In Loving Memory (17 page)

Chapter 8

“Miss Arabella, aye blamed herself, felt she could have stopped the pair of them. It was the evening of the engagement party ye see, drink, strong drink had been taken and the two men dearest in all the world to her, some whisky-fuelled idiotic difference of opinion as to the length of time it would take to row a set distance on the Clyde ... something out of nothing really, but once drink takes hold of any man ... well, the outset was that nothing would do the pair of them but a midnight rowboat race across the Clyde and so ...”

As Tibbie’s words trailed off, both women mentally visualized the scene of horror, Arabella in her new ball gown, other guests equally modishly dressed but just as fired by strong drink as the two combatants, all standing about on the moonlit shore cheering on the two competitors, probably by now wagers having been placed ... the elderly ship-owner or the recently qualified surgeon. Excitement, cheering, laughter, their supporters egging them on. Then watching as in slow motion, the collision, the boats overturning, the frantic efforts to rescue them, all in vain, the abrupt ending of two lives ...”

Rousing herself from such a harrowing mental image, Lara said, “So, no doubt about it, it really was the demon drink, the old story. No wonder Arabella set up this house as a refuge, a haven for wives and families fleeing from drunken husbands and fathers, suddenly all is clear, it all fits into place.”

Tibbie leant forward. “Which I think you’ll agree, now brings us to the future, not only of the house, but also Tavish and me. Are our days numbered here? A new broom and all that, now ye’ve had time to assess the situation, for all we know, ye’ll be selling this lovely old house, getting on with yer own life or mibbe even deciding to live in the house, create a ... what is it, grand ladies do ... a salon, a cultural salon, or some such swanky meeting place for poets, writers, musicians and up-and-coming artists.”

Lara burst out laughing, then waving aside the fanciful notions propounded by Tibbie, Lara then wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

“My, my Tibbie, ye’ve a grand imagination, with a mind like that, you could well be a famous writer yourself.”

Tibbie gave a rather tremulous smile. “Ye’ve a grand way with words yerself, Miss Lara ... so please, what’s to happen now? Have ye as yet decided things in yer own mind?”

Lara cocked her head on one side “As to you and Tavish being shown the door, far from it, in fact, you’re going to be more needed than ever. The work of this house, the valuable work will continue, if anything and if my plans come to fruition, it will grow in scope and if you and Tavish need extra help around the house and garden that will be provided. I plan to become much more fully involved in the current rapidly developing Temperance Movement and all that it entails ... bun fights, soirees, musical entertainments, lantern-slide lectures and all and everything still to be constrained under the umbrella of this house of refuge. Lots of work to be done and as I say, not only will I be fully involved, but if you and Tavish would be willing and able for all of that, there will be extra domestic help brought in to ease your burden. I have so many ideas to enhance the Temperance Movement and bring its urgent message to even greater numbers. With a base such as this house, we could not possibly have a better centre of excellence. And I say again, I envisage you and Tavish as leading participants in our noble work. So, what do you make of that?”

Lara gave an embarrassed cough. “Tibbie, one thing, in fact a couple of matters you should know about me before you even think of committing yourself to the Cause and of course to even more work ...” Lara paused. “My father, Fergus Bell, he was a leading light in the Radical Movement of the 1820’s, he often gave impassioned speeches at Glasgow Green, he was hounded for his beliefs, in fact he drowned in the Atlantic, not only in trying to flee his would-be captors, but also in trying to reach Canada and taking with him the message of social justice for all working men and women.”

Tibbie clapped her hands in delight. “Ye surely don’t mean tae tell me ... Fergus Bell, that Fergus. Bell, he was yer father? A wonderful man, a powerful speaker on behalf of the weavers and all Scottish workers especially. My own father, he was a weaver, and many’s the time he stood at Glasgow Green listening to Radical Fergus Bell. Oh Miss Lara, ye must be very proud of yer father.”

Lara nodded. “He died in a shipwreck just months before I was born, but all through my growing up, my mother God rest her soul, finding me a difficult, thrawn wee girl, she was forever telling me I’d end up just like my father as a soapbox orator at Glasgow Green. And do you know, that’s exactly what I now plan to be ... a soapbox orator on behalf of the Temperance Movement. But, what I wonder, might such an openly public demonstration of my own beliefs and aims for the Movement be an embarrassment for you and Tavish? Would that be a problem for you?”

“Us be embarrassed tae be associated with you? Stuff and nonsense.”

Tibbie gave a hearty laugh. “Ye can do all the rabble-rousing ye ever want, Miss Lara. Just one thing, don’t think me cheeky but when it’s yer time to speak at Glasgow Green, ye’ll need warmer clothing then a wee lace-edged house frock. It could be gey cauld speechifying up yonder on yer soapbox at Glasgow Green.

If you enjoyed
In Loving Memory
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Love and Sorrow
by Jenny Telfer Chaplin, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
Love and Sorrow
by Jenny Telfer Chaplin

Part 1

Chapter 1

1 July 1899

The early morning light filtered through the threadbare curtains at the window of the tenement flat but for all the joy it brought the three young women in the room at the dawning of a summer’s day, it might as well have been the dark of mid-winter. Engaged as they were in this most secret of tasks, the darkness was already in their souls. As one tear-stained, matted-haired woman writhed in agony on the bed, the second with her untrained, so-called midwifery skills, struggled to bring into the world a reluctant baby, and the third member of their conspiracy sat continuously chewing her fingernails to the quick as if already doubting the wisdom of their actions.

As they all knew the pregnant woman had been in the throes of her tortuous labour for what seemed to them an endless age but which was in reality a little more than ten hours. Despite the midwife’s well-meaning but feeble efforts the baby was no nearer to making his or her way into the waiting world. The constant urging to keep pushing but to do so quietly lest her screams be heard by the bairns across the landing in the neighbour’s flat did even less to comfort the patient than the regular mopping of her brow with a vinegar-soaked rag.

With the light gaining strength the appointments of the room gradually became clearer – the black steel sink under the window; the goose-necked cold water tap; the wax-cloth-covered table; the mantelpiece with its regulation pair of wally dugs, brass candlesticks, tea caddy, and overhanging gas mantle; the crammed to capacity pulley with its array of vests, towels, nappies, and knickers; the home-made wee creepie stool; the rather decrepit armchair into which the ‘Heid o’ the Hoose’ would slump when home between stints as an ocean going deckhand.

Just as the rays of the sun reached the recess bed and the pain-wracked face of the young woman, with a final scream and arching of her body, she finally expelled the burden she had carried with her for nine long, weary months. What a hated burden it had been for both her and her sister. For the final months and weeks of her pregnancy Meg had ventured out only at night enveloped in an enormous, moth-eaten shawl, while her sister, Nellie, had waddled round the streets of Bridgeton and her already child-filled tenement home with a cushion tied to her waist creating the supposed bump of a growing baby in her belly.

The self-styled midwife cleaned up the baby, wrapped it in a crocheted shawl, and held out the latest bundle of humanity.

“There sh
e is then, a bonnie wee baby.”

When there was no reply, nor even as much as answering smiles from her audience, Hannah persisted. “Weel, if naethin else, surely between the pair o ye wi aw the fine planning ye’ve done, surely tae God ye’ve at least thought up a name for the puir wee bastard.”

As the harshness and bitter reality of this hated word sounded in the stillness of the early morning somehow its echoes seemed to hang in the air between them. Finally Nellie got slowly to her feet and glaring at Hannah said in a voice low with menace: “Bastard? Naethin o the kind. Don’t you iver again use that hideous word referring to that poor wee mite.”

Hannah nodded and opened her mouth as if to speak, but Nellie hadn’t finished with her tirade.

“See her? See that wee scrap o humanity – you can call her any first name ye like, but Ah’m tellin ye this: as far as her surname goes … she’ll bear ma husband’s name, jist like aw the rest of ma ither bairns. Dae ye understand?” Hannah nodded. “Jist in case ye don’t get the picture, frae this minute on ye keep your silence – silent as the grave would jist aboot dae it.”

Hannah locked glances with the red-faced Mrs Nellie Bryden then slowly and deliberately rolled down her sleeves.

“Oh aye! That’s one thing sure … Ah’ll no be saying a word tae naebody. Apart frae onythin else – and maybe ye dinnae ken this, Mrs Know-it-all, but see the very minute ye gie false details aboot an illegitimate bairn on any official document, like it or lump it, ye will be breaking the law o the land, so ye will.”

From the quick indrawn breath and the look on Nellie’s face Hannah grinned, taking it that her barb had struck home and this was indeed news to Nellie.

“For all Ah ken the pair o youse might weel end up in jail. So hae nae fear. Ah wouldnae want tae join ye. Frae this day forrad ma lips is sealed.”

Having completed her task to her own satisfaction, the self-righteous Hannah turned and called back from the doorway: “As far as a Christian name goes, why don’t ye call her Becky? Ah had an auld Aunt Becky and see her, talk aboot being lucky! Aye! She was that lucky in everythin she touched in this life that folk used tae say o her that if she fell in the Clyde she’d come up wi a gold watch. Aye! The name Becky should dae that puir faitherless bairn jist fine. For let’s face it, if anybody ever needed a bit o luck in this life ye can take it frae me it’s gonnae be that puir wee innocent bastard.”

With the noise of the slammed door still ringing in their ears Nellie and Meg looked at each other and almost in unison said: “Right! Becky Bryden it is.”

Nellie bustled around the kitchen preparing a pot of tea and said: “Right, Meg, one way and another, between the pair o us, we’ve battled our way through this bit o bother jist fine and dandy.”

A wan-faced Meg nodded and, exhausted, fell back. The pain and trauma of the night faded and she slipped into a dreamlike state …

Alex Cartside was so much more sophisticated than anyone Meg had ever met before. His polished manners and refined speech attracted her right from the very first time she saw him standing at the podium lecturing the class on the finer points of diction – “So necessary for a teacher to give a good example to her pupils.”

She was thrilled when in the second week he had complimented her in front of the whole class on her excellent speech and speaking voice. Their accidental meeting in Miss Cranston’s on Sauchiehall Street was the high point of the third week at the Normal School and she readily agreed to his proposal that they meet at Kelvingrove Art Gallery. There, he said, he could expand her horizon, discussing with her the excellent art, and thus making her a better teacher.

The visit to the gallery was very pleasant and at the afternoon tea which naturally followed Meg was charmed and readily agreed to further meetings.

Miss Euphemia Edgar, the spinster teacher who had taken Meg in when her parents died and with whom she still lived, warned her against ‘any romantic entanglement’ which would end her career in teaching. Meg had laughed. Alex was a lecturer at the Normal School, a good ten years older than she; he was simply good-heartedly interested in helping her become a better teacher.

However, as the meetings went on Meg was aware that while still formal and proper Alex now occasionally held her hand and once daringly put his arm round her waist. The first kiss in the twilight walking in Kelvingrove Park startled but thrilled her and she found herself kissing him back. Meg declined the next invitation, but Alex had pulled her aside after class and apologised, saying he had been carried away by the moment and that it wouldn’t happen again. Their next meeting was again formal but in subsequent meetings they moved to amorous caresses and before Meg stopped to think they were in his rooms and it was too late to think.

In mid-November she discovered she was pregnant. Alex’s response to the news shocked her. He implied that she, a woman of loose morals, couldn’t possibly be sure the baby was his, and that anyway he was moving back in with his wife from whom he had had a temporary separation. He was resigning his post at the Normal School and taking up a similar post in Canada in the New Year.

Meg left Miss Edgar’s comfortable home saying her older sister needed her and she moved in with Nellie.

Later that day after copious amounts of tea Nellie sighed.

“Why on earth ye had tae gie everythin away like that, it fair beats me. Honest tae God the mair Ah think aboot it, the angrier and mair het-up Ah get. Tae think o aw the chances ye had that Ah niver even got a look at … ye were clever; ye got tae stay on at school efter Maw and Paw died and that dried up auld spinster o an English teacher wi the posh talk and stuff took ye in. Ye even got tae begin yer training for tae be a schoolteacher. A schoolteacher by God – and then …”

Meg eased herself up on the bed and reached out a detaining hand.

“Och, Nellie, don’t. Please don’t go on and on about it.”

Nellie brushed Meg’s hand aside and shouted: “Och, Nellie, nothin. This is somethin Ah hae tae say and God help me Ah will say it. It makes me fair boil wi rage when Ah think how bloody stupid ye’ve been. Where were aw yer brilliant brains then when ye were daeing the business wi him? Was aw yer high intellect and yer high-falutin manners doon therr skeeterin aboot in yer knickers?”

Meg’s face became even paler and she gasped.

Seeing the effect of her diatribe on her sister, Nellie relented somewhat.

“Och, listen, hen, what’s done cannae be undone but wi yer lover by noo over the seas tae the colonies tae escape his responsibilities, God alone knows what on earth ye’ll dae noo. But one thing Ah dae ken. Ye’ll no be able tae stay here in ma hoose. Ma ain tribe o bairns will be back frae across the landing the morn’s morn and Ah’ll need tae introduce them tae their new wee sister Becky. Apart frae onythin else ma man could be arriving back frae the high seas any day noo. He’s gonnae be surprised enough tae see another new bairn – although mind you the way he went on at the hochmagandie on his last leave it shouldnae be as big a surprise.”

Meg blushed at her sister’s use of the coarse old Scotch word for intercourse. “It was fortunate that this trip took him away for just over the nine months.”

Nellie snorted. “Rab will deal aw right wi another mewlin wean, but the one thing he couldnae stomach is your fancy Kelvinside speechifyin, yer prissy manners, and yer high-falutin ideas. Naw, naw. Rab jist couldnae deal wi a high and mighty lady o quality such as ye’ve turned intae over the years. So ye’d better start thinkin aboot where it is ye’re gonna be livin, since ye cannae see yersel back wi yer teacher freen, and ye havenae the ghost o an idea as tae whit ye’re gonnae dae tae earn an honest crust.”

***