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  In Loving Memory

  Jenny Telfer Chaplin

  © Jenny Telfer Chaplin 2013

  Jenny Telfer Chaplin has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This edition published in 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Maggie’s Story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Sheena’s Story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Lara’s Story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Extract from Love and Sorrow by Jenny Telfer Chaplin

  Prologue

  1805

  Late one September day two boys sat on the banks of the Clyde dabbling their feet in the water. All around them the life of the hamlet of Govan went on unabated; men were fishing for salmon; a local fishwife was bawling out her wares; cattle were grazing at the water’s edge; slightly down river an overloaded rowing boat went on its way; the Govan ferry on its chains plied to and fro across the Clyde with its cargo of men, women and children and an enormous bale of hay, and making his way up towards Water Row; a baker’s lad newly arrived off the ferry whistled his way in the heat of the day as all the while, he balanced a wooden tray of pies which he had brought over from Partick.

  The day had been one of unrelenting heat, almost as if before the onset of autumn and the cruel cold, sleet and gales of winter, the sun was determined to bid a fond and final farewell to these northern shores.

  For young Fergie Bell and twin brother Rab the warmth, joy and sheer laziness of the sun-dappled day was one which they would remember for the rest of their lives.

  Fergie turned and, smiling at his brother, said, “Great this, Rab, isn’t it? Dabbling oor feet and twiddling oor thumbs. Nothin tae dae and all day tae dae it in.”

  Rab nodded. “Aye, ’tis that. After tomorrow we’ll be kept too busy for anything like this. But you’re the lucky one, Fergie.”

  “Lucky? Me? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Well, at least ye’ll see daylight. And ye’ll still see the Clyde. No like me!”

  Fergie beetled his brow in puzzlement at what his twin had just said. Then as the full meaning of his words sank in, he prodded Rab in the ribs with a grubby forefinger and grinned.

  “Oh aye. Ah get your meaning. Ye’ll be doon the coal mine. But jist how does that make me the lucky one ... jist tell me that, you daft gowk.”

  “As a weaver’s apprentice, at least you’ll get out to deliver bits of cloth to customers. Spin it out, ye might even get right up tae Glasgow. Man! Ye’ll have a grand life.”

  As the two lads sat in silent contemplation of what their immediate future held for them, it was rather the image of his twin crawling about in the bowels of the earth to scrabble for bits of coal, rather than his own lucky future as a weaver’s lad that occupied Fergie’s mind.

  The thought was sufficiently sobering even momentarily to interrupt his enjoyment of the glorious day. But after all, the sun was still warming their bare legs; the fascinating sight of ships and the fussy little Govan ferry was still before them. The fast approaching time of their own launch into adulthood and a lifetime of ill-paid drudgery was still several carefree hours ahead of them.

  At last, shaking himself out of his reverie, Fergie sat up straight on the river’s bank, punched Rab’s arm and said, “All right. On yer feet. ye lazy layabout. Ah’ll race ye up Water Row ... and last one back at Auntie Netta’s cottage can chop up a pile of kindling sticks for her winter store. It’ll be oor last chance afore work claims us the morrow. Right ... ready … steady, go.”

  On that note, the two carefree lads left their perch on the river’s bank and ran shouting and laughing. Their day of freedom was well and truly over. Ahead of them, life with its many twists and turns awaited them.

  1814

  The short winter day had already died to the point where in Aunt Netta’s cottage the oil lamps were lit, the fire in the grate was blazing and both young men, Fergus and Rab, their respective days’ work over, were sitting, as always ravenous with hunger, keenly anticipating their evening meal.

  Still waiting to be called to the table, Uncle John sat in his fireside chair, slippered feet outstretched to the blaze and his clay pipe belching as much smoke as any industrial chimney.

  Into to the silence he said, “So what’s this ye’re tellin us, Fergus? That ye’re thinkin of getting wed ... and before Hogmanay at that. A bit sudden that, is it no?”

  Fergus turned round. “Aye, that’s ma thinkin, Uncle John, ye heard right.”

  Auntie Netta turned from stirring at the pot of stovies. “Well, quick or not, what Ah say is good luck tae ye lad, she’s a nice enough big lassie, yon Sheena. Certainly nae oil paintin, but nane the worse o that. She’ll make ye a biddable, hardworking wife, that she will. Jist one thing, we’ll be a bit squashed for space here in oor but-n-ben, so ...”

  Fergus got to his feet. “Nothin for ye tae worry yer heid aboot Auntie, we’ll no be living here in your cottage. And forbye, it’s no Sheena Ah’ll be marrying, it’s a lassie called Maggie McNab.”

  “Maggie McNab?” Uncle John frowned. “Auld Andy McNab’s granddaughter? Her that’s a maid or somesuch at a swanky house in Glasgow? Gone all posh since she went tae work there – what five year since?”

  “Aye, Uncle John, the very one.”

  “But how dae ye ken her?” Auntie Netta wanted to know.

  Fergus shrugged. “Ah’ve come tae an arrangement wi Andy McNab. We’ll live in his cottage and Ah’ll get tae work on his loom. Ah’ll be ma ain man. No workin for a pittance for somebody else.”

  “But –” Aunt Netta started.

  “That’s how it is! There’s nothing else tae be said.” Fergus scowled.

  Rab mentally hugged himself. With Fergus out of the way he was sure Sheena wouldn’t repulse his own rather hesitant advances any more. Suddenly the future looked brighter.

  Maggie’s Story

  Chapter 1

  1819

  Ever since reports had reached Scotland about the bloody Peterloo Massacre in Manchester, in England, in August, Fergus Bell had ranted and raved about the condition of the employed in Scotland. He had been vocal in his outspoken comments when small groups of weavers and unemployed soldiers back from the war had gathered and was now fully committed to the Radical Cause in the fight for freedom, human dignity and a decent living wage for the workers.

  Maggie became increasingly worried as each day passed. No matter how she pleaded, scolded or nagged Fergus would not be swayed from his purpose.

  “Fergus, you know how relieved I was when that meeting in Paisley last week was called off. Some men were arrested and God knows what will happen to them.”

  “Maggie, we’re strong in our purpose. We really mean busine
ss –”

  “Please, Fergus, I beg you. Please don’t get any more involved.”

  “Will ye get this intae yer head – like it or lump it – Ah’ll be joining the marchers tae Paisley this Saturday. Ah’ve even been asked tae be one of the platform speakers. Rab’s fair chuffed aboot it.”

  Maggie frowned. “Well, I’m glad someone’s pleased.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Maggie glanced down at the article on her lap and the sewing needle in her hand. With a sudden gesture she threw the jacket at Fergus’s head.

  “I’ll not be a party to this. I’m as sorry as you are about the Peterloo victims but if you want black mourning bands and diamonds on your sleeves in memory of them, then you can damned well sew them yourself.”

  Fergus scowled. “Sewing is woman’s work. Ah’m no Jessie. But if ye can’t see fit tae dae it, Sheena will be happy tae sew my mourning bands while she does Rab’s.”

  Saturday September 11, 1819

  Fergus Bell laid down his knife and fork with an air of great deliberation, then glaring across the table at his wife, he said, “Maggie, It seems ye’re hell-bent on ruining yet another meal for us, so let’s have this out once and for all.” He paused, then seeing that he had her full attention, he went on, “Ah am determined, ma mind is fully made up and Ah’ve already promised the many other workers who support ma views, that, yes, Ah will be at this meeting.”

  She stretched out a would-be restraining hand. “But Fergus, I beg of you. I do implore you ... please, please, please do not go to the meeting tonight. Does it mean nothing to you the large number of convicted Radicals who have already been gaoled or even worse, taken from their wives and families and transported to Australia?”

  He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, then with beetled brow, he leant closer and in a voice that brooked no argument, said, “Listen, Maggie, and listen well. Ye can beg me on bended knees if ye like, but not only am Ah going to this night’s meeting, but for your information, Ah’m tae be the principal speaker and Ah tell ye this noo, so that ye are no doubt as to my future intentions ...”

  He paused for breath, but Maggie already terrified as to what further revelations might be coming, was more inclined to think he had paused for greater dramatic impact.

  “Ah have it in ma mind tae be at the very forefront of this noble cause for as long as it takes ... or until such times as they transport me in one of their stinkin coffin-ships. And further tae that, each time that the high heid yins in oor movement bestow on me the honour of being their principal speaker ... then Fergus Bell is their man, able, willing and ready to serve the noble cause of freedom for the downtrodden workers of Scotland. So there.”

  Maggie gave a mirthless laugh and with an angry toss of her head, prepared to give as good as she got in this latest battle of words.

  “Principal speaker? Noble cause? Rabble-rouser and lost cause for a pack of idiots is closer to the mark. Just tell me one thing Fergus Bell ... how did you ever get to be so high and mighty?” Before he could even open his mouth to reply, Maggie rushed on, “Let me tell you, my lad, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be running errands for any boss-weaver stupid enough to employ you. Plus, you’d still be living penniless in your auld Auntie Netta’s Ferry Brae cottage. So one way and another before you married me, you weren’t such a big man then back in those days, were you?”

  He gave a tut of annoyance. “Oh, here we go again, all that ancient history given yet another airing. Honestly woman, every single time we have a row, ye trot oot chapter and verse o how you saved me frae a life of poverty. Not tae mention that thanks to you, that’s how Ah got the ownership of yer sainted grandfather’s cottage here in Harmony Row.” He gave her a knowing look, then went on, “Ye know, Maggie, if ever anybody on God’s earth was saved by that hellish arrangement Ah made with yer sanctimonious auld weaver grandfather, surely tae God it was you.”

  Maggie held up a hand to stop, or at least somehow momentarily stem his torrent of words, but by now in full spate, Fergus rushed on, “Call it what ye like Maggie, but yon agreement was nuthin other than a business deal and mark my words, undying love, devotion or romantic flights of fancy just didnae come intae it.”

  Maggie frowned. “I’ll not hear another word of this. Anyway, last thing we want it to waken the bairns.”

  With narrowed eyes, he said, “Oh, if Ah say so, ye will listen, milady. As Ah recall, yer auld grandfather, he bade me marry his adored, yet fallen poor wee Maggie, tae save her from the shame of being called to the repentance cutty-stool before the Kirk Elders for the sin of bearing a child out of Holy Wedlock. Do that. he said ... do that act of mercy by marrying the lass and then in the fullness of time, once he had passed to his eternal rest in the Great Beyond, then his cottage and his weaver’s loom would be mine, all mine, all legal and above board and Ah would be a free man.”

  Maggie could feel the tears welling up and struggled to speak, but not before her husband shouted, “Well, bugger me, it seems tae me it was jist my bad luck that the auld yin hadnae managed tae trap yon high-society randy bastard that took advantage of his host’s upstairs maid after the drunken sot had did the business with you. If anybody could be called a free men, it was surely him. And anyway it stands tae reason, as an affluent man of business, he would have suited ye better than the likes of me, a rabble-rouser of a husband, earning a pittance at the loom, that’s for bloody sure.”

  Maggie mopped at her tears with a rag she withdrew from her apron-pocket.

  “Fergus, you say that romance didn’t enter into it ... well surely the fact that I worry myself sick about you perhaps getting gaoled or even transported to the Colonies every single time you go to another Radical meeting ... surely that alone must tell you that arranged marriage or not, in the years since we wed, over time I’ve grown to love you dearly, apart from your speechifying, of course. And now that we’re expecting yet another bairn of our very own ... Fergus, please, I’m begging you, please stay home tonight I’m getting a bad feeling about this. And surely you can’t be the only speechifying rabble-rouser in the whole of Glasgow?”

  When she finished speaking, he sat in silence for several minutes. Then with one sudden movement he pushed away the plate with the now-congealed mess of the remainder of his meal.

  In that moment and without another word having been spoken, Maggie realised with a sinking of her heart that she had gone too far and thought, perhaps if I’d not mentioned the speechifying rabble-rouser bit again ... he was beginning to see reason, I’m sure, but now?’

  She sighed and the sound had the effect of galvanising him into even greater action. He got to his feet, knocking over the chair in his haste, strode across the room, yanked his jacket from its hook behind the door, and having donned the jacket, he next rammed his bunnet on his head, wound a long woollen scarf around his neck and turned to face her.

  “Since ye set such high store by the power o my speechifying, surely all the more reason for me no tae let down my fellow workers to our noble cause. Ah’ll need to hurry now. Else Ah’ll be late for the meeting. Ye can expect me back when ye see me.”

  With that parting shot, as he crashed shut the door of the cottage behind him, the noise fully awakened the already fitfully sleeping, restless wee Ewan, who at once set up an ear-splitting wail. As Maggie dragged her full-bellied body over to the bedside, the one thought uppermost in her mind was, It’s going to be another long, weary night of worry, sleeplessness and child-caring. Harmony Row indeed ... nothing in the least harmonious about it.

  Chapter 2

  Maggie Bell, head bent to her task, sat darning a pile of socks by the light of a guttering candle. The bairns were fast asleep in the recess-bed, while in the far corner of the damp cottage, the weaver’s loom sat silent and still, casting fearsome shadows the length of the stone floor. The only sound to be heard was that of the ticking of the wag-at-the-wa’ as it counted off the minutes and hours of her existence.

  The fire, such as it
had been, had long since dulled, and with no kindling or logs to hand with which to revive its dying embers, Maggie suddenly shivered. She half-rose from her seat, meaning to go out to the kailyard at the back of the cottage to collect some small pieces of wood. However, one quick glance at the fine drizzling rain soon changed her mind for her.

  Laying down her darning on the deal table she drew her tattered shawl closer around her thin shoulders. A sigh born of the frustration, misery, poverty and utter deprivation of her life in Govan escaped her lips. Next, she raised her work-worn hands to her face, as if in this way she could somehow blot out the reality and at least in some measure, escape the hell of her life. But it was not to be! All that happened was that she retreated even further into the dark labyrinth of her thoughts. Removing her hands from her face, again she sighed and, as if an involuntary movement, made a mess of her hair. Then with a startled look of guilt on her young-old face, she stole a hurried glance across at her sleeping children.

  ’Twould never do to let the bairns see me like this, she thought. Then coming to her senses, she smoothed back her wayward hair into its steel-pinned prison of a tight bun.

  On the point of tackling again her most hated chore of darning, Maggie suddenly heard a tapping noise at the front door of the cottage. This sound caused her to frown and mumble to herself.

  “Hmph! Only one person that can be! Everybody else here-abouts just lifts the latch, yoo-hoos, ‘It’s only me’, and walks straight in.”

  When Maggie opened the door, as she had mentally predicted, she found herself staring into the eyes of her next-door neighbour. Jess Johnson was a young woman of medium height and build with jet-black hair and sad grey eyes. She was roughly the same age as Maggie. But whereas Maggie, wed the same length of time as her neighbour, had produced to date a child for every year of her fruitful marriage, poor Jess remained barren.