(Shortlisted in the 2024 Sydney Hammond Short Story Competition)
Lincoln Museum’s Donal MacGregor ran his eyes along the rows of Roman coins. Sixty-eight in total, arranged on a workbench from largest to smallest by the optimistic owner of Rearended Farm. The Deputy Curator was wrestling between speaking and hiding the fact he’d bitten the inside of his cheek. Farmer Quigley bought him some time by pointing his agricultural smelling finger at the centre of the collection.
‘That yellow one gotta be worth a bit? I knows gold when I sees it.’
Behind the cattle farmer, Quigley junior loomed like a troll guarding a tunnel. MacGregor glanced again at the gold coin depicting the Roman emperor Septimius Severus. Its features were intricate and clean, as though struck yesterday.
‘Them’s old coins, they are. Must be worth at least a quid each,’ declared Quigley, having that morning added coin expert to his list of worldly knowledge.
MacGregor swallowed. ‘There’s no doubt it’s an attractive collection, Sir.’
Two sets of button eyes locked on him. Being addressed by anything but their surname didn’t sound right. MacGregor took a sharp turn into Flattery Lane.
‘It’s noble of you to offer them to the museum, Mr Quigley. An avaricious man might have sought a private sale.’
‘We don’t keep bees ‘ere,’ grumbled Quigley. ‘Stingy little buggers.
MacGregor tried to read the face before him that over time had absorbed a range of features resembling the farm’s livestock. The tenant farmer seemed eager to keep moving. In the distance, wayward Rearended cows called from a neighbouring woodland owned by the Earl of Rutland. Macgregor guessed their retrieval was crucial before discovery.
‘Anyways, what’s this lot worth to you?’
The Deputy Curator mastered himself. ‘Our museum already has a good assortment of third century coins. However, we’d be proud to display some unearthed locally.’
‘’s right.’ Quigley puffed out his chest. ‘Seth ’ere found ’em when he was ’ditchin. Didn’t you, lad?’ The father beamed up at his boy who, for the first time in twenty years of digging channels, had achieved a result grander than drainage.
‘Them be from down near marsh,’ rumbled Seth.
‘Don’t tell ’im where, lad!’ Quigley said, with a mix of cheer and venom.
MacGregor wasn’t listening. All effort was being directed at avoiding eye contact with Rome’s first military monarchist, the bearded Severus. Ancient gold coins were valuable, but this specimen was eye-watering. Most emperors, including Severus, had styled themselves facing right since the divine Augustus set the standard. Yet, here was a Severus facing left! A faint myth lurked in the halls of numismatic guilds that the governor of Britannia, moments before rebelling against his master in a play for the throne, had British coins made with the emperor facing the wrong way. A piece of juicy propaganda letting everyone know his boss had lost favour with the gods. MacGregor did some mental arithmetic on the value of this 2cm disc of gold and ran out of numbers. It now came down to what was said next.
‘Such a shame the V’s missing,’ he murmured.
‘What V?’
‘Oh, nothing. Your son’s discovery is delightful, Mr Quigley. You’re right the gold one is an aureus from around 210AD. Even though gold coins from this age aren’t rare, I’m happy to take this modestly good one off your hands. Along with these other denarii and sestertii here.’
The Quigleys beamed. ‘Don’t that sound good, Seth! Make sure there’s one of them cards in the museum saying, “Generously donated by Ezekiel Quigley”.’
Lincoln Museum’s soon to be ex-Deputy Curator smiled back. ‘We can do that. Although, I doubt you’re offering them for free, are you?’
‘There’s no foolin’ you, mister.’
‘I hope you’ll understand. There’s a limit to how much I can spend. After all, it’s taxpayers’ money I’m using.’
‘I’m more ‘n happy to get some of it back!’ The farmer elbowed his son in encouragement. MacGregor pretended to be counting, then said, ‘I might stretch to ninety pounds for the lot.
‘How’s ‘bout a ‘undred?’
‘Done!’ The men shook hands.
‘One ‘n a ‘arf quid each, sounds fair.’
They may have struggled to wrap their minds around the nuances of literacy, but Quigley’s had been multiplying and dividing animals since the age of the druids. Numbers came as naturally to them as wind.
‘I only trust cash, mind! A cheque’s as thin as a promise.’
MacGregor rubbed the circulation back into his crushed hand.
‘You’re a man after my heart, Mr Quigley. I’ve cash in the car for moments like this. I’ll be right back.’
‘Not so fast. What’s that about a V?’
This time MacGregor bit his tongue. ‘On exceptional occasions, we might find a coin with a capital V for virtus, beside the face. Had this been one of those, then I daresay you could retire, Mr Quigley. It was just a musing on my behalf.’
‘Dunna what’s funny ‘bout it? But right you are then, go get that money.’
On the return to his car, MacGregor tried not to rush in case he was being watched. It was tough. A hundred pounds was a steal just for the aureus, let alone the entire collection. No one need ever know about the unblemished gold coin until it appeared at a Sotheby’s auction in a year under an anonymous seller. Lake Como villas entered the scholarly mind as he navigated the soggy potholes.
When their visitor was beyond earshot, Quigley turned to his son.
‘Did ya see that?’
The lad’s brow creased in concentration. ‘The thing ’e kept doin’ with his mouth?’
‘What? No. His look, boy! That’s a sign when them smart types from the city think they’ve got one over us good folk.’ Quigley pointed to the workbench. ‘Gimme that.’
A ball hammer was dutifully passed across. The Fens farmer wrapped his powerful fingers around the hammer’s handle. In his other hand, he placed the end of a screwdriver beside the emperor’s forehead.
‘Watch ‘n learn, lad. I’m goin’ make us rich.’
Comments