One and a Half, with Five More
“₤1.55.”
The haggard man drops the money into her hand, noticing the brief flicker of disgust, wariness, and irritance on the cashier’s face as she receives the payment in pennies. He would have given her less of a job of counting all the coins, but it is not as if he has any other form of money to give her. So he waits under her watchful eye as she totals them up, knowing that they will be a hundred and fifty-five in the end. After all, he has checked three times over at least, if not more.
Collecting the small brown coins day after day, dropped by pedestrians who did not realise they had done so, or even if they did, did not care - but he does, quickly scooping them up from rough floors, fishing them out of leaf-clogged drains, picking them out of a puddle of water where they have been abandoned and storing them in a small, dirty pouch in his threadbare overcoat. Sometimes, when he is sure that he is alone, he takes out one of them and holds it carefully in his weather beaten hands as if it was a precious stone, recalling the total amount in the pouch for the day. It is something that comforts him, especially during those cold autumn nights.
She turns her head quickly to the side in a gesture of acquiescence, eliciting a tiny smile from him as he takes the loaf of bread that she hands him. It has amounted to something at last. He is thankful for the time being, as there is food for another week - proper, decent, fresh food, nothing that he has to scrounge off rubbish bins or anything that he has to steal, in a long time.
_
My heart races as critical green eyes scan my drawing, taking in every line and curve. The urge to pace the carpeted floor of his office is, honestly, barely suppressible, yet I struggle to appear nonchalant.
“Hmm. Interesting interpretation of the gardens, although …what did you say was your medium of choice?”
“Blue ballpoint pens, sir. The ones that you can get for a pound and fifty-five pence in packages of threes.”
He looks up and raises an eyebrow at me. “Just that?”
“Yes. I hope the detail is sufficient to make up for the lack of colour? And paper, of course.”
“I can see that,” he replies, resuming his examination of my work, but what exactly does he see? That the detail is indeed sufficient? That I used paper? Both? I dare not ask, noting that he might not appreciate any interruption. It is probably about paper, anyway.
It is some time before he stands up and holds the drawing out for me to take. “Refreshing, but it does not hide the fact that your submission for the contest is late. Yes, late,” he emphasises, as I open my mouth to protest, “I did specifically say that all entries have to be handed in at precisely nine in the morning, did I not? Yours missed the dateline by…” A turn of his wrist allows him to check his watch. “Five minutes. Roughly so.”
“Sir, can’t you overlook just five min-”
“No. Perhaps you might want to consider entering next year.”
He is serious. I sigh and take the drawing, placing it carefully in my pocket file. There is obviously nothing I can say that would change his mind. “Well. Thank you for your time, sir.”
He nods, turning back to his newspaper, and I head towards the door, but pause before I turn the knob. “Sir. Frankly, do you think that I stand a chance?”
“I would not have suggested that you enter if I was not of the opinion that you could. Work at it, and above all, do try to be on time with your art in the following competition.”
_
Upon finishing his sandwich, the boy rummages through his pockets for a tissue but touches a few stray peppermints instead. The search for a handkerchief is forgotten as he pulls them out, remembering that they were part of the ₤1.55’s worth of sweets that he bought at the shop the other day. Selecting the best two and dropping the rest back into his pocket, he turns to the girl who has been sitting beside him for the greater part of lunch break.
“Er, would you like one?” he asks hesitantly, opening his palm to reveal the two white, albeit partly squashed, sweets.
She looks up at him before taking the one on the right. “Sure, thanks.”
They sit in silence for a while with the candies in their mouths before she speaks. “They look like something that the cat sat on, though.”
“They’re from my pocket, actually,” he says, then pauses. “I think they’re still fresh. Somewhat.”
She stares at him. “You think?”
He can’t help but laugh at the incredulousness of her expression, prompting a giggle from her in return, and a new friendship is formed.
Somewhat.
The haggard man drops the money into her hand, noticing the brief flicker of disgust, wariness, and irritance on the cashier’s face as she receives the payment in pennies. He would have given her less of a job of counting all the coins, but it is not as if he has any other form of money to give her. So he waits under her watchful eye as she totals them up, knowing that they will be a hundred and fifty-five in the end. After all, he has checked three times over at least, if not more.
Collecting the small brown coins day after day, dropped by pedestrians who did not realise they had done so, or even if they did, did not care - but he does, quickly scooping them up from rough floors, fishing them out of leaf-clogged drains, picking them out of a puddle of water where they have been abandoned and storing them in a small, dirty pouch in his threadbare overcoat. Sometimes, when he is sure that he is alone, he takes out one of them and holds it carefully in his weather beaten hands as if it was a precious stone, recalling the total amount in the pouch for the day. It is something that comforts him, especially during those cold autumn nights.
She turns her head quickly to the side in a gesture of acquiescence, eliciting a tiny smile from him as he takes the loaf of bread that she hands him. It has amounted to something at last. He is thankful for the time being, as there is food for another week - proper, decent, fresh food, nothing that he has to scrounge off rubbish bins or anything that he has to steal, in a long time.
_
My heart races as critical green eyes scan my drawing, taking in every line and curve. The urge to pace the carpeted floor of his office is, honestly, barely suppressible, yet I struggle to appear nonchalant.
“Hmm. Interesting interpretation of the gardens, although …what did you say was your medium of choice?”
“Blue ballpoint pens, sir. The ones that you can get for a pound and fifty-five pence in packages of threes.”
He looks up and raises an eyebrow at me. “Just that?”
“Yes. I hope the detail is sufficient to make up for the lack of colour? And paper, of course.”
“I can see that,” he replies, resuming his examination of my work, but what exactly does he see? That the detail is indeed sufficient? That I used paper? Both? I dare not ask, noting that he might not appreciate any interruption. It is probably about paper, anyway.
It is some time before he stands up and holds the drawing out for me to take. “Refreshing, but it does not hide the fact that your submission for the contest is late. Yes, late,” he emphasises, as I open my mouth to protest, “I did specifically say that all entries have to be handed in at precisely nine in the morning, did I not? Yours missed the dateline by…” A turn of his wrist allows him to check his watch. “Five minutes. Roughly so.”
“Sir, can’t you overlook just five min-”
“No. Perhaps you might want to consider entering next year.”
He is serious. I sigh and take the drawing, placing it carefully in my pocket file. There is obviously nothing I can say that would change his mind. “Well. Thank you for your time, sir.”
He nods, turning back to his newspaper, and I head towards the door, but pause before I turn the knob. “Sir. Frankly, do you think that I stand a chance?”
“I would not have suggested that you enter if I was not of the opinion that you could. Work at it, and above all, do try to be on time with your art in the following competition.”
_
Upon finishing his sandwich, the boy rummages through his pockets for a tissue but touches a few stray peppermints instead. The search for a handkerchief is forgotten as he pulls them out, remembering that they were part of the ₤1.55’s worth of sweets that he bought at the shop the other day. Selecting the best two and dropping the rest back into his pocket, he turns to the girl who has been sitting beside him for the greater part of lunch break.
“Er, would you like one?” he asks hesitantly, opening his palm to reveal the two white, albeit partly squashed, sweets.
She looks up at him before taking the one on the right. “Sure, thanks.”
They sit in silence for a while with the candies in their mouths before she speaks. “They look like something that the cat sat on, though.”
“They’re from my pocket, actually,” he says, then pauses. “I think they’re still fresh. Somewhat.”
She stares at him. “You think?”
He can’t help but laugh at the incredulousness of her expression, prompting a giggle from her in return, and a new friendship is formed.
Somewhat.