Writing for Fun
April 2017
Pennies From Heaven - Anne Wilson
He wrinkled his nose disdainfully. The smell of incense always infiltrated his nostrils and resolutely remained there throughout the day, but he grudgingly came to realise that this was his Sunday penance.
Sammy was not a devout child but he was the product of lower middle class parents where the female half of the partnership took her spiritual duties very seriously and the male half danced to her tune. At the age of eight their offspring was scarcely in a position to do anything other than accompany his parents on their weekly spiritual Sunday morning journey. Extracurricular activities in the early nineteen fifties on the Sabbath were limited and he was not spoiled for choice. Even television, a recent luxurious addition to his household, was limited to one channel. An air of piety adopted by the BBC in those times dictated that nothing frivolous could darken its broadcasting doors on that day other than religion and thus he felt himself accosted by it from all sides.
Increasing boredom with the ritual of the service had resulted in antipathy and a gradual worsening of his behaviour within those hallowed portals. One week he started to fidget in his pew in anticipation of a lengthy sermon administered by the overly-earnest vicar and felt a light tap on his knee from his mother in admonishment. Efforts to then surreptitiously unwrap a boiled sweet amounted to nothing as the inherent stickiness made it difficult to complete the task without the rustling sound proving distracting to those around him. It was returned to the pocket of his short trousers in defeat where its stickiness proliferated following an introduction to his hitherto clean white handkerchief.
In desperation, he then started to thumb through the dog-eared hymnbook placed so carefully before him, but the book fell to the floor early on in his efforts, making a loud thud as it did so and coinciding with the vicar's plea to his congregation for 'Peace On Earth To All Men'.
He sensed his parents' displeasure – particularly when, at the end of the service he rose from the pew to exit and his mother's hand clutched his in a vice-like grip: usually an ominous sign. He was not wrong and stern rebukes awaited him once the family were safely through the front door of their own home. Lunch was a subdued affair and he was sent up to his room once the last mouthful of treacle pudding had passed his eager lips.
The meal had made him full and there seemed little option other than to curl up in a ball on his bed. He turned the pillow over to make himself more comfortable and to his astonishment found three pennies residing underneath. To a boy his age in the nineteen fifties this was an embarrassment of riches, bringing with it endless possibilities. He was not a hoarder by nature, but it was essential to keep the money hidden lest he was asked to return it, so he dropped the pennies through the slit in his money box. He went to sleep contentedly. The passing of seven days had done little to improve Sammy's appetite for things spiritual and once again his unacceptable behaviour at the service resulted in excommunication from the excitement of Sunday afternoon family activities, which that week included a visit by his hard of hearing maternal grandmother. Flopping down once more on the bed, he lifted his pillow to find another three pennies. Again, he dropped them ceremoniously in his moneybox.
By the end of the month and with a further two church attendances resulting in a slight improvement in behaviour he had amassed twelve pennies from investigating from merely lifting his bedroom pillow. Not usually a profound thinker he began to contemplate the possibility that his virtue was being rewarded by a power beyond his knowledge or control. The money was certainly not being left by the tooth fairy, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. His teeth were currently intact and he had lost none for months.
Then the worst happened. On the fifth Sunday, he awoke with nose streaming and a speaking voice like gravel. Confined to his bed he was left to the ministrations of his father, whilst his mother indulged herself in spiritual enlightenment followed by the cooking of the Sunday roast, in which Sammy was too ill to partake that week. Tossing and turning fitfully in bed all day he was disappointed to find by the end of it that he had not been rewarded. There was nothing under the pillow. A lessening of spiritual devotion had to be the reason and he vowed to redress the sin.
Sammy returned to church the following week with an evangelical fervour possibly inappropriate to the sobriety of a Church of England service but assuredly influenced by the desire to acquire more money. Some Sunday evenings upon retiring to bed he would find anything up to six pennies under the pillow. His spirituality became a byword amongst the congregation. Never had a child of his age sat in the pew and listened with such rapt attention.
Only on reaching puberty did his faith waiver and result in a tendency towards more worldly pleasures. By that time, it was of less consequence to his mother who accepted that he had become of an age when he could no longer be forced into accompanying parents on outings against his will.
Around the same time the Sunday collection plate started to benefit from a small increase each week – usually by anything up to sixpence in value. Sammy's mother remained in blissful ignorance of this somewhat negligible ascent in the church coffers. Sammy's father, however, a sidesman invariably on the rota for collection duties held the pragmatic view that a little dishonesty on his part over the years had been justified. It had ultimately ensured a peaceful Sunday afternoon.