Page 10 of A Face in the Crowd
When it comes to fashion statements, shoes that are literally being held together by sticky tape certainly sends a message. Admittedly, the message is: ‘This person cannot afford to buy new shoes’, but it’s a clear statement nonetheless.
My only other option of shoes to wear to work is a low pair of heels that are leftovers from my school days more than a decade ago. There’s no way I’ll be able to stand in those all day – so it’s my taped-up trainers or bare feet.
I have to go to work but cannot resist opening the envelope of money to check it’s still there. It is, of course, precisely in the way I repacked it all with the neat, uncrimped notes at the top. The small voice telling me to take what I need for new shoes is starting to become louder. There’s still nothing online about missing or stolen money. If nobody’s missing it, then what would be wrong with taking a bit for myself…?
I reluctantly put the envelope of money into the drawer underneath the television and then say goodbye to Billy. He’s used to being by himself while I’m at work – but it’s still hard to escape the guilt for leaving him alone. In between showering and changing, I’ve had another missed call from ‘unknown’. There is no number to call back, no clue as to who is trying to get in contact.
After closing my door, I pause for a second, drawn to the flat opposite. Good or bad, Hamilton House is the type of block in which everyone recognises everyone else. There is a certain amount of all being in it together, as they say. We know it’s a bit of a crappy place to live – but it’s still ours. There are three floors of six flats and that creates a community. If someonehasmoved in opposite, there is a strangeness in that nobody has seemingly seen the person.
I head downstairs and there are posters for Karen’s birthday party at the bottom with ‘all welcome’ written on each in felt tip. Karen’s written her flat number on there, inviting anyone who wants more details to knock on her door.
Outside, and the chill is still clinging to the air. I pull my coat tighter and take a few steps towards the bus stop before halting. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m back inside and rushing up the stairs. I wrench my door open and almost fall inside with the speed of it all.
Billy is lying on the sofa and his ears perk up with confusing expectation. I whisper a ‘sorry’ in his direction and then grab the envelope of money from the drawer. It’s comforting and feels like something I need to have close. I tuck it into my bag and then wrench the zipper shut. After another apology to Billy, I close the door and then I’m off again. This time I don’t change my mind.
It’s only when I pass the low wall on Allen Street that I remember the feeling of first seeing the money in the envelope. The thrill of it all. It was nearly a day ago and yet I can still feel the buzz. There’s an urge to open my bag and check it over, but I force it away and continue on until I arrive at the stop just as the bus is pulling in.
The difference between Saturday morning and Friday evening on the number 24 bus is ridiculous. Today, there are barely half-a-dozen people spread out among the seats. I show the driver my pass – my biggest monthly outgoing aside from rent – and then get a double space to myself. One of the other passengers is seemingly passed out across two seats, his beanie hat pulled low over his eyes as he rests his head in the crook of his elbow. Everyone else is on their respective phones and I copy their lead. There are still no hits for missing or stolen money. I would hand it in but, if I was to take it to the police, who’s to say it wouldn’t end up being divvied out among them? If anyone should get it, surely it should be me?
I glance towards the front of the bus, eyeing the spot near the pole where I was standing last night. There’s nobody there now, but there can’t really be any doubt that this is where the envelope appeared in my bag. Could it really have been by accident? Surely the alternative is weirder – that someonegaveme this money? But who? And, if it was deliberate, why not simply hand it to me?
So many questions.
I open the zip of my bag and finger the top of the envelope, craving to touch what’s inside. I know it’s strange – I know, I know – but I can’t help myself. I picture those poor, hungry people that appear on television appeals every time it’sComic Relief,Children In Need, or whatever. If someone gives them food, it gets eaten. There’s no need for politeness or reticence. The amount of money in the envelope is close to three months of wages for me – why shouldn’t I treat it in the same way that hungry people treat food? I’ve notstolenit.
For some, it’s pocket change. I read once that if Bill Gates was to drop a $20 note, it wouldn’t be worth the time it would take him to pick it up. He earns more from carrying on with his day. For someone like that, this money is nothing. For me, it can change my life.
I’m so lost in the dilemma that I almost miss my stop. It’s only when the lad with the beanie hat jumps up in alarm that I notice where we are. The driver has started to move, but I call a ‘hang on’ and he stops once more for me to get off. From here, I only need to cross the road to get to work.
Crosstown Supermarket is something of a throwback to times that are almost gone. Somehow, the owners have held out against the giant superstores and are still running a singular, medium-sized, independent shop. Nobody – most of all the people who work there – can quite believe it’s not been bought out yet.
When I get into the staff changing room at the back of the store, Daff – who doesnotlike being called Daphne – is arguing with someone on her phone. She nods at me in acknowledgement as I get my uniform out of my locker and then she continues to ask whoever’s on the phone quite why they’ve charged her interest on a credit card payment she says she’s already made. I listen in without making it obvious and inspect my taped-together trainers, which have held together remarkably well.
Daff finishes her call with a flourish of, ‘Yeah, well, you can whistle for it, darling’, and then tosses her phone into her bag.
I ask if everything’s all right and she snorts what is probably the filthiest laugh I’ve ever heard.
‘Can’t let ’em grind you down,’ she says, before taking an envelope out of her locker. There’s a moment in which I’m confused, as if everyone I know has been delivered an envelope of cash, but it’s not that at all. She waggles it towards me.
‘You got a pound for the lottery?’ she asks.
It’s hard not to sigh at this. I’ve never been interested in gambling – even a pound twice a week for the lottery. The problem is that everybody else who works here – literally every single person –doeschip in two pounds a week for the syndicate. Rationality tells me we’ll never win and yet I know I couldn’t face seeing all these people around me sharing out the millions as I rue hanging onto my two pounds. I don’t know how anyone could ever deal with that. I know I couldn’t – and so I go along with it all. It’s lose-lose, of course – because if I was to count the number of weeks I’ve been chucking in two quid and add it all up, I’d only depress myself at the money lost. We once won ten pounds, but that went back into ‘the pot’ and was, of course, lost in the following draw.
I pass Daff a pound coin and she drops it into her envelope, before writing my name on the front.
‘Cheer up,’ she says with an enthusiastic grin.
I return hers with a forced smile of my own, wondering what precisely people think might happen when they tell others to ‘cheer up’. Oh, great, all the things I was dealing with are solved because someone told me to be a bit happier.
Daff starts wittering about some night out she’s planning this evening. ‘Everyone’s coming,’ she promises, presumably referring to the people with whom we work. It’s little incentive for me. These are the people with whom I’ve been thrown together. It isn’t as if we chose to work with actual friends, not that I have many of them either. Even though I never left the town in which I went to school, I have no real friends left over from those times. I gave that up when I moved in with Ben all those years ago.
Either way, I have numerous issues with going out that involve, but are not limited to:
I have no money
I like being in bed early
I have no going-out clothes
