Love & Sorrow by Jenny Telfer Chaplin Page A

Becky; Caz was nowhere to be
found. Becky then remembered that Caz had said she couldn’t understand a word
the man said, so perhaps Caz wouldn’t be much help anyway. Becky on the other
hand had had no problem understanding – he had said quite clearly: “Eat my
pie.”
    Was it some form of initiation joke? Becky wondered.
Like the time I was sent for a left-handed hammer. Or maybe someone had given
the Englishman a Scotch mutton pie and he didn’t like it and gave it to me
rather than see it wasted.
    With a shrug Becky happily ate the pie as she went
about her work. About half-an-hour later a purple-faced gaffer came rampaging
through the weaving shed shouting: “Where is that bloody girl? Where the ’ell
is she?” When he spotted Becky he bore down on her. “Well, you’ve taken your
time, ’aven’t you?”
    Becky gaped at him open-mouthed.
    “When I tell you to do something, you do it. That’s an
order and you bloody do it. Got that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He pushed his face to within inches of Becky’s face.
“Well then. So where in God’s name is it? Where’s my bloody pie? My stomach
thinks my throat’s cut.”
    Where did the stupid man think the pie was?
    When Becky still made no answer the gaffer said: “I
asked to you ’eat my pie. Surely that was clear even to your scant
intelligence. Stick it on a shovel and warm it over a gas ring.”
    Becky felt herself shrivel up inside. This story would
haunt her for the rest of her working life in Templeton’s Factory. If her work
mates had thought her a stuck-up idiot before, surely this mistake would add
fuel to their habitual mockery of her ‘bool in the mooth’ accent.

 
    ***

 
 
 
    Chapter 6

 
    It had been a long hard day in the heat, noise, and
frenetic activity of the weaving shed. Now that Becky, having risen from the
lowly ranks of being at everyone’s beck and call, was now training for the
skilled job of tenter the work was becoming daily more arduous and even more
physically and mentally exhausting.
    Climbing the stairs to her tenement home she was looking
forward to a seat at the fireside, a welcoming cup of tea and the promise of a
substantial helping of her mammy’s mouth-watering stovies to follow. While it
was true that despite Becky’s ongoing entreaties Mammy still didn’t indulge in
either the fancy table settings or even the more imaginative varied menus so
beloved of Aunt Meg, never-the-less the good plain cooking more than adequately
filled the bill.
    Yes, she thought, and especially coming in to my
evening meal already cooked and waiting for me. I’m certainly a lot luckier
than Caz. She has to turn to and prepare and cook the evening meal herself for
her idle, lay-about brothers.
    Becky was still mentally counting her blessings as she
entered the flat. She was surprised to hear from the kitchen her Aunt Meg’s
voice. Although Becky visited Meg and Jack’s home in the Parliamentary Road
weekly, she smiled at the unexpected treat of meeting her at her mother’s home.
In her haste to hang up her shawl Meg missed not only the hook but the entire
rack of hooks and the shawl slithered to the floor. As Becky bent to pick the
garment up she froze in mid-motion. Instead of the comfortable drone of polite
conversation, what had stopped her was the harsh sound of raised, angry voices
issuing from the kitchen.
    “Meg, that’s enough! Ah’ll no hear anither word. Ye and
me, we ken fine weel whit we went through. Aye, we baith suffered, so we did.
Especially efter yon Hannah Adair telt us you and me could baith end up in
bluidy jail if she iver chose tae spill the beans.”
    Meg’s reply, though angry was still ladylike in
delivery. “Nellie, I’ll thank you to watch your language. I know you’re upset
by what I’ve suggested, but even so–”
    “Even so, be damned! Becky stays here and let that be
the end o it.”
    Becky, hearing her own name being bandied about, still
clutching the shawl drew closer to the closed