I remember it perfectly… every detail, the turning point in my life

Gold Digger Lewis Neilson St John’s RC High School

The bitter breeze whistled and hissed as it crept through the derelict cracks in our wall, awakening my two brothers and me from our uneasy slumber. Every morning was the same, battling against the sheer coldness. Helpless. Left to curl up next to each other under our rough jackets as the wind jabbed away at our numb skin like a thousand needles at once. Yet, although money was certainly an issue for us, it seemed to bring us closer together as a family.

We’d spend our evenings together, cosying up around our only source of light, a dim candle.

Nothing could separate us; at least that’s what I thought…

I remember it perfectly… every detail, the turning point in my life.

We were congregated on the damp floor, telling our stories of the day’s harsh struggles, unable to feel much of our bodies as we nibbled on the remaining rations of bread. My mother and I spoke of our day at the local jute mill, Verdant Works. Each day was the same for us: a prolonged depressing walk to the factory, the towering chimneys towering high above the surrounding buildings as thick black smoke coughed from them, choking the air. Inside, everything seemed so vast.

The machines groaned and whined from years of use; nothing ever fell still. Each day we tackled the deafening cacophony that shattered our ears and the thick dust which clogged our airways. Our coughing became relentless. I was a small, scrawny child, perfect for crawling under the working machines to recover any bits of jute which had fallen through. Sweat would pour like rivers down my forehead as I’d anxiously try to keep all my limbs attached to my body and all for a “generous” few shillings a week.

My father and two brothers didn’t have it any easier. They slaved away at the grimy coal mines over the Tay in Fife. They would work ridiculous hours in ridiculous conditions under ridiculous circumstances, all for a very ridiculous pay.

Nevertheless, my father would never complain. He was a caring, considerate and commendable man always putting others first, no matter what. His smile was infectious. He was our hero, a role model who we were so very proud of, bringing light to our faces on the darkest of days and his inviting, gentle voice always warmed up the room in the coldest of hours. He deserved so much more than this.

He told us about the claustrophobic tunnels he’d be trapped in for eight hours at a time and we listened in awe. He’d emerge from the hell hole unrecognisable, covered from top to toe in thick black soot and although seeing him stumble through the door from work brought me relief, I could never contain a chuckle.

Just when we all seemed to be dozing off and the light was slowly dying as the candle flickered vulnerably from the passing breeze, I could tell my father had news. His face was beaming and masked with excitement when he finally told us: “Th’day wis different, ah fun something doon th’ coal mines, tis worth a lot ‘n’ wull dae this fowk a hail load o’ guid.”

Our eyes widened and we all eagerly leaned forward in anticipation as good news was certainly not a common occurrence in our household. He reached for his ripped jacket and revealed a handkerchief. Resting it in the palm of his hand, he delicately unfolded it, corner by corner revealing the contents inside. I couldn’t make out what I was faced with, but my brother broke the silence, stuttering as he spoke: “Na wey is that whit ah thinks it is?”

“Tis gold, real gold, we’re aff tae be th’ richest fowk in Dundee,” my father replied frantically. We all slept like babies that night knowing it could quite possibly be the last night in this derelict, dehumanising space.

We woke like we always did, although the bitter breeze seemed to be gentler on us this morning and the wind’s needles seemed to be non-existent. The three of us bolted into the room where mother and father had slept, expecting to join an enthusiastic conversation of what we planned to do with our newly found fortune. We were stopped in our tracks. Instead, we were faced with mother helplessly bawling her eyes out as she held a letter in her withered, shaking hands. The letter read:

“I’m sorry bit I’ve gaen, gaen wi’ th’ fortuin in search fur a freish oncom, a freish life… tis whit ah wantit”. All of a sudden, the needles were back, worse than ever. My heart sunk. Crushed, I faced reality. Bitter betrayal. My beloved father had broken us; left us stranded and hung us out to dry.

I learned a very important lesson that day: “All that glitters is not gold…”