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SHORT FICTION THE TEN DOLLAR
NOTE How she hated ceilings
and walls. ‘What is your name?’ they asked. She thought it might be Maisie. She liked the name Maisie.
She believed it suited her. But the uniforms had put her off and she wasn’t
sure. ‘Address?’ ‘Under the stars,’ she said, laughing. It wasn’t kind of them
to take the stars away. They were all she had. Except for the ten
dollar note. Where had she got it? She didn’t recall. She wasn’t being
uncooperative. It wasn’t so easy to remember. The days merged one into another.
The sun rose and the night fell. She could have found the money and forgotten.
Sometimes there was a kind face in the crowd, someone would press money into her
hand. It all went into the pocket of her dress. A Vinnie dress, this
week, speckled with blue roses and with a generous pocket. The St Vinnie's mob had given
her a hat, too. She’d decorated it with shiny paper ribbon she’d found in the
park. When her stomach began
to grumble loudly, she put her hand in her pocket. She almost mistook the ten
dollar note for a piece of rubbish. She didn’t come across too many tenners,
these days. This was one of the new plastic notes. It didn’t feel like real
money. It had none of the greasy smoothness of the old notes. She had almost
thrown it away with the pages of a book. The cover long tossed out, the pages
discarded as they were read. She had a wash in the
Archibald fountain in front of the fine figure of Theseus slaying the Minotaur. She had been ten years old
when the memorial was built. There had been a fuss, she remembered. Sicard had
planned Hercules slaying a lion for this group. A design committee had objected
to the lion because it was an emblem of the British. She had since read all the
Greek myths. The committee had missed the stick altogether. A lot of bull, she
thought. She supposed Diana and the Stag would be next to be
banished. She wandered off and
found a cafe that had seen better days and ordered a meal. The service was
terrible but the food was edible. Maisie forgot about
the ten dollar note. She looked around the empty cafe then walked
out. Down the road, she
remembered she hadn’t had coffee. She decided coffee was required to wash down
the hearty meal. She seemed to remember that chocolate mints came with coffee.
She was partial to chocolate mints. She went back to the cafe and sat down,
ordered coffee. A bright young girl
brought it, much younger than the skinny scowling woman who’d served her lunch.
The girl brought the coffee, there were no mints, then forgot about
her. The cafe had no
atmosphere, Maisie decided. Not like the soup kitchen
where you stayed a while, chatted if there was anyone worth talking to, then
went off to mind your own business. She pushed aside her cup and saucer, got up
and walked out the door. Outside on the
pavement, the skinny waitress was smoking a cigarette. She saw the young girl
come out, waving her arms and yelling. The woman with the
scowl started running towards her. ‘She didn’t pay for the bloody lunch she had
either, grab her Kath!’ She heard the woman shout. Maisie hitched up her dress
and ran wildly through the crowd. Let them catch her. She could still give a
good run for her money, even at her age. The gap widened
between Maisie and her pursuers, she might have made
good her escape. Instead she careered into the uniform. ‘I have the money,’
she said, catching her breath. She smiled sweetly. The skinny woman scowled
again and said it wasn’t enough and accused her of trying to do a runner
twice. ‘It was the same
meal,’ Maisie pointed out. They all went to the
police station. ‘What is your name?’ She thought a
while. ‘Maisie,’ she said. ‘Address?’
‘Under the
stars.’ ‘You’ll have to lodge
two hundred dollars and front up in court to answer charges,’ somebody
said. ‘I only have a tenner,’ she told them. ‘You can have it, it’s brought
nothing but bad luck.’ ‘Where did you get
it?’ She didn’t
know. She was asked to make
a statement. She took the sergeant’s fountain pen and writing pad from the
counter. Slowly, carefully, in copperplate she wrote: ‘The right to be let
alone is the beginning of all freedom.’ ‘William O
Douglas’ © Sharon Rundle Published LiNQ, (1994); Out of the Mists (anthology) (1996); Ozlit e-zine
(1998) BACK |