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Back Sisters of Gold Save as PDF
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. A Week’s Work in Birmingham
  5. I
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-One
  27. Twenty-Two
  28. Twenty-Three
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. II
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-Three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. Thirty-Nine
  46. III
  47. Forty
  48. Forty-One
  49. Forty-Two
  50. Forty-Three
  51. Forty-Four
  52. Forty-Five
  53. Forty-Six
  54. Forty-Seven
  55. Forty-Eight
  56. Forty-Nine
  57. Fifty
  58. Fifty-One
  59. Fifty-Two
  60. Fifty-Three
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. Further Reading
  63. About the Author
  64. By the Same Author

Wilfred Poole’s body was buried in consecrated ground, close to that of his children, on a day so raw and cold that Margaret felt her own heart might burst with sorrow. It had been a similarly desolate morning when they buried their own mother, and for some moments she was a heartbroken thirteen-year-old again, her body aching with loss. But as she stood with Annie and Aunt Hatt behind Mary Poole and her children, Lizzie carrying Nellie and holding little Ivy’s hand, it was the sight of Den that tore at her heart most of all. Now the man of the family, not yet ten years old, he stood stiffly upright beside his mother in a jacket of his father’s, far too big for him, and his big boots, staring dry-eyed ahead of him as the vicar’s voice carried words to them, thinly in the wind.

Wilfred Arthur Poole

Born, 5th June 1871

Died, 25th November 1904

Rest in Peace

III

III

Forty

Forty

December 1904

Margaret hurried out to the backyard. It was one of Uncle Eb’s mornings up early to prepare the gold, stoking the furnace in the cellar. Rank fumes lingered on the cold air. Pushing open the door, she stepped into the other smells of the workshop. Despite the cold outside, thanks to the coal stove, its chimney curving up through the roof of the workshop, along with the flames of the gas jets and the bodies working side by side, there was already a warm, acid-smelling fug inside.

As usual, the place was full of activity, the pegs occupied by Uncle Eb’s men who were bent over their tasks, some of them hammering away at strips of metal; the thump of the presses and loud bangs from the drop stamps at the far end, and the hum of the extractor fans. Georgie looked up from where he was talking to someone at one of the pegs and gave her a smile, and a few others said ‘Morning’ politely. Margaret, somehow yearning to belong, often wished they were not quite so polite, that someone might call, ‘All right, bab!’ to her as they might to one of their own. But she was the boss’s niece, so they were all watchful and polite.

‘You after Mr Watts?’ One of the men, blowpipe in hand, removed his Woodbine from his mouth and set it down on the bench. ‘’E’s up the far end.’