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By Janet Ferry

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Marion McLaren of Blue Anchor Library on behalf of Janet Ferry and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Janet Ferry (Nee Hunter) Born1937

World War II

'As Seen Through The Eyes Of A Child'

My family lived in Braid St Glasgow C4. When war broke out I had two brothers, Morey and James aged three and a half, and five. We were not evacuated. We used St Mary's school air raid shelter just across the street. When I was naughty my mum threatened to send me to the evacuation. At that age words were confusing evacuation inoculation and vaccination. My earliest recollection of the air raid shelter was when I was three years of age I had a little rag doll called Mary which mum had made for me. I took it everywhere One night in the air raid shelter I dropped it on the floor. I bent down to pick it up and it was gone! It had disappeared. I was devastated. I remember being dragged from the shelter at the 'all clear' screaming my head off. I did not want to lose Mary. I never forgot that incident to this day.

It was not too bad for us kids. We did not know any different life. We thought it was normal. Food Rationing, clothing coupons, that was adult problems. We were fed, clothed and had a roof over our heads Thank God the bombs never landed in our street I believe Clydebank next door to us was badly hit because of the shipyards. I had another two brothers before the war ended, Billy and David.

My brothers and I would go the pictures (cinema). The matinee on a Saturday afternoon. Our lives revolved round Roy Rogers, cowboys and Indians, and Flash Gordon Pilot of the Future. No soppy love stories.

Dad was in the army and mum worked shifts in the bus garage at Knightswood. My aunt Peggy used to mind us at night, with the help of granddad (Pop we called him). I remember school dinners, one shilling and nine pence per week. The basic diet was mince and potatoes, soup and dumplings. We ate everything.

Clothing was different story. The neighbour next door had a sewing machine. My mum used to whip a blanket off the bed, and the neighbour would run up nice little coat and beret to match. I wondered why it was always grey. (I think that was the army issue) All my little friends were dressed the same, like a little miniature army.

I remember being sent round to the butchers for a bone for the dog. I would be given a bone and a few scraps. We did not have a dog but that did not matter. That was the start of the soup pot for the week. Anything and everything went onto it.

My brothers and I went to the cinema any chance we got. If you did not have the admission fee you could get in with jam jars, sauce bottles, and lemonade bottles. I think that was the original re-cycling.

I loved when dad came home on leave. I did not know where he came from or where he went back to, but he always had little goodies in his kitbag. He probably saved his rations for us kids. The first time I saw a banana I thought it tasted horrible. I did not know you had to take the skin off.

I started St Josephs school when I was five. Aunt Peggy took me on my first day as my mum was on shift work bus cleaning. All the mums and kids were crying and I wondered why. My aunt pressed a halfpenny into my hand and told me 'be a good girl and do as the teacher tells you.' That was me for the next ten years. I passed my eleven plus and went to Garnethill senior secondary school.

My aunt used to write to my uncle Willie, who was fighting over in Italy. She would wrap up the local papers and tie them tightly with piece of string. I would put my little finger on the string to make knot, then we would melt sealing wax over a candle and let it drip onto the knot. I was fascinated. It reminded me of blood dripping. My brothers would miss all this as they were asleep.

Everyone had to cover their windows at night with black material. This was known as the blackout. When my aunt stayed the night to mind us kids, she would let me stay up late to keep her company. One night there was a very loud knock at the door, and a mans voice shouting loudly. I dived under the bed, and peeped out from the curtain. All I could see was a strange man dressed in black and my aunt was crying. I thought he was the bogey man, and had come to take my aunt away. After the man had left my aunt explained, he was the street warden. It seemed we had not closed the blackout properly and a chink of light had been shining onto the street. At that time I thought, what a fuss about a little thing like that. Years later I realised just how serious the incident was. It could easily have been a target for the enemy planes. I loved my aunt Peggy, she made me feel like a young adult instead of a little kid.

The public wash house was in bath lane, and commonly known as the ‘The Steamie’. The neighbours were allocated a time, and day of the week to do their washing. All the washing was packed into an old bassinette pram, and wheeled round to bath lane. I often went with my aunt to give her a hand. The steamie was also the local gossip shop. Everyone knew everything about everybody. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to be involved in a scandal, was known as ‘the talk of the steamie’. Most of the conversations went above my head, as I was only young, but sometimes my little ears would flap.

When I think back it was a very hard time for adults. They had the worry and responsibility for feeding clothing and protecting the young and old. To us kids it was a kind of adventure. I was eight when the war ended. There were street decorations and parties. I did not understand what all the fuss was about. Mum said, 'The war is over, we have won the war' all I knew was dad was home. He was demobbed which meant he did not have to go away again and we were a family again. We were a bit squashed for accommodation. My four brothers and I sleeping in one room, and mum and dad in the bed recess. We called it the 'hole in the wall.'

My mother would give my big brother a half-crown and my four brothers and I would trot off to the barbers. Five sixpenny haircuts. Short back and sides, the razor up the back of the neck, only I was left with a little bit of hair at the front of my head fastened with a hairgrip.

We had no bathroom. Bath night was a tin bath in front of the fire. As we got older my mum would take me to the public baths on a Saturday morning and dad would take the boys. We had two outside toilets on the landing. These were shared by four families. As you can guess, it could be quite inconvenient at times.

My mum had a little key job, an office which she cleaned once a week on a Sunday. She was paid ten shillings for this I would go with her for company I was not much help, as I remember sitting at the big desk pretending I was boss and it was my office, while mum scrubbed cleaned and polished.

Employment was scarce after the war. My dad tried everything, coalman shipyard worker railway man and eventually got a steady job with the Royal Ordnance Factory at Dalmuir.

In 1952/53 Glasgow had a slum clearance, and we were allocated a three-bedroomed flat in the west of Glagow, Drumchapel housing estate. The number 9 bus from St Georges Square. We called it 'The Deadwood Stage' going to the Blackhills of Drumchapel. Dad died in 1955, my eldest brother got called up for his National service, and I got married in 1957 and came to London, where I still now live.
Thanks to the brave men and women who fought and died for us, and gave us the chance to grow up and make our own way in life.

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