of these hand-made, hand-me-down garments. These creations she dragged out from their moth-balled hideaway year after year for the now traditional finale. It was then the simple expedient of each child either squeezing into an over-tight dress or being tucked and pinned with a battery of safety pins into one which was sizes to large. None of Miss Fraser’s woodland nymphs would ever have been allowed on stage in any other attire but these outfits constructed from sparkly green curtain material. Only one dancer in the troupe – the Fairy Queen herself – had a custom made costume. The champion dancer this year, with the much sought-after honour of being The Fairy Queen, was Val’s bête-noire, Sadie.

  For Val’s other part a proper Highland outfit was a necessity and this Grampa Graham had provided. Becky’s first sight of the eye-dazzling, garish tartan had startled her, but she kept this opinion to herself as Val was over the moon with delight.

  As the curtain finally rose, albeit after a series of false starts, the long awaited dance exhibition finally got under way. As if to make up for lost time a rapid succession of tap-dancers, clog-dancers, and Irish colleens who shook their fists in the regulation Irish washerwoman fashion appeared, but no sign of a Highland dancer.

  Scott, by now wriggling in his seat, asked again, loudly: “Where’s Val? I don’t see Val, Mammy. Where is she?”

  As she had been doing since the start of Scott’s stream of questions, Gramy Graham fed him yet another chunk of coconut tablet from her rapidly diminishing supply. This
saw him through a noisy routine of little drummer girls who, with a measure of expertise, tap-danced and banged on their toy drums, to end by saluting smartly to the audience before marching off-stage in rather ragged lines. As the ear-splitting noise of the drums and the clamour of applause died away Scott entertained himself by chasing down captive bits of coconut from between his teeth. Then, just as he opened his mouth for the inevitable question, a lone, aged and decrepit piper marched on stage to the skirl of his own version of a Highland marching tune. In his wake at last came the Highland dancers. Although not in the forefront it was impossible to miss the apparition that was Scott’s sister, Val. The other dancers seemed to be wearing somewhat muted tartans, but Val in her red and yellow, ‘Dress Macmillan’ kilt and red velvet jacket stood out like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night.

  With a shout of joyous recognition Scott yelled: “There she is! Val! Yoo-hoo.”

  When it was announced with a roll of drums, the second half of the seemingly endless programme turned out to be a rerun of the first half. This time although the acts and set pieces were identical to those through which the audience had already suffered the difference was that this time they were performed by an older group of pupils. Although they were more confident and polished, they lacked the endearing charm, the two-left-footedness, of the baby class. Even so, since it was obvious the idea was to ensure that every single pupil of Miss Fraser had her own three minutes of fame most people took the view that what could not be cured must be endured.

  When the stage-two troupe of Highland dancers appeared minus the rainbow-hued Val, Scott set up such a hullabaloo in search of her that a grey-haired lady in front turned to face him. Instead of the rebuke, which Becky felt he richly deserved, the woman presented him with an entire paper-poke of long-chewing, teeth-destroying, dentist’s friends toffee balls.