The nurse returned shortly with a doctor who pulled a chair over and sat at Becky’s bedside.
“What you had, Mrs Graham, was tetanus – blood poisoning. You must have had a cut somewhere on your hand that became infected. We have managed to save your right arm … but I’m afraid the hand is quite badly damaged and we had to remove the little finger.”
Becky tried to struggle up to look at her right arm.
“Just lie still for now, my dear. There’s nothing for you to see except bandages.”
Slumping back, Becky said: “Why isn’t Ewan here?”
“Your husband has been here every day for the last three weeks–”
“Three weeks? How …?”
“You’ve been under sedation – morphine – to control the spasms. I don’t expect you’ll remember anything of those weeks. Just lie back and rest now.”
Some time later Becky saw her arm. Yes, the brilliant surgeons had saved the arm but the legacy of the battle with tetanus was a cruelly disfigured right hand. Minus the pinkie, her hand was as solid and immovable as the carved hand of any marble statue in the Kelvingrove Art Gallery. The hand had been set, as the surgeon explained, with the fingers and thumb curved slightly inwards so that objects of a suitable size could be grasped. Jammed in, was how Becky thought of it.
When Becky was well enough to ask about how Ewan had coped while she was in hospital she was astounded to hear that the despised Elspeth had stepped into the breach. She had moved herself into Becky and Ewan’s bedroom, leaving Grampa Graham in the single end, and relegating Ewan to sleep on the couch in the living room.
“Give her her due,” Ewan said. “Skinflint and country bumpkin she may be but she does know how to run a house. She’s kept everything just the way you do – polished to within an inch of its life. The bairns off to school, well turned out, and good healthy meals every day. I suggested I could bring some meals home from the restaurant and she went up like a blue light. She did finally say that my father, if he wished, instead of coming to our house, could perhaps have the odd meal there – ‘I’m sure you won’t charge your own father. I won’t have him wasting good money when he could eat here with the bairns.’”
For the first time in six weeks Becky laughed.
Becky learned that while she had been non-compus mentis Nellie, her ‘mammy’ had died. Ewan commented to his father that Becky’s lack of reaction to the news was probably because she was still to some extent under the influence of sedatives.
Homecoming, a week later, was a joyful affair. Becky was surprised that in that short time the children had both grown. Their delight in having Mammy back was obvious.
When Becky tried to thank Elspeth her attempt was brushed aside.
“I did no more than my Christian duty for my husband’s grandchildren. There is no need to thank me. Thank the Lord for your deliverance. Now, I’ve left cottage pie in the oven for your tea tonight. Mr Graham and I will be off. Who knows what sort of mess he’s got the single end into.”
“Won’t you stay and share tea with us? I’m sure there will be plenty to go round.”
“No, I have a smaller dish of the pie in here,” she held up her shopping bag. “There’s enough pie for you and the bairns – Ewan can eat at the restaurant, I’m sure – what’s not sold shouldn’t be let go to waste. There’s no point in him eating again at home. He’ll just get fat. Eating two meals is sheer gluttony – a sin – and just fair eating money.”
Both children burst out laughing and very promptly sobered when Elspeth glowered at them.
“Come, Mr Graham, say goodbye to the bairns and let’s be off.”
***
Chapter 38
Eternally grateful still to be in the land of the living and not having been sucked further into that beckoning, brilliant white tunnel beyond whose white door, at the height of her illness, she had often glimpsed friends and relatives who had already passed into the land of the Leal, Becky decided her time just hadn’t come. She faced most days with courage, cheerfulness, and an iron will to make the best of what life still had to offer her. Even so, there were still black days, no matter how desperately she tried to look on the bright side and count her blessings. But on those days, no matter how she prayed, communed with God, and even tried to exercise the right hand that she now referred to as her ‘gammy hand’, the hand refused to budge into any semblance of useful and meaningful life.
Her face awash with tears of frustration Becky would berate herself and yet again remind herself just how lucky she was even to be alive. Despite her bitter tears and regret for what was gone, ever so slowly, day by day, Becky was learning to cope with her new situation. Gradually she taught herself to write with her left hand even if the result was a horrific scrawl.
Then came the day of celebration: after much trial and error, false starts, and many muttered curses Becky actually managed to sew on a button! No apprentice seamstress was ever prouder of her work than was Becky of the somewhat askew button she had managed to affix to Val’s blouse.
Yes, thought Becky, suddenly life is taking on a much rosier hue.
On the Friday evening of the week of her sewing triumph Becky sat relaxing with a cup of tea, listening to the wireless. The children were in bed and Ewan was working late. A rat-a-tat on her letter box brought her to her feet and downstairs to the entry hall. Pulling the door open to admonish the neighbourhood children she suspected of rattling her letter box, she was surprised to see a rather dishevelled Uncle Jack, looking totally unlike his normal, tidy, reserved, bank manager self.
“Becky,” he blurted out, “the sick line’s out for Meg at the Royal.”
“But I saw her only last week – a bit frail and tired for sure, but fine.”
“Becky, lass, you know as well as I do there’s only one reason they send out the line at any hospital to let visitors in at any time.”
With that Uncle Jack broke down sobbing and sagged against the door frame.
Becky knew exactly what was on his mind. The ‘sick line’ only went out when the hospital staff was fairly certain the patient was at death’s door and the bed had been moved from the centre of the ward to the position closest to the entrance to make it easier to move the body to the morgue without upsetting the other patients.
Grabbing hold of Uncle Jack’s arm, Becky tried to help him up the stairs. Fortunately, the neighbour next door saw what was happening and came to Becky’s assistance. Between them they got Uncle Jack upstairs and seated in the living room. Anna, the neighbour, a great believer in the healing power of tea, bustled around Becky’s kitchen getting them all hot sweet drinks.
As soon as Anna had heard Uncle Jack’s story she insisted: “Becky, you and your uncle should get over to the Royal right away. I’ll stay here and listen out for the children until such time as their daddy gets home from work. It’ll be no bother to me, Becky. Since Peter died and my two lads went off to the army, I’m glad of something to occupy my time.”
As Anna saw them off she called after them: “Maybe she’ll have taken a turn for the better by the time you get there. After all, where there’s life there’s hope.”
With these words ringing in their ears, Becky and Uncle Jack set off for the nearest tram stop on the first stage of their journey across Glasgow to the massive Gothic structure of the Royal Infirmary.
***
Chapter 39
For what seemed like an eternity, Becky and Uncle Jack had been sitting on either side of Meg’s hospital bed. From time to time Meg would toss her head from side to side on the pillow and mutter incoherently. Each time this happened Becky would yet again place her hand on the old woman’s arm in the rather forlorn hope that such human contact would in some way offer at least a modicum of comfort to the patient.
Meg’s bed, which was nearest to the door, was shielded by screens, which although cutting out the sights of the ward did not exclude the myriad sounds and pungent hospital smells of the busy, overcrowded surgical ward. At o
ne point when it looked as if Uncle Jack was on the point of collapse with the stress of their situation Becky suggested he should take a short break from their vigil.
“At least pop out for a puff or two of your pipe, Uncle Jack. Why don’t you do that?”
At first the look on his face made it clear he would welcome such a respite, then instead he started a whispered conversation across the bed.
“You know, all this came on her suddenly. Mind you, now that I come to think of it, ever since your accident to your hand she hasn’t been what you would call really well. Her sister, Nellie, dying while you were ill did upset her although in later years they weren’t all that close right up till Nellie had that stroke last year. When you had that Tetanus she worried herself stupid about you. You’ll remember, able for the journey or not, she struggled every day from our place on Parliamentary Road to visit you in the Western Infirmary.”
Becky had but a very hazy memory of her stay in hospital and no recall whatever of who had kept watch by her bedside at the height of her illness. She could only nod feebly as tried to choke back the tears which threatened to engulf her.
“Yes, loved you like a daughter she did. As if you were her very own daughter.”
At these words Becky blinked in surprise. Almost as if the emotive words had struck a chord of some sort in the patient’s befuddled brain, Meg without any warning became even more restless and distraught. Seeing this and worried that the overwrought, morphine-doped woman might inadvertently blurt out her lifelong secret and further upset her husband, Becky again pleaded with him to take a short break.
No sooner had Uncle Jack left than Meg roused into some semblance of her former mentally alert self.
Perhaps she’s going to get better after all, Becky thought in a burst of optimism.
Becky looked down in amazement as she saw Meg’s face clear. Then Meg grasped Becky’s hand and in a clear voice said: “Becky! You are just my own lovely daughter, aren’t you? My own darling wee girl … my daughter.”
Meg’s head fell back on the pillow. Her secret was at last out.
When Jack returned he was distraught, not only at the death of the woman he had loved for forty-plus years, but also with the regret of having missed her last minutes of lucidity.
After wiping his eyes and blowing his nose Uncle Jack stared hard at Becky.
“Meg’s last words, you must tell me, Becky … did they concern me?”
Not wishing to lie to him, but at the same time having no desire to hurt him Becky thought: My God. How can I possible tell him what she said? What her actual crystal-clear words were? How can I inflict on him the bitter knowledge that his name was not on her lips at the end?
Uncle Jack’s voice broke into her thoughts: “It’s all right, Becky, don’t torture yourself with indecision. I can see from your face. The expression tells it all … Meg’s last words had no meaning for me, so …”
He fixed a steely gaze on Becky then in a voice deep with authority said: “Whatever she said to you on her deathbed was strictly between you, Meg and her Maker. I have no right, in fact no need, to know her last words. Nor does anyone else. They are a sacred trust for you, and that’s the way they must always remain … do you fully understand?”
Some time later as they left the infirmary arm in arm and stood in the pouring rain at the nearest tram stop, Uncle Jack turned to Becky and said: “One last thing I must say, Becky, and then I’ll never again speak another word on the subject … your Aunt Meg, God rest her soul, loved you like a daughter. You must always remember that. She loved you like the daughter she never had. We never had children of our own. The doctors said some accident, perhaps in her teens, had left her unable to have children, made her more susceptible than others to ‘women’s problems’ so she never was all that robust.”
Standing in the light of the street lamps with the rain dripping off her nose, Becky realised in a blinding flash that Uncle Jack, outwardly unemotional canny Scotsman that he was, had obviously known all along of Meg’s guilty secret. She now knew it had been a measure of his love for Meg that throughout the years of their marriage he had gone along with the pretence, the massive lie, thus allowing her to maintain her dignity, her place in society, and finally take her secret to the grave.
***
Chapter 40
Since Fairfields and all the other Clyde shipyards were engaged in essential war work, in order to keep the workforce well fed, the female employees at workmen’s restaurants like Alex’s were considered exempt from being called up to work in munitions or in an aircraft factory. That however, didn’t mean that they couldn’t volunteer for such well-paid work.
In the spring of 1943, a year after Becky’s accident, Alex the owner of the Workman’s Restaurant was at his wit’s end. Ruby, the maid-of-all-work had left his employment without as much as a week’s notice, giving as her explanation: “Ah can get good wages in the munitions factory. So Ah’m no working for peanuts ony mair. That’s the last ashet pie or mince and tatties Ah’ll serve.”
Alex explained to Becky: “The yards are working full belt and all sorts of shift work. Ewan and I are run off our feet without an extra pair of hands particularly at the dinner hour. Would you consider coming in, say from about eleven until half after two or maybe three?”
Becky hesitated and looked self-consciously at her crippled hand.
Ewan said: “Don’t worry about your hand, Becky. You’ve learnt to do most things with your left hand as if you’d been born left-handed. You manage everything about the house no bother. Come on, help us out. Give it a try. If you find it too much after the first couple of weeks, then Alex and I will just have to find someone else.”
“Well, I suppose I could give it a go. With those hours I could be there when Val and Scott get home from school. I wouldn’t want them coming back to an empty house.”
She grinned at Alex. “And, of course, Val and Scott can have dinner here at mid-day, can’t they … for free.”
So Becky found herself installed as kitchen skivvy come front-of-house waitress.
At the end of her first week Alex said: “You’ve settled in very well, Becky. The shipyard workers like your cheery manner and the shopkeeper crowd that comes in after them also think you’re great. Next thing you know you’ll be getting a medal from the King for your war effort.”
Becky laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I must admit I’m quite enjoying the work and the repartee with the customers. It’s nice to be out of the house for a spell and seeing people.”
By mid-December of 1943 Becky was a well established fixture in the restaurant and had settled into a satisfactory routine for her household chores. Scott now twelve had sat and passed the all important Qualifying Exam – the dreaded Quallie – and had been informed that in January he would move from Greenfield School to the academic stream at Govan High School – PB1; Preparatory Boy’s 1 – and in September of 1944 into First Year Secondary. Becky had, of course, informed Uncle Jack and Grampa Graham and both had accepted her invitation to a family tea to celebrate the news.
Becky baked a cream sponge for after the high tea having scoured the shops for anything fancier and found nothing in the virtually empty bakery stores.
When she produced the cake Uncle Jack laughed. “Trust you, Becky. Meg never could get the hang of baking with powdered eggs. Her cakes after rationing never really came out right. And here’s you fed all of us a splendid meal of Spam fritters and home-made chips and topping it off with this fine looking cake.”
The cake consumed down to the last bite they sat round the fireplace and Grampa Graham said: “You’re a right clever wee lad, Scott. Before we know it you’ll be spouting geometry theorems at us and speaking French like a native – maybe German or Latin too depending on which you take in Second Year.”
Scott beamed at being the centre of attention and Becky stole a quick glance at Val.
Val’s in Third Year now, into Fourth in September, Becky thought. I hope
this praise for Scott doesn’t get her all jealous again. The bit about German or Latin is bound to irk her since she didn’t get to take a second language.
The gifts from Uncle Jack and Grampa Graham didn’t lessen Becky’s fears as a dictionary and geometry set were produced like rabbits out of a hat. However, to Becky’s relief Val seemed quite unconcerned.
Uncle Jack and Grampa Graham gone, Becky turned to Ewan. “Well, that was very pleasant, Wasn’t it? What a relief that Scott has passed the Quallie so well. We can be really proud of him, can’t we?”
Ewan nodded. “Oh, yes. Marvellous, just great.”
His tone of voice did not match the words spoken and Becky took a closer look at her husband in the light of the doorway.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud enough of Scott and of Val too for that matter. It’s myself I’m not feeling quite so good about … in fact, there’s something I have to tell you …”
***
Chapter 41
It was with a sinking feeling of déjà-vu that Becky followed her husband back up the stairs. At once her mind filled with images of the never-to-be-forgotten time, also after a pleasant family get-together, when Ewan had confessed that he like thousands of others had been cast onto the scrap heap of unemployment.
It couldn’t be that again. Not now in the middle of the war. Had Ewan been called up after all – despite his age of forty-eight? No, that wasn’t possible. Had he been conscripted for essential war work? He was, after all, a draughtsman even if he hadn’t put pen to paper that way since 1936.
“Becky, are you listening to me?” Ewan’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes, of course …”
Love & Sorrow Page 15
