Now as she sat in the limousine, the busy streets of London slipping by, the driver taking them back to Wentworth House and reality, all she could think of was the platter that had been served to her. She had never seen her favourite dish served so beautifully. Ham, egg and chips would never taste the same again. At least she’d had a decent meal. A giggle threatened to choke her as she remembered her behaviour and the titters that had echoed around the room. Unable to hold in her levity any longer, she let out a loud giggle.
Trisha burst out laughing and as if reading her mother’s thoughts, ‘You certainly know how to make an occasion memorable. No one will forget our visit to that restaurant, especially the chef!’
As her mother had announced what she wanted to eat, Trisha had shaken with laughter, tears had rolled down her face and all the while diners stared at Doreen as if she was from outer space.
‘There is no doubt about it, Mama you are priceless,’ Trisha said and continued to chuckle.
‘Blimey, it’s got to be a first, me making my gal laugh like a drain. Come here and let your crazy mama hug you.’
Constrained by seatbelts and a centre arm rest, Trisha settled for a hand squeeze.
‘I just want to say big, big thanks for being with me throughout all of this and especially today.’
Seeing her mother in a new light, Trisha smiled, ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It’s been a blast and, as much as I cringe at being with you most of the time, whatever happens in the future, please promise me you’ll never change. I’d hate you to end up toffee-nosed like most of those we’ve had to spend time with.’ There was no doubt her mother had been herself in a world that was far removed from anything they knew. Trisha loved her even more for being who she was: a giggling, scary mama.
The limousine slowed before coming to a halt outside Wentworth House. Doreen stared up at the block of flats.
‘We’re home,’ she said. Part of her was relieved to be back to familiarity and a big part of her could see what a hole they lived in. Her eyes had been opened wide these last few days and whilst she was out of her depth, she could see life could be so much better and with all her money she was going to make sure it would be.
With the car door open, Doreen stepped out on to the broken kerb and felt as if every set of eyes in the flats watched her. No doubt a few would have guessed something big was going down with all the cars and now a big black saloon gracing the streets of the estate, the driver lifting out a large bouquet of flowers from the boot. One thing she was certain of, many would know for sure soon enough. Part of her was excited at the prospect of being in the news, whilst another part was scared of what the publicity would do.
She shrugged. It was all too late now. No matter what was going on behind the twitching curtains, and before the newspapers dropped on doormats, she really did need to talk to Mr Greedy.
Chapter Forty-One
In her comfortable jeans, polo top, trainers and jacket, and two mugs of black coffee inside her, Doreen headed out of Wentworth House. With her head down, she worried about what she would say. She had gone through several scenarios, none sounding right. If necessary she would have to wing it, she thought, finding herself outside Mr Greedy’s. In all the years she had cajoled the owner for extra credit, words had flowed out of her mouth in her desperation for his help. Now here she was, standing in the middle of the street, speechless.
‘Come on, Dor, get a grip and get yourself in there and do a happy dance.’
Pushing her shoulders back, her head held high, she did a little twirl on the cracked tarmac pavement. ‘Blimey, what am I like?’ she said giggling and with a huge smile on her face, pushed the door open. The bell tinkled loudly above as she skipped in.
‘Da da,’ she carolled, throwing her arms in the air as the door swung shut.
An elderly customer standing in front of Mr Greedy swung round and eyed Doreen up, ‘Bloody hell, where have you escaped from?’ she cried, her mouth twisting in amusement.
‘Hello, Mrs Chivers, I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ Doreen said, sashaying towards her.
‘Nor have you lost your odd behaviour,’ Mrs Chivers retaliated, ‘cavorting in a shop, what next?’
‘You are so lucky I’m only cavorting,’ Doreen giggled, not being put off by the old bat. ‘I’m here because I have something to …’
‘I thought you were avoiding me,’ Mr Greedy interrupted stepping in front of Mrs Chivers and cutting Doreen off mid-sentence.
Taken off balance, Doreen stopped in her tracks and dropped her arms to her side, ‘Why would I do that?’
‘I could think of several reasons and one being not settling your slate for the last few weeks,’ Mr Greedy snapped, his dark eyes wide with indignation.
Mrs Chivers tutted loudly and looked Doreen over before taking in Mr Greedy.
‘Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m here to pay and very happy to be able to do so,’ Doreen said hurt dripping from her words. Her bravado of earlier withered. Blimey, she had come in to tell him her good news before the newspapers were out and her she was being glared at along with being accused of doing a runner. ‘Right, so what’s the damage?’ she said dropping her bag down on a box in front of the counter. This was not in any plan she’d had. ‘Gordon Bennett,’ she muttered pulling out her purse. She opened it and revealed several notes. Never had she felt so unwelcome. Her frustration building, she announced, ‘Well, I won’t be needing my slate anymore.’
Unable to take his eyes off Doreen’s open purse, Mr Greedy barked, ‘What do you mean, you won’t be needing your slate?’ Worry filled his face.
Doreen didn’t miss the look. She was wounded at being shown up in front of Mrs Chivers. She had always paid her slate, eventually. But for him to imply she was not paying her debt in front of a customer was too much. She’d had enough of people looking down their noses at her these last few days and didn’t need it in her local shop. Fishing out a handful of notes, she flashed them in front of Mr Greedy’s face.
‘We’re moving away,’ she said. ‘So I won’t be shopping here,’ she added churlishly.
As if rooted to the spot, Mrs Chivers gawped on at what was taking place.
Ignoring Doreen’s brusque manner, Mr Greedy stared at the money, ‘Goodness me, it’s not Friday and I don’t like to ask where you’ve found all that. I’ve never seen you with so much cash,’ he said.
Locking eyes with his, Doreen was startled to see the whites of Mr Greedy’s had an unhealthy tinge of yellow. A nervous twitch pulsated under his left eye. For the first time in years she saw he was not the healthiest of people and instantly felt a pang of guilt at winding him up and being childish. It was not like her, and even more so now with all that lay ahead for her. She would be the one escaping this kind of life, Mr Greedy would still be in his shop working long hours, the whites of his eyes growing more yellow and the twitch no doubt getting worse.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I came in for two reasons: to pay off my debt and secondly to tell you my good news.’
‘Yes, you said, you’re moving away,’ Mr Greedy said quietly.
Doreen ignored him and continued with a smile. ‘You ain’t going to believe me, but you’ll find out soon enough when the papers arrive. You see, I’ve won the lottery. You were right, it was someone in the area. It was me!’ Doreen said dropping the notes on to the counter. At last she had told him, not quite the way she had envisaged, but it had been said.
‘No way,’ Mr Greedy said his eyes as wide as saucers, ‘It surely can’t be?’
Doreen nodded.
‘You’re the person in the area who’s won the lottery?’
‘What!’ Mrs Chivers gasped, her head twisting from Doreen to Mr Greedy.
Doreen stood mute at the expression of utter shock on Mr Greedy’s face and suddenly realised she wanted to hug him. She moved forward…
‘Well,’ Mrs Chivers cried out stopping Doreen in her tracks, ‘have you or
have you not?’
‘Yeah, I have,’ Doreen replied in a whisper. ‘That’s why I’m here, cos my mug will be splashed all over the newspapers.’
Mr Greedy rushed round his counter and to her side and wrapped his arms around her. He hugged her tight. ‘Doreen Wilkinson, my best slate customer ever, you deserve it and I know you’ll bring lots of fame to my shop,’ he said and to Doreen’s dismay, he dropped a wet kiss on her cheek and at the same time a tear splashed on her face from his eye that twitched. ‘You really are the jackpot winner?’ He asked in a short breath, ignoring the tears that trickled down his face.
Doreen nodded, ‘I can’t believe it. I only ever bought one ticket.’
‘I know, and I did tell you it was being said that someone in this area had won,’ Mr Greedy added, kissing Doreen again. ‘To think my little shop sold a jackpot ticket, how wonderful is that.’ He wiped at his wet face with the back of his hand.
‘You lucky cow,’ Mrs Chivers said, ignoring Mr Greedy’s emotion and opening her purse she offered a ten pound note to him. ‘Better get a ticket before I leave,’ she added.
Not wasting an opportunity to sell more tickets, Mr Greedy plucked the note from his customer’s fingers and hurried to the other side of his counter. He laid a pile of tickets down in front of Mrs Chivers.
‘Can you believe Doreen, our very own Mrs Wilkinson, bought the ticket here in my shop? So you see, Mrs Chivers, sometimes it happens. It could be you next week.’
‘You never give up, do you?’ Mrs Chivers said glaring at him. ‘How many tickets did you say you bought before hitting the jackpot?’ she asked turning to Doreen.
‘Just the one,’ Doreen said. ‘Tell you what, let me buy you one and maybe you’ll get lucky too,’ Doreen added.
Crestfallen at only being able to sell one ticket, Mr Greedy looked on. ‘Why not,’ Mrs Chivers said, ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious, because I am, but having said that, it’s good to know ordinary, hard-working people do win.’
Mr Greedy, star-struck and emotional, stared at Doreen, ‘You have made a simple shopkeeper a happy man,’ he said, ‘and maybe my little shop will grow bigger with all the publicity it surely must get. Dare I ask how much the jackpot is?’ he added.
Unsure she wanted to reveal the amount, she decided to let the newspapers do that. ‘It’s a lot, I can’t remember how much, but enough for us to move to a nice house.’
‘Well, that must be a good amount if you can move from this area,’ Mr Greedy said, his eyes still moist, ‘but I hope not too far and maybe you will call in from time to time.’
Doreen knew she would never call in again to shop and once he saw the full amount in the papers he would understand why. At least she hoped he would. Staring at him, she had no idea if he would receive anything from the lottery people because he had sold the ticket, but she would make sure he had enough from her to have a holiday of a lifetime and maybe the twitch would disappear and the whites return to his eyes. He was a funny man, but he had been kind to her and in a strange way she would miss him.
Chapter Forty-Two
Doreen re-read the headlines. The ink had almost rubbed off the words and photos with her constant handling of the paper over the last three days. Nothing in her wildest dreams had prepared her for such a splash. ‘Blimey, she was famous.’ Eleven million, three hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and ten pounds and nineteen pence was emblazoned all over the front page. She giggled at the nineteen pence. “Break the bleedin’ bank that will!” the headlines announced. The media had made her comment a headline. Her words had been splashed all over the Sun and Daily Mirror, accompanied by her smiling face and a fountain spray of champagne. She giggled remembering the moment when she had been told to shake the bottle.
‘What a waste,’ she muttered, staring at the headlines, but what a laugh it had turned out to be, especially when she had swung the bottle on the reporters. She would never forget that day for the rest of her life for several reasons. It had been nerve racking and at the same time it had been exhilarating. Of course, she had giggled too much and Trisha had rolled her eyes in horror at everything she had said or done, but the reporters had lapped it all up.
Reliving the magical moments of the publicity and the last two weeks, Doreen still could not take in she was seriously rich. Maybe she never would. One minute she was wondering if her wages would stretch far enough to pay the rent and cover the costs of everything needed to keep body and soul together, when, out of the blue, a few numbers changed her life.
Going over the headlines once more she realised they were like medicine: bitter and sweet. The reality of those headlines had hit home as soon as the papers had hit the streets. It had not taken long for the neighbours and so-called friends to find her. There had been the constant banging on the door from all and sundry asking, even begging, for help. If it wasn’t for food, it was to pay the electric bill or the rent. It was endless. Last night she had lost her rag and told the latest caller where to get off in no uncertain terms.
‘I ain’t bleedin’ seen you in years and now I’ve a bob or two you come banging on my door. Well, it’s closed to the likes of you.’ She had added a couple of words she never liked to use, but sometimes it was the only language some people understood. It had stopped the banging and calling through the letter box for a time, but she knew it would not end with a few expletives. It needed to be sorted and as soon as possible.
Averting her eyes from the headlines, she reached over and picked up her new mobile phone. She had never had a mobile before and now she had one it seemed to demand a better education than she’d had to work it. Trisha had spent hours tapping away on it sorting it out for her. She wondered where she got her brains from, because it certainly wasn’t from her. ‘Mama, you’re a Luddite,’ Trisha had chuckled tapping away with fury at the keys.
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ she had cried.
Trisha had replied with raised eyebrows and a shake of her head.
None the wiser what a Luddite was, she was eventually handed back her new phone and thanks to Trisha she could now work out how to make calls and answer them. With the need to make a call, Doreen cautiously flicked through the few numbers in her contacts until she found Stephanie Rawlinson’s number. Stephanie had said she would sort out things for her and right now she needed a few things sorting.
Sleep evading her, her mental list had grown during the early hours as she had concentrated on getting out of Wentworth House. No way could she carry on with the heckling and begging, and there was no way she was going to let her daughter be harassed either. ‘Bleedin’ neighbours,’ she cursed under her breath with her finger hovering over the call button and, with her gander up at the behaviour of people, she hit the call button. After two rings her call was answered.
‘Good morning, Mrs Wilkinson, I was just about to call you,’ Stephanie’s cheerful voice rang down the phone.
Taken aback at Stephanie knowing it was her, she stammered. ‘Blimey, really?’
‘Yes, but please, you go first. You rang me,’ Stephanie said, her voice remaining even and friendly.
‘Well, I need to talk to you about a few things and importantly finding us a house. It ain’t good being here with my win known to all and sundry,’ Doreen said rushing her words. ‘It’s been bleedin’ murder and I guess it could get worse,’ she added. ‘Nobody tells you things like this when you tick all them boxes…’ she took a deep breath and carried on, ‘You did say you could help.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson, please stay calm and yes, of course, I will help. Perhaps you could come to my office today and we can discuss a move and any issues you have. I’m here for you. So, let’s say midday and we can have a spot of lunch whilst we talk. What do you say?’
Relieved that there was someone to turn to, clutching her phone, she sank down on to the sofa, ‘Thanks, that sounds a plan. Thanks again.’
‘Right then, I will see you later. In the meantime, keep calm and we wil
l sort things out. Oh, by the way, would you like me to call a car to collect you?’
‘Blimey, that would be kind of you and save me getting the bus.’
‘You never need to get the bus again. Now, let me organise a car to collect you at eleven-thirty.’
‘Thanks so much, that sounds perfect,’ Doreen replied and was certain there was an inflection in Stephanie’s voice of amusement. She could think of nothing that she had said, but whatever it was she didn’t care as long as she got to Stephanie’s without having to hang around for a bus. ‘Thanks again,’ Doreen said unable to stop saying thank you.
She was grateful and needed Stephanie Rawlinson more than she could have imagined because she had no idea where to begin to find a house to rent or buy or anything else. As for getting another house, the only place she knew was the council and they were hardly going to help her. Already feeling better at the idea she was not alone in her new life, and with a couple of hours to spare, she made herself a cup of coffee, this time a proper filtered cup. Leaving the new coffee machine to do its job, she went in search of a sheet of paper and a pen in Trisha’s bedroom.
With her coffee and ciggy, she sat down and started to write a list of all she needed to talk to Stephanie about. Top of the list was a house, followed by a holiday. She was sure she had mentioned a holiday before, but couldn’t remember. Where should they go? She had no idea, but wherever it was it must have plenty of sunshine and a pool.
Putting her pen down, she took a long drag of her cigarette and her mind drifted to her new neighbour. With all the gallivanting she’d had to do, she had not taken too much notice about what was going on there and it was only as she was sitting, like now, that it came to her the silence from next door this last week had been deafening. Strange, she thought, because, since Kes had moved in, it had been like living next door to bedlam with Poppy constantly crying.
Feeling uncomfortable about the lack of noise from her neighbour, the other afternoon, she had tucked a few quid in her pocket and knocked on Kes’ door. Instead of the door being answered, Becky Williams, from the flat two doors down had flung open her door, fag dangling from her bottom lip and hands on hips, had stood in the middle of the landing and cried out, ‘She ain’t there. Word has it she’s done a moonlight flit.’ Flinging the end of her cigarette over the wall, Becky strutted back into her flat and slammed the door shut, the impact ricocheting off the brick walls along the grubby landing.
The Birthday Card Page 20