Love & Sorrow

by Chaplin, Jenny Telfer

  As Becky looked at her two weeping children she prayed earnestly that all the blithe, official promises would be kept and that her bairns would indeed be welcome … and above all well-cared for.

  At the final moment of parting Becky gave them a last, lingering hug and whispered to Val: “Remember now, be a good girl and make sure you take good care of your wee brother. Promise now?”

  After watching the train steam out of the station Becky turned away and started the trudge home … to an empty house.

  ***

  Chapter 30

  For Becky the weeks in the aftermath of the piteous farewells and the departure of her children seemed endless and empty. Apart from the time when Scott had been at death’s door in the Fever Hospital with diphtheria, she had never, before or since, been separated from either of her children. Now her single end, empty and deathly quiet without the vitally alive presence of Val and Scott, seemed desolate and hardly even a home. To make matters worse, Ewan’s way of coping with the unnatural situation was to keep working even longer hours which meant that when he did come home he was tired and irritable and in no mood to listen to a catalogue of Becky’s moans and real or imaginary problems.

  For want of something else to occupy her hands and mind, Becky swept, dusted and polished her wee palace until not an inch of untreated floor, fabric, or furniture remained. The one bright spot in the week was when postie would drop a postcard through the letterbox. Even that, after the initial joy of getting it, would soon prove to be an even greater source of worry. Val’s carefully written, almost over-correct message invariably gave the impression of having been dictated by her teacher. The terse, stilted sentences gave away nothing of any worth to indicate what was actually happening.

  Becky peered at the latest postcard with its non-committal: “I am fine, Mammy. Scott is fine, a good boy at school. I hope you and Daddy are fine too.” She frowned and held the card up to the light coming through the kitchen window to scrutinise it even better.

  Well, there’s a thing, she thought. Either this card’s been left out in the rain, or postie has dropped it in a puddle, or my poor wee Val’s been weeping over it.

  She was deep in thought when she heard a knock on the door.

  “Oh, it’s yourself, Etta. You’re early on the go today. But it’s always a pleasure to see you. Come away in and I’ll get us a cup of tea.”

  Becky ushered her friend into her home and got her comfortably seated beside the fire. It was obvious to the most casual glance that Etta had been weeping and Becky bustled around at the stove waiting patiently for Etta to tell her what the problem was.

  When Etta did start to talk it was such a jumble of ill-assorted ideas poured out in a torrent of tears that Becky stopped her. “Listen, Etta, suppose we take this a bit slower. To let me get the facts right, can I ask you questions on what I think I’ve gathered so far?”

  Etta nodded.

  “Right, today you had a postcard from your Alan? Sounds the same as mine. Just the usual standard stilted message – I am well, hope you are too, I am happy here on Arran, school is good – have I got it right?”

  Etta blew her nose vigorously then with a snort of disgust said: “That’s it exactly, Becky, exactly, damn near word for word. No worth a tuppenny dam those postcards … they just say the same bluidy rubbish week after week. They tell us naethin. An insult tae oor intelligence so they are.”

  Becky nodded. “But that’s old news, isn’t it? We’ve talked about these cards before. You said something about another letter you had by the same post this morning. I couldn’t quite catch what you were saying about that.”

  Etta sat up straighter in her chair. “It’s like this, Becky. John … a cousin of mine … he works on the Clyde ferries. Usually he does the Rothesay run, but wee while back he was shifted tae the Arran boat. So, when he was on the island anyway, on his day off, he thought he’d take the chance tae find oot how my bairns were really gettin on in their evacuation billets.”

  When Etta paused, Becky urged: “Go on, Etta tell me.”

  “Ye’re no gonnae like this, but Ah felt it ma Christian duty tae share this wi ye. Ah don’t mind tellin ye it ferr broke ma hert when Ah read yon letter frae John.”

  Becky felt like strangling Etta who now seemed to be enjoying the drama of her recitation.

  “Remember what that bastard Education Officer telt us? Aw that guff aboot the evacuees bein made welcome? Well, devil the fear o that!

  “John says when he talked tae folks aboot the evacuees in the pub he was telt there were some ‘private’ evacuees that had been brought over by their mothers and settled with islanders that wanted tae take them in – for so much a week … like in a boardin hoose on the holidays. The other evacuees – the Glesca keelies – that came ower by the barrowload in September were dumped on whoever had empty rooms without as much as a by-your-leave. Some o them, he was telt, are fine and got good places but others could be haein a real rough time.”

  “Did John do anything else – except I mean sit in the pub and talk?”

  “Oh, aye, the next time he was on the island for a day he managed tae get a lift oot o Broderick up the coast a bit tae a wee village. It turns oot that yer twa are in the same village as my Alan and Teena. He didnae get tae speak tae yer weans, but he managed tae speak tae Alan. He’s aw right, but he and Teena dinnae like the food – although he says there’s plenty o it. John says maist o the teachers frae Greenfield didn’t stay on the island and the ones that did are all in the town and only come out tae see the weans in the villages aff and on. And Alan says the village kids make fun of him and Teena and he’s had a couple of fights.”

  “Etta, can you scrape up enough for train and ferry fares to Arran?”

  “Aye, Ah think so.”

  “Good, we’re going to Arran to see for ourselves.”

  ***

  Chapter 31

  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, Va
l 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.”

  ***

  Chapter 32

  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 c
hildren 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.

  ***

  Chapter 33

  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.