The Templeton Building - Glasgow
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James Templeton appointed William Leiper as the architect to design the facade of the new carpet factory called the Albert Mills. Three designs were rejected by Glasgow Council because they believed they did not befit being so near the Glasgow Green, the public park facing the proposed new building.
Templeton asked Leiper to design a building based on what Leiper considered to be the most beautiful building in the world. Leiper based some of his design on Doges Palace in Venice. The design appeased Glasgow Council, and work started on the Templeton carpet factory in 1889 and was completed in 1892.
The factory produced carpets for 2 British coronations, a White House carpet, and carpets for luxury liners. They produced army blankets during the First World War.
The Templeton factory closed in 1982 and after restoration work it has now become the Templeton Business Centre.
The events described in this story did happen.
The date was Friday 1 November 1889.
Dark Secrets Behind Bright Walls
By F J Harrigan
No one took any notice of the smartly dressed old lady standing in front of the Templeton building's west wall. Most people were either watching or participating in the football game on Glasgow Green, the public park across the road.
The sloping lawn in front of the building is enclosed by green iron railings which are five feet high. The old lady approached the railing gate and pushed it open, the hinges creaking, as if in protest.. She passed through the gate and strode purposely across the grass until she reached the brightly coloured wall.
Glancing around to see if anyone was looking, she removed her white gloves, put them in her handbag and then placed both her hands on the cold bricks. Closing her eyes, she felt the wall's vibrations travelling through her hands. The wall seemed to whisper to her, revealing the dark secrets it held within.
She saw the date clearly in her mind, Friday the 1st of November 1889. The whispers became more audible. "Come on lads, it's five tae five!" she heard plainly. She saw swirling dark grey clouds through her closed eyelids and then they became moving pictures forming in her head.
The whispering wall was about to reveal more to her. She surrendered her conscious will and let the story unfold...
"Come on lads, it's five tae five! It's time we were finished!", George Laird shouted, grabbing his toolcase.
"Aye, it's bloody freezin' here. Ah'll be glad when the roof's put oan and we can at least keep oorsels dry." said one of the bricklayers.
It was Friday and another hard day was over. Some men went straight home, while others headed for the local hostelry for a well deserved drink. George, who was one of the joiners on the site, hung around the William Street end of Templeton’s carpet factory waiting for two of his mates.
George noticed that the strong wind that had buffeted the building earlier was now becoming stronger. The wind came from the north west, blowing old newspapers across Glasgow Green, some landing briefly on the damp grass, only to be picked up again and hurled through the air, swirling helplessly around in circles.
At last, at 5.05pm, George’s mates appeared. They had been held up by an over zealous foreman who had insisted that the area they were working in was properly tidied up before they were allowed to leave the site. The friends agreed that they should walk along London Road and try one of the local pubs near Bridgeton Cross, hoping that there would be room for them to sit down.
In the weaving shed behind the new building, 140 women were working, they had to wait until 6pm before they too could go home. Each woman tended a loom that weaved the fine carpets destined for exotic locations throughout the world.
One woman managed to catch the eye of another behind her.
"Whit dae ye think tae yon new building behind us? Hiv ye seen the front of it?" Senga asked Jessie.
"Aye. Och, Ah think it's too dandy, with a' they fancy colours. It looks like a whorehoose!"
Both women laughed out loud at Jessie's observation.
"Watch oot! Here comes Mister Shearer." warned Jessie. Both women resumed their vigil at their looms.
Outside, the wind picked up yet again, buffeting the wall of the new building. Three powerful gusts of wind hit the building in quick succession. The new mortar could not take the strain and since the building was just a shell and had no support within it, the walls collapsed inward - towards the weaving shed.
Mr Shearer had just left the weaving shed and was heading for the boiler house, when he heard a loud rumbling noise and looked back just in time to see the terrifying sight of the new building slowly falling over, on top of the weaving shed. There was the sound of crashing bricks and tiles - and then silence.
Only a brief silence, for the screams of injured women soon pierced the evening air.
George Laird and his friends had met another group of friends and they were walking slowly down London Road, talking amicably and eager to quake their thirst.
The ground beneath the mens’ feet began to rumble and they could hear a sound like crashing thunder. Without a word, George and his friends rushed back along the road and down William Street. The sight that greeted them made them stop in horror. But they sprang into action and joined in the chaos as they, and other helpers tried vainly to find a way through the rubble, unorganised and with no idea where to start.
Eventually, two foreman shouted all the men together and started organising teams. The fire brigade had arrived along with two doctors. The men were quickly put to work.
All through the night they struggled to free the women, living and dead from the rubble, working as quickly as they could in the darkness until an electric arc lamp was rigged up.
At last the grim task was over and all the bodies were lined up inside the finishing shop, with the survivors taken to hospital or being sent home, if their injuries were not severe.
One of the foremen call George over.
“You can start by organising they labourers over there tae separate all the good bricks in the rubble so that we can use them again.”, he said to George.
“Right now? Is everybody accounted for?”
“Aye, 29 lassies died last night, a lot o’ them were very young, including one who wiz jist 13.”, said the foreman, “every one’s been accounted for and the injured are in the Royal Infirmary - so let’s get this lot sorted!”
After a few hours rest, George and his team worked all through the day. Progress was painfully slow and the cold November weather made the work even more of a toil.
The foreman came up to George again, this time more relaxed and more talkative.
“I see that Templeton’s expects the rest o’ their workers to turn up for work at 10 am on Monday morning. They just put a sign up ootside the factory gates.”, said the foreman.
George said nothing and carried on with the work. He wanted to finish before it got too dark, because not even the big electric light could repel the shadows that surrounded the piles of rubble, shadows that sent shivers down his back. He thought he could still hear the cries of many women, but he knew it was only his imagination.
George Laird’s grief and that of the victims’ relatives hung around the area like a murky fog, the pain and anguish absorbed into the rubble of bricks and stone which would once again be rebuilt by skilful hands, only this time the overwhelming sorrow would be etched into the bricks indelibly.
The team cleared away an area where part of the wall of the weaving shed office was still standing. The office clock was still on the wall.
It had stopped at 5.15pm.
The old lady pulled her hands away from the wall. But the images were still strong. She could still see the jagged remains - all that was left of the building when it collapsed, just 15 feet of brickwork still anchored to its foundations. Slowly, the image dissolved away and the wall returned to normal. The old lady reached into her handbag for a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her eyes.
Her head bowed, she went back through the gate and closed it carefully behind her. She crossed the road and walked along the path through Glasgow Green, the People's Palace museum to her right, the metal poles of the washing lines to her left, relics of the old washhouse that stood next to Templeton's.
The chill air of the winter evening began to take effect on her old bones so she opened her handbag to retrieve her gloves.
A shiver went up her spine, she felt the compelling urge to look back at the Templeton building. It was now twilight and the ground lights of the building had just been switched on, bathing the colourful facade with an eerie glow. The building looked as if it had just been built, a credit to its renovators, proud and garishly pretty. But the old lady was uneasy with this - it was as if the building was saying that the disaster had never happened.
As the night grew darker, the old lady turned up the collar of her coat and walked on through the path, the visions of that terrible afternoon still fresh in her mind. It would take a few hours before the deep sadness would leave her.
