When 12-year-old John Nicol gets a job at the Forth Bridge construction site, he knows it’s dangerous.  But John has no choice—with his father gone, he must provide an income for his family—even if he is terrified of heights. John meanwhile finds comfort in the new Carnegie library, his friend Cora and his squirrel companion, Rusty. Read an excerpt the morning of John’s twelfth birthday and his first encounter with the life-changing power of books.  

Rivet Boy
By Barbara Henderson
Published by Cranachan Publishing

13th September 1888 

I wake in a pool of sweat. Seagulls screech, clouds roll and lightning flashes in my dream-darkness. I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood and open my eyes. 

A wedge of moonlight shines onto the floor through the gap in the curtain, and the sky is already lightening a little. Dey snores in his little bedroom off the hall, the only bedroom in our flat. Mother shuffles on her mattress in the kitchen alcove and I pull my blanket tight around my shoulders where I lie on the floor. What little light and warmth the range offered has disappeared, and now our flat is shrouded in a ghostly gloom. The second I close my eyes again, I am falling, falling, falling… 

‘John!’ Mother’s whisper is directed right into my ear, and I wince away with the fright. ‘What in heaven’s name is wrong with you? Can we get a wink of sleep around here if you please? You of all people will need it, with starting as a brigger on Monday.’ 

I can’t describe what I am seeing in my mind’s eye, so I don’t try. 

‘Sorry, Mother.’ 

‘If you cry out like that again, the wee one will wake, I’m sure of it, and then none of us are going to get any sleep at all—wheesht now!’ she whispers. 

Her wagging finger is right in front of my nose. I answer by rolling my eyes. She clips me round the head—I didn’t think it was that obvious! Gosh, I need to keep my temper in better check. 

Turning towards the range and facing the kitchen wall, the sounds of the night envelop me again. Footsteps from the tavern, the hoot of an owl, the faraway rush of the Firth. The rustling.  

My eyes ping open. I fear the rats almost as much as I fear heights, but there is no need to worry—it’s only a mouse, still a little fluffy. It has emerged from the crack beside the cooker, looking bewildered and disorientated just like me. Scrambling and snuffling, it makes its way along the edge of the wall. Can it tell that I am watching? Lying on the floor, we are the same: too young and too fluffy for the big world around us. On impulse, I sit up and the mouse shoots back into the crack from whence it came. Mother is breathing deeply again. Moving slowly, I raise myself up and tiptoe to the larder. The door doesn’t creak much if you lift it a little, and I reach in for a crust of bread. Just a little will do the job. I crouch in front of the crack and place the crumbs on the floor in the shadow of the range. This way it looks like we missed this corner in the sweeping. 

Crawling back under the cover, I stretch out and stare at the ceiling, but sleep will not come. Thoughts do though, and worries. Today is my birthday. No one should be sad on their birthday. Besides, I am now the proud owner of a book with empty pages. 

I doze until Mother begins to stir in the kitchen. 

Thursday, the 13th of September 1888. I am twelve. 

I can’t help feeling excited. After all, I am going to the new Carnegie Library as a birthday treat. With Dey’s bad leg and Mother so busy with the wee one, I am usually needed for chores and errands, but today is different. By late morning, Mother says the words I have been waiting for. 

‘Right! Now don’t say Mrs Nicol does not keep a birthday promise to her only son. You’re a man now, John, and you’ll be a working man all too soon. I wish it was different, but that can’t be helped. Today is your day. You may go to the library; I know you want to. Take out your membership as a birthday treat. Now, I’ve been in to see the librarian and he assures me there will be no problem. Remember to look after anything you borrow though—we’ve no money to pay for replacements, mind.’ 

‘I will, Mother.’ 

I walk up along Priory Lane and St Margaret Street before turning the corner to reach the Abbot Street entrance to the library. I have often walked past and wondered what a proper library may look like inside. The well-to-do gentlemen who step so confidently up the stone stairs to its imposing door belong to another world. How could I join them? I feel awe, but also peace as I narrow my eyes against the sun, high in the noon sky, and read the words. Carnegie Public Library. The letters are chiselled into the pointed arch above the door, rounded, swirling and simply perfect. The carved stone sun beneath the arch seems to be turning a blind eye to me, the boy sneaking into a man’s world. Taking the three steps in one giant leap, I am through the door and into the muted light inside. For a moment, it takes my breath away. 

How silent it is in here, like a church. I am reminded of the deafening noise of the bridge site. Here one can breathe and think. Dust motes dance in the sunlight from each window. The tiles ooze a comfortable cool, and in the distance, posh shoes tap up and down the polished staircase with its wrought-iron banister. I tiptoe into the lending room and suddenly, stories soar all around me. 

Rivet Boy by Barbara Henderson is published by Cranachan Publishing, priced £7.99.