Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
No shot gun wedding for a besotted young couple was
ever more quickly arranged than elderly Mrs Meikle’s unseemly haste in getting
Grampa Graham to the altar, or in their case to the Registry Office. In the
lead-up to the nuptials it turned out that Grampa’s recent frequent visits to
Partick had been to visit his beloved. Doubtless in pursuit of her prey, she
had chosen to lodge with a cousin in Dumbarton Road ‘for a wee holiday’.
From all of this it seemed clear to Becky that once
having set her cap at the old man, Mrs Meikle was not about to let him escape
her clutches. While not entirely happy with the situation, Ewan and Becky could
only make the best of it. When Ewan suggested as their wedding gift to the
happy couple he would stand the cost of the celebration high tea followed by a
visit to one of the city’s cinemas the offer was promptly accepted.
On the big day following the ceremony the family party
adjourned to the Ca’dora tea rooms for high tea. While Val and Scott were in
their element at the sight of the small collection of French cakes to follow
the main course, the bride, resplendent in her best, but somewhat battered,
tweed suit and enormous jumble-sale hat, could only reiterate at frequent
intervals: “Fair eating money! All this spread, it’s just fair eating money.”
Becky, wearying of this monotonous chorus turned to
Ewan and whispered: “It’s not even her money, for heaven’s sake. We’re the ones
who should be moaning.”
Ewan grinned and whispered back: “Never mind, Becky.
Money is like a god to her. By all accounts the old skinflint’s loaded … not
that my father’s likely to see a brass farthing of it.”
In the cinema throughout the performance Becky became
aware that everyone who sat behind the still behatted bride would sit for a
moment then, usually with a curse, shuffle off to another seat. When the lights
came on in the hall for the interval, Becky glanced along the row intending to
smile at her new mother-in-law and ask her if she would like a
peppermint-cream. Instead she started to giggle and then collapsed into gales
of helpless laughter. The bride, already tall and well built, was sitting head
and shoulders above everyone else. Between that and the hat it was little
wonder that no-one had wanted to sit behind her. Becky, muffling her laughter
as best she could, nudged Ewan in the ribs and pointed to the source of her
merriment.
Ewan too started to laugh. “Oh, good Lord. She can’t
ever have been in a cinema or a theatre before. She doesn’t know … and no-one’s
had the gumption to tell her you’re supposed to tip the seat down before you
sit on it.”
After a whispered conversation with Val she was
dispatched along the row to advise the bride she would be much more comfortable
if she cared to lower the seat rather than sit on the rim.
“Talk about a night to remember,” Ewan said at home
later. “I hope Dad’s pleased with his new wife. Anyone more different from my
mother would be hard to find. There’ll be changes afoot for my father in the
not too distant future – and I’ll bet they’ll not be for the better, you mark
my words.”
***
Early in 1942, the year following the wedding, Grampa
Graham said to Becky: “We’re thinking of moving out of the Crossloan Road
flat.”
Surprised, Becky said: “But you’ve lived there for
years, Grampa. You love that wee room and kitchen.”
Grampa Graham nodded but made no further comment. With
a flash of inspiration the reason for the move struck Becky.
“Oh, hold on, I see. It’s not good enough for your new
wife! With her money she’ll be wanting a real house and not just a tenement
flat.”
“Not exactly, Becky. You’ve got the wrong end of the
stick. Elspeth feels the Crossloan Road flat is too big for just the two of us.
The more room we have, the more there is to heat and light, the more visitors
we’ll be getting to stay from Lanarkshire. And all that will cost good money.”
“But Grampa, apart from anything else the flat’s so
handy for Greenfield school. You know how Val and Scott love to pop in and –”
“Lassie, lassie, do you not see – she even grudges the
expense of buying the wee sweetie biscuits for the bairns.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Well, Grampa, far be
it from me to cause you any extra expense – it’ll be the last time they drop in
for a visit. I do assure you.”
“Don’t go into the huff with me, Becky. But you’re
right. It will be the last time they’ll have such freedom to come and go. We’re
moving come Quarter Day. Elspeth has found us a cheap single end to rent in
Golspie Street.”
“What! For heaven’s sake, have you taken leave of your
senses? Golspie Street! What in God’s name are you thinking of?”
Grampa sighed. “It’s not me. It’s her. The move is
definitely arranged; already she’s unscrewed all the doorknobs inside the flat;
she’s bagged the last of the dross from the bottom of the coal bunker – she’s
made up her mind.”
After the excitement of the wedding and the subsequent
removal of the happy couple to Golspie Street, life once again settled into a
routine for Becky, Ewan, and the children. The latter did miss the freedom of
popping in to see Grampa every day after school, but there was something else
to look forward to. They now had a regular weekly visit with him to the Elder
Park and the luxury of some sweets bought on Grampa’s sweetie ration coupons,
although they missed the ice cream treats they used to get from Nottriano’s Ice
Cream Parlour on Govan Road, now closed and boarded up since the anti-Italian
riots of June last year when Italy declared war on the side of Germany.
Although no one ever actually voiced the thought, what added to their pleasure
was the absence of Elspeth who kept to the seclusion of the single end rather
than risk ‘eating good money’ in the form of any off-ration treats Grampa might
buy.
One such early spring day with the children happily off
on their weekly jaunt with Grampa, Becky, on a whim, decided to do a bit of
spring cleaning. Not content to merely brush over the rugs where they lay in
the living room, the hint of weak, long-awaited sunshine encouraged Becky to
take the rugs out to the green in the back garden. There, after heaving them
onto the clothes line, she started to beat them thoroughly with the
long-handled, cane carpet beater. Even as she pounded away at them she thought:
Why don’t I do this properly … give them a good sponge down with that new
cleaning liquid I bought from the Kleeneezee man at the door the other day?
Suiting the action to the thought Becky ran upstairs to
the kitchen. Although the metal cap came off easily enough, the cork had been
rammed in so tightly it refused to budge. Finally, the corkscrew pulled the
cork out but not before the neck of the bottle had been chipped. The raw edge
nicked the skin of Becky’s right hand between thumb and forefinger. Determined
to press on with her cleaning operations, Becky dabbed at the blood with her
apron then headed back out to the garden. Later, with the rugs hung over the
washing line to dry, Becky felt a glow of satisfaction at a job well done.
When Becky started to clear the table after feeding
Grampa and the children following their outing, the cut on her hand bled again.
“What’s happened to your hand, Becky?” Grampa asked.
Becky dabbed at the tiny cut with the dishtowel. “It’s
nothing, Grampa. Just a wee nick in the skin.”
“Well, make sure you keep it clean. Many a soldier in
the trenches of the Great War got tetanus from such a cut and as I see, you’ve
been out in the garden beating the dust, and the living daylights, out of your
carpets.”
Becky laughed.
***
Becky opened her eyes in a total panic.
Where was she? What had happened to her? Why was she
wracked with pain?
Ewan’s voice came from very far away, but she couldn’t
make out what he was saying.
Another voice seemingly closer this time said: “We’ve
just given her another injection of a sedative to try to calm her down. The
blood poisoning is very far advanced. We’ve done what we can to try to localise
it but … We’ll give it another couple of hours … but we may have to amputate
the right arm at least as far as the elbow to stop the poison spreading and
killing her.”
“What about that stuff the other doctor mentioned?”
“Penicillin? That’s what we’re trying. It’s certainly
worked wonders with the war wounded since 1940. We’ll have to wait and see how
she responds. I’m sorry, but it’s her last and only hope, even if we do
amputate there’s no guarantee …”
When Becky again surfaced she remembered the snatches
of conversation about an arm being amputated. With what strength she could
muster and filled with dread as to what she might find Becky struggled to
withdraw her left arm from the confining bed sheets.
A cool hand caught hers and a kindly voice said: “Ah,
so you’re awake at last, Mrs Graham. You’re lucky … the doctors did manage to
save your arm. I’ll be right back.”
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.”
***
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.
***