Authors: Jenny Telfer Chaplin
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 one 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.
***
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 …”
***
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 …”
“Of course, nothing, you were away with the fairies.
You know Alex’s wife passed away nearly two years ago? Well, now that Alex’s
pushing sixty, one of his sons, the one that lives in Dundee, wants him to sell
up and go to live with his family. You’ve seen how breathless Alex gets when
we’re busy? It seems he has a heart condition of some sort and the doctor
thinks it would be a good idea for him to go easier.”
“So Alex is going to try to sell the restaurant?”
“Right. And you know what they say about new brooms.
I’ll be out on my ear. Mind you, the way things are now I should get a job of
some kind no bother.”
Ewan sighed. “It’ll be funny, after all these years,
working anywhere else but the restaurant.”
“If Alex is determined to sell, why shouldn’t he sell
the restaurant to you … or better still to us?”
Ewan looked at Becky as if she had taken leave of her
senses. “Me … or us … buy a business? You really are away with the fairies
aren’t you? Where would we get the money? We’ve done fine these last years,
even managed to put a wee bit by for a rainy day, but buy the restaurant! Have
you any idea how much it would cost? Alex’s not about to give it away for
nothing.”
“I may not be as daft as you think,” Becky said,
rising. “Wait here. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When Becky re-entered the living room she carried a
large framed picture of a Highland stag, which had hung over the fireplace in
their bedroom ever since the death of Aunt Meg.
“I know you hate this picture, Ewan …”
Ewan nodded and gave a sheepish grin. “You’re right
there. It’s an awful picture. If it hadn’t come to you from your Aunt Meg the
damned thing would have been in the dustbin not minutes after it arrived here.”
“Just forget all that for the moment. Undo the wee
metal clips at the back.”
More to humour Becky than for any other reason, Ewan
did as he was told. When the backing was removed a more glorious vista than any
Highland stag at bay met their view.
Speechless for a moment Ewan gazed at the sight, his
eyes wide in amazement and disbelief.
“What in God’s name?” he finally said. “I don’t
understand. There must be hundreds of pounds here. Why would Meg leave you
hundreds of pounds in tissue-paper five pound notes? Surely this should have
gone to Uncle Jack? Why would she leave it to you? It isn’t even as if you were
her daughter.”
Studiously ignoring the vexed question as to why she
should have been entitled to the money, Becky said: “Isn’t it enough that Aunt
Meg wanted me to have the money? Before her last illness she told me she had
been putting aside money for years that she meant me to have, to give me and
mine a good start in life.”
“In cash? With Uncle Jack a banker? Shouldn’t it have
been in the bank?”
“She said she and Uncle Jack were well enough off. He
never missed the money she saved from her housekeeping and anyway he would have
a good pension from the bank when he retired, so they wouldn’t need the money
she had saved secretly.”
“Why put it in the back of that hideous picture? Damn
it, Becky, you might have tossed it out never knowing what was there.”
“You’re wrong there. She told me where she was hiding
it and that Uncle Jack knew the picture was to go to me when she died.”
“So you’ve known all along we had that money?”
“Yes, as you said we were doing okay – even saving a
little. I was keeping it for a rainy day.”
They removed the money and started counting.
“Becky, there’s more than enough to buy the restaurant.
I know what Alex wants.”
“Good. I already know the routine, so there’s no
problem there. We can hire another girl or two and run the restaurant
ourselves. That’s settled. First thing tomorrow morning, don’t waste a minute,
get right down to business with Alex. Talk it over with him. I’m sure
everything will be just fine.”
Ewan hugged Becky. “It was a lucky day for me when I
met you at Caz’s wedding in Bridgeton.”
Recalling how appallingly rude she had been to him on
their first meeting, Becky was glad the passage of time had mellowed the
memory.
***