In for a Penny

I’m trying. Really trying.

I hold Dad’s hand every day and share only happy thoughts. The kids. The weather.

It’s harder since Dad refused further treatment. I get it. His life has been nothing but pain for months, but I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone. He’s my hero. My best friend, the only one who knows it all and understands. Who will I talk to?

He braces himself and forces his chest to rise. It’s what Dad has to do these days to make words.

“Liz came yesterday.”

“Good.”

Great. Incredible. I’m really pleased for Dad and for my perfect sister. Dad’s favourite. Mum’s too when she was around. I’m the disappointment, but even before they moved him to palliative care, Lizzie hardly ever came to the retirement village. I feared she wouldn’t get in at all before Dad passed. She wouldn’t have forgiven herself for that. Liz isn’t a monster. I try not to resent the appreciation she gets for the tiniest gesture while I do all the heavy lifting, but I can’t hide my bitterness.

He squeezes. His grip’s horribly feeble from a man who was so strong, so successful, so recently.

“What’s wrong, love?”

Everything. He’s dying. My life’s a mess.

“It’s Ian, I’ll bet. What’s he done?”

Astonishment dries up the tears that were about to spill. Dad reads my mind. He’s wise. The smartest person I know, as well, but there’s more to being wise than knowing stuff, isn’t there? It’s seeing beyond to what it means. 

“Ian’s started again. He cleaned out the savings account.”

Dad licks his lips, struggling for breath. I know what he’s going to say, so I save him the effort.

“I opened one in my name only, but it’s empty. He must have found it.”

My husband worked out my password or fooled a credulous bank clerk with a tall story. Ian is clever. Not wise, the opposite, incredibly adept and utterly shameless to fuel his gambling addiction. Ian saw counsellors and swore he’d changed after the car dealership sacked him for stealing. He stayed out of the betting shop for months, his best run of abstinence yet, but it’s over.

“His golf clubs have gone from the garage.”

Pawning the irons for betting money is his last resort.

Dad presses harder and wheezes, “Leave him.”

“I can’t. I love him. The kids love him.” I’ve somehow sheltered them from their father’s problem all these years. “It would destroy them.” Me too, because I have failed. I believed in Ian. Believed he could change if I only gave him enough support and encouragement. 

“The kids need better,” Dad says.

Yes! They should have nice things. A better house in a decent suburb. I have a good job, but whenever I get a little ahead, Ian finds the money and blows it on the horses or the dogs or a night at the casino—he’s an equal-opportunity loser. I’ve had all I can take. The last straw has broken. I would get away, despite everything, if only I could break that cycle. 

“You’re right, Dad. But there’s no money. Nothing.”

I ease my hand out of his, disgusted with myself. Dad doesn’t need this on top of everything else.

He stirs, his chest heaves. I’m about to push the emergency button, thinking he’s having a stroke, that I’ve killed him, but he’s gathering strength for an announcement.

“I kept something for you. A secret. You’ll see it. In your pennies. For you, my love.”

The effort has worn him out. His eyes close, his lips flutter silently until he drops into a troubled doze.

My pennies.

Dad was a coin dealer. You probably remember his shop in Rundle Mall. Everyone used to stop and look at the window displays of exotic notes and specie from around the globe. I loved it, begged to go to work with him on weekends and during the holidays while Lizzie played with her vast herd of friends and admirers. The shop and a passion for numismatics were our thing. I ran it after Dad’s first turn when Mum died. For a year. But Ian was on a losing streak. Stock went missing. The books didn’t square with the till, and it was a relief when we sold up to cover his supported living accommodation deposit. Another failure.

Anyway, when I was very small, Dad gave me a bag of coins to play with at the shop, worthless stuff but old and deliciously exciting for a little girl. I forgot all about it until we cleaned out Dad’s unit and found a cash bag half full of change. Ian’s eyes lit up, naturally, until he realised it was all low denomination. The bag’s lumped in with the rest of Dad’s things in our garage.

+++

I should get back to work, but I drive home to Inala instead, hunt out that muslin bank bag, and spill the contents onto an old piece of carpet. The wet rocks smell takes me straight to the workshop at the back of Dad’s shop where we spent so many happy hours. So familiar. A little girl’s treasure trove. The Mexican centavo. The square Chinese coin with a hole in the middle. British and Australian pennies, halfpennies and farthings, of course, and US cents, nickels and dimes left by General MacArthur’s battalions when they flooded Brisbane in 1942. My horde is mostly of that vintage. A lot with King George’s face, even a couple with Queen Victoria if I can find them. No, that Australian penny is George V too. Wait a minute, what year was that?

Bloody hell, it can’t be? 1930? No way!

I turn on the overhead light because it’s dim in the shadows by the workbench. I haven’t got my loupe, but I can’t find any of the telltale marks you get when someone has altered the year from 1933 or 1938 to fake the copper Aussie collectors crave. In the depths of the depression, no more pennies were needed, but the Melbourne mint produced about 1500 in 1930, by mistake apparently. This one's not in mint condition, far from it, but even a well-used George V Australian 1930 penny attracts at least $20,000 at auction. 

The coin is cool against my chest. The bevelled edge teases the skin between my breasts with something tantalising, breathtaking, and overwhelmingly alluring. Freedom. Security. Twenty thousand will comfortably finance a new start. It’s so close I can taste it, but there are hurdles to be cleared yet, tax and pension implications for a start. And Lizzie’s share. I can’t cheat my sister. Dad said it was mine. The pennies were mine before, but when he tucked that 1930 in my old play collection, he couldn’t possibly have meant I should take it all for myself.

+++

“Dad kept a coin worth twenty K in a cloth bag!”

“Shush.” The whole cafe can hear us. I whisper, “Dad his it in plain sight. Only coin nerds know what it’s worth, and don’t tell anyone.”

“How can we sell it if we don’t tell anyone?”

Even a quarter of what 0ur 1930 penny is worth, five grand, would get me started in a flat with the kids. My wages will cover week to week expenses. Ian will pay child support when he can. He’s generous when he has a win, kind, handsome, in every way a decent, lovable bloke except for that overwhelming compulsion to gamble every dollar he can lay his hands on. Liz and Tim, by comparison, have a four-bedroom Queenslander in Chermside, a Prado for the school run, but she’s the one fixated on the money while I’m having second thoughts. Parting with the 1930 penny, the most valuable coin I’ve touched, will be a wrench, and Liz is ignoring the traps ahead.

“We didn’t declare the penny in Dad’s assets. If Centrelink finds out, they’ll reclaim the government contribution, probably with penalties.”

My sister drops her voice, thank goodness. “Okay, gotcha.” She winks. “We keep it under wraps until it goes up for auction. You know how that works, don’t you?”

I do, which is why a belt of tension is tightening around my ribs. She’s too eager. It’s happening too fast.

“You can’t just march into Sotheby’s with an incredibly rare coin and ask how much. They demand provenance, and they’re obligated to report to the authorities.”

“I guess we wait until Dad passes away, then. If we say we found it in his things, which we did, the government can’t touch us, can they?” She pats my hand and quickly adds, “Ages from now, I hope.” Lizzie doesn’t mean it. Dollar signs are flashing in her eyes.

Lizzie cares less about our dad than a few bob extra to buy shoes. I didn't think it would be like this.

“I called you as soon as I found the penny. I haven’t looked at probate rules or anything else yet.”

“Can I see it?”

“I mixed it back in with the others.”

“Are you mad?”

“I left it where it’s been safe for four years. Should I put it in my purse? One of the school mums got mugged last month.”

My sister shrugs off my concerns. “We’ll work it out.”

Lizzie will get her share. It’s only fair. But on top of everything else, this ‘we’ thing makes me want to scream. I found it. If I hadn’t spent all those hours learning the ins and outs of the coin trade, we’d never have known it was valuable, but Lizzie immediately demands control as she always has.

“What does Ian say?” My blank expression surprises Lizzie. “You have told him? You haven’t! Oh my gosh, he’ll be ecstatic. You might get out of Inala finally. I know you have that weird connection to the place because of the baby, but—”

“What?” The cot death horror hits me every time I go into the kids’ bedroom because that’s where we found Jasmine. Our second, only 11 months old, just starting to walk and talk.

“Sorry. Weren’t we supposed to know? Ian told Tim when he asked why you stay in that hovel.”

“I’m leaving Ian.”

“No! How could you? You get a little windfall and you’re off, leaving your husband high and dry? I never thought you could be so selfish. After what he’s put up with, all he’s done for you.”

“Done for me?”

“Changing jobs because you were never satisfied and his work hours didn’t suit your shifts. Honestly! The guy’s career has to come first, Dee!”

“You don’t know my life. We owe half a million on the house.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It’s barely worth that and you’ve been there for years.”

“It’s mortgaged to the limit, beyond the limit, because Ian has a catastrophic gambling addiction. He’s been fired for stealing three times.”

“You are such a drama queen. If you gave Ian the support a husband needs, you’d be fine. Anyway, Tim will know what to do.”

“Please don’t tell him. Not yet. Keep it between us.”

She looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns.

“For now. Until I get it straight in my head. So much is happening. Dad’s slipping away.”

“Yes. He’s sort of shrunk, hasn’t he? And there’s that dusty smell.” She shudders. With distaste, I think. “I stuck it for half an hour. I’ve no idea how you do it. I couldn’t, but thank goodness you have with this coin thing, eh?”

“And Ian mustn’t know. He’s betting again.”

“You’re serious about that gambling thing, then? He likes a punt? Lots of people do, Dee.”

It’s my own fault, I suppose. My stupid pride. I’ve covered up for so long that when I finally bare my soul, my shame, my sister doesn’t believe me. 

+++

I have to work back late to make up the hours when I nipped home and met Lizzie. Ian’s home early. His car’s in the garage, so I park on the verge and boot the kids out. He should have picked them up from after-school care. They’ll charge us for the extra hour.

While the little ones thunder through the front door, I go in past Ian’s Kia because I need to touch the George V penny, to feel again that tarnished hope.

The bag is where I left it, under Dad’s overcoat, between a shoebox and his chess set. I spill the ludicrously valuable loose change on the workbench, quickly sift out the pennies and… Two 1926, a 1935 but no 1930 George V. I must have missed it, but there are no more pennies in the bag. Surely it couldn’t have fallen out. I shoved it right into the middle.

“Lost something?”

Ian makes me jump. He’s leaning on the door frame, a dishcloth over his shoulder, arms crossed, smiling.

“Come in, I had a win. I’ve bought flowers.”

And he’s made dinner, chilli by the cooking scents. The kids love chilli. Typical Ian. The man I married. So charming, so thoughtful.

I scuff the coins into a heap. 

“Sorry. Something Dad said reminded me about my pennies.”

“They have fond memories for you, I know. Keep them when we get rid of the rest of his junk.”

“Yes.”

He rocks upright. “Probably wasn’t there,” he says.

“What wasn’t?”

“Whatever you were looking for. You misremembered. A false recollection. You were only a kid.”

His face splits with a smile of such genuine joy and affection that a scream explodes in my brain. Typical, typical, typical Ian. He lies with absolute sincerity because he genuinely believes he does nothing wrong.

I tear out my phone and dial.

“Lizzie? What have you done?”

+++

Dad’s having a good day. He’s sitting up. Each breath threatens to tip him over, but a crooked grin plays at the corners of his lips. I love him so much.

“So.” He gulps and wheezes. “You found George?”

Emotions swamp me. Bitter regret. Self-disgust. Dread. He mustn’t know how badly I’ve screwed up his final gift. I can’t disappoint him again. So, I cover my shattered dreams with a wide smile.

“What a find! So clever of you. It’s absolutely brilliant. Thank you so much. I can…”

He tilts his head. The little smile holds, but it twitches, and there are depths of caring that I can’t possibly cope with.

“Can’t fool your dad.” He holds his chest, rolling his cheeks until he can get the question out. “I-Ian?”

I nod, because if I speak, I will cry. 

Dad stares me down until I splutter details of the disaster into his bedspread. I can’t meet his eyes.

“Ian’s convinced Lizzie it was never there. That I dreamed it.”

When I look up, Dad’s shaking his head.

“Feared as much.” He draws in a huge breath. Dad’s prepared something, no doubt expecting me to drop the ball. “I knew you’d share with Lizzie because you’re you. Don’t change, love. You’re the best mum ever. The best person, but you have to learn others are not like you. Don’t trust them. The penny was for you, Dina. No-one else.”

“I let you down.”

“You’ve never let me down and you never will, but have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Then there’s something else.” His finger rises to point at my chest. “For you. Only you. Not Liz. Or Tim.” He puts a sneer into Lizzie’s husband’s name that brings a reluctant grin to my cheeks. “Definitely not Ian. Top drawer.” He leans toward the bedside dresser.

I empty out pens and paper, a chapstick, tissues, and a leather pouch. That must be what he means. I draw the string, tip it into my palm, and out drops another penny. An American penny. One cent. Abraham Lincoln’s stern right profile.

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“Got a magnet?” Dad asks.

Why would I want a magnet? Unless… Oh my goodness. It’s a 1943 Lincoln cent. Due to a copper shortage in the war years, American pennies were minted from steel. As a result, 1943 American one-cent coins are, of course, magnetic, except for a tiny few that were accidentally stamped from leftover bronze planchets. The last 1943 Bronze Lincoln Cent to reach the market fetched more than a million US dollars, close to two million Australian.

And the next is warming in my palm.
​
“It’s yours,” Dad says. “Yours!”