little white cap and black lace-up shoes and stockings.
The parlour maid’s job was to help with the meals: first, serve the meals in the dining room then tidy up afterwards. I’d start work at 8.30am and get away by about 6pm. I considered myself really lucky earning about 20 shillings a month. I’d give my mum half and keep the rest. The people I worked with were a lady and gentleman with two grown-up daughters living at home. One of the daughters used to make lampshades, the other was some sort of therapist. You’d get Sundays off and one half-day off on a Saturday, unless there was a function in the house, like people coming for a meal; then you had to work all day. I was their only servant. The lady of the house did all the cooking.
Just before war broke out in 1939, we moved to a house in Springwall, Blantyre, a nice house with a garden where Dad could grow his veggies and keep chickens, so we always had nice new-laid eggs. Blantyre had a railway station too, so I’d often go to Glasgow with my mum – just a bit of window shopping and some lunch. Or my friend Mary and I would go to the pictures in Hamilton; you could get the bus from Blantyre to Hamilton.
In those days, if you saw someone wearing the same thing as you, you wouldn’t like it, so I used to go all over the shops in Glasgow to find something a little bit different. My mum would knit all my jumpers and cardigans, but I still loved looking for something new: one dress has always stuck in my mind, a lovely green dress with a V yoke and a V at the back with a flared skirt. The material was some sort of knitted silk; you probably can’t buy that now. But I still remember it. And the little ankle-strap black patentshoes I wore with it. I thought I was Queen of the May with those shoes.
In March 1939, my sister May was born, so Mum and I were preoccupied with the new baby. I was at home, with Mum and Dad, just three months away from my 17th birthday, when we heard the news that war had broken out. We knew it was coming; everyone knew. I did find it all a bit frightening, especially when we had the blackout, but we got used to it. Sometimes my friend Mary and I would be walking home from the pictures and the siren would go off: we’d run like mad to get home and into the Anderson shelter in our garden, waiting for the all-clear. I carried on working at the house in Cambuslang through 1940 and 1941 but it was obvious I was going to have to do something. But what? I didn’t fancy the idea of the Forces; nor did my parents. In the end, my dad said: ‘Don’t wait for call-up, Margaret, I don’t mind if you go into munitions.’
At home, we’d already had a change: my grandmother, who’d worked as a spinner in a jute mill all her life, fell over and broke her leg. So my mother brought her home to us and she stayed with us, helping look after May, the baby. So me doing war work would be ok.
In the early months of 1942, I was off to the local labour exchange to register for munitions work. I went with my friend Mary and they told us we’d be earning £2 a week, a lot more than I’d earned in service. We’d already heard it was good money, because the word had got around. And we knew it was an all-girls’ environment. They hired us on the spot, but there was not much information about what work we’d be doing. They said: ‘You’ll be shown what to do onceyou start.’ They did say we’d either be working in the cordite section or the gun cotton section.
On my first day I was told I’d be in gun cotton, and my friend, Mary Paterson, was in cordite. To be honest, I didn’t mind what work I did. Being so close to Glasgow, a lot of the girls I’d be working with were city, salt of the earth types, who turned out to be great women to work with. And, right from the start, everyone was of the same mind: ‘This is the war effort and we’re all helping. That’s it.’
The shift pattern was 6am to 2pm, 2pm to10pm, or 10pm to 6am. You changed your
The parlour maid’s job was to help with the meals: first, serve the meals in the dining room then tidy up afterwards. I’d start work at 8.30am and get away by about 6pm. I considered myself really lucky earning about 20 shillings a month. I’d give my mum half and keep the rest. The people I worked with were a lady and gentleman with two grown-up daughters living at home. One of the daughters used to make lampshades, the other was some sort of therapist. You’d get Sundays off and one half-day off on a Saturday, unless there was a function in the house, like people coming for a meal; then you had to work all day. I was their only servant. The lady of the house did all the cooking.
Just before war broke out in 1939, we moved to a house in Springwall, Blantyre, a nice house with a garden where Dad could grow his veggies and keep chickens, so we always had nice new-laid eggs. Blantyre had a railway station too, so I’d often go to Glasgow with my mum – just a bit of window shopping and some lunch. Or my friend Mary and I would go to the pictures in Hamilton; you could get the bus from Blantyre to Hamilton.
In those days, if you saw someone wearing the same thing as you, you wouldn’t like it, so I used to go all over the shops in Glasgow to find something a little bit different. My mum would knit all my jumpers and cardigans, but I still loved looking for something new: one dress has always stuck in my mind, a lovely green dress with a V yoke and a V at the back with a flared skirt. The material was some sort of knitted silk; you probably can’t buy that now. But I still remember it. And the little ankle-strap black patentshoes I wore with it. I thought I was Queen of the May with those shoes.
In March 1939, my sister May was born, so Mum and I were preoccupied with the new baby. I was at home, with Mum and Dad, just three months away from my 17th birthday, when we heard the news that war had broken out. We knew it was coming; everyone knew. I did find it all a bit frightening, especially when we had the blackout, but we got used to it. Sometimes my friend Mary and I would be walking home from the pictures and the siren would go off: we’d run like mad to get home and into the Anderson shelter in our garden, waiting for the all-clear. I carried on working at the house in Cambuslang through 1940 and 1941 but it was obvious I was going to have to do something. But what? I didn’t fancy the idea of the Forces; nor did my parents. In the end, my dad said: ‘Don’t wait for call-up, Margaret, I don’t mind if you go into munitions.’
At home, we’d already had a change: my grandmother, who’d worked as a spinner in a jute mill all her life, fell over and broke her leg. So my mother brought her home to us and she stayed with us, helping look after May, the baby. So me doing war work would be ok.
In the early months of 1942, I was off to the local labour exchange to register for munitions work. I went with my friend Mary and they told us we’d be earning £2 a week, a lot more than I’d earned in service. We’d already heard it was good money, because the word had got around. And we knew it was an all-girls’ environment. They hired us on the spot, but there was not much information about what work we’d be doing. They said: ‘You’ll be shown what to do onceyou start.’ They did say we’d either be working in the cordite section or the gun cotton section.
On my first day I was told I’d be in gun cotton, and my friend, Mary Paterson, was in cordite. To be honest, I didn’t mind what work I did. Being so close to Glasgow, a lot of the girls I’d be working with were city, salt of the earth types, who turned out to be great women to work with. And, right from the start, everyone was of the same mind: ‘This is the war effort and we’re all helping. That’s it.’
The shift pattern was 6am to 2pm, 2pm to10pm, or 10pm to 6am. You changed your
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