Her mother had been adamant: “Aye, ye’ll wear a shawl like aw the rest o us womenfolk hereaboots. Yer coat will be kept safe in mothballs and brocht oot o the wardrobe for the Kirk on the Sabbath. Onywey, face the facts, lassie, whit employer’s gonnae offer ye a job if ye gae in lookin like some well-heeled toff frae the West End?” As she pulled the moth-eaten garment closer and tighter round her neck, Becky had to admit that hating the shawl or not she was indeed glad of its all-embracing warmth. As she hurried along the London Road Becky knew that poorly clad as she was, not only did she blend well into the surging work force around her, she was only one of many such poverty-stricken Glasgow women destined to work all the hours a caring God sent in some lowly job and to count herself lucky to get a pittance for her labour. With these gloomy thoughts Becky, head down against the biting wind, marched blindly along with the tide of humanity. A voice at her elbow caused her to raise her head at the same moment as a hand grasped at the fringes of her shawl.
