The Shilling

The coin glittered brightly like a mirror where the silver still showed through the grime. Daniel reached down into the gap and disbelievingly picked it up. He wiped it clean, running his fingers over the proud lion he knew so well. Holding it tenderly in his tough hand, he straightened up and took it over to the window. It was beautiful, yet to him it was tainted. A single shilling. One that told his own story. To others, it would never mean anything. Holding it up to the light, he didn’t see the shimmering circle; he saw the laughing face of his father and the betrayed look of his best friend.

---

The heavy door creaked open. Weighty foot steps thumped over the floorboards, and Daniel saw through half-closed eyes the tall silhouette of James, his carpenter father, standing by his bed. As he sat up, he saw in the dim light of the landing light’s bare bulb that his father was carrying a large bag over one shoulder.

“Daniel,” he whispered anxiously, kneeling down. “Listen to me. I have to leave today. My ship departs from the dock in an hour. I need you to look after your mother-”

“Where are you going? Why can’t you stay here?” interrupted the young boy.

“I have been called to serve my country; I have to fight. I’m going to France, but I promise to write to you. I’ll be home soon, I promise. This war can’t last much longer.” James sighed and stood up.

“No father! You’ll miss my birthday. You said we would go fishing,” pleaded Daniel desperately.

The browbeaten man fumbled in his pockets with rough, splintered hands. He found his small purse and pulled out a single, large, round coin. He pressed the shilling into his son’s hand.

“Here, take this instead. It’s yours; make it last, Dan.” The boy stared at it, amazed. He had never been given money before; he was too young to go out to the shops on his own to spend it. It almost seemed to make up for his father’s departure.

“Be a good boy, and help your mother as much as you can. I have to go now. I have to.” He looked down fondly at his six-year-old son, then turned quickly and hurried out of the room. Puzzled, Daniel watched him go, still clutching the shilling in his cold hands. His mother wept helplessly in the next room.

He waited and waited. No letters, no news. James never came home.

Several years later, when the Second World War was finally over, Daniel slumped at his desk in the draughty classroom of Oldbury School. The pupils chatted quietly whilst they waited for their English teacher, Miss Robertson, who was unusually late. Matthew sat next to him, and watched curiously as his ginger-haired friend fiddled with something in his lap. He noticed that his eyes were glazed over as though he was day-dreaming.

“Hey, Dan! What you got there?” he asked inquisitively. The subdued boy snapped back to the buzzing room, and swiftly pocketed the coin.

“Nothing,” he answered, proceeding to stare out of the window.

“Come on, you can tell me! What is it? I told you about that cave place in the woods, didn’t I?” he begged. Daniel pulled it back out of his trouser pocket. He had never really told anyone about it. His best friend looked on expectantly. Though he didn’t want to let the coin go, he carefully handed it over to him. Matthew grinned and flipped it in the air, stating, “It’s a shilling.”

“I know it’s a shilling,” replied Daniel blandly, never taking his eyes off it as it carved a graceful arc through the air.

“What are you going to spend it on? A new set of marbles? I know you’ve lost a few of those white ones.”

Before he could reply, Miss Robertson rushed in and slammed the door behind her. The whole class stood up and bid her good morning. She sharply told them to sit down and to open their writing books. Chairs shuffled and pages rustled, then silence fell. Not a single word was exchanged. Nobody dared risk the cane. Seeing that the teacher had begun to write on the board, Daniel worriedly glanced over at Matthew, who was intent on copying the sentences correctly. He sat still and tried to concentrate, and told himself that he only had to wait an hour until the subject changeover to retrieve his shilling.

It wasn’t until after school when he had completed his turn on the classroom tidying rota and collected his overcoat from the cloakroom and was walking out of the front entrance, that he realised he had completely forgotten about the coin. He hung his head in self-disgust that he could just forget about his own father. Images of learning cricket in their tiny back garden sprang to the front of his mind. He remembered how James couldn’t aim at all, yet he had always tried for his son.

He raced back to his desk, and found that Matthew had not left it for him as he had hoped. Wild thoughts sprang into his head as he headed back towards the entrance. At the far side of the playground he saw the familiar lanky figure of his friend chatting animatedly to another boy. Daniel’s brow furrowed as he marched towards him.

“Where is it?” he growled menacingly. Matthew waved good bye to his other friend and turned towards him.

“What did you say Dan?”

“Where is it? My shilling,” he repeated. Matthew was taken aback at his friend’s sharp manner. He shifted the satchel on his back.

“I put it back on your desk ages ago.”

“It’s not there now, and I never saw it earlier. You know what Matt? I think you took it.” He took a step closer and forced the taller boy into the wall, who opened his mouth in disbelief.

“No, I didn’t! I haven’t got it, honestly. I know my family don’t have much, but I wouldn’t ever steal.” In a fit of rage, Daniel shoved him hard against the bricks, only the bulky satchel saving his back from bruising.

“You took it! You filthy liar! It’s all I had, I want it back!” he yelled. Matthew pushed him forcefully away, causing his friend to stumble over backwards and fall onto the damp and dirty ground.

“You’re mad Daniel Barker!” he shouted at the boy sprawled on the ground. “I swear I didn’t take it. Don’t you dare call me a liar.”

“Where is it then? I can’t have lost it, I can’t have.” Matthew was shocked to see tears forming in Daniel’s eyes. He sneered in disgust.

“Oh stop going on about it. It was just a shilling! You’ve got loads of money, I’m sure one stupid little shilling isn’t going to matter.” The stockier boy scrambled to his feet and punched Matthew wildly in the chest.

“Just a shilling!” he screeched. “You’ll never understand!” He punched again and again; the victim trying in vain to protect his head and catch his friend’s flailing fists. He succeeded to grab both of his arms in mid-swing, and twisted so he was pinning Daniel to the wall.

“So maybe I don’t want to understand. You need to start growing up Daniel.” He licked his swollen lip, turned, and ran out of the gates. The other boy waited a moment, then furiously kicked the dustbin, and loped off as the teachers began to file out of the school.

---

Sighing, Daniel put the coin down on the windowsill and continued with his work. He lifted each old and splintered floorboard up, threw it to one side and started with another. He smiled as he saw the tiny drops of red paint on the next floorboard. When he had been ten, he’d told Matthew a story about how the paint was actually blood. He was like a brother, Daniel sadly thought, and I beat him up for nothing. One shilling I lost, and for it I lost a father and a brother.

When all the floorboards had been replaced, he returned to his comfortable home. It hadn’t really changed since he’d been born there. His mother still cooked his meals, and he kept his father’s carpentry workshop going, providing income for them both.

Though Daniel’s bed was soft and expensive, he tossed and turned throughout the night. When he did sleep, he had strange and pressing nightmares of knuckles and giant moons. He shivered, and clutched at his pillow, once again becoming the six-year-old, waiting and waiting, only this time he longed for the sun to finally climb above the hills.

Following a rushed breakfast, he began to inquire in the village for a Mr Matthew Mills. From various sources, he gathered that Matt’s childhood house had been sold to another family, and that they had moved away to a smaller house in a nearby town several years ago. Daniel caught the next bus there, equipped only with a scrap of paper bearing the address he was seeking.

An hour or so later, with thanks to several of the locals, he found it. Nervously, he walked up the path, checked his collar and knocked on the door. Footsteps came slowly along the corridor behind, and then he heard a bolt slide. The door opened an inch and a woman’s head peered suspiciously out.

“Hello?” she asked. Daniel cleared his throat.

“Hello Mrs Mills. I-”

“How do you know who I am? I’m not buying anything, and I haven’t got any money for charity. Now please, let me get on with my work.” She began to shut the door but the desperate man called after her.

“Mrs Mills, I was wondering if Matthew was at home. I need to speak to him.” The woman stopped. Opening the door again, she looked straight into his eyes.

“He is no longer here. He died. Three years ago. He’s buried in the churchyard at Oldbury,” she said quietly. “So, who are you? An old friend? Business acquaintance?”

“Daniel Barker, I was a friend…” Suddenly, the old lady jumped back and slammed the door in his face.

The journey back to the village seemed just a blur. He sat, numb, at the back of the lurching bus. The women’s violent reaction reminded him of the thoughtless beating he’d made his friend suffer. Obviously, Matthew had informed his parents of where he had got his bruises. They must have regarded him as a deceiving bully.

As the bus slowed down and pulled into the stop by the quaint village church, he readied himself to apologise for something he had blocked out for so long. He at long last really understood what it was like to lose someone, not pine for their return as he had done so for his father.

Daniel walked solemnly along the disorganised rows of upright stone slabs. Names flashed past and dates flickered in the corners of his eyes. Approaching the one that he sought, he realised how much smaller it was than all the others. There was no message, no exquisitely carved rose. It was plain; all the Mills could afford. Dropping to his knees, he reached out and touched the rough grey stone. The silver shilling dropped out of his pocket and lay like a tear on the uncut grass. He picked it up. Instead of returning it to its safe home, he scraped a small hole in the ground at the foot of the gravestone. He dropped it in, and after one last look at the noble lion perched on its crown, he buried it.

Walking along the narrow lane to the wood workshop, he felt like not just one, but a thousand thousand coins had been taken from his pockets. All his debts were repaid, and the feeling of an empty void inside left him. Now he could grieve.