I own a dead man’s boots because the coal miners went on strike. Our teacher, Baldy Bremner, would say I was drawing a long bow talking like that bending the truth into a shape that suits me better. But I’m not, you know. If the strike hadn’t gone ahead, Mum could have afforded to buy me new boots, like she’d been planning.
I wouldn’t have gone looking for gold and I wouldn’t have found the professor staggering down the Croesus track with a bloody rag tied around his leg, the red drops going all the way back to his chopping block and the other half is. The strike started on a Thursday. It was February the 27th, 1908. We were walking home for lunch, and I remember I stubbed my toe on a rock. I was hopping around, clutching my foot and swearing, and Teddy said, “You’d better not let dad hear you saying them words.”
Seeing the men above ground, in the middle of the day ... that usually meant an accident down the mine. I was relieved to see Dad at the front of the group. Now that you know a bit about the story you should go read it, it is one of the best story books that ever came out in my opinion.
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