The Sovereign's Journey
London 1838.
Lying anxiously in the Royal mint is a frightened yet tenacious golden disc, waiting for the precise moment of transformation, when it will no longer be mere bullion, but the first coin to bear the face of the new queen. In a few hours, this coin, dimly aware of its importance and grieving its separation from its friends, will arrive at Buckingham Palace in a crimson velvet pouch.
Though it sees little of Victorian London, the repulsive stench of the Thames permeates the carriage, conjuring images of waste and horse dung. Alongside the smell is a cacophony, the clap of hooves, the hum of chatter and the barks of stray dogs.
Suddenly, the carriage’s momentum is halted abruptly; it jerks as the wheel strikes a dislodged granite sett. The rear doors burst open, and the special coin, tucked in its embossed pouch, slips from the carriage onto the damp cobbles. A nimble, long-fingered, grimy hand rapidly clutches the treasure. Its owner (whose threadbare clothes are more patches than fabric) calculates his escape but an imposing shadow looms over him, smelling of starch and cold pressed steel.
“A heavy weight for a light-fingered soul,” the guard growls, hand resting on his sword.
The thief looks up, his face pinched with hunger. “Just keeping it from the gutter, Guv’nor,” he wheezes. “Wouldn’t want Her Majesty’s likeness catching a chill.”
“Give,” the guard commands sternly.
With a lingering look at the coin that could have bought a lifetime of meals, the thief hesitantly surrenders the pouch and vanishes into the fog like a fox in the night.
Later, that same guard walks proudly through an ornate room towards a golden throne, upon which sits a solemn young Queen Victoria, her tiny feet barely touching the floor. How marvellous yet terrifying for this coin to be presented in this splendid room. It watches the Queen’s expression shift from boredom to excitement as she gingerly studies her effigy; the neat bun, the decorative band, and the proudly raised chin. What a home to settle in?! The coin thinks. It imagines a life tucked into a bedside box, enjoying the artwork on the ceiling for the rest of its existence.
As the Queen questions the guard about the coin’s journey, a change comes over her. Hearing of the pinch-faced man she feels a surge of sadness and a pang of pain at her unparalleled privilege.
“The man was hungry you say?” The monarch muses mournfully.
She presses the coin firmly back into the guard’s hand. “Find him! It is my decree that he should have it!”
Ripped from its daydream, the coin is reluctantly wedged back into the nimble, long-fingered, grimy hand. It realises in that moment that its destiny is far greater than a gilded box. It is a traveller meant to be passed around in the pockets of those living a thousand lives in the city’s shadows, rather than one lonely life in the palace light.
Valentina Sefain, 9.