The Little Gold Coin
Lottie darted into the first shop she saw, wending her way between shoppers, murmuring sorrys, and nodding as she squeezed past. She pressed herself behind a marble pillar that held up a high ceiling crowded with cherubs and baroque plasterwork. Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, she craned her neck, watching from her hiding spot.
Through the pane of the display window, she saw two men pass by, locked in a loud squabble, arms flailing like semaphore signals. Then came a little old lady, shuffling along, dragging a shopping trolley overloaded with groceries. The cart squeaked and listed to the side, always threatening to spill its cargo of butter blocks, egg cartons, paper-wrapped sausages, stringed bangers, and flour bags across the wet paving. The woman gritted her teeth and hauled it on, careless that the wheels, gum-clogged with melting sleet, no longer turned. The cart simply glided like a lopsided sledge, clumsy and heavy across the pavement. A brisk woman hurried up, speaking quickly, grabbed the trolleys handle, hooked her arm around the old lady’s, and steered both toward the tall tower block at the street corner.
Lottie watched all this, head bobbing gently, as though the puppet-like passersby were not real, not right, as if she, Lottie, waited for a different cast entirely.
The shop throbbed with lifea crowd bustling, nudging for room at the shelves. The scent was warm, like toasted bread and old papera comforting smell. Lottie looked about. It was a bookshop. Books everywhere, in thick or skinny bindings, dazzling with glossy, colourful covers, arranged in categories and squeezed along the tightly packed shelves. On the central table, hulking collector’s editions splayed their pages: atlases of animals, birds, cities, people. These gorgeous tomes were frightening to even touch, not because they were terrible, but because their perfection radiated fragility. She imagined her street-dirty hands leaving stains on that shining surface, and the book never quite as splendid again, its magic sullied
Lottie tilted her gaze upward. The mezzanine hosted tidy rows of pens and pencils in jars, folders and notepads, marker sets and postcards. Shed have loved to explore, maybe even buy a keyring or a stubby pencil, but she hadnt timeshe was on watch.
Someone bumped her shoulder from behind; she lurched forward, catching herself on the pillar, scraping her finger.
Oops, sorry! a sheepish voice grumbled behind her. Lottie turned to retort but the teeming heads around her made the words stick.
Her finger throbbed. Some jagged snag on the marble had sliced it deep. Wrapping it in a handkerchief, she resumed her stakeout.
There he was! Finally appearinggangly, carrot-haired, freckled, in a too-short navy coat and jeans a bit above the ankle, showing off silly socks covered in bananas. Sleeves too brief, long, bony hands poking ruddy from the cold, his equally lanky fingers dangling. In his ears: headphones, his head bobbing to some silent rhythm, swaying like an off-kilter giraffe.
George Lottie breathed, pressing her sore finger to her chest. George
She adored everything about himthe sharp cheekbones, the constantly twinkling eyes, the pointy ears, the deep, husky boys voice. Even his ridiculous silhouette yes, she was quite mad about all of it.
Lurking again, are you?! chirruped a shrill voice by her ear, and a heavy backpack thudded down on her toes. Oh for pitys sake, Barton! Hes got a girlfriend, everyones saidsomeone from the year above. Rita? Or maybe Martha? The speakers scarlet hat sat atop the round head of Peter Newton, Lotties classmate.
Whats it to you, Newton?! Lottie snapped, shoving him away. Cant a girl browse her books in peace?
She snapped a pamphlet from the shelf and buried herself in it. See, Im researching um how to tie nautical knots. Here, you read it, then tell me what youve gleaned. Im busy. Goodbye!
Lottie shoved Peters backpack aside and bolted from the shop, just beating the traffic lights across the street. If shed been a second late, handsome George would have melted out of view.
She knew where he lived, which floor, the flat numbershed followed him once. She knew his parents names, even the breed of their dog. She knew everything. Each day she lingered behind him, trailing, careful not to be noticed. It was a delicious, giddy feeling. Her whole insides fluttered, prickled, torn between weeping and laughter.
Lotties family had only recently moved into the area. Her parents got allocated a flat here and carted all their things across London. New faces, new school, strange streetsshe hated it. Missed her old friends, missed everything. She even considered falling ill for sympathy. But George made it bearable. For him now, she leapt out of bed, wolfed breakfast, pecked her mum, and sped, heart pounding, far from the way to school, just to spot him leaving home. She became his silent escort, dogging his steps all the way to the thick blue door of the school. For him, she bore through dull lessons, eyes drifting to the corridor, dreaming of the bell so she could slip away to the third floor and see the upper years”: giants who swaggered about, guffawing, larking, swearing words forbidden to girls, even shoving the girls, who just giggled back, all so sophisticated
Lottie craned her neck, hoping not to miss the moment George might head to the canteen or just for air. Invisible, faded to the walls, shed dash by himjust a brush, then fly off to her classroom without turning.
That swooning chase might have gone on forever were it not for Peter Newton, ever bumbling at her heels. A true nuisance! Where she went, there he was. She went upstairshed be in the stairwell, went downhed be at her elbow. In the canteen, as she went to pay for a bun, hed buy two, offer one, chirp nonsense, and by the time she realised, George had vanished with some girl. Meanwhile, Peter loitered, wheezing, boring her with childish talk
Today, Newton had nearly ruined her hunt again.
After saying goodbye to George at his flat, Lottie trudged home. She knew what would happen next: coming in, mumMarian, on night shiftwould ask, Hows it been? then, without waiting, order lunch. Mum would never notice the storm, the wild hope and dread boiling inside, all that anticipation for tomorrow. Mum didnt remember love; she just functionednodded, cooked, washed, saw dad off, checked Lotties homework. Efficient, automatic, always rightright way to eat, to sleep, to have tea, to wash your hair, right clothes for any occasion. Lottie had a lovely dress her aunt Sarah had givenhugged her figure, short skirt daring and fun. Shed so wanted to wear it for the school party, praying George would see The thought made her breath catch.
Whats this? Mum snapped. Only for the garden, dear, and even then! Decent girls do not strut about in that. Put your new trousers on, you chose them!
So the dress hung unworn in the wardrobe.
Mum knew everything, but understood nothing. Probably didnt even love Dad. Just easier living together. Everything in Lotties life would be different! Husband, romance, vows, flowers. Let it be George
You at last? Mum called from the kitchen, striped apronalways reminded Lottie of a jail uniform. Wash up, come eat. Well? Dont stand gaping, itll go cold! Ive made borscht, absolutely gorgeous, with plenty of garlic! Lottie!
Im coming, coming, Lottie muttered, dropping her bag, clenching her teeth. She was so tired of it all. This borscht, this routine, stewed fruit, cutlets, stew, something else. Did her mothers whole life amount to this?
She glanced from the kitchen window. Out in the slush, Peter was floundering about.
Oh, not him again, Lottie groaned.
Whos that? Let me see! Mum shouldered her aside, peered out. Is that one of your classmates? Poor thingll catch his death! Call him in, have Sunday lunch with us.
I absolutely will not. Hes from the flats over there. Hes everywhere! Like a puppy, rolling in the snow. He can wallow out there!
Then Ill invite him! Marian declared, flinging open the casement to the December frost, calling down: Peter! Yes, you! Come up, Flat 27! Eat with Lottie, dry your boots! Lotties face dropped; she threw down her spoon.
Mum, stop embarrassing me! This isnt the countryside!
Nonsense! Hell freeze, and besides, its clear he adores you; stands under the windows every day. Ill go let him in.
Soon, Peter, face red as beetroot, snow all over his cap and gloves, stood in the hall.
“Excuse me, um, does Lottie live here? Or have I blundered?”
“Yescome in. Hang those uplet me knock off the snow” Marian smiled, and Peter thought, What a lovely mum Lottie haskind, cheerful, so welcoming! Not like his own mum, Mrs Newtonso strict, so tense. At home, even Peter’s dad had given up singing with his guitar, told it was tomfoolery. Peter loved those evenings, loved banging out-of-tune and slapping his knees with the joyous bits, but that was frowned on: not allowed.
Peter squelched off his boots onto the rag rug, hung up his coat.
“Sorrymade a puddle,” he apologised.
Marian laughed. “Never mind, sit in the kitchen. Lottie, serve your guest some soup and bread. Don’t stand on ceremony, Peter, the kitchens straight ahead!”
Peter crept in, arms folded tight so as not to take up space, and found Lottie.
She banged a soup bowl down, then flung the bread basket.
So whyd you come? she snapped.
“Your mum asked. Don’t like it, I’ll go,” he muttered, but he was starving, so he stayed and ate. Ta.
Lottie grunted. White, or brown?
Peter blinked. Sorry?
Bread, Newton! Weve got real English brown seeded bread.
Brown, then. What about you? Let me slice itIm good with a knifeand you ought to have some yourself! Especially with art class later
Lottie squinted; Peter flushed. He knew her timetable better than his own, had given up all his clubs just to walk her home
Your knifes a bit blunt. Got a whetstone? Peter started fussing, like everyone kept sharpening stones ready on the worktop.
In the cupboard under the sink, Marian chimed from the living room. But dont bother, dear, just eat updont let it go cold!
No, a crushed loafs a tragedy. Ill just Peter ducked under the sink, found the whetstone, sharpened the knife with efficiency, Marian and Lottie following the blades rhythm.
There we are! Rinse he declared, slicking the newly honed blade under the tap. Now, wheres our bread?
With a satisfyingly crunchy slice, the smell of caraway and coriander seeds rose. Marian approved with a nod.
Alright, you two eat, Ive dozens of things to do. She disappeared, and they ate in silence, except for Peter sighing contentedly and slurping at Marians soup.
Ill clear up, you put the kettle on, he insisted, stacking up the plates.
Bossy, arent you? Eat and leave, go home for your tea! Lottie frowned.
Peter halted, then, determined, did the washing up, dried everything carefully, stacked it, and left.
Lottie gazed from the window. There he was in that silly hat, lumbering home. Silly boy! So what if he could sharpen knives? Her own dad did that even better! George was probably a professional at it!
Suddenly, she pictured George coming over, apologising for messy boots, and shed wave it awayno bother. Shed ladle Marians borscht for him, delighted that someone so grown-up came to her house, eating her mums dinner, praising her cooking. Then theyd sip tea, surely with cakeoh, how she loved a Dream Slice with meringue and hazelnuts, from the little bakery down the road. She might fetch one while mum chatted with George
And whats all this? Marian popped into the kitchen. Wheres Peter?
He left. Said hes busy, Lottie answered, pouring tea for herself with unnecessary vigour.
I see Here, at least take a biscuit with your tea! Marian murmured. Hes a smashing lad, your Peter. He even wiped down the hallway floorproper domesticated, that one. Not many blokes like him about.
Oh pleasehes no man! Hes shorter than I am, his fingers like silly sausages. Give over.
Marian laughed. Ah, but good things come in small packages, darling.
Oh, thats what the old dears on the bench say, isnt it? Mum, spare me the lecture. Ill sort myself out! There are proper fit lads at our schoololder, sportier
Like the redhead youre always peeking at? Marian swooped in for a hug. Lottie flushed scarlet, wriggled away, shot to her room, calling over her shoulder, Stay out of my life! How can you say that?!
But Marian didntshe knew it was best not to pry. Shed been young once, too; had hated prying questions, even though shed longed to confide about crushes and secret dreams. But she never did, for fear of being misunderstood or laughed at.
Now here was Lottie, history repeating, and Marian had no idea how to help.
She once found a letter under Lotties pillowabout love, about walking the night-lit streets together, not speaking, just letting the stars fall and snow settle on their tracks. She knew she shouldnt read it, but the radio and TV were always saying parents should keep close eyes on childrens moods just in case.
She left the letter untouched under the pillow. But at night, Marian would recall meeting Lotties father, Tim. Theyd first argued on a crowded bus when he stepped on her foot, then, feeling sorry, he brought her a bouquet of improbable, wild-eyed daisies. Every year on that day, he still did. Marian wished that kind of luck for Lottie too.
Next day, Lottie ignored Peter, side-stepped him if he hovered near.
Oh, stop being such a stalker! she snapped when he stood with her before PE.
Its nothing to do with you. There was more room here is all, Peter replied evenly, making space.
Lottie rolled her eyes, shuffled aside, and nearly tripped on a bench. In strode Georgeher George, tall, fox-bright, so handsome.
She stood ramrod, adjusted her ponytail, smoothed her shirt. Why was her stomach always so round? If she held it in, maybe George wouldnt notice. Shame about her battered plimsollshed spot those too
As everyone giggled, the PE teacher announced George would run the lesson today; the boys grumbled.
Lottie shrank behind Peter, fretting her appearance, then tried melting into the wall, giddy at the thought shed be in the same room as her idol for forty minutesthat swirl of butterflies, that sense something adult and marvellous was about to happen.
Here we go Peter sighed, unimpressed by PE.
George surveyed them, then whistled, ordering a run round the gym.
Yeah, as if! someone scoffed.
George shot a glare, then barked, Fifty press-ups. Now! The culprit complied, splaying face-down on the floor, doing quick, nervous push-ups. The rest jogged.
Lottie sprinted her best, graceful at the lead.
Then, suddenlya trip, maybe a bench or someones foot, she tumbled, a heap of children fell after. Chaos, limbs and laughter on the varnished brown floor, while George blew his whistle, ordering, Line up! His voice echoed off the gym.
Who caused this? Who tripped you all, eh? he barked.
Lottie guessed he was seeking her attacker, the one whod made her bash her sore elbow. She glared at her classmates, defiant.
Who charged at the front and brought down the lot? George demanded. Two steps forward!
Was he accusing her? Convinced she was a careless horse? How unfair
Everyone fell quiet, eyes on toes. Then George went person to person, intimidating, mockingpointing out some flaw, their size, their ears, their gawkiness, rummaging through every kids secret shames: bitten nails, cowlicks, spots, knock-knees.
The entire 7B, lined up, were criticised by the tall, laughing, freckled boy, and no one spoke up.
Lottie stared, wide-eyed, afraid of his cruelties.
He skewered Andrew for squinty eyes, mimicked him till he blushed. Then Irina, beautiful but blemished, mocked for her spots. Lottie nearly cried. She wasnt used to this. For all the teasing shed seen, this was different. More biting. And from George
Suddenly, she realised it was all her faultall of 7B was suffering because of her stumble. She nearly stepped forward to take the blame, but Peter leaned in: “Dont, Lottie. Its not right.”
It was me. I tripped everyone. And you Peter met Georges stare. You think youre all that? That a teachers whistle means you get to humiliate us? God help us if you ever become a real teacher, George! Youre not a teacher, youre just a whistle.
Lottie squeezed her eyes shut. To see Peter punished for his cheek was agony. Rope climbshe hated thosethen vaulting the horse, then Georges particular mates came in to join the mockery
But Lottie had written a poem for George, a secret letter to slip in his coat someday. How naive she felt now, how furious with herself, while Peterher clumsy, sturdy Peterclimbed the rope again and again, hands rubbed raw, and George demanded more.
The others, silent, obeyedthe teacher had cowed them all.
And Lottie was scared too. She would remember this day always, shamed, rehearsing what she might have said to stop it, wishing the past could be unwound. But it never can.
Walking home afterwards, Peter leading, Lottie trailing, she longed to say something encouraging, but Peter seemed cheerful enough, stopping to lob snowballs at lampposts, missing, trying again.
Let me try! giggled Lottie, packing a snowball and missing just as badly, which sent them both laughing. Peter seized her bag, carrying it, handing his own satchel to her. They walked together, Peter chattering, Lottie laughing, something light and true beneath their feet.
Home-bound, George strode ahead, sneered at them. He disdained losers and kids holding hands. If hed time, hed have tormented them more, but he was rushinghe had a date, with an older girl who loved teasing him, and he relished it.
Well, why arent you chasing after him, Lottie? Peter stopped. Thats what you always do!
She frowned, fiddling with her hat. Come back to mine. Theres no soup left, but theres cold pork pie. I loathe it, but you must like itmen always do! Come?
They ran through slush, slid, tumbled, and burst out laughing. Passersby, huddled and sullen, caught their laughter like a spell and began to smile themselves.
Heres pork pie, but its cold, Lottie grimaced as Peter took a seat. You need something warm Wait
She started rummaging through the fridge, moving jars around aimlessly. Lottie couldnt cook at all.
How about we bake some drop scones? Peter suggested, rolling up his sleeves, gently nudging her aside, fetching eggs and milk. Dont worry, Ill replace what we use. Ive got pocket money.
He straightened, donned Marians striped apron, asked for a whisk
When Marian and TimLotties dadcame home, the place smelled of buttery pancakes and laughter. They tiptoed to the kitchen door, eavesdropping, stifling snickers.
We can see you! Come in! Lottie called, peeking out. Peters making a right show of himself
Later, dishes washed, teas sipped, Peter demonstrated how to tie nautical knots, reciting from memory the pamphlet Lottie had passed himas if shed ever cared, but he thought it mattered. Lottie watched, anxious that hed make a mistake and be embarrassed, wanting so much to protect him.
He was her little gold coin,” her sturdy, precious friend, a bit lovesick, always forgiving. Hed visit Lottie and her husbandDen, the cheerful IT guybursting in with his unruly beard (by twenty-five he was on first-name terms with every barber in town, always combing his whiskers at moments of thought), sometimes alone, sometimes with tiny, dark-haired Violet, his wife. He brought them clementines from sunny Spain each autumn, brewed Lottie real pomegranate tea when she was ill, listened to Dens moans about Lottie and just smiled. Good-natured grumbling, that.
Peter built treehouses with Lotties children, camped with them, helped put up a shed at their allotment, and alwaysalwayscooked his famous, fat, golden drop scones. A hundred times hed left Lottie the recipe, but hers never turned out quite as fluffy. That was Peter, her little gold coin, truly the dearest friend anyone could have, the knot between them as strong and salt-proof as a sailors, steadfast for a lifetime.
