by Julie Croft
desks and the like, but I had no idea he could involve himself in something like that.
Richard knew what I’d meant without actually saying it, and he said, “This goes a little further, love.”
My jaw must have hit the turf, because Richard got up and pulled me back into the house. “Just check these boxes with me, love.”
I was in no mood to go over Bob’s... whatever, but followed him anyway. I hoped that after checking the boxes, he’d give me a check for something.
Richard sliced through the cello tape that held the flaps of one of the boxes in place and flicked the flaps back.
“Jesus Christ, fuck me stone dead.” I exhaled.
I couldn’t help it: the cardboard box was filled to the flaps with English currency of every note and coin.
“The other two boxes hold the same.” Richard informed me with a grin.
I gawped at him, disbelieving. “Where the fuck did all this come from? How much is there?”
Richard shushed me angrily and I slapped a hand over my big mouth. He clicked on his mobile a few times, then handed it to me. The screen showed ‘five hundred and eighty-five thousand, nine hundred and sixty-three’.
I shrieked. I gawped at him with eyes as wide as windows. He nodded with a wider grin. I pointed to my chest, and he nodded energetically. I jumped up and down clapping.
“What about you?” I asked in a whisper.
He shooed the question away, but I knew instinctively he would have had to benefit in some way. I let it go and gave him a hug.
At that moment, I couldn’t have given a flying fuck where all the money had come from. All I knew at that moment was that my life, without Bob, was sorted for something close to forever and there’d still be some left over for the kids’ inheritance.
Richard left, and I sat on the hallway floor inspecting the contents of the boxes. There were fifty-pound notes, twenty-pound notes, tens and fives. In one of the boxes was another smaller but heftier box which held and assortment of coins; pound coins and fifty-pence pieces, mostly.
I took the box of coins into the living room and sat at the table, and piled the pound coins into stacks of ten, the fifty-pence pieces into piles of twenty, and the rest into piles that added up to a pound each pile. By the time I’d finished, there were over two hundred pounds on the table. I scooped it all back into the box and wrote the amount on the top.
One by one, I dragged the boxes into the living room and counted out the money, separating the assortment of notes into piles and counting as I went. There were so many, I had to write little notes and put them on top of each pile so as to remember the amount. By the time I’d finished, late into the evening, and totted up what was written on each note, I had thirty-two thousand, six hundred and eight pounds and forty pence more than Richard had told me.
I’d been so engrossed in the task that I’d forgotten to eat lunch, and by the time I’d finished I felt quite sick and light-headed. I went to the kitchen and raided the freezer in the utility room. I pulled everything out; frozen veg, frozen chips, ice-cream… crikey, the sell-by date on that was last July! Bin it, woman, before you eat it.
Ah-ha! I knew I’d find something in here!
There was a very frosty frozen lasagne under the tub of ice-cream, and after rinsing off the chunky ice with luke-warm water and checking the sell-by date was only December, I took it to the kitchen and turned on the oven. While I waited for the oven to get hot, I put the kettle on, but then I thought ‘what the hell’ and pulled the cork out of the second bottle of Rioja wine that Bob had brought back with him and poured myself a good, long glass and took it back to the living room.
I couldn’t help but smile as I surveyed the piles of cash. They were on the dining table, the coffee table and along the sideboard; piles and piles of red, pink, purple and blue paper saviours. Whatever Bob had done, he’d at least seen me and Mark right. It was weird, but I didn’t really miss him; not physically, anyway. Probably because I was used to being without him, and I could pretend he was back in Spain as usual, and one day he’d come back. As I stood supping on the wine and gloating over the dosh, the thought did occur to me that, if he’d left me all this cash, how much had he taken for himself? Had he kept a lot more? Double, triple? How much had Richard made?
“Oh, what the hell.” I mumbled to myself, and toasted the cash before finishing the glass in one loud gulp.
Now, what was I going to do with all this? I gave it some thought as I went back to the kitchen and put the lasagne in the oven before pouring another glass, and I took the bottle with me back to the living room.
I decided that I should divide it into twenty equal parts, splitting the notes and coins equally as well. I got some plastic bags from the cupboard in the utility room and made a parcel of thirty thousand, tested its weight and decided that I could put four of them in one large bin bag, as I reckoned I could carry that fairly easily. That would mean five big bags of loot with a bit left over. I decided to put the odd bit into the smaller box that the change had come in. I’d try to keep to ten grand per year, maybe fifteen, but before I could work out exactly how much I’d need, I needed to know what household bills were. I mean, ten to fifteen grand should more than cover everything; shouldn’t it? Anyway, I’d think about that if I could find some bills in Bob’s filing box if I couldn’t work out how to find them online.
Wow. Look at me, getting all efficient and sorting things if Bob never came back.
I raised my eyebrows when I realised that it didn’t bother me as much as this morning.
Oh, well.
After making four parcels and making sure I felt comfortable with the total weight of the bin bag, I sniffed the air and noticed a whiff of something burning.
Bloody Nora, my last lasagne!
I raced into the kitchen and threw open the oven door. A slightly smokey steam wafted into my face, but when it had cleared I could see that the lasagne was charred on the top, but not enough to make it inedible; for me, at least. I carried it and another glass of wine to the kitchen table and gobbled it down in about five minutes. I felt much better once the light-headedness of hunger had gone, but my palate was suffering for having eaten the thing while it was still piping hot.
It was really late and another bottle of something alcoholic and red had gone by the time I’d finished the parcels, and I was quite pissed as well as knackered. I put the parcels into the boxes and stowed them in a corner and went to see what I could have for dinner. I didn’t know if Mark would be back any time soon, but he could sort himself out when he did.
Ah, you silly, pissed bird: you ate the last lasagne in the house, remember?
I went to the hallway table and fished about in the drawer to find a Chinese take-away pamphlet. I’d order enough for two and that would sort out Mark.
Shit; Mark. When Mark came home he’d want to know what was in those bloody boxes. He couldn’t know, because then I’d have to tell him the whole story about his bloody father and his stupid Spanish escapades.
Before calling for the Chinese, I struggled with the boxes upstairs and shoved them under my bed, not an easy task when you’re pissed. The smaller box could sit in the corner with my dressing gown draped over it for the time being, but not before taking out fifty quid to cover the take-away.
But, the dosh couldn’t stay there. Mark could still find it, and what if we got broken into? The burglars wouldn’t believe their luck if they got their hands on my bin bags. And fire, too; it would all be burned as well as the roof over our head.
Oh, shit; where the hell was I going to hide all this?
I teetered back downstairs and called the restaurant, ordered enough food for a wedding feast and then sat at the kitchen table trying to think. After a few minutes, I gave up. I was too tired, too pissed and suffering from post-stress daftness. The brain wasn’t working, so I switched it off and went to watch some TV and waited for the take-away.
Oh, gracious; what was the time?
My tongue was st
uck to the roof of my mouth and my lips to my teeth. I managed to separate them and get up, but I felt so bloody awful that I fell back on the sofa again. The steamy, thick taste of sweet and sour pork and ‘happy families’ rice, among other things, filled my mouth, my head felt it was stuffed with wet, heavy cotton and it throbbed like a loud speaker in a disco.
I looked at the TV, and didn’t know what programme I was watching. The clock over the mantelpiece said quarter past two…
Oh, bloody hell; how long had I been asleep? And where was Mark?
I finally got my backside off the sofa and climbed the stairs carefully, both hands on the banister. One thing I’d got used to about being alone with two kids was being careful. It was continuously in the back of my mind that, if something happened to me, I could be rendered useless for days until someone found me and the kids would…
Oh, great; I made it to Mark’s room. I didn’t bother knocking and just opened the door as quietly as possible. When I saw the top of his shaggy head lying in the valley of the two pillows, I smiled and let a little sigh escape then closed the door as quietly as I’d opened it.
I carefully went back to the kitchen and checked the Chinese food containers. They were practically empty, so Mark had fed himself; or so I hoped, because if he hadn’t it meant I’d eaten the lot. While I was there I grabbed a glass of water and necked it in about four gulps. I was not a