Down the settee
Money for nothing
If you ever rummaged down the sides of an old sofa, you’ll know where I’m going with this post. In my youth, we had a three-piece suite in our lounge, and our family comprised mother, father and three boys. The shade of the suite was, I recall, petrol, a sort of sheen of bluey-greeny, olivey, whatevery that hid stains impeccably, was easy to maintain (horse hair) but not so good at withstanding cigarette burns. Five seats, five family members. So, when the Morecambe and Wise show was on or the Queen’s Christmas address, anyone else had standing room only, or had to sit on the pouffe (which we called a puffy, like my mum would say things like San Ferry-Anne, for ça ne fait rien, or hair-oil to avoid saying hell, or behouchie to evade bum), at least until the youngest member of the family (which was always me; funny, that) got evicted to make room for Uncle or Auntie Whomever.
One evening when I was about ten, my brother went to put a shilling in his trouser pocket while seated on the settee, and missed. “Dash,” (I think) he said. And immediately started to rummage in order to retrieve it. After a minute, he pulled out, not the coin he had dropped, but a half crown. A whole half crown! “Wow, I dropped a shilling and now I’ve found a half crown,” he will likely have said. So, in he went again to see if he could find his shilling. Well, this time, he pulled out a florin, which is two shillings, or was. He stood up and started to remove the cushions, and then we all did, and that was the end of Morecambe and Wise for that evening.
First the sofa was prospected for gold, and then father stood up and started rummaging in his own armchair, and we evicted my other brother from his armchair and sequestered it for a house search and, all in all, it was a very minor king’s ransom that was hauled out of the furniture. “Ha-haar, mateys. There’s gold in them thar settees,” a pirate might have said.
There was no piracy involved in this particular voyage of discovery, but there did arise the knotty problem of distributing the booty. Father adduced evidence in the form of his Oxford bags, to claim the entire proceeds of the mining operation in his own armchair. His claim founded in geographic territory. Mother tended to wear dresses but had a position of authority that enabled her to lay claim to a pound or two of the haul. So her own claim was founded in the wooden spoon she used as a general threat to all and sundry (including, I seem to remember, Tony the window-cleaner on one occasion). My two older brothers fought out the rights over the rest of the cash, their claims being founded in muscle power and inventive expletives. And I think I ended up with the aforementioned half crown, as a sort of consolation prize, my claim being founded in pitiful charity. One thing I can say for certain: it was a hair-oil of a lot more fun than Morecambe and Wise ever were.
As you now appreciate, various forms of claim were emitted during the process. Like whose sofa is it, anyway? Where do you normally sit? What if the money is from visitors who sat here—what rights do they have? And what rights does a ten-year-old brother possess against the physical might of a 14- and a 17-year-old brother. Hm? There have been times when I wished my parents had not dallied quite so long after number two brother before proceeding with having their number three son.
But, what of it? Are these not simply circumstances of happenstance? Chance occurrences? He who loses his coinage down the sofa loses it definitively. He who finds it is a lucky winner. I doubt there is much of a set of regulations to determine who is entitled to what when it comes to delving down into the depths of a three-piece suite.
But, boy, do we write screeds of legislation to regulate the other freebies we happen upon on this Earth. All according to law, of course.
Ah yes, I recall this sort of tale well!