Opinion

Anita Robinson: Half a century on I still sing a song of sixpence

It is 50 years since the introduction of decimalisation. Nick Ansell/PA Wire.
It is 50 years since the introduction of decimalisation. Nick Ansell/PA Wire. It is 50 years since the introduction of decimalisation. Nick Ansell/PA Wire.

It came as an unwelcome shock to learn that last week marked the fiftieth anniversary of the decimalisation of the currency. Where have the years gone?

I must emphasise that at the time, I was a VERY young primary school teacher, with, I think, a P2 or P3 class and of course the ‘new money’ became part of the Maths curriculum. The children assimilated the system very quickly. I was the one with the difficulty. Moving from a base of 12 pence one shilling, 20 shillings one pound, to a base of 10 (which of course is considerably more simple) I found it psychologically impossible not to compare old and new values. I kept thinking, “How much is that in real money?” and the suspicion we were being royally rooked.

I hated the new currency. The coins were foreign-looking and tinny with no weight to them; the notes cheap and flimsy Bank of Toytown. The old coins were reassuringly heavy, which lent them a certain gravitas and had user-friendly names – the thruppenny bit, the tanner, the bob, the halfcrown, the ten-bob note, the quid – and the big white fiver with its lovely calligraphy, ‘I promise to pay the bearer….’ Upmarket shops sold their merchandise in guineas – a pound and a shilling. One of the memorable tragedies of my childhood was being sent on my scooter to the butcher’s with a ten shilling note which blew away. I never heard the end of it.

Bridie’s wee shop at the bottom of our street was a magnet for the neighbourhood children. You could be sick for sixpence. A penny gobstopper and a penny chew, a penny Bubbly, four Black Jacks, four Fruit Salad – and a penny change. Alternatively, thruppence bought you two ounces of clove rock or brandy balls adhering stickily to the paper bag in a great warm clump in your pocket. Once a playmate and I pooled our Saturday sixpences and bought a shilling family-size block of ice-cream, divided it scrupulously fairly between two soup plates and made ourselves sick in style.

It wasn’t unusual for a neighbour to hail a random child in the street and dispatch it on some errand to a local shop with a note and some money. Parental permission was understood, on the grounds that you accepted no reward for ‘goin’ a message’. There was many an undeclared tuppence earned that way. Visiting relatives might press a halfcrown into your hand and fold your fingers over it with a conspiratorial wink – which didn’t prevent it being wrested from you later by a suspicious parent and put in your money box, impregnable as Fort Knox. And so I grew in wisdom, age, a modicum of grace and no financial sense whatsoever. Daddy was always a soft touch. My mother less so, unreasonably wanting to know what the cash was for.

The first money of my very own was a student grant. One hundred and four pounds per term. Dizzy with Croesus-like riches, I walked into Robinson and Cleaver and bought an Italian leather handbag for three guineas. I have it still. Etam, Wallis and C&A got most of the rest. Were it not for the buff envelopes posted secretly by my father, I’d have starved. Thus I embarked upon my professional career at the princely salary of £44 per month, which disappeared like snow off a ditch in a fortnight.

Meeting the Loving Spouse was the monetary making of me. A fortnight married, I went out to buy new curtains and came home with a dress. It was nearly the shortest marriage on record. A chastened woman, I became a pattern-card of financial rectitude. Alas, Daughter Dear inherited more of my genes than his. Shopping together I quote this mantra, “Let economy be your watchword.” She responds with the immortal words of Dolly Levi, “Money’s like manure. It ought to be spread around encouraging young things to grow.”

To this day, I translate new to old currency. Seeing a chocolate muffin in a coffee shop at 75 pence, I still think, “Blimey! That’s fifteen shillings – three quarters of a pound! Daylight robbery….”