A Penny
Austin Smith had been living rough for several months and was now glad both that the worst of winter was over, and that he had had the courage to leave London and take up a spot in this wealthy and traditional suburban town. Rich people weren’t as generous and tolerant admittedly, but you got a better class of pavement and there was less competition for what little pickings there might be.
The old man was promising, though. Old people were much more thoughtful than youngsters. This old man had stopped purposefully on spying Austin in the recess by the travel agents, and patted down his coat as he sought his wallet. A look of consternation crossed his face.
“Forgot my wallet,” he said apologetically. The most common excuse Austin heard, but probably true this time given the look of dismay on the man’s face. “Well, at least you saved me embarrassing myself in the shops.”
“Happy to help,” Austin said.
The old man dug through his trouser pockets, and produced a fluff-coated penny which he tossed apologetically into Austin’s polystyrene cup. “Better than nothing.”
Austin nodded gratitude at this widow’s mite but said, “What can you get for a penny these days?”
The old man might have said that he could take his girl to a matinee and still have change for fish and chips on the way home back in his day, but he didn’t. He simply acknowledged, “Not much”, and started to shuffle back the way he had come.
As the dejected old man passed the window of the butcher’s shop opposite, Austin saw the butcher observing him with some consternation, and then wiping off his hands on his apron and hurrying to the door.
“Nothing for you today, Mr Nicholson?” the butcher shouted after the old man. He wore a straw hat with a red band and a traditional red overall. Austin liked that.
The old man stopped and shook his head. “Forgot my wallet,” he explained, and then coughed at the effort of raising his voice.
“You don’t need that,” Mark exclaimed, beckoning him in. “Come on, you can pay me tomorrow. It’d be a pity to have to go all the way home just to turn out again.”
The old man smiled gratefully and altered his course toward the shop. Austin watched—because he had nothing else to do—as the men chatted and the butcher wrapped two sausages and put them in a flimsy paper bag. They spoke a while longer, each turning to look at Austin briefly, and seemed to be reaching agreement on something. And then the old man tucked the sausages in their bag into his pocket and resumed his journey home.
As the hands on the town clock nudged towards five-fifteen, Austin straightened out his painful legs, rolled up his blue blanket and stuffed it into his backpack, and looked mournfully into his cup, knowing that there was little there beside the old man’s penny. He hated begging, not least because he wasn’t very good at it, but it beat the alternative.
Still, he had his wits and knew that even with so little money he might still manage some sort of meal. Maybe the butcher would be clearing his hot cabinet—the aroma from those pies had tormented Austin all day—and would be happy to let something go for whatever he could offer, rather than have to throw it out.
“Hello,” the butcher said as Austin entered the shop. “May I help you?”
Austin liked him even more. Not only did he wear traditional garb, but he didn’t let his distaste show. Someone who could be as respectful to some homeless guy who was cluttering up their nice suburban street as he could to the Lady of the Manor was worth knowing.
“Do you have anything you might be throwing out?” Austin asked, angling his cup towards the butcher to demonstrate the paucity of its contents.
The man grinned and indicated his hot counter. Austin noted for the briefest moment that he had the sense not to offer raw meat to a man with no means of cooking it, before feasting his eyes on the sausage rolls, pasties and pies on offer. “Anything you like,” said the butcher, “For a penny.”
A penny? It didn’t take much to join the dots. Austin looked at the butcher and the butcher looked at Austin. This was the old man’s doing.
Austin took his time choosing. The sausage rolls had been made on the premises and looked delicious, but it made more sense to choose something bigger and more balanced. The biggest item available was a wrapped Cornish pasty, and it almost certainly contained potatoes and vegetables too. Austin indicated his choice, handed over the penny, and nodded when the butcher asked whether he would like this feast warmed.
As the butcher tore open the wrapper he peered inside it. Austin wondered why, and then also wondered why the butcher’s eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open. The pasty he longed for fell onto the counter, and Austin felt annoyed for a moment and wondered how clean it was.
“You’ve won,” the butcher said, waving the flimsy film at him and meeting his bemused gaze.
“Won?”
“There’s a competition. On the wrapper. The company’s celebrating its anniversary and it’s been running a competition. And this is the winning pasty.”
Well, there’s a stroke of luck! Austin should have been much more excited than he was, but he had never, ever had anything good happen to him and wasn’t sure how he should respond.
“What have I won?” He asked.
“A holiday,” the butcher replied, lifting up his glasses in order to study the small print. “A seven night all-inclusive luxury holiday for two to Cornwall, including a tour of the pasty factory and a spa day. And golf.”
Austin stared blankly at the butcher. His stomach grumbled. His first thought was that he didn’t have anyone he’d like to take with him.
“May I see the wrapper?” he asked uncertainly. The butcher handed it over and Austin scanned through the terms and conditions. No cash alternative is offered was number 17.
“You have it,” Austin said at exactly the same time as the butcher said, “I’ll buy it from you!”
After an awkward pause the other man insisted, “The pasty is yours, you paid for it. I’ll give you a thousand pounds for that holiday. I haven’t had a holiday in years. I’d love the golf and the wife’d love the spa.”
Austin had whiled away many cold hours on hard pavements working out exactly how much money he’d need to get back on his feet. Money for a deposit on a bedsit, a suit for job interviews, a good haircut, bus fares and a couple of months’ rent to tide him over until he found a job. A thousand pounds should just about do it.
He reached out and shook the butcher’s hand.
“Amazing what you can get for a penny,” he said.
Ironing
Susan had never understood women who claimed they hated ironing. She guessed it might be because ironing was part of housework, and housework was drudgery foisted upon working women while their layabout husbands drank beer and watched pointless sport, but she had always found that there was something magical about taking a garment which resembled a discarded dishrag and turning it into a stunning summer dress that looked ready for the catwalk. She loved the fragrant smell of the steam as it mingled with the fabric softener in the material and enveloped her in a haze of summer jasmine and line-dried linen. She loved seeing her state-of-the-art Smoothglide Deluxe cut through the sharp creases leaving behind fabric which looked brand new and flat as her manicured lawn. Ironing was satisfying, peaceful and fragrant.
She was midway through ironing one of Russell’s Hawes shirts when the man himself appeared in the kitchen, poured himself a coffee and picked up the Financial Times from its place on the breakfast bar. She turned to smile warmly at him, but his attention was already on the paper.
“Good morning, darling,” she said instead. “Looks as though it’s a perfect day for it.”
“What?” He sounded irritated but didn’t look up.
“The weather’s lovely and sunny. Maybe we could eat in the beer garden and then go for a walk along the river.”
He scowled at her over his glasses. “You know I’ve got golf.”
She hadn’t known. Crushed, she protested, “But you said
on your next Saturday off we’d go to The Ox and Plough together…”
“Hmm. Maybe next week.” He showed no sign of remembering his promise, regretting breaking it, or intending to fulfil it later.
She finished the ironing shortly after he left, and busied herself cleaning the house. It was ridiculous really, she often felt as she pushed the vacuum cleaner across four-thousand square feet of Axminster carpet, that they should have this huge five-bedroomed house when it was just the two of them. Four guest rooms and they never had any guests. She couldn’t justify a cleaner, even though Henry had often told her she should get one and there was, after all, plenty of money. What would she do all day if she didn’t have housework? It wasn’t as though Russell let her go to clubs or social events.
She was halfway through watching a repeat of Homes under the Hammer when the phone rang. She reached for it. “Hello?”
The voice at the other end was strangely distorted, as though the person was speaking through an electronic toy. “Susan Keene-Farnsworth?”
“Yes?” she said, because what else could she say?
“We have your husband, Russell,” dalek-voice said. “And we’ll kill him unless you do exactly what we say.”
In Hollywood films, Susan reflected, people receiving such phone calls asked for proof that their loved-one was indeed being held captive. But she didn’t need to do that. There was no mistaking Russell’s pathetic whimpering in the background.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked meekly.
“We want four-hundred-thousand pounds in cash. We want it within the next two hours. Russell says you have some in the safe, and the rest you can get from the Clarity and Royal accounts quite easily.
“Right,” Susan said quietly. “Clarity and Royal.”
“Put the money in the mailbox outside your gates and unlock the box. Once we have the money we will release your husband. If the money isn’t there we will kill him. If we have any reason to suspect you’ve called the police we’ll kill him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Susan replied, and there was a click and buzz as dalek-man hung up.
Susan put the phone back on the cushion beside her. I’m paralysed with fear, she told herself. I don’t know what to think or what to do for the best. But I do know that Russell worked hard for that money and wouldn’t want me to bow to their demands. He would want me to be strong.
She spent fifteen minutes watching a Yorkshire couple turn a dilapidated bungalow into a cosy and comfortable home decorated in neutral shades highlighted with aqua. She’d have loved to live there herself. During the commercial break she got up and headed back to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
The kidnappers were both unambitious and stupid if they thought a mere four-hundred-thousand could change their lives. Assuming there were two of them they could barely buy a house each. Of course, more money would have been difficult to get. Russell had probably told them exactly how much he had in instant access accounts.
The call had been brief, as though they imagined she might somehow have the means to trace or record it. Yes, they were stupid, naïve, unambitious and opportunistic. Maybe they were also desperate, potential killers. They had her husband. What was she going to do?
She paused in thought for just a moment before coming to a decision.
She was going to drink her tea, and then she was going to finish the ironing.