On The Edge Of A New World

Push, shove, a rhythmic nudge. Slink, slide, clink, collide. Backwards, forwards, pushed together, collectively moving, smooth, soothing. Melodic almost, but I don't switch off and let myself glide with the others. I can't. I am thinking about the drop. I have never seen it and this is the closest I have been to it. It's nearing and the anticipation is overwhelming. The drop is the passage to a new world, a new journey, the promise of another dream.

I am pondering patiently and it is frustrating. Inching forward slower than a glacial pace, pink neon glaring down from the tacky lights above, a subtle reflection on the copper sea that surrounds me. The clatter of another coin breaks the steady hum of the pusher as it bounces chaotically down the wall and thumps onto the upper platform. I wait to see if I am in luck. Did the coin land adjacent to me? Will the mechanical arm push it my way? Will it press itself into the next copper, pushing into the next, the ripple effect emerging? A chain reaction. I creep forwards, painfully slow, another millimetre towards the drop. It is in sight, the edge. The hundreds of bronze coins stacked, assembled in layers, spreading forward on the edge.

I am Tuppence. That's what they used to say, back in the day when I was passed from pocket to purse. A traveller you could say, I embarked on a new adventure most days, part of someone else's journey. I remember...

Newly pressed, fresh from The Royal Mint, I was a modest bronze beauty, a head and tail in radiant shine. My first exchange was the warm embrace of human skin. Slim finger tips slid over me as I slipped into a curved tray with others like me. The drawer opened and closed repetitively, welcoming in new coins, as others cried their farewells. It was meditative, the bleeps from the cash register and the ping of the drawer flying open. And then it was my turn. I was pinched and passed to another set of hands and popped into the clippy purse that made a pleasant sound when it snapped shut. It was roomy inside and all its contents jangled freely beside me. I stayed there for some time, sensing this new world.

Later, I was exchanged and rehomed in an assortment of pockets and purses. I was the change from a bigger sum, as small and insignificant as that may seem, but I was honoured to be me, a humble two-pence piece, travelling to new destinations.

"Change", the voice said, as I was lifted and transferred again, chubby thumbs caressing my copper face, circling and massaging. My new owner loved me. Youth surged through his fingers and I knew fun times were ahead. Sometimes I was launched top speed across cool tiles, accelerating fast, the shimmering envy of all others. Roller races were the best, my competitor another coin like me but never as shiny, never as new. Pride surged through my metal, vanity hurling me at colossal speed.

After the games, I was slipped into a transparent case just big enough for me, beside dozens of other coins, individually tucked up in neat displays and labelled with a tiny flag. My neighbours were of foreign descent – Japanese yen, Norwegian kroner, Mexican peso. My owner's obsession with global coins and currency sparked wanderlust in me. His travels became our travels, as we voyaged together in the leather-bound album he treasured the most. How we peered through our little windows, soaking in new light, new colour, new wonders of the world, welcoming new additions to the family. I belonged.

Time passed and the album was opened less, the cover gathering dust. But then, I was taken out and dropped into the plush, red pouch by a set of charming hands with rings that clinked. The elegant fingers slid in regularly, if only to brush against the rich, velvety fabric of my new home. Then one day, as I rattled rhythmically in the warmth of the plush pouch, a chink of sky seeping in above, I sensed a hesitation, an abrupt stop, and a resounding rhyme that prickled me like never before. "See a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck". Another pause, and in fell Penny. I don't know what it was that drew us together but the connection was instant. In all my days, sharing spaces with many royal faces, I had never felt a bond as true as this. I could only wonder that maybe we had been pressed from the same sheet back at The Mint. But those details didn't really matter. There was an affinity between us.

We stayed in the pocket for a few days before moving to the grandeur of the white, quilted purse. It oozed luxury, folds of leather separating one booth from the next, secret compartments zipped shut with golden teeth. Everything in the quilted purse had a room of its own and here we were, Penny and I, housed in our own little niche. Sometimes Penny would slip under the fabric walls to explore. She was small enough and I was just happy imagining the delights that would await her. She found an empty alcove, silk lined in geometric print, the epitome of modern chic. She urged me under and so I sashayed myself each time the quilted purse moved. We were taken out daily to play together. Placed upon table tops and spun in a frenzy around each other, desperate not to fall first. In turn we were tossed up high, taking in magnificent views from great heights, feeling free in flight, before tumbling down into an eager palm. Heads or tails? It was part of the game, being slapped down to reveal which side faced up. Everything was perfect. I saw the world from new perspectives.

But the day came when it all changed. Lying there, Penny and I, reflecting in the summer light from the palm of the hand, carefree. Finger and thumb thrust toward us, debating which of us it should be. And then she was lifted. It happened so fast. Plucked from the hand, followed by a sound that plopped... and then I knew she was gone. I heard them make a verbal wish and it was only later that I learned Penny had been plunged into the waters of a wishing well. She was someone's token for a wish. Would she have wanted this? I wish you well Penny.

The sky poured in and dazzled me. I had no time to grieve for my friend. Out of the quilted purse I was lifted and swapped for something sugar coated. And from here, I embarked on new adventures again, travelling from fancy cash registers, to pockets and purses, again and again. My wanderlust was taking hold and I was seeing the world again. Exchanges took me on journeys far and wide, cross-country, on wheels. With each new abode, I revelled in the pleasure of new experiences. There was the tweedy pocket that tickled me with it's rough threads. Full of mechanical oddities, I felt I was an integral part of a shiny collection of metallic discoveries, a magpie's booty. There was the sticky pocket, crammed with cracked and forgotten sweets and smatterings of pink sherbet. I tangled myself in gluey, cellophane wrappers, attracting fluff and crumbs. It wasn't a good look. I was even housed, for a while, inside a ceramic pig with a rectangular skylight.

Then came the dishevelled pocket, threadbare and deserted most of time due to smaller coins slipping through the shabby stitching, sinking between the layers of fabric. I relaxed for a while, admiring, through the spy holes, the repetitive shapes on the pavement below. But then the dark came and brought an emptiness that dampened my hopes of bright new voyages. Days passed, long and uneventful and all thoughts of moving forward came to a standstill. The pocket was a slum, gloomy thoughts seeping in. I was getting agitated. Memories of my best friend crept in. I imagined Penny lying beneath the clear waters of the wishing well, together with hundreds of other pennies. She was not alone. Precious, shiny with a thousand other wishes. She was somebody's wish and that's when I knew she had fulfilled a true and wondrous purpose in life, for somebody else. And then I felt it. Hope.

The next day, fat fingers reached into my dungeon, rummaged around and smoothed my familiar face. I was placed onto a table, set on my side and propped by two fingers. A force was building. I waited nervously. And then I was propelled, reeling at incredible speed. Pirouetting on a polished surface, dizzily dancing. But the motion soon slowed, my axis tilted and balance unstable. I wobbled and rolled onto the floor. The crash made me clink double but I had no time. I was escaping. I rolled at great speed and then I was gone. Out of the door, bombing like a unicycle, the wind thrusting me downhill, faster and faster. A crack in the floor jolted me. I felt myself slipping, tumbling and I toppled onto the cold concrete.

There was a humdrum in the air, a carnival of warmth. I lay face-up to the puffy clouds, a fallen ice cream melting into a river of syrup bedside me. A rowdy gull swooped close to steal a discarded chip. Grains of sand littered the pavement, the hush of waves echoing the sound of the sea.

A hand reached for me, picked me up, popped me into a plastic cup with other coins. Low-fidelity blips and bleeps, silvery melodies, pows and zaps were playing through the air. Electric light, fruity and bright, luminous against the dark. The arcade was a place of play and fun and sweet-toothed grins, and money. I was mesmerised by the neon glow, not understanding this was a gamblers paradise. And then I was lifted, fingers clutching, the sliver slot approaching, the circular space, a perfect fit for my body, and then ping. I was propelled into the machine. I bounced across and down a wall of pegs, forcing me left then right until I crashed to the moving floor. The floor that pushed and pulled and was strewn with hundreds of other two pence pieces.

Push, shove, a rhythmic nudge. Slink, slide, clink, collide. Another coin is dropped. The clatter wakes me, thrills and stirs me. Backwards, forwards, pushed together, collectively moving, smooth, soothing. I am getting closer to the drop now. Where will my next journey take me? Time has aged me. My face is not the shiny bronze that once dazzled in glory. I'm grubbier, dulled and brown. I don't stand out and am not worthy of desire anymore, but my looks will not hinder me. I have a sense, a soul, a host of memories. This sea of copper faces lying in wait with me, all destined for something new. They have history too, maybe like mine. And the new shiny coins that glimmer with pride, maybe this is only the start of their life. But we are all heading for the impending drop.

Hanging on the edge now, nervous energy rattles me. The drop. I am going to drop. We wait together, a stacked ensemble of brown bodies, desperate for a new life, a new adventure. I am ready. The next push and I will be falling, over the edge. It's almost time. Where will I go? What will I see? And then I see a greedy face. The human, peering in through the glass, slamming in the money, eager for the spill, pot at the ready, hungry for a win. And a new question confronts me... will I go on to pastures new, or will my fate be doomed as I picture myself slotted back into the machine? A flurry of sudden anguish hits me, as I dubiously hang over the drop.