Have you ever thought about money, and the amount of hands it passes through, the different reasons it is spent?
A while ago I had an idea about a collection of stories all connected by a pound coin. The characters would all range in age, background, personality and motives, highlighting the way we are all so diverse yet ultimately connected.
Here is the first story.
Brian Brown
‘…and don’t
spend it all at once!’
All at once?
Would it be possible to spend it otherwise? To cut the coin in half would take
great effort; a helping hand from the world’s strongest man, a miniature
circular saw. Brian, little bonny Brian, held the pound and squeezed it. It
felt solid, as if it always was and always will be. Much as he wished he could break it in bits
to spend over time, he liked the feel of it, there was a finality to it. I
either have this pound or I don’t, thought Brian.
Brian Brown
turned eight today. At quarter to seven this morning, the stars aligned in a
familiar sequence, Brian’s cosmic cradle bore yet again. He was fast asleep,
dreaming of motion and shape shifting, the moment he turned eight. It wasn’t
until nine o’clock that his mother, Frances Brown, rat-a-tatted on his door and
cooed ‘Briiiiian, wakey waaaaaakey’, a sing song see saw that gently lifted him
from his sleep.
Every
birthday was the same, keeping with traditions and habits to create stability,
to comfort against change. On the mornings of her birthdays, Frances Brown
would think, ‘one year closer to death’. On her son’s, today, she thought ‘one
year closer to life’. He was at the age where getting older was a celebration,
each year a victory of height, strength, times tables and teeth.
As Brian
stretched and yawned his mother set down the breakfast tray on his bed,
cautiously popping her bottom beside it, careful not to disturb. On the tray
there lay an array of treats. Instead of toast there was two halves of an
English muffin, buttered and steaming. There were strips of streaky bacon,
cooked to a crisp, and beside them three long chipolata sausages. In an ornate
dish there was a pile of freshly washed berries. The star of the show was the
tall glass full of frothy strawberry milkshake, a straw tempting its way out of
it.
‘Go on, eat
up’, Mrs. Brown said with a smile. She smoothed the covers around Brian as he
shuffled upright and rubbed his eyes. He had never been the sort of child who
gets the birthday jitters and jumps around at the crack of dawn. He was a
reserved boy, sandy haired and meek, with a milky quality that caused him to
blend into situations and cause little fuss. A handy trait in a child, you say.
Mrs. Brown certainly agreed.
Many a
summer’s evening she would drag Brian along to barbecues and dinner parties,
dressing him in a miniature suit, with a shy smile to boot. He would follow her
like a tail, feeling glad for the exclusive nature of adult conversations. He
could just look down, stare at his feet, travel far into his head and mingle
with thoughts and imaginings, a comfortable world. A world which was not filled
with so many boring suits and the clip clops of heels. The times when he was
ignored were the best times. The worst was when his mother’s friends would try
and introduce him to their kids. Snotty, stinky, big kids who all knew each
other and had new toys on every occasion. Why did adults think just because you
were the same height you would get along? Brian had once gone to a petting zoo.
Staring into the eyes of a goat had not sparked any mutual interest or
communication, why should it be any different with a human child? Every time he
was herded into the ‘play room’ or the sandpit so he could be with ‘people his
own age’, he would get a shiver of electricity, a spark of panic, seeing his
mother so far away and so engrossed in her own life. I’m scared, what do I say? Do I say anything at all? These kids seem mean…
The turmoil
of youth and its social politics can go greatly ignored. When Brian returned
home from school with bruises on his arms Mrs. Brown turned a blind eye and let
the century old excuse, ‘boys will be boys’, ring loud and clear in her head.
She always asked, ‘How was school?’, but never asked, ‘How are you?’
Brian is not
the kind of boy who presents information to the world. He is the kind who sucks
everything up, is open like a wound, and lets everything come and go. He is a
watcher. In life, how do we explain these attributes? Are they ingrained or
changeable? For Brian, there was a point, a pinnacle before this way or that
way, which provided him with his introversion.
It was when his father, Benjie Brown, died in a car crash two years ago,
when Brian was six. Brian remembers when he was told one morning at school. He
and the other pupils were all sat in a half circle, facing Miss Jones, as she told
them a story about a dragon who couldn’t breathe fire. Nanny Price the
receptionist creaked the classroom door open and excused herself with a
quivering lip. She beckoned Brian over, he almost felt proud for being
selected. He was not usually picked out from the crowd.
And then,
the words, the words that sounded like a story. How could Nanny Price’s lilting
hushed tone possibly encapsulate the horror of the words? Poor little Brian was
only a boy, is only a boy. But he understood. He experienced a loss, profound
and mystical, and all colour drained from the corridor and even from outside
the window. Did he cry? Not physically. He was too shocked and incredulous to
express any emotion. He was dumfounded. People underestimate the lengths a
child’s mind can travel; we seem to think that we adults have the coherent
thoughts, the capacity to rationalise and to predict what’s next. But that
morning, six year old Brian’s mind travelled forward to years in the future. He
imagined his mother without his father. He imagined a house with only two. He
imagined the silence, the tidiness, the stifling cleanliness. His father,
Benjie Brown, was a mechanic, a burly, manly sort. He epitomised his work,
returning home at five o’clock with a dirty face that made him look tanned, and
a jumpsuit that bore the marks of his day. He was like a surgeon with the blood
and guts of engines splattered all over him. To Brian he meant mess- wild,
playful, energetic mess. His mother would always be faffing around him,
cleaning up the dirty footprints that he trailed behind him everywhere like
breadcrumbs.
So, Dad was
gone. Where did that leave Mum? Brian thought less about his reaction, and more
about his mothers’. Her purpose was her ‘lads’, the two B’s, Benjamin and
Brian. Blonde hair, blue eyes, blood bound. Brian was confused. Images of
coffins and gravestones popped into his head. He had seen things like that on
TV, and knew that it was sad.
Brian was
whisked away from school in the receptionist’s car, and was driven to his home
three miles away in a leafy suburb. All the while he was blank as a sheet,
staring in front, eyes open, vision closed. Nanny Price was out of her depth,
she alternated between chirpy words of false hope and long periods of solemn
silence. She escorted him to his front door, and this was the moment, that
defining droplet in Brian’s ocean, that made him shy away from the world. His
mother’s wails seeped through the walls like a poisonous gas and shocked his
core. Entering the stale living room sent a white-hot pain through him. Frances
Brown was curled up on the floor, her clenched fists banging the carpet, her
back heaving with sobs. Brian ran over to her and squeezed and squeezed.
‘Don’t cry,
Mum. Don’t cry.’
He knew,
from that moment, that it was just him and her now. He needed her because she
was all he had, she needed him because he was all she had. It was a double act
now, not a team. They would have to try extra hard to be a family. Brian
thought, who would she clean up after now?
As it was on
every birthday, Brian got dressed in his Sunday best and combed his hair into a
sleek side parting. Mrs. Brown straightened his bow tie and brushed his
shoulders, to rid of the dust that had accumulated since last year. She would
chatter on meaninglessly, exhausting Brian with her incessant ‘Well isn’t it a
lovely day! Well aren’t you looking bonny! Well could you ever wish for a better
suit than this!’ He kept quiet and nodded. He saw his father in her watery blue
eyes, he saw her loss and felt it too. Looking in the mirror, he tried to find
some of his father’s traits. His square jaw, maybe? Certainly the hair, the
wispy golden mop. But there was no laughter, no mischievous glint in the eye,
only Brian’s reflection, a reminder of a life forgotten.
At about
half past eleven, Brian and his mother left the house looking like dolls. Mrs.
Brown made doubly sure that she had locked the front door, and peered into the
window to make sure all the lights were off. Nothing worse than waste. Nothing
worse than forgotten light switches. She held Brian’s hand and guided him
through the front gate, which she slammed close with a screech. Turning left
towards the main road, the journey began, as it did every year, to Gran’s.
Gran was
Mrs. Brown’s mother. Her name was Cynthia Wills and she stank of lavender and
self-importance. Brian saw her as a large bony bird, a vulture. She had a nose
that dipped into her teacup and a hunched posture that conjured images of
witches and gargoyles. She was not a hag by any means, but Brian, in his eight-year-old
innocence, could see right through her fancy frills. Her smile was not warm, it
was grotesque. Her high head of curls was not tastefully styled, it was
frightful. She wore Christmas tree jewellery and bright floral two piece suits
that made Brian dizzy. She lived by herself on the posh side of town, with
Waitrose round the corner and no kebab shops to be seen. Brian dreaded these
visits. Perhaps this is why he was never particularly excited for his birthday.
It meant stiff suits and fuss that grated on him, nails on a blackboard, that
sort of feeling.
‘Oh, hello
Frances, hello Brian! Don’t you look wonderful, the pair of you! Oh, what a
sight for a dithering old biddy like me! Come in, come in, I have tea ready and
Marcella’s just left so the house is nice and clean. Oh, Brian, won’t you smile
for your grandmother? Cat still got your tongue? Frances, what do you feed this
boy? Stinging nettles? Hurt to talk, does it Brian? Come on boy!’
With each
rasping syllable Brian’s stomach tightened. It made him want to implode on
himself and disappear. He looked down, and further down, until his neck hurt.
His lips tightened until locked. Gran turned to go inside so they followed.
Brian noticed that his mother became considerably quieter around Gran. She was
the one that did all the talking at home, but here, at 42 Glenroy Street, she
did a lot more nodding and mmming.
The house
was shiny with polish and smelt of synthetic freshness. Cotton Delight,
Lavender Dreams, Lemony Zest. Brian hated it all. Everything looked like a
photograph. They walked through into the lounge, where there was a tea set
arranged on the glass topped coffee table. The teapot and cups and saucers all
matched (naturally) and were decorated with flowers. Gran and Mrs. Brown sat
next to each other on the sofa, Brian on the large armchair opposite. Everyone
went through the birthday motions, handing him his cards and his presents. From
his mother, socks and a new shirt, blue and crisp. He also got a few story
books and a large tin of boiled sweets. From his Gran, it was always the same.
A card with a pound stuck inside it with sellotape. She was still stuck in the
era where a singular coin meant a lot, so gave it to Brian with an air of
pride. He thanked them politely.
As the
grownups chattered on, Brian planted his hands beneath his buttocks, and
clenched. He tapped his shoes together, click clicking, and indulged in his
imagination. Where was he now? Outer space, floating in a bubble, trapped but
warm. Or the Wild West, on a horse, galloping and free, cowboy hat bouncing in
the breeze. He was a mouse now, burrowing his way into a bed of leaves, knowing
it was his bedtime because of the owl’s twit-twoo.
‘Brian!
Brian! Will you answer your Gran please? He is an awful dreamer, he really is!’
Brian gazed
up hesitantly.
‘Yes Brian,
what I was saying was, wouldn’t it be lovely if all three of us could go on a
trip away somewhere? How about Cornwall? There are some lovely beaches down
there. Great tea rooms as well, very tasteful, very tasteful. Frances, you
really ought to discipline this boy! All he’s doing is looking up at me like a
simpleton! Have you had him tested? For disability, I mean. They can help you,
you know, in schools now. I’ve never met someone so quiet! There’s a fine line
between shyness and rudeness you know…’
Brian
listened and stared. What was this feeling that was building up in him? It was
bubbling and squeaking like an overheated stew. He fidgeted on his chair.
Suddenly things were getting a bit much. The steam from the teapot was rising
and the grandfather clock behind him was loud and oppressive. Everything
sharpened and a rage seared through him, vital and real. He closed his eyes and
in his head straight lines began to appear, pointing somewhere.
On an on,
the women’s voices droned, rising and falling with put on emphasis, stirring
Brian’s stomach into a sticky slush. Who were these people? He knew what family
meant, he knew that you were born into one, and you had to stay there, but if
they didn’t understand you, who could? He looked outside through the large bay
windows that faced the street. It was quiet out there, a nothing day, the sky
was an inoffensive pale yellow. A van drove past with ‘Mike’s Motor Rescue’
written on its side. Mrs. Brown looked up and her eyes flickered. She cleared
her throat and reached over to her tea cup, which shivered in its saucer. There
was a prolonged silence which rose and fell with each of their breaths.
‘Oh yes,
Mike, I thought I recognised him! He was friends with your Benjamin wasn’t he?
Bad apple though, that Mike’, Gran interjected. She looked about the room for
an answer but even Mrs. Brown had frozen up. This was a sensitive subject which
Gran seemed to be completely immune from. This was not the first time she had
mentioned Brian’s father with nonchalance. She had never been fond of him,
thinking him working class and brutish, even his death had not redeemed him.
‘Although
Benjamin was always well behaved, which is all you can expect from that kind of
family!’
Brian was
determined not to cry. He welled up and it felt like there were oceans under
there but he swallowed and managed to say with a teeny tiny voice, ‘I’m going
to the toilet’. As he stood up from his chair he glanced at his mother and felt
sorry for her. Gran was still talking, how did she have so much to say? There
were too many words floating around the room, words like time machines. He had
to go.
Brian never
broke the rules. He was never late back from school, he had never stole a sweet
in his life, his homework was done on time. It was curious then, that instead
of turning left up the stairs to the bathroom, he carried on walking, past the
picture frames and the sign that said ‘Welcome’ and through the front door
which opened with a click. He stepped out into the world and thought, so this
is what it feels like to be a bad boy. It felt good.
Without
doubt or hesitation, he walked briskly past the hedgerows and sounds of
lawnmowers, running his fingers along every wall he passed, taking note of
every texture, liking the heat that the friction was causing. He looked down at
his feet at the shiny shoes and stepped on every crack on the pavement. He saw
a puddle of oil on the road and dipped his foot into it, with caution at first,
and then with force. People passed but didn’t notice. He wondered if his mother
had noticed he’d left yet. He liked the idea of her worrying, he could imagine
her shock, Gran’s disapproval. He suddenly wanted them to disapprove, he wanted
them to treat him like a little rascal not a little gentleman. He took off his
bow tie and flung it into a bin. His mother would be so angry. How delightful!
Time had
done that funny thing of going on without you, and before he knew, Brian had
reached the Edge of Town. The Edge of Town was always mentioned by his Gran
with a downturned mouth. It was where the rich suburbs ended and the outskirts
of the city began. This was where you found your disillusioned delinquents,
your dirty drug addicts, your dim witted doleys, according to Gran. Stay away,
she would say. But she was at home, and Brian was feeling brave. He could tell
it was the Edge of Town because of the people. There were more of them and they
looked like they were in a hurry. He recognised this street; a memory was
creeping back to him. His father had taken him here once, in his work van.
Brian loved to sit next to him in the front seat, even though his mother said
he was not allowed. Benjie Brown would always say, ‘What your mother doesn’t
know won’t kill her.’ That day was a special treat because Brian was allowed to
be with his father all day, it was a weekend. He didn’t remember doing much,
only driving around; his father’s whistling a suitable soundtrack.
He was too
young then. He felt older now, walking by himself, dodging the people and
prams. He could smell something strange, delicious and meaty, coming from a
take away. He felt his father all around, this was his territory. He heard his
voice in the gruff tones around him, and saw his weather beaten face in the men
that stood smoking outside the pubs. There was dirt and scum stuck to the
pavement, chewing gum dotted around like pebbles on a beach. Even though he was
a little scared, he was on a risky high, he hadn’t felt this kind of excitement
for a long time. He did what he did best and watched. There were fathers and
sons, girlfriends and boyfriends, mothers and babies, and they all looked like
they didn’t care about afternoon tea and trips to Cornwall. They were getting
on with everything, he wished he knew how to move that fast.
Glancing to
his left, a colourful sign drew his attention. ‘Toys for Boys’ was written in
jaunty rainbow colours on the dirty window. It was hand painted and was
starting to peel and crack. Brian looked in shyly, not wanting to appear nosy.
The shop was empty, apart from a hunched figure at the desk. All the shelves
were packed with bits and bobs, old train sets, wooden guns, big glass jars of
marbles. The floor looked dusty, the floor boards were bare, and it seemed like
a place forgotten. Because there were no customers Brian decided to go inside.
There was a
bell attached to the door which rung with a trill when it was opened. The smell
of dust and must came over him instantly, and he was reminded of the saloons of
the Wild West he’d read about in books, he imagined they would smell like this.
Like the inside of a vacuum cleaner.
‘Hello son!’
The hunched
figure had turned around and was now facing Brian a few feet away at the
counter. He was an old man, withered and wiry, with glasses perched on his nose
and white hair that was fighting to stay on. He looked friendly, and was
leaning against the wooden counter with a casual stance, a cloth hanging from
his jean pocket.
‘Looking for
anything in particular?’ asked the shopkeeper. Brian shook his head. His
shyness slapped him in the face, reminding him that he was in an unfamiliar
place, that this was a stranger, that he had run away. He looked down at his
shoes, the oil was seeping on to the floorboards.
‘Just want a
look around then do you? No harm in that. You can’t steal with your eyes can
you!’
The
shopkeeper turned around, whistling a tune that sounded like a lullaby. Brian
didn’t know what to do. Adults made him uncomfortable, but there was something
calm and unassuming about this one that gave him some confidence. He looked
around and after a while he couldn’t help but move towards the shelves that
lined the walls of the shop. It was a mosaic of tin and wood and cardboard
containers. Everything looked washed out in colour but there was a brightness
to it all, a magical antiquity that fascinated Brian. He walked up and down,
catching glimpses of old boxes.
The Ultimate Adventure Kit
Jungle Jigsaw- A Thousand Pieces, A
Thousand Creatures!
Biggest Yo-Yo in the World
What was
this place? The strange, dusty treasures that lay here were new to him in their
age. Never had he seen such adventure, it did not seem to matter that outside
the window was a grey world of concrete and fumes, in here he was a little boy
set free to be.
Then his
eyes were drawn to the corner of the shop. He walked towards it and in front of
him was a large blue truck, about the size of a cat. It looked in much better
condition than all the other toys, but Brian could tell that it was old because
of the style. It was a truck from the fifties, round-edged and classic looking,
with big round headlights that looked like eyes. He crouched down and was
compelled to touch it, to run his fingers over the cool metal and stroke the
rubbery tyres. In a flash, he felt his father again, his love of cars and
engines and messy machines.
‘You like
that do you, son?’
Brian was
startled, and quickly drew his hand away, standing upright.
‘Sorry sir,
I…I didn’t mean to touch it.’
‘Don’t be
silly! Touch it all you want! These toys are meant to be touched, not to sit
here and rot. No one ever comes in these days. All boys want is computer games
and bang bang shoot the zombies!’
‘It’s a nice
truck. My dad liked trucks.’
‘Did he
now…A real man. Do you want to buy it, son?’
Brian looked
down at the truck and thought of the time, what time was it now, was his mother
worried, had she called the police, would it be back to school, back to
silence, back to crusts cut off and Sunday lunch and Gran who dribbled poison
from her tongue. Brian nodded at the shopkeeper and reached into his pocket.
‘I only have
this though…It’s not much.’
He handed
over the pound that he had been given earlier that day. The shopkeeper took it
from him and gave a light chuckle which echoed in the room.
‘Well, it is
worth more than that, I have to tell you. But do you know what, you look like
you’ve taken quite a fancy to it, I haven’t seen wide eyes like that since I
myself was a kid! That’ll do just fine, son.’
‘Thank you,
sir.’
Brian walked back to where the truck was sitting
and picked it up. He had to use both arms, wrapping them around it like a
newborn.
