Tenner

I found money the other night, paper money. I spotted it in the dark, on the grass, and knew it was money, in that way you do. Not a crumpled lottery ticket, or a shop receipt.

It was folded over onto itself, but still retained a certain body; good paper, designed to withstand rain, to withstand a full cycle through a washing machine, while stuck in the back pocket of a pair of jeans. Without missing a beat it was picked up and in my coat pocket and straight away, like I had imbibed something just by touching it, I felt guilty. 

Someone would be missing it. Some poor being would be opening their purse, going through their pockets, retracing their steps. Maybe it was the only money they had, maybe it was the money they had kept to buy that night’s dinner, or tomorrow’s. I should put it back where I found it, lay it on the grass again, carefully, so they could find it. It would be picked up by someone else of course, someone else would benefit. It might as well be mine then, as theirs - that other person who would come behind me. In fact, the one who lost it might not have missed it at all.

A taxi was parked a few feet away, my only possible witness. Had the driver seen me bending down? Did he know what I had found on the road? I was sure there would be a shout, as I passed the car - a challenge.

  “Hi, that’s my money”. 

The embarrassment; someone had watched as I picked money from the street, like a poor person. But I had my answer ready. 

 “Prove it”. 

The car was in darkness and I didn’t look too close to see if the driver was watching. He was holding a newspaper.

In my hand, deep inside my pocket, I felt the note and held it lightly. It was still smooth. I tried not to crush it. I just wanted to feel it there. After walking well away from the scene, I took it out, in the orange glow of a street light, to check how much I was worth. It was a tenner.
Ten pounds. Shit - not  twenty or fifty. Okay, ten. It was ten pounds I hadn’t had. Ten was good.

I’d buy something with it, for myself. Or for Christmas. Or I’d save it, put it into the bank to cover a direct debit. Or maybe I’d buy a bottle of wine on the way home. No, I would make sure it went into the bank, that was the sensible thing.

Back in my pocket I kept my hand on it. It had escaped once. I wasn’t going to risk it bouncing out again - this note had form. If I didn’t hold onto it, lightly, it would vanish and when I got home I  would put my hand in to find nothing.

A new bra, or I’d get my hair done - not enough for that.

No, it was lucky money. It should be used for pleasure, a night out, alcohol. Nothing sensible.

But what could a tenner get you, when you have a list as long as your arm? Of things you’ve done without, things that you need, things that you desperately want. When it’s not enough to buy you any of those things, yet just enough to make you achingly aware that other people have more? So much more that they can lose money and not miss it, practically throw it away. 

Why could it not have been twenty even? Ten is nearly as bad as nothing - worse in fact. It makes you go to a bad place in your head, when even the pleasure of spending a little extra, a tiny trove of good luck, becomes an impossible choice and you’re sorry you spotted the bloody money in the first place.

It’s not enough.

But it’s a find, perhaps a sign of a turn in our luck. And I start to think, maybe it was meant to be found by me, just at that moment. No one else had seen it - it’s a gift.

I turned to our house and opened the door. In the dark of the hall I could smell the meal, almost ready. I felt again for the note, now at the bottom of the pocket, worried by my fingers as I walked and thought. It was no longer pristine, just a scrunched up line of creases. 
So I took it out and opened it and went into the kitchen with it held up between my fingers.

“Look what I found” I said, delighted again.

He looked at the note for a second and smiled. Then he put his hand in his back pocket, held up a twenty and said, “Look what I found”.