Clydesiders at War

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Next day, Granny would doze in her wheelchair by the fire, her head falling heavily down on her chest, her toothless mouth hanging open. Sometimes Teresa would say, ‘You look awful uncomfortable like that, Granny. I’ll bring out your hurly bed and you can have a proper sleep, even if it’s just for a couple of hours.’

  Granny hoped the siren wouldn’t go again tonight. Mrs Faulds, a new neighbour in the top flat, was a terrible pessimist and last time she had maintained that tonight the sirens would go and it would be the worst raid ever.

  ‘Oh,’ Granny had said, ‘has Hitler been in touch wi’ ye then, hen?’

  ‘It’s the thirteenth,’ Mrs Faulds said with a knowing look.

  ‘Even if ye believe in that rubbish,’ Granny said, ‘it’s supposed to be Friday the thirteenth that’s unlucky. This is Thursday.’

  ‘I’ve always believed that thirteen is an unlucky number.’

  ‘Oh aye, an’ what else do ye believe that could cheer us aw up?’

  It was a mistake to have asked that, because Mrs Faulds launched into such a long list that Granny had eventually to interrupt.

  ‘Aye, aye, we’ve got the message, hen. Now just gie yer tongue a rest.’

  The siren did go however. Its eerie wail made all of their hearts sink in despair. It meant another apprehensive, sleepless night trying to be cheerful, trying to hide the fact that everyone felt worried.

  To the surprise of all the Gourlays, old Mr McCluskey and Miss McCluskey returned with Teresa. Teresa had gone next door after the raid started to repeat her previous invitation to join the rest of the neighbours in the Gourlay lobby.

  ‘It does sound rather worse tonight,’ said Miss McCluskey, keeping her head held high and her back stiff. Teresa offered two chairs for the McCluskeys to sit on. This meant Teresa had to make do with the floor.

  ‘I told you,’ Mrs Faulds cried out triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Aye, aw right,’ Granny said, ‘ye don’t need to tell us again.’

  It certainly did sound much worse.

  ‘What a shame,’ Teresa said, wrapping her woolly cardigan closer around her thin chest. ‘After us having such a lovely time visiting the twins.’

  It had been the turn of Euphemia to entertain her mother and sisters to a late afternoon tea. The twins and Florence had managed to get away early from work. This time Granny had gone with the twins because Erchie was busy in the factory and couldn’t take any time off to look after her. Wincey had been working too. A factory was regarded as essential work, not like a department store, but Granny had been warned not to say this to the girls. Wincey had treated them to a taxi that took them all the way to Clydebank. It was even booked to call for them later to return them to Springburn. Teresa had been horrified at such expense and Granny had said, ‘Folk’ll be thinkin we’re aw turned into bloody Tories an’ capitalists noo!’

  Nevertheless she allowed herself to be helped into the taxi and her wheelchair folded up to travel along with her. The journey was actually a real treat for Granny, although she’d never admit it.

  Euphemia had a lovely spread waiting for them in her kitchen and Granny was duly impressed. She also greatly pleased the happy, sparkling eyed Euphemia by admiring the cream and brown kitchen with its splendid new gas cooker.

  Bridget said, ‘Mine is lovely as well, Granny. We could take you along after tea to see it. Both our toilets are out in the close, but there’s a big cupboard in the hall and I’m saving up to get my cupboard turned into a toilet. Amn’t I, Euphemia?’

  Euphemia nodded enthusiastically, making her fat cheeks quiver and her curls bounce. An inside toilet converted from a cupboard was very impressive indeed.

  ‘Fancy!’ Granny said, not really believing it was possible but not wanting to burst her granddaughter’s bubble of happiness.

  ‘I’m going to have it done too,’ Euphemia informed them, her face even ruddier than usual with excitement.

  ‘Are ye, hen? Good for you.’

  Bridget said, ‘We can’t wait to hear what Joe and Pete will say when they see what we’ve done to make our houses so nice. They’ll be over the moon, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Granny said, struggling to keep the sarcasm from her voice. ‘They will that, hen.’

  It had been a good outing all the same, Granny had to admit. The sandwiches, scones and cakes had been delicious. Indeed, they’d enjoyed the meal so much that they weren’t able to eat their evening meal with Erchie and Wincey when they returned home. Teresa had written down Euphemia’s recipe for carrot cake and eggless sponge and was planning to make them the next morning. Now she wondered if she’d have enough energy. Poor Erchie and Wincey were worse off though. At least she and Granny could have a rest the next day, but Erchie and Wincey had their work to go to.

  ‘Maybe it won’t last so long tonight,’ she said to the crowd now crushed into the lobby, shoulder squeezed against shoulder and hip against hip.

  ‘I told you.’ Mrs Faulds sorrowfully shook her head. ‘It’ll be worse—much worse. It’s a bright moonlight night. They’ll see their way here no bother.’

  Erchie said he was going to have a quick look outside and despite both Granny and Teresa’s efforts in trying to dissuade him, he slipped out to the close. He seemed a long time in returning and Teresa was getting quite breathless with agitation. She had struggled to her feet and was about to leave the safety of the lobby as well. As she said, ‘Erchie might be lying outside in the street injured and helpless.’

  But just then he suddenly appeared again. His thin, beaky face had turned a sickly grey and his eyes, staring from under the peak of his bunnet, were wide and anxious.

  ‘Whit’s up, son?’ Granny asked before Teresa could say anything.

  ‘There’s awfae big fires. The sky’s red wi’ them.’

  ‘In Springburn?’ Teresa cried out in alarm.

  Erchie hesitated. He shook his head. ‘One o’ the wardens told me it’s Clydebank.’

  ‘Oh Erchie, the girls!’

  25

  Florence washed up and dried Euphemia’s tea dishes and tidied them away in the kitchen press. Bridget carefully wiped around the sink and draining board. Euphemia brushed under the table. Granny was such a messy eater. Finally, Bridget packed away what food there was left into tins.

  As soon as the kitchen was spick and span once more, Florence asked, ‘What’s on at the pictures?’

  Euphemia picked up the paper and read out loud, ‘Shirley Temple and Jack Oakey in Young People at the La Scala and the Regal. Gene Hersholt starring as the “pocket Ginger Rogers” at the Pavilion. Maryland is at the Bank cinema and Daughter of the Tong at the Palace. Anything there you fancy?’

  Bridget made a face. ‘I don’t fancy Daughter of the Tong.’

  ‘Young People, I think,’ Euphemia said. She took a mirror out of her handbag and tweaked at the bunch of curls on her forehead. ‘Shirley Temple has lovely curly hair. I wonder if it’s natural.’

  Florence said, ‘Do we really want to go?’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ Euphemia said. ‘You’ve got Eddie to go home to. We’re on our own. It’s boring as well as lonely.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to stop you and Bridget going. I’d like to come but it’s not fair on Eddie. We hardly see each other as it is, with us both working and him having to do such long hours. These days, the union has to go along with these awful hours, Eddie says. They need all the guns they can get, you see. Fancy Eddie making Sten guns. Him that used to make sewing machine cabinets!’

  ‘Doesn’t he usually work a few extra hours on a Thursday night?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Dash, I forgot it was Thursday. I tell you what, I’ll go home and see to his dinner. He nips across for something to eat to keep him going. After that, I’ll go to the second house with you.’

  ‘Fine, see you later then.’

  Florence took out her compact, powdered her nose, smoothed a hand over her hair and then pulled on her
new navy velour hat. Outside it had got a bit colder and she turned up the collar of her coat and quickened her step towards the Holy City. She always experienced a little thrill of pride and pleasure when she thought of the name—Holy City. Every time she saw the flat roofs too. Her colleagues had expressed surprise and curiosity when they came to visit her and saw the flat roofs and heard the name. She enjoyed explaining to them how the flat roofs were like those in Jerusalem. It was so unusual, so different. Not at all like your common or garden Glasgow tenements. Some people tried to tell her that apart from the flat roofs, the area was nothing like the real Holy City but she never paid any attention to them. They were just jealous.

  She made a nice quick meal for Eddie because he hadn’t much time. Then she cleared the table and washed up and swept the floor. She always swept the floor after every meal, although there was no need. Neither she nor Eddie were messy eaters, not like Granny.

  Eddie said, ‘Poor old Granny. You can’t blame her, with her arthritis. She can’t get a right grip of anything.’ Eddie was such a thoughtful and understanding man, even about the house. He always wiped his feet on the doormat before coming in.

  ‘I’m not angry with her or anything like that, dear,’ Florence assured him. ‘I’m terribly fond of Granny. I always have been, you know that.’

  She told Eddie she was going to the pictures with the twins, in case he got back before her. After kissing him goodbye, she went to the window to give him a wave. She always did that, and he always turned and smiled. She sang under her breath as she went to meet her sisters, and then the three of them set off, arm in arm and giggling. It wasn’t like Florence to be so unladylike but she felt quite reckless with happiness.

  The picture house was packed and they settled down to enjoy the movie. After a while they heard the wail of the siren and the usual notice went up on the screen. ‘There is an air raid in progress. Anyone wishing to leave the cinema should do so now.’ No one moved. They were getting accustomed to the siren going and nothing happening. The picture continued but soon they began to hear alarming noises from outside. The noises became thunderous, then the screen went blank. A ripple of panic went through the audience. People got up and made for the exit.

  Outside, white faced and trembling usherettes told everyone that bombs were dropping all over Clydebank and they would be taking their lives in their hands if they went outside. Some people retreated back into the hall to huddle under the balcony for safety.

  Florence said, ‘I’ve got to get home to Eddie.’

  But neither she nor the twins moved when they saw and heard bombs screaming down. For a minute or two they were immobilised with shock and disbelief. It was such a terrifying and incredible scene. All around the sky was lit up by incendiaries, and raging fires quickly took hold, turning the blackness of the night into bright orange and scarlet.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Florence whispered. ‘That must be Singer’s timber yard. All that wood! I’ve got to go and make sure Eddie’s safe at home.’

  They all began to run, oblivious now of each other, just desperate to get back to what they believed was the safety of their homes. It was like running through a nightmare. After a few horrific minutes, Florence hardly knew where she was going any more. Every street was impassable at some point or another. It was difficult even to cross a road because tram lines had been torn up, and reared to the sky—distorted, grotesque iron sculptures.

  On the ground rubble lay in heaps around deep bomb craters. Houses had been sliced in two and revealed—like open doll’s houses—shelves with ornaments and books undisturbed, clocks and candlesticks on mantelpieces, and pictures hanging on walls. Other tenements had sunk into chaotic piles of concrete and rubble, from which muffled screams and faint cries for help could sometimes be heard. From the top flat of one blazing building came the eerie sounds of a piano. Florence thought it was somebody playing who had gone completely mad. Until a policeman said that it was the intense heat bursting the piano strings.

  The policeman tried to stop Florence. He had a soot blackened face and his uniform jacket and trousers were grey with dust. A dense cloud of dust was billowing about the whole street.

  ‘You can’t go any further,’ he said. ‘There’s unexploded bombs down there.’

  ‘My husband,’ Florence insisted. ‘I have to get back to my husband.’ And before the policeman had a chance to say or do anything else, she had sped away. She passed rescue workers struggling to extricate the living and the dead. There was the incessant drone of low flying aircraft, and she even saw one plane actually below the level of the flames machine gunning a number nine bus. She was forced to slow down because the ground beneath her feet was covered in a sea of broken glass. There was an explosion some way in front of her and before her horrified eyes, she saw—by the light of the flames—dismembered bodies flying through the air. She had to stop to vomit.

  Somehow, eventually, she found her way to Second Avenue in the Holy City. There she stopped, shock immobilising her for a few minutes. The buildings had been turned into gaunt, smoking skeletons. Windows were now black gaping holes. A few tattered curtains flapped from the holes. The flat concrete roofs had collapsed down through the houses. Only the tall rows of chimneys had mysteriously survived.

  Florence began to stumble towards what had been her home. ‘Eddie! Eddie!’

  Wardens and rescue squad men caught her and held her back. One of them said, ‘If he’s in there, hen, we’ll get him out. Don’t worry. Just try and keep calm and stay out of our way.’

  A tired looking nurse in a filthy and blood stained apron took hold of Florence’s arm.

  ‘I have to find Eddie,’ Florence told her dazedly.

  ‘They’ll do their best. Just leave them be.’

  ‘I want to help find him.’

  ‘You’re in no fit state,’ the nurse said wearily. ‘You’re the one that’s needing help.’

  It was only then that Florence realised there was blood running down her face and staining her coat. She felt a sudden stabbing pain in her skull. She put a hand to her head.

  ‘I’ve lost my new hat,’ she wailed and began to weep brokenheartedly.

  * * *

  Euphemia and Bridget’s plumpness prevented them from running for very long. They became so out of breath that they had to stop. They stood scarlet-faced, gasping and choking.

  ‘Euphemia,’ Bridget shouted, suddenly too terrified to be without her.

  ‘Over here,’ Euphemia called and, sobbing with relief, Bridget picked her way across the road, skirting pockets of fire and twisted metal. Nearby, a tram car stood with its top deck half ripped off. Euphemia was crying too and the sisters clung together in distress. They didn’t know whether to try to go on or stay where they were. The options were equally terrifying. Everywhere there were crowds of ARP men, policemen, rescue squads—all scrabbling about in the ruins of buildings, desperately searching for survivors. Some survivors were rescuing what they could of their belongings. Euphemia saw one woman handing out a tea trolley and chairs from a window to a man standing outside. Another man had a pillow and rose pink, gold and green satin quilts tied on his back. In the darkness he looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

  Firemen were working in terrible conditions. The fire engines couldn’t get near enough because of craters and debris, and fire hoses were damaged by being hauled over sharp glass and stones.

  It had been discovered that there was no uniformity in hoses and hydrant couplings, and many of the fire brigades who had been brought in from outside Glasgow could not use their own hoses. Or they were unable to fix them to the fire hydrants. However, the Forth and Clyde canal was close to Singer’s timber yard and to the sites of some of the other fires, so it was used as a water supply instead.

  The twins asked one of the firemen if there was a shelter nearby and the harassed and exhausted man said there was, but it had taken a direct hit and everybody inside had been killed.

  ‘I want to go home, Euphemi
a,’ Bridget wept.

  ‘All right. Come on, we’ll try.’

  Hand in hand, they gingerly stepped forward. The ground shook under their feet as another bomb exploded. It quickened their pace until they were running, then gasping and choking, and having to stop again.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Euphemia breathlessly tried to comfort a distraught Bridget. ‘We’re going to be all right. Don’t worry.’

  Starting and stopping, starting and stopping again, somehow they eventually reached home. They ran into the close, fumbled the key into the lock and got into safety. They wept with thankfulness.

  ‘Thank God.’ Bridget sank into a chair in the kitchen. ‘What a ghastly nightmare. Just ghastly.’

  ‘I know, but never in my worst nightmares …’ Words failed Euphemia. Eventually she managed, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea. I’ve never needed a cup more.’

  ‘Me too,’ Bridget said. ‘I wish we’d never gone out in the first place. All these poor people. Did you see some of the ones they were bringing out? I’m sure most of them were dead.’ She shuddered. ‘And it’s still going on out there—listen to it. Oh Euphemia, I’m frightened.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ Euphemia said, ‘we’ll go to Mammy’s. There’s all this bombing here because of the shipyards and Singer’s. We’ll be safe at Mammy’s, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I wish we could go now.’

  ‘So do I, but I think we’ll be safer to stay here for a wee while.’

  Then, before they could even drink a comforting cup of tea, they discovered they were not safe at all.

  1942–43

  26

  It had been a close-run thing, but the RAF had managed to stop the German campaign of bombing British cities. Now Germany had turned on the Soviet Union. They had invaded Russia along a one thousand eight hundred mile front. Italy and Romania had also declared war on the Soviet Union. With the entry of the Russians into the war, Britain had gained a powerful ally, and housewives now handed over their pots and pans to help build tanks for the Red Army. While the Russians stood firm against the might of Hitler’s Panzers, the British navy escorted arctic convoys carrying vital supplies to Russia. Defying both the U-Boat wolf packs and the perils of the arctic ocean, the Merchant Navy performed feats of heroism that ensured Hitler would never win the war on the Eastern Front.