The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner)

by Frank Rawlins

  We deferred the decision on Cory. We did decide that brother and sisters would benefit but they would have to look after their own offspring and assorted relatives; if they wanted to. As for Jules’s mum – she wouldn’t want anything. Except perhaps a new winter coat, as long as it didn’t cost too much.

  And what about us? Jack the jobs in immediately? Go on a cruise? Buy a new house?

  Jules decided to put in her notice on Friday, and work out her two weeks so she could get in more than one farewell party, and then rip that little shit Kelly apart; I decided to continue with the business while I looked at ways of selling it or winding it down without causing suspicion or a fuss.

  Our first holiday would be a long weekend in Venice, as soon as possible. We’d had a day trip there during our Lake Garda holiday, and ever since we had wanted to do it properly – and in style. First class air travel, five-star hotel, a gondola with a singing gondolier, coffee at Florian’s listening to a string quartet; the whole bit. And now we can. We can go to Florian’s and not wince when they ask for a king’s ransom for two coffees. Come to think of it, I probably will wince, and probably won’t go there again, but I can look the condescending waiters in the eye and flash my lira – no, Euros now – and then walk out without leaving a tip. Chuckling and not feeling the slightest bit embarrassed.

  As for the house – we don’t need a bigger house, we are both several years past the BIG FIVE OH DEAR, the kids have left home, and we have to think about how we will cope when we are dodderers. But we’ve always wanted somewhere with a decent bit of land. Jules has this idea she can become the next Charlie Dimmock (she’s got no idea about gardening but she can almost match Charlie’s bra-less charlies at 53), and I want to create a putting green lawn. Or maybe even a proper golf hole; two or three tees dotted around for variation.

  But if we bought this little estate everybody would know, or could guess – Lottery winners! Could say I got a good price for the business…

  And so we talked on and on until it was nearly midnight, and still neither of us was tired. We did decide, however, to try to get some sleep. Without much success. We couldn’t even make love. My brain was whirring with it so much I couldn’t even get a Hard On!

  Jules is snoring lightly. I crept out at about two o’clock into the cubby-study-hole and started writing this. My normal 10-15 minutes (much longer when I’m catching up or in literary mode) has stretched an hour and on to four supplementary sheets of A4. Now I’m feeling tired. Shall go back to Jules.

  Still no HO.

  Thursday, January 10

  Dawn broke early. We were up, drinking tea, soon after 5.30am. Actually, it was still dark. A couple of hours later I drove to the office, put a notice on the door saying ‘Closed Until Monday’, and Jules croaked a bogus message on to her boss’s answerphone saying she had developed a bad cold overnight.

  Then I drove us carefully to Watford – it would be the ultimate nightmare being maimed or worse in a crash on the eve of a new life. Camelot Dawn was a pleasant, 30-ish woman, attractive in a smart-trouser-suit sort of way, business-like but friendly. She checked the winning ticket and printed out our cheque. It looked like any other sort of cheque – until you read the figures. Wow!

  She gave us the whole spiel: they would arrange for a panel of experts if we wanted – lawyer, accountant, financial adviser – or we could use our own, if we preferred. We decided to think about it. She spent quite a while trying to persuade us that publicity wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and smiled understandingly when I said, ‘Who for – Camelot?’

  We had a few sips of Camelot champagne to toast our win, and then sat on our own quietly nursing coffee in a comfy room thoughtfully provided by our hosts, composing ourselves for the drive back to our new life.

  There are some advantages to having a small business and knowing your bank manager personally (almost intimately after many sessions together when I set up the company). Anthony – now Wolfman only in name if not in reality – saw us at short notice, and hardly twitched when I passed the cheque over his desk. And I knew – just knew – that our secret would be safe with him. We put the whole lot in a holding account, attracting an interest that was marginally better than the sorry offerings on most accounts in these days of low inflation and near-recession.

  Then we drove into Oxford, had lunch at the Randolph Hotel – didn’t see Inspector Morse but did leave a modest tip for a waiter who wasn’t overly supercilious – and then booked our trip to Venice, three weeks hence.

  Phoned the kids – to ask them round for Sunday lunch. Then we went to bed and played printers and nurses.

  Got up and had some supper, watched TV.

  NOTES

  3.30am as I finish this.

  Friday, January 11

  We went into town to do some shopping, stopping en route at BC Parry Engineering, which Jules’s administration skills have apparently held together for the past nine years. I got out, wandered into reception, said hello to a girl I hadn’t seen before, and handed her Jules’s resignation letter addressed to Mervyn Kelly.

  Jules sat in the car outside. She wasn’t too worried if anyone saw her. She could just say she was totally pissed off with Kelly and couldn’t take any more, and people would nod their heads knowingly.

  And so to the shops. We bought some clothes – nothing too expensive, but good enough to fool a posh hotel in Venice – and had a pub lunch.

  An enjoyable day, but we still feel we’re wandering round in a vacuum at the moment. Want to get things going. Sell the business; start our new lives; go on holiday; play lots of golf; and start a novel. At least Jules made a start with her resignation letter. Her only regret was that she wasn’t there to see Kelly’s face when he opened the letter.

  NOTES

  Otiose = not required, serving no practical purpose; futile.

  Nice word, Kenny Williams; must try to squeeze it into the odd conversation.

  Saturday, January 12

  Medal day. Resisted temptation to buy new set of Pings (what a give-away that would have been) and played like a cripple with one arm and impaired vision. But not just because I was playing with my old Mizunos. There was something preying on my mind: as soon as FR rolled up, with five minutes to spare, as usual, I remembered the Lottery pact we had made in the club bar a couple of years ago – if either of us won the Lottery jackpot we would buy the other a brand-spanking-new set of golf clubs. Top of the range, gold encrusted, laser-guidance attachment.

  Talk about Catch 22. I couldn’t renege on it, but FR would know immediately if I suddenly handed him a new set of Callaways and said I’d found them by the side of the road. And being a journalist, of course …

  I will have to give it some serious thought; and perhaps tell Jules of our little pact.

  Chris played well (net 69); Frank and Dave average.

  See from the papers that the £16,000,000 winner has claimed his jackpot. Wonder if he’s bought any clubs yet – like Wentworth.

  NOTES

  LCFC lost again; looking grim. And Dennis Wise is looking decidedly otiose for a £2million buy: if he’s not injured or suspended, he’s generally getting up people’s noses or raking their shins rather than playing like a former international footballer.

  Sunday, January 13

  We had it all worked out: we’d have lunch first, so as not to disrupt Jules’s careful timing of the cooking (one slight distraction and we’re half an hour late – with this news we’d be eating about Tuesday), and then, just like Christmas, we’d get out the port and Stilton, and tell them over that.

  Sarah ruined all that. She and Mike hadn’t been in the door more than a minute when she said, with a slightly worried smile on her face, ‘We’ve got something to tell you.’

  We smiled warily but didn’t have time to say anything.

  ‘You’re going to be grandparents,’ she added.

  Jules gave out a joyous little scream, and rushed to hug the happy couple.

  �
�Did this happen before you got married?’ I teased, with a solemn face.

  ‘Wedding night or night after, I reckon, Aitch,’ retorted Mike who had picked up the HH Art of A Gentle Wind-Up with worrying ease.

  I hugged them both; obviously only a quick manly hug with Mike. Then Cory arrived, and the teasing innuendoes really started flying. I just got caught up in all the euphoria.

  ‘Me and your mum have got something to tell you as well,’ I announced.

  Jules looked momentarily annoyed, but almost immediately gave a resigned ‘I understand’ shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘We’re getting divorced,’ I added.

  There was a stunned silence. Even Jules looked stunned.

  ‘After nearly thir ..?’ said Sarah quietly but then saw my solemn face break into a grin. ‘You bastard!’ she added, not unreasonably.

  Then I told them.

  None of them was sure whether this was another wind-up.

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ I said. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out our photocopy of the cheque, made by our friendly bank manager.

  ‘It’s true,’ added Jules.

  The squeals and whoops and general joyful mayhem seemed to go on for several minutes. When everybody had eventually calmed down I opened a bottle of expensive champagne. And then Cory, never one to see a bush, let alone beat about it, said, ‘So how much are we getting, Dad?’ In a jokey sort of way.

  That’s when things got a bit tricky. I told him, in an only slightly bush-beating sort of way, that I and his mother were worried what a large sum of money might do to him, so if he could come up with a plan, of what he might do with it, we would discuss figures.

  ‘You want me to do a business plan for you!?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Well, more a sort of life plan,’ I said. And then added, in his own ‘what-bush?’ style, ‘We’re frightened you might blow it all in five years and end up a raddled old sot with no purpose in life. If you can convince us you’re ready to handle, ooh, shall we say, up to half a million, you shall have it.’

  That shut him up for a while; but only a short while. He still wasn’t happy that we were apparently ready to write a cheque for £500,000 for his sister without qualms (even though she would now have to share it with a husband and a baby), but he – in his own words – had to beg for every crumb and account for every penny.

  The argument – on the whole, amicable – went on for some time, while we all drank more champagne and get ever so slightly merry.

  In the end I wrote both Sarah and Cory a cheque for £20,000 each, to be going on with, providing no one breathed a word of our win to anyone, not even close friends, not even family. They agreed.

  As I write, it is now just before midnight. Dinner will be served at any moment.

  Monday, January 14

  Went into work but couldn’t work. Rang up a few old printer mates, and with a few deft, disguised, all-purpose enquiries discovered that I was unlikely to find a buyer for the business in town.

  Jules came home beaming like a Cheshire cat that had got the Wensleydale. Kelly had asked her to stay on. He offered her an extra pound an hour! A whole extra pound!

  ‘I told him to shove it up his arse!’ she said.

  We both laughed like drains.

  Jules and I are as chuffed with the news of our grandchild as we are with our new riches. Fancy sleeping with a granny!

  MLTJ. Like a couple of teenagers. Shame about the aches and pains afterwards.

  Don’t know why I keep doing the initials thing; like some teenager. Just in case Jules sees it, I suppose. She’ll do her crust – ‘what if somebody else sees it!?’

  Who’s gonna see it, and what the hell does it matter if they do? Yes, I shall continue with my little reminders, to bring me a little smile when I read this in my dotage.

  NOTES

  What about Prince Harry! On the wacky baccy apparently. Nice to know he’s just your average heavy-drinking, occasional-joint-smoking 17-year-old. Keep it up, boy, and your brain might start working like an average teenager’s – and you might realise one day what a fucking nonsense the monarchy is in the 21st century.

  Wednesday, January 16

  Still steeling myself to ring siblings. Good job none of them lives close. It would be very tricky if I bumped into one of them in the street.

  Jules and I decided not to actually tell them on the phone, but to arrange one of our occasional family get-togethers, so we could tell them face to face – and stress there’d be nothing for nobody, in Arnie’s vernacular, if any of them blabbed. I’ll ring Arnie tomorrow; let him organise the fine details of where and when.

  Friday, January 18

  Had a chat with the Wolfman. He recommended his own financial adviser – who has no connection whatsoever with the bank! Not a good recommendation for your business, Anthony old boy. But it’s good enough for me. Must ring Camelot and let them know.

  Put an ad in trade mag – brief details of press/business, in-region-of price, and box number.

  Headline in The Rag: KETTLE BOILED OVER

  (It was about a kitchen fire!)

  Saturday, January 19

  Finally got round to ringing Arnie. Tried to sound casual, nonchalant, as if I always asked the family round on a cold weekend in January. But at least I had a good excuse – my 55th birthday, sort of half a milestone. Arnie sounded a bit surprised. But obviously pleased. Not because he would be seeing his little brother again, but because he’s the world’s biggest freeloader.

  He wasn’t too happy when I told him siblings only (shouldn’t use these tricky words, HH!); but he was very happy when I promised him the best meal The George could provide and a room there afterwards – on me – for whoever wanted to drink and stay the night.

  God, what a push-over.

  Added later: In the event, Maggie volunteered to stay sober and drive back. Good.

  NOTES

  Creditable 0-0 draw at home to Newcastle – but desperately need a few wins.

  Sunday, January 20

  Cory rang to say he couldn’t come for lunch. We were both gobsmacked – it was only the second time since he had left us for bedsit land that he had turned down a Sunday roast. Like most 22-year-olds lads his culinary skills revolve around a can opener, a toaster, and a microwave.

  He had an important appointment apparently, but if he could he’d pop his head round the door just to say hello.

  He signalled his arrival on our short drive soon after 3p.m. with a blast of his car horn – but not a blast I recognised. I went to the door and found out why – he was not in his old Renault but a BMW. Not a new one, but one in immaculate condition.

  ‘Like it?’ he asked, getting out with a big beam on his face.

  My fuse was lit. I was ready to go ballistic.

  ‘How much did this cost you then?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘How much did it cost?’

  ‘Bargain for its age and mileage.’

  ‘How much did it cost!?’

  ‘We could be here all day, Dad, doing this.’

  ‘Let me put it another way – have you spent all that twenty grand on this?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  Steam came out of my nostrils. I knew from past experience that ‘not quite’ meant he probably had about two quid change.

  ‘So what happens when it breaks down? Or you prang it? It is insured, is it? Didn’t you save anything for an emergency? Or do you think I’ll bail you out every time?’

  ‘Fucking hell! I might have known …’

  I ignored his profanity (well, he’d probably learned it from me in the first place) and let some steam ease out of my ears. Jules came to the door and saved him from further punishment.

  With a pleasant, unsuspecting smile on her face, she asked what was the matter.

  ‘Dad’s flying off the handle – without letting me explain,’ he explained.

  ‘Go on then,’ I invited.

  ‘It�
�s an investment. I got it for a pittance …’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Nineteen grand.’

  ‘Oh good. You didn’t spend it all in one go then.’

  ‘There’s no talking to you, is there?’ he asked, but obviously didn’t want an answer. He pecked Jules on the cheek, offered an apology for such a fleeting visit, and got back into the £19,000 BMW.

  I just knew I was right about him. Just knew it.

  MLTJ. Not the best.

  Monday, January 21

  Dermot Stone rang up to query their bill. I told him where to get off. I’m not taking that shit; probably wouldn’t even take it if I were still a penniless printer. Told him they get an extra discount anyway as regular customers. He swore, I swore, we slammed our phones down in unison.

  Eric Butler rang me p.m. to apologise; said it was just a misunderstanding at their end. He hoped it wouldn’t jeopardise our relationship. I bit my tongue. Which was painful.

  Email from Cory:

  Dad, it IS an investment, I promise you. Sorry if I lost my temper.

  Heard this one? ‘Last week I met a Dutch girl with inflatable shoes. I phoned her yesterday to ask for a date, but she’d popped her clogs.’

  It’s difficult to stay mad with the maddening little bugger.