Ron, behind the counter across from The Frayed Spine entrance, reaches for a shelf under the till and brings out a jar labelled ‘Tips’. As he puts it down, its thick glass thuds against the wooden surface.
The coins inside, arranged in tidy layers, take their time to settle after clinking against one another. Dull coppers line the outer edge. A few bright foreign discs stand further in. Larger pieces make a metal bed at the bottom. Two pieces in the centre reflect the dim light of the bookshop in such a cold glow that nothing else on this side of the river could match.
The bell over the door jingles as any other shop bell should when a family steps in.
A woman pushes in with a pram. Every push and pause makes the dented foam handlebar squeak as the nylon grocery sack hanging from it sways. The small boy, not older than six, drags his feet alongside her. He keeps fiddling with the tote at her shoulder, rustling her coat, while he victoriously holds up a fistful of coins.
Ron nods at the woman as she takes a children’s book off a stack on the counter.
The boy looks around the bookshop, winces at the shelves on either side, and turns towards where the woman’s attention lives. His eyes widen when he spots the tip jar. He shuffles closer to it, no longer pulling at the woman’s bag.
He raises himself onto his toes, watching the jar with his mouth open. His head swings left to right. He takes in the range of reflections the layers of discs have to offer. He picks a copper from his fist and aims it at the jar as if it were a hoop, elbow up, ready to toss.
Ron catches the poised small wrist before the coin gets any nearer the jar.
“Placing it is always better than…” He takes the copper from the boy’s grasp.
“…throwing.”
The boy looks up at him. His mouth scrunches up, brows misaligned.
Ron puts the copper on the counter between two book stacks and lines it up with the paper price tags.
The woman lowers the book as her hand reaches for the boy’s shoulder.
“Coins mark crossings.” Ron gives a brief look at the woman before returning to the kid.
“You should treat them with more respect.”
As if the boy fears it could fade away should he blink, he keeps an eye on his copper.
“What crossing?”
“Any of them. As simple as here to there…” Ron offers him half a smile.
“Door to door, or even pocket to jar, every crossing asks to be meant for.”
The boy considers this, his face creasing with seriousness.
“What if you don’t mean it?”
“Then the crossing would know.” Ron slides the copper towards the boy’s hand.
“A thrown coin is just a rock, but if you place it, it becomes a promise. No one wants to cross with rocks, young man.”
The boy glances at the woman and back at Ron through narrowed eyes.
“A promise for what? I’m not going with you.”
“Of course not.” Ron offers him a wry grin.
“The coin goes where you cannot. It stays in there to remind the crossing that you still have unfinished business on the sunny side of the– Here. It tells the fog to clear your passage home.”
With his little fingertips curled on the counter’s edge, the boy leans forward.
“Oh. So it’s like… a bookmark?”
“Exactly. It holds your place. Now, place it properly, and get back to the light before you catch a chill.”
The boy picks the coin up. He passes it between his pinching fingers, turning it over with each pass, as if testing its weight or reality, or its readiness to feel different any moment now. His tongue sticks out as he strains to reach even higher until he totters on the very tips of his toes.
He lowers it with both hands and lets it drop, his eyes following the copper’s journey down through the layers. A small, clear clink marks its landing near the centre.
“It went quiet.” His head tilts closer to the jar, nose a sliver away from touching the glass as he stares at the coins that wait there and do nothing in particular.
“Did it know?”
“Yes.” Ron smiles.
“It did.”
The boy’s grin stretches wide, seeming satisfied with this, but the woman’s raised eyebrow suggests that she feels otherwise. She mouths a vague thank you over his head.
Ron’s slow blinking acts as a nod.
The woman returns the book to the counter and steers the pram towards the door. The boy follows her, but he keeps looking back at the jar even after they leave, the bell ringing out a jingling farewell behind them as they walk on and out of sight.
Meg strides towards the counter with her boots thumping on the floorboards and ponytail swishing like it has got its own point to make.
“She put the book back and you still got a tip.”
She fishes a bit of loose change from her pocket without breaking stride and sends it spinning towards the jar.
“Well done.”
Ron’s hand flashes out and plucks it from the air, a mere fingertip away from it hitting the glass.
Meg stops.
“You know you can’t just casually fling that.” Ron places the coin on the counter between them.
“It’s a tip.” Meg looks at it and folds her arms.
“That’s what the jar is there for, right?”
“Place it or don’t. No launching anything in because you’re bored.”
“You pulled it out of the air without even giving it the chance to go in anyway, Ron. I’d say you’re getting all worked up about a minor detail.”
“The intent carries over from before the arrival.” His hand covers the coin.
“You know this.”
Meg shifts her weight. She lays a hand down next to the jar and swings her hair to let it hang over her shoulder.
“It’s only petty change, and we’re not downstairs.”
“I do know what a coin is.” His brow wrinkles.
“You don’t get to test me on matters that certainly have never been your responsibility.” He finds her palm and presses the coin into it.
“Place it or keep it.”
She glances down at it and back at him, holding his gaze before she eventually rolls her eyes. The thumb and index finger of each hand pinch the coin from both sides. She lowers it into the jar with exaggerated ceremony.
“There. I’m now gutted that it wasn’t just a shiny button. Happy now, Ferryman?” Her voice sinks to a murmur that reaches no further than Ron.
“For the moment.”
Meg sighs as she leans on the counter, giving the staff room door a sidelong look.
“He’s still in there.” Ron opens the cash tray.
“Eli.”
“I know.” She takes a bookmark from the counter and puts it back down.
“He’s been humming that ditty again – the old ticket chime.”
“Yeah.” Meg’s eyes cut towards the rear exit.
“And Maz went out the back.”
“I gathered.”
“And?” Her chin points at him.
“You’re not going to do anything about it?”
“Anything? I’m doing several things.” He turns the jar a touch to meet the corner where the till ends.
“None of them are yours to audit.”
Meg’s mouth pulls to one side.
“We have still got a job here to keep them distracted.”
“They seem perfectly capable of doing that themselves.” He picks up the receipts.
“The question is if ‘distracted‘ is still the appropriate word for it.”
Meg looks at him, lips pursed, as if waiting for him to carry on or rephrase his words.
“For the moment.”
She pushes off the counter and stomps away into the staff room.
Before the door swings shut behind her, the boy’s coin settles deeper in the jar with a softer clink.
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