The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's: XI. The Money

The conversation began when Mr Blottisham discovered a five-dollar note in the pocket of an old tweed jacket.

"Well," he announced cheerfully, "this has turned out to be a profitable afternoon."

Professor Quillibrace looked up from his book.

"Has it?"

"I've just become five dollars richer."

"Have you?"

Blottisham frowned.

"It appears to have met with philosophical resistance."

Miss Stray smiled.

"It usually does."

Blottisham held up the note.

"There it is."

"So it is."

"It buys coffee."

Quillibrace shook his head gently.

"No."

Blottisham blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"The note doesn't buy coffee."

"It most certainly does."

"It doesn't."

"It has done so repeatedly."

"The café does."

There was a pause.

"I fear," said Blottisham, "that we have entered one of those conversations where every ordinary sentence becomes mysteriously incorrect."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Quite possibly."

He gestured towards the note.

"Imagine you discovered that exact piece of paper inside the ruins of an unknown civilisation."

"I should probably call an archaeologist."

"And suppose no living person recognised the currency."

Blottisham looked at the note.

"It would become rather disappointing."

"The paper would be unchanged."

"Yes."

"The printing unchanged."

"Yes."

"The number unchanged."

"Yes."

"But its usefulness?"

"Gone."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"Nothing would have happened to the note."

"Only to the agreement surrounding it."

Blottisham turned the note over thoughtfully.

"So the interesting part isn't the paper."

"No."

"It's everyone else."

Quillibrace smiled.

"An excellent beginning."

Blottisham slipped the note back into his pocket.

"I've always imagined money as a thing."

"Most of us do."

"But perhaps it's closer to... an invitation."

"To what?"

"To participate."

Quillibrace looked delighted.

"I suspect you've been reading ahead."

"I haven't."

"Even better."

Miss Stray stirred her tea.

"I've always liked the fact that my salary appears without anyone arriving with a suitcase."

Blottisham laughed.

"It would make payday rather more theatrical."

"No coins."

"No notes."

"No trumpet fanfare."

"Only numbers."

"And yet," she continued, "the possibilities change almost instantly."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The numbers matter."

"But only because everyone agrees they matter."

Blottisham looked around the room.

"This is beginning to resemble our discussion about clocks."

"In what way?"

"The clock isn't really about time."

"No."

"And money isn't really about paper."

"No."

"They're both agreements."

Miss Stray smiled.

"They're agreements that have become so successful we mistake them for objects."

A thoughtful silence followed.

Eventually Blottisham said,

"I once tried explaining money to my grandson."

"And?"

"I told him it was something people exchanged for things."

"A respectable beginning."

"He asked why."

"What did you say?"

"I said because everybody knew what it was worth."

"And then?"

"He asked how everybody knew."

Quillibrace laughed quietly.

"A devastating question."

"I realised I had absolutely no answer."

"You had one."

"I did?"

"You'd been living inside it for so long that you couldn't see it."

Miss Stray looked out of the window.

"Children have a gift for noticing invisible machines."

"They haven't yet become invisible."

Blottisham nodded slowly.

"I wonder whether that's why economic crises feel so unsettling."

"Go on."

"When confidence disappears..."

"...the paper remains."

"But?"

"The agreement begins to wobble."

Quillibrace closed his book.

"And once trust begins to disappear..."

"...the machinery becomes visible."

"The very moment we start asking whether money is safe..."

"...we've already noticed the machine."

Another silence settled over the room.

Blottisham broke it.

"I've also been thinking about gifts."

"Oh?"

"If I buy you lunch..."

"Yes?"

"...that seems different from giving you lunch."

Miss Stray looked at him.

"Different how?"

"I can't quite explain it."

"The money might be identical."

"But something else changes."

Quillibrace nodded.

"What changes?"

"The relationship."

"Precisely."

"A purchase settles an account."

"And a gift?"

"Leaves one happily unsettled."

Miss Stray smiled.

"I rather like that."

"So do I."

Blottisham looked unexpectedly pleased with himself.

"I appear to have contributed something."

"You have."

"Although I don't entirely know where it came from."

Quillibrace folded the essay.

"That is one of the advantages of conversation."

"It pays unexpected dividends."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"We're speaking metaphorically now, aren't we?"

"Entirely."

"Good."

"I was afraid we'd started minting ideas."

The three of them laughed.

Outside, a student hurried across the quadrangle carrying a paper cup and a heavy backpack.

Blottisham watched him disappear through the gate.

"I suppose he'll spend money several times today."

"Almost certainly."

"And he'll hardly think about it."

"No."

"Until something goes wrong."

"Exactly."

The Professor rose and reached for his coat.

"It is one of civilisation's quieter triumphs."

"What is?"

"That millions of complete strangers can cooperate..."

"...without ever needing to trust one another personally."

Blottisham considered this as they walked towards the door.

"And yet the whole arrangement depends upon trust."

Quillibrace smiled.

"Not trust in particular people."

"No?"

"Trust in a shared world."

He paused with his hand upon the door.

"The remarkable thing about money is not that it passes from hand to hand."

"What is remarkable, then?"

"That each hand quietly believes another will receive it."

For a moment they stood in silence.

Then Miss Stray slipped on her coat.

"Perhaps civilisation is held together rather less by what we possess..."

"...than by what we are willing to believe together."

No one found anything worth adding.

They simply stepped out into the afternoon, carrying wallets that suddenly seemed much lighter than the invisible agreements inside them.