Writing for Fun
July 2019
Cashflow - Anne Wilson
The days seemed interminable to him: hour upon hour ticking endlessly away in a summer of relentlessly dull, overcast weather. Cloistered in the company of his younger sister, he thought they would never end.
There was seven years difference in age between them and his parents had earnestly reassured him from the day she was born that in years to come he would cherish their relationship and look back on these times as a momentary nuisance, far outweighed by the benefits of having a loving, supportive sibling in adulthood. To someone of thirteen, though, the present is ‘everything’ and he was unable to rationalise their point of view.
In rare moments (mainly when she stopped talking) he would ponder the benefits of this experiment – the first time he had been entrusted with such an important family matter, there being no other immediate relatives or friends with contemporary children on hand and childminders’ rates being beyond his parents’ in their current economic situation. The arrangement was only a temporary one, after all, to cover the school holidays and, more importantly, he was going to be remunerated for his sacrifice. In truth, his contemporaries found him haughty and superior and invitations to visit their homes were infrequent – hence his availability as a child minder during the school holidays, coming as it did with an almost in-built guarantee that he was not popular enough to yield to the temptation of going out and leaving his charge on her own. His pleasures were cerebral and mainly comprised reading: a thirteen year old with the head of a sedate, unadventurous middle aged man on his shoulders.
‘What’s a cash flow problem?’ she asked him one morning as he sat with his head in his book and she sat on the breakfast stool, swinging her legs.
He sighed deeply. She was a curious child.
‘It’s just a silly expression grow ups use’ he responded grudgingly, not looking up from his book. ‘Why?’
‘It’s what Daddy said when Mummy asked him if she could buy something the other day’. She looked pensive and bit into an apple slowly. ‘She asked him again and then he shouted at her and told her that money doesn’t grow on trees. I think that’s silly. He doesn’t need to tell her that. Even I know that and I’m not a grown up.’
He sensed a small avenue of opportunity. ‘You never know. There could be money growing on the leaves of the tree in our back garden. Go and look. It could keep you occupied for hours.’
‘I don’t need to look,’ she smirked in a superior fashion. ‘I know where I can find money and it’s not on that tree. And I’m going to tell Mummy and Daddy you were unkind to me and teased me.’
He sighed his customary deep, irritated sigh.
‘Alright. It’s just another silly expression. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. And don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s disgusting.’
She swung her legs on the stool – a sign she was getting restless.
‘I know things you don’t know,’ she said defiantly.
He looked up from his book reluctantly. A sly look came into her eyes, mingled together with a slight uncertainty - as if she knew the knowledge she held was important, but could not really understand its full implication.
‘Daddy got very cross with Mummy that time they were both talking about money,’ she informed him solemnly. ‘I saw it all from behind the door, where I was standing. He hit her across the face and she cried. I ran away before they could see me.’
This piece of information startled him. He sensed that their parents’ relationship was not a loving one, but as his own personality was not one governed by warmth, it had never fazed him.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he retorted but a doubt had crept into his mind nevertheless.
She smiled smugly – pleased that she had the upper hand.
‘I know somewhere where there’s lots of money’ she said again. ‘If you play with me, I’ll show you.’
He sighed deeply.
‘Just leave me alone, will you?’ There was a short silence.
‘Why won’t you tell me what a cash flow problem is?’ she said after a little time had elapsed.
There was no response. He carried on reading.
‘If you don’t tell me’, she said sulkily, ‘I’ll tell Mummy and Daddy you left me alone for a long time today.’
He had little fear of any parental ramifications from the threat because he knew it was an accusation that would not be believed. It was unlikely he would have left the confines of the house. He had no friends to visit and therefore no adventures to pursue. In a perverse way this painful truth was more humiliating than if he had broken his parents’ trust and he did not want his social inadequacies brought to his sister’s attention.
‘If you promise to just shut up afterwards and leave me in peace, I’ll tell you,’ he bargained. She nodded in agreement and he lowered his book. ‘I’m going to take you into my confidence,’ he smiled, leaning towards her. ‘You’re right. Money doesn’t go on trees. It flows through rivers and oceans before it enters into the plumbing systems of the kitchens and bathrooms in people’s houses, coming out through the spouts of the taps in their sinks. That’s why they call it cash flow.’ Her mouth gaped open. ‘You must keep the notes watered, though, just like a plant. If the money dries out before you get a chance to spend it, it’ll block new money from flowing into the system.’ He picked his book up with a flourish. ‘Then you have a problem.’
She looked puzzled. ‘What sort of a problem?’
He decided to bring some domestic drama into the equation. ‘If you have no money, you can’t eat. Eventually you may have to move out of your house and sleep in the garden.’ He raised his book up to his nose again with a flourish. ‘You might have to sell all your clothes and walk around naked.’
She was not sure what ‘naked’ meant, but it didn’t sound very nice. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose in doubt.
He shrugged.
‘Absolutely.’
She climbed down from the breakfast bar stool and scampered away.
The days passed relatively peacefully and he immersed himself in his books, whilst his sister busied herself with various childlike activities in which she did not ask him to participate. Uncertain though he was regarding the validity of her story, he kept a watchful eye out for any displays of anger between his parents. They seemed superficially civil with each other but the news of their disagreement had forced him to notice a hitherto unnoticed coldness between them, which he rationalised as auto suggestion.
The school holidays were nearing their end and one evening he was lying in his bedroom contemplating the child-minding payment due to him, when he heard a piercing scream. He knew the timbre of the voice well. It was his mother’s and he could tell instinctively by the resonance that it came from the kitchen. He was normally very phlegmatic – a bit of a cold fish many people said – but its tone chilled him to the marrow. He dashed downstairs and found her standing by the sink, sifting tiny pieces of paper through the fingers of her left hand. Some of the soggy, predominantly red pieces of paper clung on to her obstinately, unwilling to surrender themselves to the floor below, whilst other small pieces cascaded in tatters; their only recognisable remaining feature being fragments of the smiling face of Her Majesty, The Queen.
‘This was mine!’ she screeched, jabbing her chest with the second finger of her right hand over and over again in order to emphasise ownership. ‘Money for the start a new life for us. Away from him. Do you know how long it’s taken me to save this amount? Now I’ve got to start all over again.’ Her chest heaved. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’ She sank down her chair.
He stared in stupefaction at the sight before him. Tears rolled down her face but she made no attempt to brush them away.
He heard the patter of footsteps behind him and a little figure materialised through the door, surveying the mess and the two browbeaten people before her.
‘Oh Mummy,’ she sobbed ‘I found the money tied up in that bag under the sink, at the beginning of the holidays but I didn’t tell anyone. Honestly I didn’t. Every time I went to look there was more and more there. I counted it every day.’
‘I was putting it there,’ said her mother dully. ‘That’s why.’ She reached out and clutched her daughter’s hands. ‘Why? Why on earth did you pour water all over it? It’s drenched and it’s worthless now.’
Bile rose in the boy’s throat. He knew why.
‘Because of our cash flow problem,’ she said defiantly. ‘You and Daddy were fighting about it. ‘Nobody was looking after the money and watering it, so I knew it would stop new money coming in from the sea and it wouldn’t flow any more. I didn’t want us to move out of the house into the garden and go without food and walk around without any clothes on, so yesterday I decided to fill a great big jug and pour loads and loads of water all over it.’ A tear ran down her cheek.
Her mother blinked uncomprehendingly at this convoluted explanation but eventually a light started to dawn in her brain.
She advanced towards her son with a glint in her eye.
‘Do you know anything about all this?’ she asked, in a measured voice belying her anger.
He fled upstairs and into his bedroom, locking the door in the process. Instinctively, he knew he was not going to get paid for his child-minding assignment.