Free Love & Sorrow by Jenny Telfer Chaplin Page A

coal up hunners o stairs. Noo
it’s wimmen’s work for tae bring me some belly timber.”
    When neither woman moved, he roared: “If ye don’t ken a
hungry man’s an angry man, ye’ll bluidy soon find oot. Forbye no one o ye has
had the common decency for tae loosen aff ma boots for me.”
    Becky’s heart sank as she looked at this stinking hulk
of a man, a cruel bully, whose very presence seemed to fill the small room with
an aura of menace. Unsure of her part in this domestic drama Becky waited with
bated breath to see what her mother’s actions or orders would finally be.
    With great deliberation Mrs Bryden laid down her
crochet on the creepie stool beside her chair, got slowly to her feet, then,
standing before her son she peered down at him.
    “If ye’d wanted yer tea, therr was a plate o pipin hot
stovies on the table for ye at the appointed time – that was the time ye
finished yer guid work. In case ye cannae count that was three bluidy hours
ago.”
    Erchie opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Bryden went
on: “And while we’re at it. If that’s ye back on the booze again then either
you come for yer tea at the right time or ye can damn well whistle for it. Has
that sunk into yer thick skull?”
    A bleary-eyed Erchie gazed up at his mother, who gave
him stare for stare in good measure. When it was clear he had lost this
particular round of the domestic battle, like a petulant child determined to
have his own way in at least one area of his life, Erchie said: “Aye, Ah hear
ye, Mither. But that disnae answer ma ither question – whit aboot ma boots?
They’ll no take themselves aff ma f***in feet will they?”
    Mrs Bryden pursed her lips, then called over to Becky:
“Becky, fill the kettle and while it’s comin tae the boil for a wee cup o tea
for ye and me, Ye can tak aff Erchie’s boots for him. Let the daft eejit sleep
aff the booze in his chair.”
    As Becky bustled to do her mother’s bidding it was with
a heavy heart she realised that this disgusting chore would from now on be
hers. Later, having filled a basin for Erchie to steep his foul-smelling feet,
Becky, her mother, and a now sobering Erchie sat round the fire and sipped at
their enamel mugs of strong tea. With a semblance of domestic peace at least
temporarily restored Mrs Bryden turned to Becky.
    “Weel noo, lassie. Ye micht as weel tell Erchie yer
guid news. Its mair than high time we had a wee bit guid cheer in this hoose.”
    At these words Erchie raised his head.
    “Are ye mibbe goin back tae the Parliamentary Road tae
stay wi yer beloved Aunt Meg? Ah hope tae God, ye are. That wey Ah’ll get ma
ain bed back. For Ah don’t mind tellin ye Ah’m gettin bluidy fed up sleepin –
or at least tryin for tae sleep – on that decrepit wee creepie bed oot in the
lobby.”
    Mrs Bryden frowned. “Ah’m gonnae nip that idea in the
bud straight aff, Erchie. Ah’m tellin ye this; Becky’s here tae stay. And
before ye start arguin the toss wi me listen weel tae whit Ah’m tellin ye. Even
though ye are brother and sister, it just wouldnae be seemly tae hae the pair o
ye sharin the front room.”
    Erchie’s eyes widened and he gave a snort of disgust.
    “Seemly did ye say? Ye didnae worry aboot that, Mither,
when therr was five o us sleepin head tae toe ben the room.”
    “Erchie, that’s enough! Onywey, needs must when the
devil drives and ye were aw younger then. But noo – weel the plain fact is
ye’re a man, six years older than Becky and with her noo mair like to a
stranger than a sister …”
    Mrs Bryden paused before she went on:
    “In any case, Ah need Becky here tae help me in ma auld
age. Ah’ll need her pay packet as weel – especially if ye ever decide tae mak
an honest woman o yer fancy piece in Landressy Street – her wi that brood o
weans no single wan of which has the same faither. If ye gae aff tae the
colonies wi her, ye’ll need every bawbee ye can lay hands on. If Becky wisnae
here therr widnae be a penny