This was the lonely after-dinner hour, when few or no customers were to be expected. Twopence halfpenny left - twopence halfpenny to last till Friday. And you stalk out with your nose in the air, and can't ever go to that shop again. You see her glance quickly at it - she's wondering whether there's a piece of Christmas pudding still sticking to it. She spots immediately that it's your last threepence in the world. And then you feel all round your pocket and fish out that absurd little thing, all by itself, sticking on the end of your finger like a tiddley-wink.
You look such a fool when you take it out of your pocket, unless it's in among a whole handful of other coins.
Because how can you buy anything with a threepenny-bit? It isn't a coin, it's the answer to a riddle. His heart sickened to think that he had only fivepence halfpenny in the world, threepence of which couldn't even be spent. ‘Oh no, not at all!’ he had said - fool, bloody fool! And of course he had let her give it him. ‘Don't mind a threepenny-bit, do you, sir?’ the little bitch of a shop-girl had chirped. Beastly, useless thing! And bloody fool to have taken it! It had happened yesterday, when he was buying cigarettes. He paused, took out the miserable little threepenny-bit, and looked at it. Fivepence halfpenny - twopence halfpenny and a Joey. The money clinked in his trouser pocket as he got up. Even from above you could see that his shoes needed resoling. His coat was out at elbow in the right sleeve and its middle button was missing his ready-made flannel trousers were stained and shapeless. It would be too bloody to be without tobacco tonight as well as all tomorrow.īored in advance by tomorrow's tobaccoless hours, he got up and moved towards the door - a small frail figure, with delicate bones and fretful movements. Today was Wednesday and he had no money coming to him till Friday. However, there were only four cigarettes left. Gordon made an effort, sat upright, and stowed his packet of cigarettes away in his inside pocket. The ding-dong of another, remoter clock - from the Prince of Wales, the other side of the street - rippled the stagnant air. In the little office at the back of Mr McKechnie's bookshop, Gordon - Gordon Comstock, last member of the Comstock family, aged twenty-nine and rather moth-eaten already - lounged across the table, pushing a four-penny packet of Player's Weights open and shut with his thumb.
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