what we were making was something related to depth charges. In fact, what we were doing was making explosives for the mines being carried by the submarines. You didn’t have any real sense that it was dangerous work in the beginning. But then, after I’d only been there for a few days, something happened that surprised me. The danger man came over to me. He had spotted something I’d completely forgotten to remove – a small Kirby grip in my hair.
‘Ooh sorry, forgot to take it out,’ I told him. Then I got abit of a shock. I wasn’t expecting to hear what he said next: ‘You’ve not been here long, so I’ll let you off. But do it again and you’ll be suspended.’
I was mortified. Then I realised just how dangerous anything metal, no matter how small, could be. One little spark and we could all be dead, every one of us, burnt to a cinder. Stories about the danger would go round all the time, as I soon discovered. One day, in the canteen, a girl told me how someone had been cleaning a big machine with a brush. Somehow, a single hair from the brush had got into the mechanism. It caused one spark and whoosh, everything went up, though the girl didn’t know for sure if any workers had been killed.
Then, after a few months at Bishopton, I came in one day to start my 2 to 10pm shift. It was a lovely day. I was on my way to the changing room. For some reason, I had a library book in my hand. The next thing, I heard a huge explosion and the book flew up in the air and hit the ground. One of the underground cordite houses had just gone up. The rumour we heard later was that two or three people were killed. But even though you couldn’t see a thing, it brought it all home to you: these explosives really do kill. And we’re working with them; anything can happen. You never did find out why or what happened that day. They kept all those sorts of things, that information, close. We didn’t work in the area, so it was nothing to do with us. You just had to get on with what you were doing.
Mum started working in the gun cotton section after me. If we were on the same shift, sometimes we’d go in the canteen together; that was the one place where we’d all let off steam. The food was nice: soup, steak pie, about a shillingfor a hot meal. I don’t know if they were allowed a little bit more, but it was always plentiful. No desserts, mind you, thanks to sugar rationing.
The canteen was very sociable. The men would come in from the machine shops and a big group of us would sit there, playing cards. The radio would be playing, Joe Loss, Henry Hall, Betty Driver. I’d always join in when everyone started the singing. We used to sing a lot. Your time in the canteen depended on the shift. On day shift you’d get a break at 12 noon; you’d get an hour. There was no point in leaving the factory, and anyway, you weren’t allowed out until your shift ended.
There was one time I remember when the machines were shut off and we all stopped work completely. I was on night shift and a call came through, then the sirens went off. We were all told to leave and go straight to the changing room. All the lights went out around us and somehow we had to make our way to the changing rooms. It was so, so scary. Then we had to stay there, praying for the sound of the all-clear. Mum was working night shift too that night, for some reason.
Of course it was frightening, hearing the drones of planes overhead with no idea where they were heading. That particular night, I realised afterwards, the entire factory had shut down, though luckily, that night, the German planes didn’t do any damage. We’d already experienced that terrible time in March 1941, the two nights when the German bombers attacked the Clyde shipyard and bombed Clydebank. I’d been at home both nights. My dad just plucked up little May from her bed and rushed us all into the Anderson shelter.
It’s funny what you remember. May was only two at the time and she seemed
‘Ooh sorry, forgot to take it out,’ I told him. Then I got abit of a shock. I wasn’t expecting to hear what he said next: ‘You’ve not been here long, so I’ll let you off. But do it again and you’ll be suspended.’
I was mortified. Then I realised just how dangerous anything metal, no matter how small, could be. One little spark and we could all be dead, every one of us, burnt to a cinder. Stories about the danger would go round all the time, as I soon discovered. One day, in the canteen, a girl told me how someone had been cleaning a big machine with a brush. Somehow, a single hair from the brush had got into the mechanism. It caused one spark and whoosh, everything went up, though the girl didn’t know for sure if any workers had been killed.
Then, after a few months at Bishopton, I came in one day to start my 2 to 10pm shift. It was a lovely day. I was on my way to the changing room. For some reason, I had a library book in my hand. The next thing, I heard a huge explosion and the book flew up in the air and hit the ground. One of the underground cordite houses had just gone up. The rumour we heard later was that two or three people were killed. But even though you couldn’t see a thing, it brought it all home to you: these explosives really do kill. And we’re working with them; anything can happen. You never did find out why or what happened that day. They kept all those sorts of things, that information, close. We didn’t work in the area, so it was nothing to do with us. You just had to get on with what you were doing.
Mum started working in the gun cotton section after me. If we were on the same shift, sometimes we’d go in the canteen together; that was the one place where we’d all let off steam. The food was nice: soup, steak pie, about a shillingfor a hot meal. I don’t know if they were allowed a little bit more, but it was always plentiful. No desserts, mind you, thanks to sugar rationing.
The canteen was very sociable. The men would come in from the machine shops and a big group of us would sit there, playing cards. The radio would be playing, Joe Loss, Henry Hall, Betty Driver. I’d always join in when everyone started the singing. We used to sing a lot. Your time in the canteen depended on the shift. On day shift you’d get a break at 12 noon; you’d get an hour. There was no point in leaving the factory, and anyway, you weren’t allowed out until your shift ended.
There was one time I remember when the machines were shut off and we all stopped work completely. I was on night shift and a call came through, then the sirens went off. We were all told to leave and go straight to the changing room. All the lights went out around us and somehow we had to make our way to the changing rooms. It was so, so scary. Then we had to stay there, praying for the sound of the all-clear. Mum was working night shift too that night, for some reason.
Of course it was frightening, hearing the drones of planes overhead with no idea where they were heading. That particular night, I realised afterwards, the entire factory had shut down, though luckily, that night, the German planes didn’t do any damage. We’d already experienced that terrible time in March 1941, the two nights when the German bombers attacked the Clyde shipyard and bombed Clydebank. I’d been at home both nights. My dad just plucked up little May from her bed and rushed us all into the Anderson shelter.
It’s funny what you remember. May was only two at the time and she seemed
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