Free Love & Sorrow by Jenny Telfer Chaplin Page B

piece comin intae the hoose tae keep yer faither
and me.”
    Becky had listened in horrified silence at the dirty
linen being dragged out before her and at the prospect of her life to come. Mrs
Bryden turned to her, a touch of asperity and rising impatience in her voice,
and said: “Weel, Becky, ur ye gonnae tell Erchie yer guid news? Or dae we hae
tae wait till the coos come hame afore ye put the puir fella oot of his
misery?”
    “It’s like this, Erchie,” Becky said. “My news is soon
told. I’ve got a job and I start on Monday!”

 
    ***

 
 
 
    Chapter 4

 
    In the closely-packed tenements of her native Glasgow,
buildings alive with squads of children, the ongoing dramas of day-to-day
living, the drunken brawling of frustrated, unemployed artisans, and the
screams and arguments which ricocheted off the crumbling walls were a permanent
feature of life. So common were these sounds, that the only time Becky noticed
them was when, for some reason or other, there would be a lull in this vibrant
heartbeat. At such times Becky would find herself almost holding her breath as
she strained to hear the onset of the next bout of weeping, cursing or raucous
singing of some staggering-home, drunken neighbour.
    A somewhat lesser cacophony had been with her since
early childhood and she had learnt to accept it as an essential element of
tenement living. Strangely enough it was only after she had moved to stay with
her mother in the Main Street flat that such noises had begun to annoy her in
any way and then, as today, actually intrude on her sensibilities.
    This is ridiculous, Becky thought for the tenth time in
as many minutes, the noises off are only different in scale and volume from
those I regularly heard around at Aunt Meg’s flat in the Parliamentary Road, so
why am I making such a fuss now?
    Becky knew in her heart the answer to her question. She
was desperately unhappy at having had, arbitrarily, to leave the comfort, the
tender loving care of Aunt Meg’s home. Not only was she depressed and
miserable, but she knew she was hypercritical of everything in the Bryden’s
flat. To make matters worse she was keenly aware of how stressed and anxious
she felt at the dawning of each new day in having to cope with her job at the
carpet factory. If she were being honest with herself, Becky knew she was
piling all her frustrations, uncertainties and misery onto the one element of
her daily life at which she could openly rail and complain.
    Sitting by the fireside trying to relax after yet
another hard day’s graft at Templeton’s she heard the one sound which not only
set her teeth on edge, but these days was slowly but surely driving her to very
edge of insanity.
    “Oh, no! Not again. Honestly, Mammy, I don’t know how
you can stand it. Can’t you at least bang a broom handle on the ceiling? Let
her know you are aware of the noise and that it is disturbing you?”
    With a tut of annoyance Mrs Bryden laid down the sock
she had been knitting.
    “Becky, ye’re the one with the ladylike feelins. So if
the squeaky pulley from upstairs bothers ye that much, jist ye bang awa at the
ceilin tae ye hert’s content. But Ah’ll tell ye this noo – it’ll no dae ye, nor
onybody else for that matter, one damned bit o guid. The auld besom will jist
bang back doon tae us the then we’ll hae e’en mair noise.”
    Becky sighed. “Well, then if that’s the case, why on
earth don’t you tell her to her face? At least give her the chance to oil her
pulley. Surely that’s not too much to ask, now is it? Aunty Meg would never
have put up with this. She would have resolved such a situation amicably at the
very outset.”
    On the point of resuming her knitting, Mrs Bryden cast
a baleful look over the top of her spectacles at the red-faced, irate Becky.
“Oh, aye. Yer wonderful Aunty Meg, she could dae naethin wrang – no accordin
tae ye anyroads. Weel, put it this wey, Ah’m no yer sainted Aunty Meg, but Ah’m
enough o a