Writing for Fun
July 2019
Cashflow - Pete Norman
On the few occasions when the sun cast its warm rays over the Sunnyside Nursing Home in the early afternoon, the inmates were wheeled out to absorb their daily dose of vitamin D. Most opted for the semi-circle of chairs on the patio – which most conveniently placed for the toilet – but John Bond always preferred to settle in a quiet corner of the lawn, as far away from the wheezers, snorers and whingers as the gestapo would allow. This corner was also the favourite haunt of Joanna – one of his Bond girls – and she never wheezed, seldom snored and, as for whinging, whenever Joanna made up her mind to whinge, nowhere in the garden was exempt from her fury. Today, however, she was fast asleep in her reclining chair, with a soft rug wrapped around her legs to keep out the cold, having no regard for the thermometer screwed to the wall above her head, which read 25 degrees.
John was enjoying a few blissfully quiet moments reading without distraction but he looked up when he saw a regular distractor, in the shape of Joanna’s grandson, walking across the lawn in his direction. He put his book down. He didn’t mind William, he was very sensible for his tender years and he quite enjoyed his company. As the boy approached he held up his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Your Nan is asleep . . . and I know for a fact that you ain’t brave enough to risk waking her up.’
This was very much situation normal with his Nan, so William shrugged his shoulders, dragged up a chair and leaned across. ‘What you reading, Uncle John – anything exciting?’
‘Not really – I don’t suppose Charles Dickens has ever been labelled as ‘exciting.’
‘If it’s not exciting, then why’re you reading it?’
John smiled. ‘Because it’s a good read nonetheless. Dickens was the most important social critic of his time. He used fiction to criticize economic, social and moral abuses in the Victorian era.’
William’s eyes glazed over.
John tried a different tack.
He opened up the book and thumbed back a few pages.
‘See what you make of this then: Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and six pence, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.’
William’s lips were moving silently and after a few seconds he said, ‘So the difference, then, between happiness and misery is twelve pence.’
John was suitably impressed. William was twelve going on thirty.
‘In old money twelve pence was called a shilling – because the old pennies were huge and heavy and twelve of them would weigh your pocket down a bit. So the price of happiness was in fact one shiny shilling.’
‘That’s not a lot. If that’s all it takes, why isn’t everyone happy then?’
‘Ahh . . . well, you have to understand that this was a very old book, so nowadays it would probably take a little bit more than a shilling to achieve Nirvana.’
‘What, you mean like 50p?’
John shook his head. ‘Get your phone out, son and ask that Giggle thing what a pound was worth in 1850.’
In a few microseconds Johnathon looked up again. ‘About £120. Wow! So a shilling would be worth about six pounds today.’
John had never really understood the Internet but he yielded to its superior intellect. ‘So, there you go, then, that’s inflation for you – it seems as if the difference between happiness and misery is now six pounds.’ He laughed. ‘When Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield, all Mr Micawber was trying to do was to give some words of wisdom to a young and rather naïve young boy, that you should always try to live within your means. I’m sure that he never for one moment thought that over a hundred and fifty years later people would still be reading his books and taking such details literally.’
William nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, if I could find one of these old shillings then, do you think it would make me very happy.’
‘Maybe so, son, you see before the 1950s they were made of silver and some of them can be quite valuable.’
William put his head to one side. ‘It just so happens that my friend Mike’s brother, Jason, is doing an archaeological dig at the old Civil War battlefield at Edgehill over the summer holidays. Mike said he was going to take his metal detector up there. Perhaps I should go with him and see if we can dig up some treasure.’
John smiled. ‘Why not. It’d probably be fun and you never know, you might get lucky. Besides, at least it will get you away from your computer for a while.’
William grinned and held up his mobile phone. ‘But don’t forget I’ve still got this!’
At that moment Joanna woke up. At the sight of her favourite grandson she exploded into ear-piercing grand-maternal delight. On the pretext of going for a widdle, John grabbed his book and left them to it.
A few weeks later John was settled as usual in his favourite quiet little corner, helping H.G. Wells defeat the dreaded Martians. He was hoping that he could get past the good bit before Joanna woke up but then he saw a distraction making its way across the lawn towards him. He sighed, turned the top of the page over and closed his book.
‘Hello, William. Haven’t see you in ages. Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been up in Stratford with Mike. I did tell you, Uncle John, we took his metal detector to the Edgehill Battleground.’
‘Ah, yes, of course, so you did. And did you find any treasure?’
‘Well . . . not really.’
William reached into his pocket. ‘I brought these to show you . . . a musket ball, three old nails, a pound coin and this . . .’
John took the coin from him. ‘There you are – I told you those old pennies were huge and heavy, didn’t I. Get a few of those in your pocket and it used to make walking difficult.’
‘Yeah but it’s not exactly treasure, is it.’
‘No, maybe not but it’s just like this musket ball here, it’s a piece of history and you found it and you dug it out.’ He tapped his finger on the King’s head. ‘That there is King Edward the seventh, do you see? He was the king in . . .’ he turned the coin over. ‘In 1909 – that’s the date printed on there.’ A distant memory struck him and he paused. He stared at the date. There was something significant about the year. ‘William, get your phone out and Giggle a 1909 penny and see what it says.’
In a few microseconds William broke out in a broad grin. ‘It says that there weren’t many pennies minted that year so they’re worth more. In Mint condition they’re worth £6 each . . . and that’s exactly what the price of happiness is!’
John laughed. ‘Well, what with the pound coin it looks like you’ve got £7 worth of happiness and you’ve still got your musket ball to treasure – not a bad days’ work, eh?’
There was a movement beside them.
‘Treasure? What treasure? Who’s found some treasure?’
Joanna ran her eye over the goods. ‘Load of old junk if you ask me.’ She reached over and picked up the pound coin. ‘But that’d buy your old Nan a Lottery ticket. Perhaps it’s a lucky treasure coin. Perhaps we’ll win the jackpot.’
William conceded without a fight – he knew that, with his Nan, resistance was futile but at least it made her happy – so it looks as if Charles Dickens was right all along . . .