The Factory

The factory smelled of grease and oil and, subsequently, so did my father. Grease oil and wood seared by a band-saw. It was an industrial smell with a timber tinge. My father’s hands would have nicks and cuts and often his nails were blackened by a fallen stack or an errant hammer blow.

In summer, I’d sometimes take him his lunchtime sandwiches - his ‘pieces’. I was a wee boy among big, working men and lads who played football on the lunch-time pitch. Hard, fast games though I’d be treated with kid-gloves and complimented for a well-trapped ball or a good pass.

 “Well played, wee man”, though even at eleven or twelve I was as tall as some of them.

 My Da was fierce at his game, often flying into tackles and, once, squaring up to one of the local hard man. I was as timid as the chaff from the hay.

 The factory was the place for men of steel.