Trisha was right, they had none, well, none that cared about them. For the last sixteen years it had just been the two of them. Trisha’s dad had buggered off leaving them alone in the flat when her baby was barely one. Jimmy Fuller, what a waste of space he had turned out to be. Then there was Pat Greenwood. Now that was a name she couldn’t forget; pity it hadn’t worked out. The sly old toad went off and got engaged to her best mate, Tracey Brooks. She just hoped none of those losers would crawl out of the woodwork if it turned out she had won a fortune. She giggled at how she would slam the door in their faces should they try.
‘No doubt peeps, once they learn we’ve got some dosh, will want to be our friends,’ Trisha said as if reading Doreen’s mind.
Trisha was right; so called family and friends would crawl out from under any old stone and make their way to her door. Well, they would be met with the same welcome as Jimmy Fuller and Pat Greenwood. Whatever she had won, she would not be sharing. She would stand her ground and speak her mind, yet despite her bravado, a shiver ran down the length of her spine at such thoughts. To stop pacing, she squatted on the sofa arm and changed the subject. ‘We’ve got to go to Watford tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Watford! Whatever for?’ Trisha said her interest renewed.
‘It seems they need to see us at the lottery Headquarters. I don’t know why, maybe the lady explained,’ Doreen sighed, ‘The thing is, I had a job keeping up with all that was being said during that second call, but she did say a car would pick us up. I expect it will be a taxi. I just hope it ain’t a black cab. I’ve got bad memories of being in one.’
Trisha looked at her mother with astonishment and with no idea what she was talking about, asked, ‘Does that mean I come with you?’
Stubbing out another cigarette in the, already overflowing, ashtray, Doreen squatted down on the edge of the sofa, ‘Crikey, I wouldn’t go without you,’ she said wrapping her arms around her daughter. ‘If it’s as real as they say and we’ve won a fortune, we’ll need each other cos, I’ll be passing out and worse, I’ll never understand what they say and end up saying something crass.’ She giggled, but it held no mirth. Whatever was happening, she was out of her depth already.
Chapter Twenty
Her head throbbed and her brain was in overdrive with everything going round and round in her mind. The drink had not helped. What a fool she had been, downing so much. Doreen pushed herself to her feet.
‘I’m gonna try and get some shut eye,’ she said to Trisha who was busy flicking through the television stations using a remote control that had more sticky tape wrapped round it than plastic casing. Doreen leaned over and dropped a kiss on Trisha’s head.
‘Right,’ Trisha mumbled, not taking her eyes of the television.
Exhausted, Doreen had not the strength to say anything else and, ignoring her daughter, shuffled to her bedroom. She pulled off her clothes, dropped them to the floor and quickly stepped into her pyjamas. Swaying, she flopped on to the bed then slipped under the duvet. The brandy, gin and the shock of her lottery numbers should knock me out, she thought as her head settled on the pillow.
She closed her eyes, but seconds later they flew open. Blimey, even her eyes wouldn’t stay shut. With her mind galloping over everything that had been said she went over and over the two phone calls. In the end it was all beginning to seem like a dream.
Unable to settle, she pulled the duvet higher and tried to snuggle into its fibres. She shivered and turned over. She was frozen. Her old duvet was too thin. Normally she slipped an old cardigan on to help keep warm. Why had she forgotten to put in on? She shivered again and told herself to get up and put it on, but she didn’t have the wherewithal. In the gloom of the room she could see it laying on the floor in the corner, but it could be a million miles away, it was still out of reach.
Not wanting to get out of bed, she curled up tighter. She breathed out and saw her breath form a cloud of mist in the half light.
‘Bleedin’ hell, it’s like living in the Antarctic,’ she moaned.
The landing lights outside cast a dim light through her paper thin curtains. She gazed round the tiny room, ‘This could all change if I’ve really won,’ she mused and desperately wanted to believe what she had been told. She had been let down so many times, she was afraid to believe the lottery people were telling the truth.
Clasping her hands together, under the duvet, she prayed to any God who cared to listen, ‘Please let it be true,’ she begged. Then ignoring the cold, she pulled herself up and rested her back against the headboard. Not sure if it was the brandy, gin or her over tired imagination, she imagined a handsome well-dressed hunk, a smile as long as the landing she travelled down every day, take hold of her hand.
‘I am to take you away to a place where everything is aplenty, the sun will shine and all you have to do is snap your fingers and it will be yours.’ His hand would gently hold hers and before she could ask questions he would be helping her slip into a limousine; a dream life awaiting her.
The fantasy faded into the icy room. ‘Let’s hope some little bleeder isn’t playing a wicked game on me,’ she said with a sob and pushed the duvet off. She padded over to the corner of the room and dragged the cardigan off the floor. She slipped her arms into it, and pulled it tight around her. Then she slid her socked feet into her loosely tied trainers; she looked at her hands and counting her digits, laughed, they only went to ten. Pulling the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands, she had no idea what a million looked like, let alone eleven! Thinking about it, she would not even be able to write it down! She laughed at her ignorance and the idea of not knowing how many noughts such a sum would have. She thought she’d hit the jackpot when her old neighbour had left her a hundred and twenty-five quid. It had made her feel as if she was walking on air at having so much dosh in her purse. God knows how she would stuff all those millions in her plastic clip one.
With these thoughts, she crept out of her room and walked through the shadows that splashed across the hall from the outside lights. She noticed the door was ajar to her daughter’s room. Pushing it gently she poked her head round and saw Trisha asleep.
‘The young,’ she mumbled, ‘sleep through anything, lucky blighter.’
‘You talking to yourself again,’ Trisha called from under the duvet. Lifting her head and with sleepy eyes she stared at her mother.
‘I thought you were in the land of nod. I can’t get a wink,’ Doreen said, shuffling over to Trisha’s bed.
Trisha folded back her duvet, ‘You should be counting all that dosh, Mama, then you’d sleep.’
‘Oh, yeah!’ Doreen said, ‘let’s hope we will be.’
Flicking back the duvet, ‘Come on, get in for a warm my feet are like ice.’
‘Ain’t you got your bed socks on?’
‘It isn’t cool to admit to wearing them.’
‘What are you like? Go on then, shove over, it seems your old mum is still good for something,’ Doreen chuckled kicking off her trainers and slipping in beside her daughter. Instantly, Trisha’s cold feet pushed against her pyjama-clad legs. ‘Blimey, Trish, your feet are like ice blocks.’
Trisha giggled and snuggled up close to her mother.
‘If it’s all true about our win, we’d best get you a bigger bed. Ain’t much fun hanging off the edge with blocks of ice clamped to your leg,’ Doreen said and wondered if her legs would recover.
Head under the duvet, in a muffled voice, Trisha said, ‘It must be true. Especially if they’re sending a taxi. They don’t come cheap and it will take us all the way to Watford. That’s miles away.’
‘Blimey, I hope we don’t have to pay. I ain’t got my bus fare most of the time let alone the price of a taxi.’
Trisha’s arms wrapped around her mother, ‘Let’s see what happens tomorrow,’ Trisha said, ‘and if it’s any consolation, I’m scared, too, Mama.’
Doreen turned over and kissed her daughter; if only she was scared - she was petrified. ‘Don’t wor
ry, Trish, nobody’s gonna make a fool of us, no matter how posh they sound on the phone asking lots of personal questions.’
‘Right,’ Trisha said, her voice fading with sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hugging a mug of coffee, the fourth she’d drunk since getting up in the early hours, Doreen stared down at the empty packets of cigarettes. ‘Bleedin’ hell, this is not good,’ she spluttered dragging on another.
The television blared out loudly as a cartoon animal ran across the screen through a forest of trees pursued by a stocky angry hunter with a gun that looked bigger than him. She wondered what it was all about. She’d had the box on to help drown out the noise from next door; if it was not the kiddie bawling, Kes was shouting. She sighed. Let’s hope she really had won enough to get away from here. Jack had been bad enough with his telly on full blast all day and most of the night. She was not sure she could cope with inconsiderate neighbours forever. Annoyed, she pulled at the duvet that covered her legs. She had carried it from her bed after Trisha had fallen asleep with warm feet. Settling on the sofa was better than trying not to fall out of Trisha’s bed.
‘Morning. You’re up?’ Trisha announced, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Startled Doreen looked on as her daughter wandered across the room and instantly tucked herself under the duvet on the sofa.
‘I was about to call you. We need to get our skates on. The taxi is coming at ten and apart from having a dip in the tub, I’ve got to find something to wear.’
‘Mama, chill, we’ve plenty of time. Why don’t you get in the bath first and I’ll follow so leave some hot water, please,’ Trisha said yawing then added, ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Have you forgotten what today is about?’ Doreen screamed, her nerves frayed to wafer thin.
‘How could I forget? I only asked for a cuppa.’
Tutting loudly, Doreen flung the duvet off and headed towards the kitchen. She didn’t want to wait hand and foot on her daughter, but couldn’t sit still either. Lifting the kettle, she shook it, there was enough water for a mug of tea and dropped it down on the gas ring. Waiting for it to boil, she fished out a tea bag and popped it into a mug. The kettle whistled as it came to the boil and, as if on automatic, she poured the water over the tea bag, swirled it round then dropped it, dripping, into the sink. With a splash of milk added to the weak tea, she headed out of the kitchen.
‘Here you are, and if you ain’t ready, I’ll tell you now, I ain’t waiting for you. I’m a bag of nerves so don’t make me tremble any more. Right?’
‘Got it!’ Trisha said taking hold of the mug with the steaming brew.
‘Glad to hear. So now we understand things, I’m off for a wash.’
‘Bleedin’ kids,’ Doreen mumbled entering the bathroom. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she shivered, it was freezing in here. ‘How am I supposed to strip off in these temperatures? I’ll die of frost bite,’ she moaned.
If she was not going to Watford she would have had a quick flick round with the flannel. She sniffed her arm pits, they were fine. They might be, but no, she had better have a proper wash. She was not going to show herself up. Turning on the hot tap she waited for the water to come through before popping in the plug. She slipped out of her nightwear and gingerly climbed into the bath. The water barely covered her feet. She knelt down in the luke warm water. ‘Brrrrrr’. What she would give for lashings of hot water in a heated bathroom. Having soaped the flannel, she slapped it around her neck before rinsing it and then rubbing it round the rest of her body.
Five minutes later Doreen stepped out of the bath, grabbed the towel and, with as much force as she could muster, dried her goose pimpled skin. It tingled from the brisk towelling. She wrapped the towel around her, then headed to her bedroom. ‘All yours,’ she called to Trisha.
The towel dropped on the floor, Doreen slipped on clean underwear and shivered as she rooted through her cupboard and drawers. ‘Gordon Bennet, I ain’t got nothing decent,’ she cried pulling items out, checking them before tossing them onto the bed. ‘No, that won’t do,’ she sobbed as several garments lay strewn on the crumpled sheet.
It was no good. Getting dressed this morning was more difficult than believing she had won the lottery.
‘Yes! This looks more like it,’ she cooed, shaking out a bright pink rugby shirt with a large motif in red sequins sewn in the middle of the front. She had forgotten she had bought this little number from the market. She loved sparkle and bright colours. Buying it had left her skint, but it had been Christmas and it was a little pressie to herself. She hugged it, her nose wrinkling at the slight trace of mustiness, no doubt from the cold dampness of the flat. She ignored the whiff and slipped it over her head; no one will notice. With the tip of her fingers she gently caressed the sparking sequins. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of bling,’ she said, relieved she had found something decent to put on.
Delving back in to her drawer, she spied her best jeans. ‘Perfect,’ she said and pulled them out. She stepped into them and zipped them up before turning to face the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. ‘You scrub up all right, gal,’ and giggled at her reflection. She pinched her cheeks, instantly they turned the same shade as her top. ‘Just need a smear of lippie and I’ll pass muster,’ she said to herself.
She picked up a small bag from the top of the set of drawers. She took out a white plastic tube, twisted it; a bright red lipstick popped up. ‘My favourite colour,’ she chuckled and returning to the mirror applied it to her lips. She smacked them together to even out the colour. Pouting, she blew herself a kiss then did a twirl. ‘You can’t beat that,’ she declared.
For the first time in months she didn’t look like someone who spent all day cleaning the muck of others. She could even be forgiven for thinking she looked like a lottery winner, whatever they might look like. Looking down at her bare feet, the image she had seen reflected back in the mirror melted away. ‘I’ve only got trainers,’ she murmured, the reality of her sparse wardrobe bursting her bubble. The thought of asking Trisha for a pair of shoes crossed her mind. If only her feet were bigger she could borrow a pair. Never mind. Accepting the situation, she pushed her feet into her old trainers.
It was then she remembered she needed to take something to prove who she was. Something with her name and address on. Though, she could not imagine anyone wanting to admit to living in Wentowrth House. If she could avoid telling anyone, she would.
‘Blimey,’ she sighed, she had no passport, no driving licence, though she had a rent book, would that do? It would have to. She had a payslip and of course, the other thing she had with her name on was her birth certificate. For reasons she could never explain, she always kept that in her knicker drawer. She fished it out and with the rent book pushed them into her bag.
With no sound coming from the bathroom, Doreen poked her head round Trisha’s bedroom, ‘I hope you’re getting yourself ready,’ she said, tugging at the legs of her jeans in an attempt to cover her trainers as much as possible. ‘I think it best that we get down to the street to see if the taxi is on its way.’ Not for one minute did she think the driver would dream of walking through Wentworth House to arrive at her flat. Not that she had ever used a taxi before. ‘Come on, Trish,’ she called.
Before her daughter could reply, a loud knock ricocheted through the flat. Doreen froze. Her heart missed a beat, had she got it all wrong and this was someone telling her it was a mistake? The bang on the door sounded again, this time louder. She had no option but to answer the door.
‘OK, I’m coming,’ she called. ‘Yes…’ she snapped as she opened the door, her words trailing off at the sight of a smartly suited man standing in front of her.
‘Mrs Wilkinson, good morning, I’m your driver to take you to Watford.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The limousine slowly negotiated the parked cars and children playing ball in the road as it travelled through the estate. Out on to the main road traffic was heavy, bumper to bumper. Do
reen lost count how many traffic lights had been red. She never realised there were so many traffic lights; travelling on a bus had its advantages with the bus lanes, she mused. Not that they were in a hurry, the only thing moving fast was her heart. She must try and calm down. A ciggie would help, but smoking was not allowed in this posh car.
She fingered the seat belt, never in her imagination had she expected a black limousine with a chauffeur to take them to Watford. In awe of their mode of transport, Doreen gazed out of the window and watched as the city gave way to open roads.
Once out of town, the car accelerated and it was not long before the driver skilfully slipped on to the motorway. She could not remember the last time she had been down the M1 and thinking about it, she was not sure she ever had been. With her attention on the traffic, she was staggered at how busy all the lanes were and wondered where everyone was heading. The driver told her it would take around an hour depending on the traffic. She had lived all her life in London and never realised there was as much traffic outside the smoke as in it. No wonder the news continued to bang on about pollution. Pollution, she repeated and wished she had not used that word especially as she needed a tobacco fix.
Trisha sat in silence. Doreen wondered what she was thinking. She wanted to start a conversation, but had no idea what she would say. Gripping her handbag she tried to think about the adventure they were on. She wanted to think of it as a bright future filled with everything she could only have dreamed of. Yet all she kept thinking was it had been a big mistake and as soon as they arrived at the lottery offices, they would be told. Doreen closed her eyes and reasoned she was being foolish; why would a suited driver in a shiny car collect them and take them all the way to Watford? It was not as if they were popping round the corner. No, it was a proper excursion for her and Trisha. To try and still her mind on whether a mistake had been made, she concentrated on the questions she had been asked the day before. What had they been? Oh yes, her name and address, that was easy enough. What else? For the life of her she could not remember.
The Birthday Card Page 10