Pennies

In dark corners, against dark boards copper coins lurk almost unseen. Unseen that is except for the sharp eyes of young boys whose games involve much crawling and creeping close to the edge of things, close to the corners, close to the dark places where coins have lain unseen since they slid there unnoticed by their owners. Coins of many reigns: Victoria, Edward, George V, George VI and, brighter, new more easily seen, Elizabeth. Some with Britannia on their tail side, some with a ship in full sail, even some tiny ones with a wren perched on a branch with its tail upright. Coins lodged between floorboards. Coins half stuck under the edge of skirting boards. Coins just under the edge of carpets, down the sides of chairs, under tables, in cracks and crevasses, undetected by all who stand full height, but visible to those whose games take them crawling under and over and through. 

First one coin, and then. A new game? “Can I find more?” One here, one there. Try another room. Try the landing where no windows add light to see these hidden treasure. Try the stairs. Try down the side of the wickerwork settee. Try under cushions and under the front of the dresser. 

Find one stuck edgewise between floorboards. Get a compass and use its point to jack it up and out.

Collect, seek, find, until a little trove is collected. Ah, the delights these could become. Sherbet dips, liquorice – specially the whirls, or even better the ones shaped like pipes – or perhaps a packet of sweet cigarettes, with their bright red ends. Such joy pretending to be grown ups smoking, blowing pretend cigarette rings, offering one another a “fag”. Best of all, perhaps, a bottle of frothy Corona ginger beer with its rubber stopper and “3d”¹ back on the bottle. Good days when finding six empty bottles to take back to the shop would get you the price of a new full one. Then the “pop” sound and you prized back the stopper and it flipped on its hinges going “clink” as it hit the side of the bottle. Pop, clink, fizz. Pop, clink, fizz. The sound of childhood joy. The expectation of the tingling, fizzy warm slightly burning sensation as the pop was guzzled down, the bubbles frothing up and making your nose tickle, followed by a satisfying “burp” as the gas came back up. Looks of approval for those who could produce the loudest or the most frequent.

Full of expectation and wide eyes with the success of the hunt, take the handful of coins to Mother to say,

“Look what I have found! Can I go to the shop and buy some pop?”

A pause. A look of questioning. A frown. These looks were not expected. Then the awful question -

“Where did you get those?” 

“I found them”

“NO YOU DID NOT – NOW TELL THE TRUTH”

“I did, I really did, I crawled all around the house and found them”

“NO YOU DID NOT – YOU ARE LYING – YOU NAUGHTY BOY – YOU STOLE THEM OUT OF MY PURSE. GIVE THEM TO ME AT ONCE.”

An hand comes down from above and seizes my arm, holding it firmly and shaking me.

“Tell the truth - NOW”

The anger and disappointment in the voice is too hard to bear. The injustice. The confusion.

"Give me that money immediately and tell me the truth”

I hand over my hard found treasure trove. Gone all hope of sherbet, or liquorice. Gone all hopes of sweet cigarettes. Gone all hopes of fizzy ginger beer.

The anger drives me down lower and lower into the floor. The look bores through me. I can not look into her face any more. My eyes cast down, my knees weaken. I can feel tears forming. I begin to shake and to hold back the sobs that want to come. I have mortally offended. I know shame and confusion. I know that I have done immense wrong - but have done no wrong. I am condemned and cast out, accused and convicted. There is no appeal. The court has been held and the judgement has been given. I taste the bitter edge of justice and know its unreason. Punishment will now come like an awful pall over the day. There will be no fun or joy. 

Later an uneasy kindness with undertones of disapproval sends me to bed – the repentant double sinner redeemed by living an untruth – as a boy who steals from purses and tells lies.

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1: 3d = three pence in UK pre-decimal coinage