Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Becky could not believe how quickly the years were
passing. On remarking on this aspect of life to her neighbour across the
landing, old Mrs MacAlistair said: “Ah windae worry ower much aboot it, hen, it
happens tae aw o us. They say it’s a sign o advancin age when ye start tae find
years fleein by and ivery month seems mair like a day.”
Becky laughed. “Advancing years, you say, Mrs
MacAlistair? At thirty-seven I’m not quite decrepit yet, you know.”
“Onywey ye care tae look at it, at thirty-seven and the
mither o twa weans yer life is ower. Ye’ve tae see tae yer family. So advancin
age is aw that’s left tae ye – mibbe between whiles another couple o weans in
yer belly afore yer past it.”
A week later Becky awoke to the fact that it seemed
only yesterday Scott was a shawl-wrapped babe-in-arms yet today there he was
standing before her as the latest entrant to Greenfield School. As if awaking
from a deep sleep Becky looked in wonder at her son. Yes, there he was: face
scrubbed almost raw, his unruly curls plastered down with an illicit handful of
his daddy’s precious Brylcreem, his wee spindly legs encased in short trousers
and his feet in the regulation tackety boots – boots more suited to an Irish
navvy than to a puny five-year-old.
She fastened his school bag on his back and turned to
her first-born. “Mind now, keep Scott tight by the hand till you deliver him
safely to the infant mistress, Miss McQuarry, a lovely lady. He’s already been
registered so she’s expecting him. I’ll come up at break and feed a wee sweet
bite through the railings to the wee pet.”
Val’s lips tightened at these words and Becky,
realising her mistake, hurried on: “And a little something for you as well, as
usual, Val. You know I wouldn’t leave you out.”
The rest of that morning until break time Becky went
about her housework in something of a daze. She agonised over whether or not
she had been wise to leave Scott in the not-so-tender mercies of his big
sister. Should she herself have gone with him and seen him to the school gates
or was it better after all in the long run to give Val this further measure of
responsibility in the ongoing battle of sibling jealousy and rivalry?
Becky frowned as she recalled how the curse had again
raised its ugly head.
As part of the grand pre-school preparations Gramy and
Grampa Graham had appeared on the Saturday before the big day with a selection
of gifts. There was: a fully loaded wooden pencil case with a swivelling out
tray, a garish design on the lid and the name ‘Scott’ engraved in pokerwork; a
multi-coloured sweater which Gramy had lovingly made with odd bits of wool; and
the pièce de résistance, a real leather school bag the weight of which would
have brought a grown man to his knees.
Far from being delighted with these gifts, Becky had
chewed her lower lip in distress at all this largesse bestowed on her son –
especially when she caught sight of the look on Val’s face.
Gramy Graham handed Val a stick of barley sugar. “This
is for you, Val. We didn’t want to leave you out, but don’t forget when it was
your turn to start school you got lots of nice things too.”
Eight-year-old Val remembered. She had hated on sight
the little cardboard attaché case: the hand-knitted mitts attached by a cord,
to thread through her jacket sleeves in case of loss; and most of all she had
loathed the gymslip, bought ‘for her growth’ with its adjustable shoulder strap
buttons, made of scratchy serge material which left her thighs red-raw in the
cold winter. That detested gymslip was still with her in Primary Three and
suitably sponged with a vinegar rag and pleats pressed to razor sharpness every
Sunday would doubtless be with her till the end of her primary school days.
Val eyed greedily the spoils bestowed on Scott and
after automatically accepting the proffered barley sugar stick she took one
look at it and hurled it from her with a howl of protest. The offending sweetie
bounced off the wooden mantle-piece then shattered into a thousand glistening
pieces on the hearth below.
The afternoon ended in a hurried departure by the
doting grandparents; a tearful Scott picking slivers of barley sugar from his
sweater where it lay on the chair beside the fireplace; and a
screaming-her-head-off Val unable to sit with any degree of comfort on her
stinging bare bottom.
So much for the pre-school celebrations, Becky thought
as she brought her mind back to the present. One glance at the mantelshelf
clock told her it was time she was on her way round the corner to Elderpark
Street and on up to Greenfield School. She made it just in time. The bell
tolled as a breathless Becky joined the other over-anxious mothers standing on
the street side of the railings. Like feeding time at the zoo, the mothers
stood with jammy pieces in hand ready to thrust through the bars to be snatched
by their supposedly starving children. Of Becky’s own two, Scott was the first
to appear, but rather than eagerly putting out his hand for the bit of buttered
gingerbread he seemed strangely withdrawn and tearful. He gazed imploringly at
his mother with the words: “Mammy, I want to go home. I don’t like school.
Don’t leave me, Mammy.”
Other mothers nearby smile sympathetically and
encouraged Scott and Becky.
“Uch, the wee darling – his first day at school?”
“Don’t worry, hen. Ma three wus the same their first
day – hated it, but look at them noo.”
Becky did look and saw a rampaging mob terrorising
other children and leading them into mischief.
“Scott, don’t worry, son. You’ll be fine. When Val
brings you home at dinnertime I’ll have your favourite – mince and mashed
potatoes. You’ll like that won’t you?”
But Scott would have none of this. All he wanted was
home away from this terrible place called school.
As Becky worried about what to do the janitor appeared.
When he tolled the mighty school bell, like a well trained army of midgets, the
youngsters, all except a now screaming Scott, ran immediately to get to their
designated class lines before the redoubtable Miss McQuarry would appear on the
scene.
On her arrival, at one glance she caught the sight of
one solitary miscreant child hanging on for dear life to the railings and far
from the military precision of the ordered class lines. Leaving the janitor to
start off the marching, the necessary music already issuing from the piano in
the central hall, Miss McQuarry strode purposefully across the playground. She
looked through the railings at Becky and said: “We’ve had trouble with this one
already this morning. He gave his sister a real showing up.”
Becky wondering what on earth Scott could have done to
blot his copy book on his very first morning at school started to ask Miss
McQuarry for details, but Miss McQuarry was finished with the mother.
“Right, young man, that’s your mother off home. So
let’s have no more of your nonsense. Peel yourself away from those railings.
Inside with you or you’ll be at the receiving end yet again for a well earned
punishment.”
***
The Infant Mistress, despite Becky describing her to
Val as a ‘lovely lady’ earlier, had a well deserved reputation as a strict
disciplinarian, terrifying children and parents alike.
By the time Becky arrived home after the morning break,
she was hot and flustered. She didn’t remember being this worried about Val’s
first day. Somehow Scott seemed more fragile than Val. She worked herself into
such a state that instead of shopping for anything for the children’s mid-day
meal she made endless cups of hot, sweet tea in an effort to calm her twanging
nerves.
For once in their lives, Becky thought, they’ll have to
make do with just jammy pieces for dinner.
One look at Scott when the children returned at mid-day
was enough to confirm Becky’s worst fears. The wee lad, still resplendent in
his Joseph’s Coat slipover, new short trousers, and brave, tackety boots, never-the-less
presented a sorry sight. His good white shirt was hanging awry beneath his
pullover, and one top-hose was wrinkled at a rather jaunty angle halfway down
his skinny leg. His crowning glory, which Becky had spent hours coaxing into
waves and curls, now resembled nothing so much as a bird’s nest.
Worst of all, his normally lovely sea-blue eyes were
red from weeping and his chubby cheeks tear-stained.
As Becky wiped Scott’s nose she could not help noticing
the contrast between him and his rather smug-looking sister. Far from taking
part in the ongoing domestic drama she had assumed the air of a detached, wary,
but only slightly interested bystander. At the moment Becky was aware of an
almost overwhelming urge to smack her first-born soundly on her bare bottom for
no other reason than the self-satisfied, smug look on her face as she watched
her wriggling brother being cleaned up.
Eventually with a still sniffling Scott toying with his
jammy piece Becky turned to Val.
“Now, young lady, there’ll be no jammy piece for you
until you give me a full account of this morning’s events. Don’t forget, I put
you in full charge of your wee brother.”
Val sat up straight in her chair. “It wasn’t my fault,
Mammy. I put him in the right line in the playground. I even waited with him as
long as I dared before I ran to my own line with my pals.”
Becky looked long and hard at Val especially when Val
said: “Don’t blame me, Mammy. I done what you asked. Now can Ah get something
to eat?”
Aware she was losing the ongoing battle to teach her
children to speak properly Becky said: “You did what was asked, Val, not done.
Honestly, girl, will you never learn?”
Hearing this, Scott under the mistaken belief that
since Val was now getting a row his own personal crisis was over, stopped
sniffling and quite happily started licking the jam from his fingers. Val, as
yet unfed, was not about to see the wee pest get off so lightly.
“Mammy, it was his own fault he got the belt. He was
cheeky to the teacher.”
“Cheeky? Scott, the best behaved boy in Govan, cheeky?
Certainly not to Miss McQuarry.”
With his halo now firmly in place, Scott smiled his
angelic charm.
“I wasn’t cheeky, Mammy. I just did what Val told me. I
sat up straight at my desk, folded my arms, and …”
As his words trailed off, Val shot him a warning look
before he could say more.
“Nothing wrong with that, sonny. What Val told you was
fine. That’s how all good pupils behave. But listen, did Val give you any other
advice – tell you anything else?”
A nod from Scott and a murderous look from Val prompted
a further question from Becky. “So! There was something else?”
Scott nodded again. “She told me the right way to
answer when the teacher called the roll. Told me to get it right to make a good
impression.”
“Well, you certainly seemed to have made an impression
– but it doesn’t seem to have been the right one does it, if you got the
strap?”
“Mammy, when the teacher called my name I just said
what Val had told me. We practised yesterday. I said: ‘Aye, Missus, Ah’m richt
here.’”
Becky gasped. “You said what? Scott, my wee darling,
you know must always speak properly in school. Rightly or wrongly no child is
allowed to speak Broad Scots or the Glasgow dialect in school – it’s one
language for the street and playground and King’s English for the classroom. No
wonder you got the belt.”
Silence greeted this and as Val tried to slink out the
door Becky grabbed hold of her.
“As for you, madam – this is all your fault. Just you
wait till your father gets home tonight.”
***
When Becky next popped round to see Gramy Graham she
made sure she went alone so she could tell the story of Scott’s first day
without the children listening to every word.
“Poor wee darling,” Gramy Graham said. “Mind you,
before they’re finished with school they’ll both get many a sore hand from the
teacher’s Lochgelly. I can’t say it has done Ewan any harm.”
Becky grinned. “Is that so? Well, it might have made
him a biddable pupil, but I can’t say I’ve noticed him toeing the line as a
well-trained husband.”
The two women laughed.
“A biddable Scottish husband?” Gramy Graham said.
“There’s no such creature – unless he’s been totally henpecked into submission
by which time he’s not a man at all, Scottish or otherwise.”
They chatted for a time on other matters before Gramy
Graham said: “Mind you, I’m sorry Ewan had to chastise Val. I don’t think for
one minute she meant for any harm to come to her wee brother.”
Becky had her own opinion on this overly generous
humanitarian theory, but rather than voice it and risk offending her
mother-in-law she simply said: “Good of you to say so, but what makes you think
that? After all, she can be a real wee madam at times.”
Gramy Graham smiled fondly. “Oh, it’s just her way.
She’s the drama queen of this family. Just like Ewan’s sister. Anyway, I do
know that she loves the old Scots tongue, so I expect it just slipped out
unawares in all the excitement of giving Scott his orders and telling him to
mind his P’s and Q’s.”
“As to her being a drama queen, she’s all that and
more. But I don’t quite get your drift about her love of the old Scots
language. She doesn’t hear it spoken at home, and the accent you and Grampa
Graham have is far removed from the coarse way the people round here speak.”
“No secret there, Becky. I know you’re fussy about her
speaking proper English but any time she’s here on her own there’s nothing she
likes better than to hear Grampa quote some of the old Scottish weaver poets.”
Becky raised her eyebrows and Gramy Graham went on:
“She really loves them. I think her favourite is Drucken Tam the Baker.
Although when I come to think of it she’s really daft about a poem by a lad
called Nicholson, Imph-m, that awfy word imph-m.”
Gramy Graham closed her eyes then quoted:
“Ye’ve heard hoo the deil, as he wauchel’d through
Beith,
Wi’ a wife in ilk oxter and ane in his teeth,
When someone cried oot, ‘Will ye tak’ mine the morn?’
He wagged his auld tail while he cocked his horn,
But only said Imph-m! That useful word Imph-m,
Wi’ sic’ a big mouthfu’ he couldna say, aye!”
Becky laughed. “Yes, I could see that one amusing Val,
considering the number of times I’ve told her not to say, imph-m, instead of
the proper, yes. However, poetry and performing is one thing, she still has to
learn to speak properly when appropriate.”
On her way home Becky remained unconvinced about the
supposed innocence of Val’s instruction to Scott, but the conversation had
convinced her that as soon as she could scrape together enough money Val should
have elocution lessons. Aunt Meg had done as much for her and she could do no
less for Val.
***