Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
Becky knew that had Ewan still been unemployed there
would not have been a hope of managing to save the requisite half-crowns far
less put her grand plan into operation. But Ewan had been happily employed in
the restaurant for over five years and although the pay wasn’t tremendous he
had a steady pay-packet and in addition he brought home generous helpings of
stale pies and odds and ends of food left over at the end of the day which
would not keep for the next.
Finally after months of slipping the odd few coppers at
a time into the tea caddy Becky had no less than three half-crowns. With the
money safely tucked in her purse she set out in pursuit of the one person she
knew could help her. Leaving the children in the charge of Gramy Graham, Becky
walked round the corner to Craigton Road to catch the yellow tram which would
take her back to Bridgeton. For most of the journey she sat lost in her dreams,
but the sight of Templeton’s Carpet Factory with its extravagant palazzo-style
frontage made her think of the years she had worked there – the long hard years
toiling, paying her money every week to Mammy until she had the courage to
finally confront her and escape to marry Ewan. Becky shivered. The present even
with the Depression was much to be preferred.
The woman she was intent on visiting, Becky hoped,
still lived in a tenement near the People’s Palace. Even when she had been
Becky’s elocution teacher all those years ago Abigail Andrews had been almost
crippled with arthritis and had seldom strayed far from her home where she
looked after her aged mother.
Arriving out of breath at the top floor flat, Becky
tugged at the brass bell pull.
I’d forgotten that staircase, Becky thought. Of course
I was just a child then. How on earth, does poor Abigail on her infrequent
sojourns into the world manage with that winding, heart-stopping stair which
seems to reach skyward for ever?
After a short wait, Becky tried the bell pull again.
She could hear the ting of the bell echoing through the hall beyond the door.
Then she could hear a voice muttering something she didn’t catch as it
approached.
The door opened and a withered old prune of a woman
walking with two sticks peered out at Becky.
Her mother? Becky thought. That’s how I remember her
mother. But that’s more than twenty years ago.
Coming to her senses Becky, as though addressing
someone of an elevated social strata far above her own humble origins, said:
“Miss Andrews? Please do forgive my arriving unannounced in this way but …”
The old lady with a joyous cry of greeting dropped her
sticks and enveloped Becky in a hug. They stood locked in this embrace for
several minutes before at last Abigail clutching both of Becky’s arms pushed
them a little apart.
“Becky Bryden! Becky is it really you?”
Somewhat dazed by this unexpected rapturous welcome
Becky mumbled: “Yes, Miss Andrews, none other.”
Becky helped Abigail pick up her walking sticks and
they moved to the parlour.
“You’ve changed, Becky. Grown into a handsome young
woman … and married … with two children I hear. A far cry from the fourteen
year-old I last saw. But I would have recognised your voice anywhere.”
Becky felt close to tears. “You said you’d heard about
me? How …?”
“Your Aunt Meg’s church and mine occasionally have
functions in common and I bump into her from time to time. When I do I always
ask after you. You were my star and favourite pupil. You could have gone on to
greater things.”
“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.”
***
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.
***
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.
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.
***