School
In 1938 there was talk of war in Europe. Diplomats in many countries were involved in negotiations with Germany, in what turned out to be a hopeless quest to maintain peace. This did not mean a lot to an eleven year old kid like me. There were more important things to occupy the attention of my family. Namely, the fact that with the arrival of my brother Michael in 1934 we were overcrowded in our one apartment flat. My mum took a look at the houses in Riddrie which were in various stages of completion. She thought that this was a good district; a kind of better type of working class area. However, the house allocated to us was in Garngad and mum was not too pleased. This was a tough district. The new houses built here, three apartment, with scullery and bathroom, hot water in a copper storage tank from the living room coal fire, which also heated a range in the scullery, was a vast improvement on the one apartment in Saltmarket. These house, two storey tenements, were classified as “slum clearance” and my mum was not happy about the class of the neighbours she might get. This may sound snobbish but she was no snob. She was, however, concerned that we might get what is known today as “neighbours from hell”. We had not come from a slum and she therefore expected to be given a house in a district like Riddrie where, I suppose, the tenants were carefully selected. We ended up in 20 Provanmill Street, Garngad.
When we were still living in Saltmarket, my dad had the prospect of a job after seven years on the dole. It happened that a neighbour in a larger flat had a lodger who needed his shoes repaired. He was an engineer working for a company on Clydeside. The neighbour must have mentioned that my dad could repair boots and shoes and the lodger asked him to repair his shoes. I recall that my father, when he saw them, thought that they would be difficult to repair because they were saturated in oil. He was afraid that they would not hold the nails required to fix the soles to the uppers. However, the lodger was satisfied with his repaired shoes and mentioned that. If my dad was interested, he would see if there were any vacancies in his company. My dad started work and things started to improve. He learned how to use an acetalyne (?) burner to cut up scrap metal. From that time on he was in constant employment until he retired at 65. He was a good, hard working employee. He got on well with fellow workers and bosses alike. There is no knowing how far he could have gone if he had had an education.
We settled in at Provanmill Street and found new playmates. I also had to go to Saint Roch’s Primary School. I remember my first day there. The teaching staff at Saint Alphonsus were all female. I was to learn very quickly that there were male teachers. When I had been registered a large, portly man in a business suit took me to my new class. As we walked along the corridor he said something to which I replied “right you are” whereupon he stopped me and gave me a dressing down, saying that I was to call him sir. I was embarrassed and confused because I had no experience of men teachers and till Mr Gaffney (fat Gaffney) put me right.
School 14
Life at Saint Roch’s for a new boy was fraught, initially. I was not there more than a week when I was approached by one of my classmates to see if I could fight. This was probably the equivalent of an initiation ceremony, so I said yes I could. This lad then arranged a time and place (after school and in nearby Glenconner Park) where I could be expected to square up to an opponent. The “fight arranger”, who had approached me in the first instance, named a day and found two others who were anxious to prove themselves. We duly met in the park. I was to fight the boys one at a time. As fights go they were not spectacular. The first bout I was able to put my opponent down in 2 ½ minutes. The second lasted about 1 ½ minutes. I hit him and he hit the ground. The reader must not get the impression that I was a skilled pugilist. There was no skill involved. It was a matter of landing the first two or three blows which demoralised the opponent and he gave in. The word got round the classrooms that I fought TWO guys, one after the other, and I gained some credibility and respect. I was never approached again to fight which was just as well as I don’t like the sight of blood, especially my own.
They had to find a nickname for me. When discussing something new I referred to it as a “marvellous invention”. The general comment was that I had swallowed a dictionary. This, however, would not provide a suitable nickname. They played around with my name. Power –gunpowder-it could blow you up –gunpowder too clumsy to say –what about dynamite? “That’s it” After all, he fought two guys in one day. We will call him dynamite. From then on I was locally known as Dynamite. This was shortened in time to Dinny. My mother even called me that at times. Miss McGhee was my class teacher. I seemed to be an average pupil and never had any trouble in class. I excelled in handwriting. We were taught to write clearly in “joined up”writing. The teacher referred to it as “copperplate” and to my embarrassment and anger my brother Willie’s teacher, a grossly fat old bitch, with a sarcastic tongue, sent for me and my exercise book. She compared my book to Willie’s. My brother was a poor hand writer. She made some comment like “I wondered if the whole family wrote badly”. It was an unfair comment. Willie was very good at arithmetic while I was not so good. And I thought that not everyone is good at everything they do, so why punish my brother? I don’t remember this teacher’s name, It began with a “B”. Good manners prevents me from writing what I think “B” stood for.
Miss McGhee had some work to do one day. She had to have peace and quiet. She told the class that there would be a prize of two pence for the pupil that was the quietest during the following hour. We had been told to study our reading exercise books and not make any sound. It would be a very difficult thing for thirty children to remain quiet for ten minutes let alone sixty. I resolved to be as quiet as possible. I read my book and when I got bored with it I thought what I could do with the money. You could buy 10 caramels fora penny. It cost a penny to get into the Carlton Cinema, Castle Street. If you went there at 4pm for the afternoon matinee. Comic papers were a penny or tuppence. These thoughts were occupying my mind when Miss McGhee called us to attention. The hour was up. We waited with baited breath to hear who had won the prize. She said that the class had been very good and that there had been little noise, but the quietest class member was John Power. I might have blushed. I went to the teacher’s desk and she handed over two pennies. I thanked her and returned to my seat trying to ignore the looks of envy from my classmates. What to do with my wealth? That was the question. One of my pals was Hugh Huston. It was a Wednesday and the matinee was on in the Carlton. There was a serial adventure with Bela Lugosi, who always played the villain and the hero was Bruce Bennet.The heroine was of no importance as us chaps thought that the romantic stuff was cissy. Hugh accepted my in vitiation and we both ran all the way, about half a mile, to the cinema. A grand time was had by both of us.
Back in Provanhill Street there was chores to do. Some jobs I detested. The worst job, for me, was when I had to take the latest infant out in a go chair or pram. This was the pits. My pals would be free to play while I was virtually anchored to the pram. How I disliked it. But that was the penalty for being the eldest of a growing brood of children. When I look back I realise that my mum needed a break and I was the only one available to look after the younger kids. Any pocket money I received I earned. One of my jobs was to polish the copper hot water storage tank in the scullery. When we moved into the house the tank was a dull, reddish brown colour. Within a month it was polished, with the aid of Brasso, to a high brilliant shine, like a mirror. I got a penny for that. I also learned toscrub linoleum floors.My mum showed me how to darn holes in my socks, as she did not have time to this herself as there were now five kids, so she had her hands full. She needed someone to take some of the work load. There were times when I felt an absolute drudge. A few years later, however, this housework experience came in handy when I was called up for the army. A major part of the duties in the first six months on training consisted of “housework”. I was able to avoid the wrath of the duty sergeant because I got the cleaning chores right first time. It was surprising just how helpless some of the lads were when it came to cleaning the barrack room. They were even worse when it came to darning socks and keeping their kit neat and tidy.
Our street was one of three or four which were new in 1938 and situated on the south side of Garngad Road. On the North side were old slums, Villiers, Cobden and Bright Streets, the name of the fourth street I cannot remember. The district was one of the rougher areas of the city. It could be described as a ghetto. I suppose, as the population was largely made up of people of Irish descent. They were suspicious of strangers and the police. There was a lot of poverty. Those who were in employment were conspicuous and a minority in the community. First impressions were that people were hard and unfriendly. But as time went on it became clear that they were what my mother called “rough diamonds”. They were considered as second class citizens by the no-Catholic population. The majority were Catholic and St Roch’s church was usually full at the three Sunday services. Drunkenness was common, as were gang fights with gangs from other districts. There were a few leading families which commanded respect from the community. Their claim to fame being that they had the reputation for being “hard” men and women. Members of these families had served time in Barlinne for assault and battery, theft and many other crimes including murder and manslaughter. They were not Mafia families but, nevertheless, they had a certain influence or control in the district. The policemen on the beat were very large Highlander types who could command respect from the hard cases by a look. Many mis demeanours were settled by the beat police. The old tenement back courts were handy places in which to administer a beating to the lads who got out of line. The locals were very good at nicknaming individuals. Two of the policeman were known by the nicknames of Hitler and Mussolini, and they acted like it. The thing to do was keep out of trouble and you would have no problem with the cops.
Most of the children kept within the law. The lawbreakers were in the main adults. We got on with playing cowboys and Indians, pirates fighting for hidden treasures, playing chases, kick the can, swapping comic papers, collecting cigarette cards and other activities. Cigarette cards were very educational and interesting. They covered a variety of subjects such as steam locomotives, racing cars, aircraft, ships, birds, flowers and the colour printing was of high quality. There was one card in a packet of cigarettes. A complete set comprised fifty cards for each subject covered. In order to try to attain a full set you would have to swap (exchange) the duplicate cards you had with another boy who was collecting the same series. On a weekly basis we swapped comics. We were devoted readers in those days. The comics were not only picture stories but printed stories. The standard of reading was high. It has to be remembered that there was no TV and many households did not have a radio. After evening teatime you could expect a knock on the door and one of your chums would be there when you opened the door. He would have a selection of three or four comics to exchange if you had not already read them and he had not seen yours. It might seem unhygienic when it is known that paper carries germs, but apart from the usual childhood illnesses we survived.
War is declared
In the early part of 1939 it was evident that war with Germany was a distinct possibility. The newspapers were daily reporting on the delicate state of diplomacy between Great Britain and Germany. The names of Adolph Hitler, dictator of Germany, Benito Mussolini, dictator of Italy and General Franco of Spain were mentioned every day together with the British government representative, Neville Chamberlain. Mr Chamberlain is remembered best for his return from a meeting with Herr Hitler. He waved a piece of paper as he got off the plane saying “peace in our time”. Within a few days of historic statement, Germany invaded Poland and Britain declared war on Germany. So much for peace in our time. We heard the news from newspaper sellers, who carried large bundles of newspapers under their arms shouting, as they hurried through the streets. “war declared” An air of excitement prevailed and the hair stood out on the back of my neck. It was exciting and scary. Everyone had to be issued with gas masks. I remember that we went to the local public hall to collect ours. I think that we had to have them fitted and adjusted in the hall to ensure a really tight fit around the face and chin. The ones for babies were a weird contraption. It consisted of a base large enough to hold a baby and it had a hinged lid with a plastic window. It was also fitted with hand bellows. Operated by an adult, which was designed to supply filtered air to the infant. It was a blessing that they never had to be used as they would probably have suffocated the child. The next thing we had to have were ration books. We were issued with these at the City Halls, Candleriggs.
Conscription of able-bodied men began and before long we were to see some of the local youths appear on leave in uniform.
Salvage drives were organised and everyone was encouraged to collect waste paper, aluminium and other metals to help the war effort. Even the railings surrounding gardens were removed to be melted down for war purposes. I remember one advertisement in the newspapers asking for the public to donate old pots and pans to help the war effort.This advert stated that even an old envelope shouldn’t be burned as it could be recycled into cardboard as a component of a rifle cartridge.
Those men who were not conscripted for the armed services because of their age or because they were unfit were drafted into the A. R. P (Air Raid Precaution) later to be called the Civil Defense. My dad was nearly blind in one eye since childhood and was not “called up” for military service although he was otherwise physically fit. He became an ARP man. Scrap metal and paper of all kinds, including books, were handed in at ARP depots. Dad thought a few books would not be missed and it would be a shame for them to be recycled. He brought some books home. A copy of Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe” was given to me, which Iread. I found it a rather long drawn out story. He also brought home a few volumes of “War Illustrated” which covered the First World War. I thought it rather odd that a section covering allies in that war referred to the Italians as “The heroic sons of Italy” Now under Mussolini, they were an enemy, and were called “Wops” and other unflattering names. The Italian shops were attacked by hooligans.
There were three types of gas mask-the one for infants (described above) The one for children up to ten years–called “Mickey Mouse” because they were coloured and the plain back type for adults. Later on in the war, I think we were committing an offense if we did not carry them everywhere we went.
Not only were Italian cafés, grocers and restaurants attacked by local mobs but many Italians were interned in prison camps for the duration of the war. I suppose if they did not have British citizenship
then they would, for national security reasons, be imprisoned. To me it did seem rather harsh. Italians who were British citizens were allowed to run the businesses on behalf of the internees. It was a relief to know that I could still enjoy fish and chips as only Italians can make them.
The proprietor of our local fish and chip shop “disappeared” and was replaced by a “British Italian”. I think his name was Guido(we called him Guy). He was about fifty something, fat and balding. He loved opera and classical music. Aboutfour of five of us hung around the shopand many a discussion we had with Guido about music. His favourite was Enrico Caruso, the world famous tenor and he thought Irishtenor John McCormack was quite good because he had been trained in Italy. Of the many stories Guido told us I can remember only one. It was when the great singer, Madam Tetrazzini was appearing with a tenor whose name I forget. Madam “T” was great in bulk as well as voice. She may have been around twenty stones in weight. She had apparently made an agreement with the tenor that, in the lover’s duet, she would end on a high note and he on a low note. In the “love clinch/” when they reached the highest note of his career, surpassing Madam “T” by a wide margin. When the curtain came down Madam "T" took the tenor to task for not keeping to the agreement. She was very angry and demanded to know why he had let her down. The tenor replied that he could not help it. When they got into the lover’s embrace she had stood on his foot and crushed his toes. Guido was a fund of information on music and he really was one of good guys one meets from time to time.
When the initial excitement about the war had subsided life returned to the usual routine of attending school. Looking after young brothers or sisters after school. And when I could escape fro these chores, playing football, cowboys and Indians and other physical games.
The only clue that a war was on was in the evening when it was lighting up time in the streets –there was no lighting. It was called the “blackout” and this applied to the business and domestic premises also. The blackout was intended to conceal towns and cities from enemy aircraft. I suppose to some extent this was a sensible precaution but maps were available to the enemy who could navigate to any place they chose. It certainly made life difficult for the citizen who was unlucky enough to walk into a wall on a moonless night. This resulted in many a black eye. The Civil Defence wardens patrolling the streets at night could be heard shouting “put that light put” when a chink of light was seen from a window where the curtains were not properly closed.
Food rationing was strictly enforced. You got your entitlement of twelve ounces of meat per week. I do not remember much butter, margarine, cheese and eggs we were entitled to. It was not a great deal but it was found that this meagre diet was excellent and the health of the people improved. It appears that as people took up their full rations of food, they ate better than they had before the outbreak of hostilities.
It must have been in mid-summer of 1940 that all grown children were evacuated from the large cities and industrial areas which could be the targets for bombers. My brother Willie and I were evacuated to Kilmarnock, about 25 miles from Glasgow, with the rest of the school. Our parents made up parcels with our spare clothes and shoes and a cardboard box containing our gas mask. We gathered in the playground of the school and were “tagged” with a tie on label, which had our name and address and possibly the name of the family with whom we would be billeted. I think that we were taken to Central Station by bus and put on non-corridor train. Each compartment had eight or ten children with a teacher in charge. A lot of tears were shed by parents who were seeing their children off. I don’t remember Willie or myself crying. To us this was a great adventure and we felt a certain excitement at the prospect of experiencing the unknown. The journey may have been just over an hour, the train was not an express. In the carriage there were an equal number of girls and boys. Halfway through our journey, one of the boys expressed the need to pee. As this was not a corridor train there was no handy toilet. The boy’s need became more excruciating by the minute. This posed a problem for the teacher. Dare he let the boy wet his trousers? He solved the problem by opening the carriage door ever so slightly and getting the boy to relieve himself through the narrow door opening. The girls were asked to look the other way. It was as well that the train was a slow one and there was not sufficient wind pressure to tear the door out of the teacher’s control. Year later, when thinking of these times, I wondered what would have happened if a girl had needed to “go”. Girls are made of sterner stuff and have stronger bladders.
When we arrived in Kilmarnock we were assembled in the station into a “crocodile” three or four abreast, and marched through the town to a hall where we were allocated to the folk who were to become our guardians. I still remember the local folk lining the pavements, some with handkerchiefs held to their eyes, and all looking at us with emotion and compassion.
I do not remember if we were taken to our new home or were collected. I do remember that Mr and Mrs McGhee and a younger couple were in the house when we arrived. The house reminded meof my Aunt Maggie’s house in Troon. Aunt Maggie or “Tish” as my father called her lived in a semi-detached and her family were grown up and in good jobs. Her house was spotless with good quality furniture. The McGhee’s house was similar. Everything was spick and span. Everything was neat, there were no children to make the house untidy. I thought that this was a beautiful house and that we were lucky to be living there. Before going to bed that night and every night thereafter we had to take a bath. This was unusual for us because, at home, we had a bath once a week.
The only “fly in the ointment” as the saying goes, was Willie. I was in charge of our money, a couple of shillings each, which would have to last us for some time. After all, we did not know if we would get pocket money from the McGhee’s, so I wanted to spread it out. However, Willie had other ideas. He wanted to spend the lot in Woolworths. Among other things, he wanted a pocket torch. I had trouble trying to convince him that the money had to last us some time and a torch would be a waste as it was not a necessity. I think Willie won and got his torch. If only someone else had been billeted with me instead of my brother, life would have been less of a hassle. We were always at loggerheads.
It was a quarrel with Willie that led to us leaving the McGhee family. It happened that we were arguing in the front garden of the house. We were being observed by the McGhee’s neighbour. At one point I smiled at her as she stood at her window. I remember picking up a pebble from the driveway and saying to my brother. “I am going to keep this as a souvenir for you, you wee midden” We called each other “midden” when we were annoyed.It was a commonly used word at the time. The neighbour had observed and heard us and I thought no more about it. We were wakened at about 7am by the sound of Mr McGhee talking loudly. He was saying something about “well they are not going to be staying here much longer” When we came downstairs for breakfast after he had left for work we found Mrs McGhee in a tearful state. I enquired what was wrong. She said that that her neighbour had reported that I had said that she kept her house like a midden. This was a complete distortion of the facts and I told Mrs McGhee what had actually been said. She was quite inconsolable and I was hurt and angry at the neighbour. I told Mrs McGhee that under no stretch of the imagination would I have said such a thing. I reminded her that I came from a three apartment tenement flat, with five kids, and my father did not earn a big wage. In comparison, Mrs McGhee had a palace.
Mrs McGhee may have been distraught but so was I. After what had been said I knew that relations would never be the same again. Looking back on it now I can understand that Mrs McGhee would be
inclined to be influenced by a neighbour she had known for years. She would be inclined to believe the neighbours word against the word of a kid, of recent acquaintance, from Glasgow. I have often wondered if the neighbour ever realised how she had caused such unhappiness between the McGhees and a young boy who was an evacuee.
The only course of action I could think of was to leave and I was fortunate that my grannie and grandpa Power and aunts and uncles lived in Troon. A short distance from Kilmarnock. I asked the McGhees to contact my relatives in Troon and expressed my wish to live with my grandparents as soon as possible. The McGhees contacted my grandparents and the next thing I knew was that two uncles and two aunts came to Kilmarnock and brought us to Troon.They asked us how we had been treated in Kilmarnock. I said that we had been well looked after and had no complaints against the McGhees. I did explain about the incident between Willie and me and how the neighbour had reported a rather different version to Mrs McGhee. As a result of this I could not continue to live with them.
My recollection of what happened immediately after this is rather hazy. I believe we returned to Glasgow after a few days and settled quickly down at home. The air raids were still to come. A government programme for under way to build air raid shelters in the back courts of the tenements. These shelters were of brick construction with reinforced concrete roofs and about twenty feet long by twelve feet wide and ten feet high. There was no lighting in them. The entrance had no door and was protected from bomb blast by a double brick “baffle” wall about three foot from the entrance. Many people were not in favour of using them in an air raid, preferring instead to take their chances in the house. This was not surprising considering that the local cat population congregated in them to do all the things cats do and the smell was awful. A different type of shelter was erected in the gardens of detached and semi-detached houses. They were called Anderson Shelters. They were made of corrugated sheet steel, set in a pit that had been previously dug out to a depth of two or three feet and covered by soil which had been displaced. They were subject to flooding in rainy weather.
My parents always quarrelled when the air raid siren sounded. My father wanted us all to go to the shelter, my mother insisted in staying in the house. She was fatalistic, and claimed that if it had her “name on it” the bomb would get her whether she was in the shelter or the house. I do not remember ever spending time in the shelter during an air raid. Mum won this argument.This, however, was in the future. As yet no bombing raids had been made on Glasgow. These were to occur the following year, 1941.
It must have been after the summer holidays in 1940 that I went to Saint Roch’s Junor Secondary School. My mum had hoped that I would qualifiy for St Mungo’s Academy. When mum asked my teacher why I was being sent to Saint Roch’s, she told mum that thee xam had been a speed test and, it seemed, I was not fast enough, in completing the exam paper. This puzzled me because I am sure that I had completed the exam within the allotted time. Of course a lot would depend on how I answered the questions and only the teaching staff would know that.My term work must have been satisfactory because I was rarely spoken to by a teacher. My report cards were such that I was not afraid to take these home for my parents to see. I was disappointed that I had not made the “grade”. My mum was convinced that it was something to do with our lack of money. Saint Mungo students would need a certain standard of financial back-up in order to survive the academic course offered, she thought. It seemed to me that the few who did go on to St Mungo’s were always better dressed and never short of money, their parents had very good jobs, so maybe mum was right.
The course at St Roch’s was partly technical, in that woodwork was taught. We also got French, Chemistry and Mathematics. Strangely enough I do not remember attending classes in English studies although we probably had this subject too.
For the first few months our teacher of French was Mr Besant. He must have been needed as a translator by the government because he was replaced by a woman. This lady had a hard time with the class. Her patience must have been tried to the limit. I had lost interestin learning French. She asked me one day to either spell or pronounce a French word, which I should have known, and I made a mess of it. She blew her top as they say and screamed something like “Where is your intellect boy” The rest of the guys were empathetic, knowing that it could be their turn next. So I did not feel too bad.
A maths teacher, a man in his sixties, was extremely short sighted. His glasses were like thick bottle bases. Most of us would chat and misbehave when his back was turnedand he was facing the blackboard. He was no doubt a very knowledgeable man but he could not command our attention for long even thoughhe used the belt to emphasise his authority.
The chemistry teacher was a man in his forties. He was of slight build and not tall, but he was in command in his classroom laboratory and woe betide any of us who didn’t behave. He also had a sense of humour.I remember when we had an air raid drill and we had marched to the bomb shelter in the playground. We were sitting on the benches and talking excitedly when I saw our chemistry teacher who was nicknamed “Nippy”, enter the shelter and I said rather loudly,there’s wee “Nippy”. He had heard this and called out “Mr Nippy, if you please”and everyone laughed.
As far as I was concerned the worst teacher in the class was the man who taught woodwork. He was about forty, average height, had a thin face and wore rimless or metal framed spectacles. He looked mean. He was mean. Wehad been shown how to make different types of joint with small pieces of wood and my joint on this occasion was not as neat as it should have been. He told me whereI had gone wrong, emphasising word with the tap of the edge of a ruler on my head. It was very painful. I hated him for it. One thing about teachers of yesteryear. They were nothing if not physical.
I said earlier that I did not remember getting English as a subject. It comes backto me now. I remember having periods in English literature. The main subject for study was “The Merchant of Venice”. For a teacher to present this to a class of eleven/twelve year olds from Garngad, who had difficulty expressing themselves in the King’s English, was a lost cause. To expect us to understand the Elizabethan English of Shakespeare was asking too much. Although we managed to find some vulgar humour in the phraseology of the characters. It may be that I was unhappy at achieving a place in SaintMungo’s, but I could not work up an interest in the subjects taught. I had no motivation.
It was at this time that the government order was issued which made school attendance voluntary because of the threat of air raids. The R.A.F had taken over part of the school playground for use as a base for a barrage balloon unit. This consisted of a large camouflaged truck equipped with gas cylinders, a deflated barrage balloon and a winch with a reel of cable. Once on site the servicemen would fill the balloon with gas while it was attached to the winch cable. When fully inflated it looked like a big fat whale with three fins at the rear. It was released on its cable to float at a suitable height to prevent enemy aircraft from flying below a certain altitude. The idea, I suppose, was to reduce the accuracy of aircraft weaponry. A number of balloons wereshot at by enemy aircraft and they would ignite, being filled with nitrogen gas.The balloons were also left up at night as a hazard for enemy bombers because they would be invisible.
I have to confess that I took full advantage of the rule regarding voluntary attendance. I played truant. I would leave home at the customary time and meet some of my classmates. We would discuss our plans for the day and either hang around the back courts where the bricklayers were building bomb shelters. Or go to the fruit market in the hope of finding some fruit, except bananas were not imported during the war. I spent about ten weeks doing this until the order was rescindedand school was again compulsory.
When I returned to school the continuity of learning was lost. I had a lot of catching up to do, Questions were asked at home about my attendance at school and I lied. I told my mom that a communication she had received was an error of some sort and that my attendances were good. She accepted what I told her but I am sure that she suspected me of lying.
We struck it lucky one day when a lorry left the fruit market with a load of cases of oranges. Asit proceeded up the High Street. It was not going fast, three of us jumped on the back for a ride. This was common practice at the time. One of my mates noted that the cases of oranges were rather fragile and he pulled at the wooden slats until one of them broke and the oranges came tumbling out. We helped ourselves to a handful each and ran up a side street to enjoy our spoils. If we had been caught we would have been severely punished by the law and our parents would have just about killed us. There is no doubt that we were delinquents and I am ashamed of what we got up to.
School 1940/41-
During the Spring of 1941,the German aircrafts on missions to Clydebank would sometimes go off course. Instead of following the River Clyde they would confuse the river with the Forth and Clyde hotel. Thinking, no doubt, that they were over the river, they dropped their bombs and districts in Glasgow suffered damage.
I remember one night when brother Willie drew my attention to the searchlights that were criss crossing the sky. In one the beams we actually saw an enemy aircraft. It took avoiding action to escape from the light. At the same time the Ack Ack (anti aircraft) guns were firing and the noise was deafening. We thought that the enemy were aiming for the I.C.I works in Castle Street, opposite Garngad Road, which was only a quarter of a mile from where we lived. The I.C.I chemical works would have been a satisfactory target for the Germans if they had dropped their bombs on thatnight. The flight crews would have probably got Iron Crosses if they had succeeded. On goingalong Garngad Road the next day, I was able to pick up pieces of shrapnel which had fallen from the sky, the by-product of exploding anti-aircraft shells.
The Civil Defence rescue work in Clydebank came to an end when the Blitz ended. My dad’s nerves were very badand although things were quiet in the Corps, he felt that he had had enough, he wanted out. All adults had to conform to Government regulationsregarding whatthey could do, The Civil Defence was a reserved occupation and one was not allowed to leave unless there was work of national importance as an alternative. My dad had to argue his case before a tribunal which existed to examine requests for transfers to other work. He was good at debating, and although his education was lacking when it came to reading and writing, he could speak intelligently. He told the tribunal that he could do very important work as a welder and burner, in Troon as a shipbreaker. As the need for the Civil Defence rescuehad virtually ceased in the West of Scotland area, he would be much better employed as an essential worker in Troon. He told the tribunal that there was a great need for burners in the shipyard there. This was true. My dad had checked with his contacts in Troon and verified that therewere vacancies waiting to be filled.He knew that if he didn’t get away from the Civil Defence Corps he would go off his head. His appeal succeeded and he started work in Troon Shipyard.
My grandparents lived in a two apartment house in Back Templehill. The lavatory was in the backyard. The cooking was done on a gas ring and an old coal fired grate. My mother had reluctantly to go to Troon with us kids. She hated it. The accommodation was hardly adequate. My dad had insisted that we all had to go to Troon in order to avoid the danger from air raids. When I think of it now my Dad had a nerve expecting us to live with my grandparents under the conditions that prevailed. My gran was in her late seventies, my granddad must have been about eighty, deaf as a post and smoke Gallagher’s Thick Black tobacco in his pipe. He would not allow the window to be opened. I can still remember the combined smell of stale tobacco, wood and coal smoke from the occasional “blow-down” from the chimney.There were five (?) of us kids, with our parents, staying with Grannie and Granda Power. The two apartment flat was on the ground floor, first left, in the close. Three other flats comprised the small tenement, one across the close and the other two, above, were accessed by way of stairs in the backcourt. Adjacent to the kitchen, in the back court, were a coal cellar and next to this, a lavatory.
Both rooms in the flat had double inset beds. These beds were in recesses in each room and woud be curtained off during the day, giving the impression of a room with no bed. My grandparents occupied the front room and the rest of us slept in the back room. Makeshift beds had to be made on the floor because we could not all fit into the inset bed in our room. Our room had a cast iron range and there was always a kettle of water on the grate, this being the only source of hot water. Conditions were primitive by today’s standards but acceptable then.
I attended the local Catholic school which my father had attended (or played truant from) in his childhood. The school was six months behind the city schools in the subjects being taught. I was now over thirteen years old and not learning anything new.
The domestic situation at Back Temple hill was, to put it mildly, explosive. My mother was at her wits end trying to cope for the family in a single end with poor cooking facilities and an outside toilet. Quarrels between my mum and dad were many. I had to act as a peacemaker on a number of occasions. The arguments and raised voices of my parents, when quarrelling, was for me, very depressing. It came to a head one day when my mother decided to take the kids back to Glasgow. Air raids had to be better than being cooped up in a room all day like a prison. I agreed to stay in Troon to look after my dad.I left school finally that day. No leaving certificate for me. I was now joining what was known as the university of life. I was, I think, thirteen years and nine months old. My dad was angry and most unhappy at the turn of events but I am sure he realised that my mum could not continue to live this way any longer.
I learned to cook a very good mutton stew. My dad who was a really good cook complimented me on my stew. It was my job to keep the place clean, bring in the rations and cook for him. My grannie had cataracts in both eyes and was fully employed looking after my Granda, so it was essential that I was there to keep an eye on things during the day. It must not be thought that Grannie and Granda were invalids. My Grannie went to the cinema three times a week. The cinema managers always made her welcome. They knew that she had poor sight and I think she would be admitted for free. Although she could not see well she could hear the dialogue.My first job was with D W McColm. Butchers, Garngad Road. I was so glad to have left school but a little apprehensive about starting my first job. Mr McColm was in his sixties and he had a son bill, who was forty something, were good employers. I learned to make sausages and potted hough as
well as how to handle a boning knife. A part of the job was to deliver customer orders around the districts of Provanmill and Balornock and if the customers felt generous you could earn a shilling or two in tips.
I would meet the local Co-op milk delivery boy who made his deliveries in ahandcart and in exchange for two pints of milk he would get a loan of my delivery cycle, which had a basket attached to the front, and he made some of his more distant deliveries by bike, saving time. It was a most satisfactory arrangement, although it was difficult to drink a lot of milk on a cold winter morning. It had to be taken slowly as it would otherwise cause a headache.
I remember making deliveries when it was snowing hard. After an hour the snow formed a crust of iceon my hair which lasted until I returned to the shop.
One day one of the when one of the two counter serving ladies was cleaning behind the electric mincing machine she let out a scream. She had seen a mouse. Being ever so brave I grabbed it and before I could dispose of it I was bitten on my little finger. It made the neatest “v” cut. The lady was grateful for my prompt action although the others laughed at the fact that I was bitten by a mighty mouse.
Bill, the boss’s son was one day on a ladder putting some wrapping paper on top of the chill (large freezer) when he made contact with an electric light fitting, causing it to flash inches fromhis face, blinding him. I was given the job of taking him home. He lived in Shettleston which was about three miles from the shop. We went by tramcar, he paid the fares. When I deposited him at his house he expected me to walk home. Fortunately his wife saw the look of surprise on my face and she gave me a shilling to cover the cost of transport. Bill was a wee bit mean. He quickly recovered but the flash could have had more serious consequences, he was lucky.
After a couple of months I left the butchers for a job with more money. I had been getting only 25 shillings per week and many of my friends were earning more. The herring processing work of J M Davidson, Thistle Street, in the South side of the city was my next port of call.Call up for military service 1945.
My eighteenth birthday was spent as a barman (counterhand) in the Seaforth Bar, in Gorbals. It ws 8 May, 1945. It was also Victory in Europe (V. E. day) and everyone was celebrating the end of hostilities, except me. The last place one wants to be, during victory celebrations, is behind a pub bar. On the customer’s side of the bar. Great. But serving a mob whose thirst knows no limit, it is the pits. The pubs had to close at 9.30pm during the war and by the time the last customer had left the premises and we had cleared up, it was after 10pm. Idid not drink beer or spirits then, so getting drunk was out of the question. I walked to George Square, a ten minute walk. It seemed that half the population of Glasgow were there, singing, dancing, and a lot of people drinking. It was a strange feeling for me observing the crowd but not being part of it. My pals were in the services and I had no desire to join in the fun on my own.It was my birthday but I had no desire to celebrate so I went home. I suppose I was dead tired after serving drinks all day. Serving in pub, or indeed a shop, is hard on the feet.
A month later, on seventh of June, I received my conscription notice. I was instructed to report to the General Service Corps Training Unit, Elgin. I was glad. It was time the chicken left the nest. With a small attache case containing shaving gear, socks, underwear and some sandwiches and other odds and ends, I boarded the train at Queens Street Station. My dad saw me off. He was looking glum. He did notlike the idea of one of his offspring going into the services, the war with Japan was still on and reports in newsreels in the cinemas showed that it was no picnic. However, I was keen to get away from Glasgow and find some excitement and adventure. I remember saying something stupid like “ I’ll be back” We shook hands, the whistle blew and I was away. I must say I had a lump in my throat as the train pulled out and the figure of my father receded as the train gathered speed. My memory tells me that the journey took about six or seven hours to get to Elgin. The steam trains in wartime were not fast.
An army truck picked a number of us up at Elgin station and we were taken to the unit a few miles from Elgin. We now had to get used to army discipline. Everyone has likes and dislikes and some things I hated. The army issue boots reminded me of the boots I wore when I was a child and they were just as hard on the feetuntil broken in. The army “socks, woollen, grey, other ranks, for the use of” To use army terminology were the nearest thing to steel wool. The trouble was you were expected to wear them on your feet. They were extremely uncomfortable and for the first three months I wore my civilian socks under the army ones. After they had been laundered about tentimes they became soft enough to wear without my “civvy” socks. For physical training periods we had to wear the army pullover (jersey) next to our skin. This used to madden me and make my skin creep. I am thankful that these periods lasted only half an hour at a time. The standard battle dress uniform was also made of wool and rough on the skin but one had to get used to wearing it. Things we do for our country!
