Time for Change by Jan Dale
5 May 2021 { General Fiction }
Time for change? No, he had no time for it. What was the use of it? Weighing down the pockets of his trousers, whether it was loose or in his purse, with its horrible smell, like iron, or blood – always dirty. He didn’t even want to imagine where it had been, how many fingers had picked it over – urgh, he couldn’t even bear to think about it. And what about those men who went about, hands in pockets, jingling coins in an irritating way, like worry beads?
This was why he always carried a few pairs of disposable gloves, always making sure there was a pair or two in every pocket of every coat, jacket and cardigan he owned – even his dressing gown, just in case. He bought two bumper packs every time he went to the shop, as his worst fear was running out of gloves.
In his flat, on the mantelpiece, loomed a giant novelty Bell’s whisky bottle half-full of pound coins. The label was upside down as it had the remains of an optic attached and must have been fixed behind some bar or other. There was a double image as it was reflected in the large ornate mirror behind. He couldn’t remember where the bottle had come from; had his mother ‘won’ (i.e. stolen) it from the Crown where she’d worked and run the lunchtime cold buffet? He could still remember the large plastic tubs of processed coleslaw, and in fact one of these still did service for the 50p pieces, although even all these years later they barely came half-way up the sides. She’d also ‘won’ several other items from the Crown, including the aforesaid mirror, and she’d got him a holiday cleaning job polishing the long beaten-copper bar counter – what had happened to that, he wondered? – it was a right chore, always filthy every time he ‘clocked on’, its bumps and crevices needing fiddly polishing. Then when his mum had started working at the Fox and the golf club as well, there was a lawn mower, a garden parasol (never used because it didn’t have a stand), several Harp (‘Stays Sharp’) metal trays, the odd item of crockery and cutlery. And in the large drawer in the lounge unit you could always find a few packets of Gold Cut or Henri Wintermans panatellas which she doled out as tips to the window cleaner and gardener. Not to mention the six-packs of lager for the bin men at Christmas. Mind you, her pilfering hadn’t been as organised as Jean’s, one of her fellow workers who walked miles for her shift at the pub, always staunchly refusing lifts if you were passing, until the boss found out why. He caught her half-inching food from the buffet, which she must have been doing every time she knocked off – slices of ham off the bone, turkey, beef. Her husband and family must have been well fed.
After dropping a tea bag into a mug and switching on the kettle, he opened the top left-hand cupboard and surveyed the contents. What would it be today? Jaffa Cakes, plain chocolate Bahlsen imitations (only 69p from Lidl), ginger nuts, rich tea – or should he break into the Fox’s assortment? He checked the sell-by date; no, unfortunately he still had a couple of months. He decided he was feeling sophisticated so opened the plain chocolate ones and put two on a plate, decanting the rest into the Dutch biscuit caddy he’d bought on a long-ago holiday.
Before sitting down at the table, he moved the old pasta-sauce jar full of 20p coins aside. He’d bought the sauce in the hope that Anne might have come back for a meal, but it never got to that point. The final straw came when on her birthday, only their third meeting, he’d promised her afternoon tea and cake after their country walk – just his luck, of course; it had poured with rain, the café had been shut, and Anne had said she might as well go home. He’d scribbled his number down on the back of his bus ticket, but despite her promise she’d never rung him. He kidded himself she had probably lost his number, but eventually had to face the truth. He was stuck with his problem (and the pasta sauce) and that was how it would be for ever. He thought of Anne, as he often did in his quiet moments, wondering what life would have been like if it wasn’t for his complaint – obsession, she had called it.
As he had his elevenses he contemplated the bird feeders. A bit quiet today, he noted. He didn’t suppose the silver streamers attached to next-door’s trampoline helped; there’d been a stiff breeze all week and they kept rustling and flying about all the time. It was irritating. That damn cat again! He banged on the window and it fled through the natural passage it, and numerous other cats had made through the party hedge. He’d tried pepper dust and all sorts to keep them from doing their business on the flower beds. Once when he’d been gardening he’d become aware of a horrible stench and realised he’d put his kneeler right on top of a cat’s doings; of course everything had to go in the bin; he shuddered every time he remembered it. Just as well he’d had the blue latex gloves on underneath the heavy-duty ones.
Never mind. He was able to please himself now – much better, in a way. He leafed through the Radio Times. He’d circled Bent Coppers, and was looking forward to episode 2 later that evening. He’d never dream of ‘binge-watching’, or using the ‘i-player’ thingy. He loved programmes documenting the past. He pretended he was one of the people wearing macs in the rain-washed streets, not a fleece or mobile in sight. When phone boxes actually existed, didn’t smell of wee and had their directories intact, when the cafes were small independents and there was no queueing up with a tray, when you could actually go in the right shop and find exactly what you were looking for.
He washed his cup and plate at the sink, eyeing the Kenco jar full of 10p coins. That was getting pretty full; maybe it would soon be time for a bank trip, or maybe just a larger jar. It had been the instant coffee that had come out top in the Which? taste test, so he never bought anything else now. When he had met Anne the first time, though, the coffee had been real. He didn’t remember much about it, not being a fan of strong coffee in any case, but he remembered Anne and how her face had lit up as she described the jazz concert she’d been to the night before, and her explanations of why she liked this music so much. He’d immediately gone to the library to learn something of this strange world he knew nothing about. He’d even bought a CD of ‘jazz greats’ to go with the pasta, but he’d never had the opportunity to play it.
The giant sweetie jar half-full of 5p pieces was usefully propped against the kitchen door, to stop it banging when he went out to the bins. As a child, when he’d gone round to his godmother’s for the day, she’d given it to him to take home. She must have had some connection with a sweetshop, because he remembered playing with some dummy Quality Street – he could see the Purple One and the Green Triangle. Their sparkly wrappers were so alluring, but when he unwrapped them, there were only lumps of chalk. A bit like his life really, he thought, illusions shattered. He should learn not to expect so much, and then he wouldn’t be disappointed, but he would never learn.
He needed to start on his duties for the day, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to watch TV later with a clear conscience. Wearing his usual gloves and paper overalls, he took the Hoover upstairs and began as usual, methodically, starting from his study at the front of the house. On top of the filing cabinet was the old Bassett’s Allsorts tin, bearing on its lid the embossed character of Bertie, made up of a jumble of liquorice sweets, styled as the pilot of a garishly coloured plane. He’d bought it as a Christmas gift for Jayne at the office, but had ended up eating the contents of the tin himself, as she hadn’t turned up at the Christmas do and after the holidays had announced her engagement to Graham from the Liverpool branch. Keeping all these mementoes in full view wasn’t good for him really, but they served a useful purpose in his life. The tin was a handy receptacle for those 1p pieces. He hadn’t used it for ages, as the coins were no use for parking machines, and in any case nowadays he only used those where you could pay by card. He bought most of his stuff at charity shops, so had taken to putting the pennies in the charity boxes on the counter. It was that usual ‘£1.99, £2.99’ thing – he’d been told this was to prevent the staff fiddling the tills. Surely not in a charity shop, but anything was possible. Life would have been a lot easier for him if they rounded up the prices. He tried to forget about Jayne and thought about lunch.
Once he’d wiped down the Hoover and tidied it away into its cupboard, he threw his gloves and overalls in the bin, had a shower, changed, and put the remains of the soup on to heat. He took a couple of slices of bread out of the freezer to defrost, and the butter out of the fridge. As he ate his lunch he was sure there was something he had to do this afternoon, and then remembered the window cleaner had called for his money last night. Embarrassingly, even though the man could clearly see the bottle full of pound coins through the window, he’d had to tell him he was out of cash, and would pay him next time. The cashpoint in the village had been removed a month before, so now he had to take the car into Foxton, a town some miles distant. It was a nuisance, as the bus service had also been removed, last year – not that it was a hygienic form of travel in his opinion – but as it involved special effort, he often ran out of notes.
***
The housing association van turned up on a wet Tuesday morning. They were glad to see his car was in the garage, so they could park on the driveway in front of the skip, making their job easier.
‘Start at the top, Malc, as usual?’ said Dave, backing the van up as close as he could go.
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘Fancy a brew first, though? I’m ready for one.’
‘Yeah, OK. I’m on it.’
Malc opened the front door and went through to find the kettle as Dave took the kit from the back of the Transit, leaving the doors open. He dumped the cases and tuned the portable radio to Hits Manchester, before joining Malc for a brew. They were in luck; there was a kettle, together with mugs, spoons, tea bags and sugar, even numerous packets of biscuits. They’d brought their own supplies just in case, though, which meant they had milk.
‘Must have been a woman lived here,’ said Malc. ‘Everything in these cupboards is spotless.’
‘No, it were a man,’ said Dave, glancing at his tablet. ‘“Ed Ainscough. No known next of kin”,’ he read. ‘No call for sexism, eh, Malc?’
‘’Ark at you, with your mumbo-jumbo,’ Malc grinned.
Their tea finished, both men donned gloves and overalls before going upstairs to make a start. They soon cleared the house, putting most of the furniture into the skip but itemising anything of value. Malc put the Allsorts tin aside; he’d have to declare the contents under the ‘cash’ section, but the tin would be a fun thing to give his grandson. When he found it, he thought the same about the sweetie jar, and Dave fancied the Bell’s bottle, but although it was marmalade season, he didn’t think his wife would fancy jars that once held dirty coins, so they went into the recycling. They bagged up all the coins to be counted later.
Back at the depot, the panel decided that the £3,000 found in Ed’s house, unless claimed within twelve months, should go to Mind, the mental health charity. Malc’s grandson keeps toy cars in the Allsorts tin but worryingly, he’s started saving pennies in the sweetie jar, and Dave’s started to collect pound coins in the Bell’s bottle, while using it as a doorstopper …
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