“That’s a penny,” Claire replied.

“But that’s worth a hundred pennies. Will she have a hundred times the good luck, Grandpa?”

“What are you two bickering about now?” the old man with bushy eyebrows said, stepping out of the kitchen holding a tea towel.

“Claire found a pound coin on the floor,” Ben said.

“The saying’s, ‘See a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck’,” Claire argued. “It doesn’t say anything about pound coins.”

The old man laughed, which he did without opening his mouth. “It also refers to coins you just find lying around. I’m sure whoever came up with it didn’t mean coins you found on my carpet. It probably feel out of my pocket and rolled under that chest of drawers.”

“Give it back to Grandpa,” Ben said quickly.

“Do I have to, Grandpa?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course. It’s his.”

The old man laughed again. “You can keep it, dear, but only if you share it with your brother. Go and buy some sweets or something.”

Ben smiled. “Give it here. I want to hold it.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Grandpa said give it to me.”

“No, he didn’t. He said share it with you. I can’t share one single coin with you because then you’d have it all.”

“Grandpa, tell her!”

“Go down the shops now,” the old man said. “Before I change my mind and take it back.”

Ben and Claire looked at each other. They headed for the front door. Ben reached up to the latch.

Claire turned round. “Grandpa?”

The old man came back out of the kitchen with a fist on his hip. “What, dear?”

“Do I have to share the other money with him?”

“What other money?”

“Yeah. What other money?” Ben scowled.

Claire smiled toothily. “I found a penny this morning.”

The old man laughed again, but this time he opened his mouth. “Then I think your luck from this morning has just paid off.”

“Do I have to share it with him?”

“If you can work out how to share a single penny fairly.”

“We could each have half of a penny sweet,” Ben suggested.

“Well, I’m eating the first half,” she said.

“I’m not eating the second half! It’ll have your spit all over it.”

“Perhaps you should let me have the penny,” the old man said.

Ben and Claire looked at him.

“Nah. That’s all right,” said Ben.

Claire opened the door.

“Don’t hang about,” the old man called.

Claire slammed the door behind them.

“Let me hold it,” Ben said as they walked along the street. “It’s my turn.”

“You’ll only drop it,” she said.

“No. I won’t. Give it.”

“You’re clumsy. You’ll drop it and it’ll roll down a drain and then we’ll have lost it. I’ll keep hold of it and let you have half the sweets.”

“I don’t want any sweets. I want half of my money to spend on something else.”

“Spend it on what?”

“That’s none of your business. Give me the money.”

“I can’t give you your half until I’ve spent mine.”

“You’ll spend all of it! I know you will.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

Grandpa lived in a bungalow in a cul-de-sac off the main road. The parade of shop was less than a minute’s walk down the road. There was a footbridge over the four carriageways that they needed to cross first.

Ben ran ahead.

When Claire caught up, he was waiting for her at the top of the steps, looking down on the grass verge.

“There’s a big guy on the bridge,” he whispered.

“So?” Claire walked past.

The teenager was not walking toward them. He was standing in the middle of the bridge, leaning forward on his arms, which he rested on the safety barrier. He was watching the traffic pass underneath the bridge.

Claire slowed down. Ben caught up.

“Why’s he just standing there?” Ben whispered.

“You’re a wimp,” Claire said.

The teenage boy glanced along at them as they approached him, then went back to watching traffic.

“He wants to have sex with you,” Ben hissed.

“Shut up!”

The teenager glanced at them again. Claire felt her face go red and she brushed the hair away from her ears awkwardly.

As they passed the older boy, he turned round.

“Hang on,” he said.

Claire stopped beside him. Ben stopped behind her.

“You’ve got to pay to cross this bridge.”

“No, we don’t,” Claire said.

Then she made to go past him.

The older boy stuck his leg out. He was wearing faded black jeans, and when he leaned black, his leg completely blocked their way past.

“Please?” Claire said.

“It costs a pound to cross this bridge.”

“Since when?” Ben said.

“Since I arrived.”

“Ignore him, Ben. Then he’ll go away.”

The older boy laughed. He went to lower his leg, but then kicked it up again, nearly striking Claire.

“It costs a pound to cross this bridge,” he said again.

“We don’t have a pound,” Claire said.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t tell him, Ben.”

“Don’t tell him what to do.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me what to do,” said Ben.

“You’re not going t let a girl tell you what to do, are you, Ben?” the older boy said.

“No.”

Claire grabbed her brother’s hand. “Come on.” Then she turned back and led him away from the older boy. “We’ll get Grandpa.”

The older boy laughed and slipped past them. He blocked the way back.

Ben’s grip on Claire’s hand tightened.

She snorted.

“You’ve stepped foot on this bridge, so it’s going to cost you a pound, even if you want to get off it again,” the teenager said, holding out his palm.

Claire realised the path to the shops was now clear. She pushed Ben. “Run to the shop, Ben! Run!”

Then she began running herself. She stopped when she realised Ben wasn’t following her.

“If we go to the shop and send the money, how will we be able to pay him to cross back over the bridge?” he said.

The older boy came up behind him, his hands on his hips like Grandpa.

“You’ll be stuck on the other side of the road,” he said.

“Just give him the flipping money,” Ben said.

The older boy came between them, so that Ben could run back to Grandpa’s house and Claire could run to the shop, but they couldn’t go together. He lifted his leg up again, and Claire felt alone.

“I hate you,” she said.

Then she gave him the pound coin.

NOTES:
It's just a basic retelling of the fairytale about the troll blocking a bridge and charging a toll. Except this troll is a teenage boy. Some would say this wasn't too creative a leap to make. The bridge I was envisioning here is the one over the Arterial Road in Southend, about two hundred metres from The Bell pub junction. I'd been using it several times a week at the time of writing this bit to visit the post office and send off things I had sold over Amazon. I was considering using "The Arterial Road" as the title for this story collection when I was going to restrict the coin's movements to the inhabitants of this one road. But that plan only lasted four vignettes. I might still use "The Arterial Road" for something, as arteries carry blood away from the heart, but it always comes back in the end.