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

by Frank Rawlins

  Wednesday, January 23

  Jules took another sickie, and why not, and we drove to Leicester to see my Dad (get this over first) and then to Peterborough to see her mother. We thought we had better tell them first, before sibs. With Dad, we somehow felt it was a moral obligation, even though he wouldn’t understand.

  We hadn’t seen him at Christmas, as we normally did, because we couldn’t face it. We had done the last two Crimbos, visiting him at Crazy Corner, and neither time had he really known us. We had sat with him for an hour and tried to talk, while all the time his fellow zombies wandered around in limbo, most not knowing who they were, where they were, and he would only mumble a few words to ask if it was dinner-time or tea-time. Arnie and Maggie had volunteered, with a little coercion from me, to get their arses in gear this time and drive the 10 miles (compared to our 70). They said they did, but who knows?

  Strangely, Dad seemed to recognise us, although he couldn’t put names to the faces. We showed him our latest family photos and told him his granddaughter was expecting a child – his first great-grandchild – but none of it seemed to penetrate the Alzheimer’s. So we didn’t mention the Lottery. Instead, we had a quick word with the unit manager, who told us that Dad’s condition was still deteriorating at an unusually slow rate, but it might accelerate at any time. We told him that we were financially secure so if there was anything Dad wanted, please let us know. Then we left that abject place with sorrow in our hearts but relief that we could rejoin what we laughingly refer to as the ‘real world’.

  Ruth was a ball of fun in comparison. We had phoned and said we would pop in while we were in the area, and as soon as we walked in she said, ‘So what’s up then!? And don’t tell me nothing, because otherwise it would wait till we come down. And that’s only four days away!’

  We insisted on a pot of tea first, and then told her. She was so pleased for us – and our kids (and grandchild!). We asked her not to tell anyone else, not even family; we would do that on Sunday. She’s rarely demonstrative or emotional, let alone jolly, but she used up three months’ smiles in the next two hours.

  And when Jules asked her what she would like, she said, ‘A nice winter coat would be nice, Dear. Don’t go spending a fortune, mind. Just something nice and snug.’

  ‘That’s a tenner you owe me,’ I whispered to Jules as Ruth busied herself with another tea refill.

  ‘Take it out the housekeeping!’ Jules whispered back.

  We both turned our heads away, biting our lips, desperate not to laugh out loud.

  BTTTML (all that travelling, don’t you know). And still feeling tinges of sadness.

  NOTES

  Funny old life. Jim Broadbent won a Golden Globe on Monday for his role in the film Iris, as the husband of Iris Murdoch, who died following Alzheimer’s. FR saw the charity premiere in Oxford, and said it was a real tear-jerker. He advised us to wait till it comes out on video and have a good sob in the privacy of our living room. I think we can manage after coping with the real thing.

  LCFC 1 Arsenal 3. If only I’d won the £16,000,000 – could have bought the boys a new striker. These days £3,456,789, or whatever, wouldn’t be enough to buy one of David Beckham’s legs. Both his wife’s perhaps, which might at least cheer up the Leicester lads.

  Thursday, January 24

  FR popped his pilgarlic round the door at lunch-time; said he was passing, had some time to kill, and did I fancy a pint? Not really, but I went. Trouble with lunch-time boozing is, unless you stick at one, it wipes you out for the afternoon. He had to go to court – reporting – so we stuck at one.

  Apparently the £16,000,000 Lottery winner doesn’t come from this neck of the wood – as far as FR can tell – but he’s had a strong tip that the town has spawned one big winner since Christmas. He said he was working on it. A shiver went through me. Almost as if he had trodden on my grave. Very strange.

  NOTES

  Load of nonsense on evening news about Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Jules agreed there wouldn’t be that much interest, unlike the Silver Jubilee, because other Royals had damaged the Family. I agreed that, yes, the Queen is probably a very nice, hard-working lady in a very difficult job – but so are millions of others and they get paid a pittance. And they have to get their own tea when they get home. If they can afford it. Unfortunately the Queen’s job is about a century out of date. Couldn’t get Jules to agree on that one. Sadly, there are millions of others who won’t either. They see Her Maj as some sort of super-human; deity almost. What a crock of shit.

  Friday, January 25

  Fiddled around with a few jobs, couldn’t concentrate, went home early. Watched Countdown. Carol’s rat’s tails are definitely growing on me. I could have phrased that better. Actually, I hardly noticed them because her smile was even more scintillating than usual. And her laugh – my God, the dirtiest I’ve ever heard.

  Jules came home pretty crapulous from her farewell do with the girls. They went to the new Chinese eamayl (eat-as-much-as-you-like) restaurant in Oxford and turned it into a damayl, with Jules paying for all the drinks. The girls had to buy their own meals – so as not to give the game away. Jules tells me she didn’t crack – but we’ll have to tell somebody soon.

  JMLTM. She tried, anyway. She would have been banging away all night if she hadn’t fallen asleep on the job.

  Saturday, January 26

  Retrieved first box-number replies to my ad. Four letters; only two looked like serious enquiries. One was from Jim Felix!! I still haven’t forgiven the beaky bastard for trying to drop me in it when he discovered I was going for job interviews to get away from The Rag. The twat did at least give me the impetus to strike out on my own.

  Seeing his name also reminded me to ask Jules – did she rip that little shit Kelly to pieces before she left yesterday? Sadly, when pinch comes to shove, she’s too nice. If they’d had a row yesterday afternoon she would have done. But she said she’s mellowed since their last spat. I think she has.

  Sunday, January 27

  Bloody Sunday. What a nightmare. They arrived jammed into Arnie’s People Carrier (‘first in Leicester!’ – and now beginning to look it) fighting mad after a 90-minute journey during which, apparently, Ruth’s blood had almost become the sauce in the sardine can. We were waiting for them in the kitchen – me, Jules, and the kids – and before I could say, ‘What’s everybody drinking?’, Arnie told us the worst. Ruth had ‘accidentally’ let slip after only a handful of miles that she had a secret, something to do with Harry, and spent the rest of the journey dropping coy hints and smiling knowingly but steadfastly refusing to reveal any more – making the other six madder by the mile. Even her two daughters were seething, and I’d never seen Jennifer seethe since leaving university for banking and spinsterhood.

  ‘Tell us now!’ Arnie insisted, not forgetting to add, ‘Pint of Cooking’ (any old beer going).

  ‘In a minute,’ I said. ‘But it’s not bad news. Now go and sit down, Arnie, or I’ll send you packing back to Leicester.’

  ‘No you don’t…’

  ‘GO!’ I threatened. He went. Cory helped me out by settling everyone in round our big pine table. And all I could think was, Thank God we didn’t meet at The George. The whole bloody town would have known within minutes!

  I told them as calmly as I could. They were dumbfounded, for several seconds, and then the questions began. Even Jules’s sisters – both normally quiet and unmoveable – had trouble containing themselves. Jayne wanted to know how long we had known; Jenny wanted to know who we had banked the cheque with. The other member of Ruth’s J squad – John – couldn’t stop laughing and making pathetic puns. Just like the day he had married Jayne – when he annoyed so many people before the ceremony that we were within an ace of twinning it with his funeral.

  Sweet Caroline proved she was the nicest sister in the world; her painful divorce from Hugo hasn’t soured her against men in general. Just her older brother. She was the only one to give me a kiss, and tel
l me to enjoy the money. She gave Arnie a pointed and sarcastic smile.

  Our sister-in-law was almost straight-faced; angry, I guessed, because we had won it and she and Arnie hadn’t.

  Arnie was the last to speak. He surprised me by saying, ‘Congratulations, Aitch. I knew one of us would win it one day.’ But before I could respond he reeled off a long list of things he would do for the family – us included – if he ever won. Even Cory, who had excelled himself only a fortnight earlier, seemed stunned by this blatant ploy.

  I was magnanimous; I said everybody would get a fair share – even if they only wanted a nice winter coat – but first Jules and I had to get our investments sorted out. There was no rush – unless anybody had got an urgent financial problem. I should have known better.

  ‘Our Ron’s got himself into a jam with his car repayments. Asked me to bail him out – but I can’t afford it at the moment,’ said Arnie.

  ‘Only the people in this room,’ I said, trying to ignore the mental picture of Cory’s BMW that immediately sprang to mind. ‘If you want to help your kids or other relatives afterwards, that’s up to you.’

  ‘You tight bastard!’

  The fur really flew. My beloved brother and I went at it hammer and tongs, just like when we were warring kids, for several minutes until Jules managed to calm us down. She even extracted a promise from him, and everybody else, that it would be a calm, civilised lunch at The George, and nobody would go blabbing loudly about the Lottery. Or else!

  Lunch was very restrained, with no one daring to mention anything to do with money, which made ordering drinks at the bar a tad tricky. Arnie insisted on paying for the first round. I bought lots of wine. John left a meagre tip for our waitress, saying as we walked out towards our cars, ‘I always give waitresses a tip – “don’t expect much from me”.’

  We all laughed like drains. It was his best ever.

  Can’t write any more. Perhaps do it tomorrow at work.

  Monday, January 28

  It’s a bastard. You don’t want any work and it comes piling in. Turned down two jobs this morning (‘too busy’), and gave Eric Butler, still sounding chastened after Dermot’s faux pas, a ridiculously high quote for a job. If he accepts it, I’ll eat this diary.

  I need this afternoon free to finish what I started writing last night. Must get it down while it’s still reasonably fresh in the old brainbox. I’ll probably enjoy reading it again in a few years’ time. But it might be useful before then – to have a near verbatim account to show Arnie.

  To try to ensure it didn’t turn into a free-for-all, Jules and I had come up with what seemed like a fair assessment to start the ball rolling.

  First – no doubt, no discussion – we’d buy Ruth’s council flat for her (it was going for a song, anyway) and put enough in the bank to cover her bills. And enough for a nice winter coat, of course. And no bloody arguments, Ruth; you’re having it, like it or lump it. (We think she likes it, although she’ll probably never admit it.)

  Then came the tricky bit. We didn’t divulge the basic maths but it went like this: up to half a million each for our kids, leaving about £2.4m (on the premise that the interest would soon cover the modest outlay for Ruth); up to a million for charities and good causes, leaving about £1.4m; and up to £250,000 for the rest of the family, leaving Jules and me as a joint-millionaire-plus-a-bit. Until we spend a tidy sum on a new house, leaving us with enough for a comfortable retirement.

  The extra-tricky bit was: did we treat the married couples – Arnie and Maggie, and Jayne and John – the same way we had treated our own kids? Sarah and Mike seemed happy with just one ‘share’ between them, and I’m sure Cory was. Whichever way we decided, we were bound to upset someone. We thought about a compromise – £75,000 for the two married couples and £50,000 for the singletons – but in the end that wasn’t fair on Sarah and Mike. So in the end, we had to follow the ball we had already set rolling.

  So that’s what I told them – fifty grand per sibling.

  ‘How does that sound?’ I asked into a silence broken only by whirring brains.

  Arnie spoke first: ‘So Caroline gets £50,000 thanks to having a failed marriage, and me and Mags get £25,000 each for having seen off nearly 30 years of wedded bliss!’

  I explained to him about the kids, very neatly, I thought. ‘When Cory gets married, his bride won’t get a share. Then he and Sarah – and Mike and the new bride – will all have had the same treatment. If Caroline remarries…’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ she and Arnie said in unison.

  ‘… or Jennifer finally meets the man of her dreams…’

  ‘… Don't be daft!’ she and Arnie said in unison.

  ‘… then their new partners won’t get a share either. It’s all very fair really.’

  Arnie wasn’t convinced. Cory – give him his due – had a go at Arnie, explaining how he was very happy with the arrangement. It didn’t exactly placate his uncle.

  ‘I’m not fucking surprised,’ said Arnie, drawing rebuking gasps from Ruth, Jayne and John. ‘I’d be happy if I was getting a million …’ he guessed, stopping and looking for the slightest hint of confirmation. The only reaction was a sad shake of the head from Cory.

  ‘Well, whatever. Even if you’re not getting it now, you’ll have it all when the old folks kick the bucket.’

  I don’t know who was madder – Cory, Sarah, Mike, or Jules. They all tore into the mercenary bastard. I particularly liked Jules’s ‘This is a gift, Arnie. We don’t have to give you anything. And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to accept it.’

  That shut him up. But I could see, as they all gathered themselves to go back home, his brain was whirring desperately, trying to find an answer to the unanswerable.

  What a fuck-awful pre-birthday party. We’ve got the best news ever – well, until our grandchild arrives – and my own brother ruins it. I wonder what’s it like for the £16million winner? Bloody relatives are probably tearing his carcass apart as I write.

  Tuesday, January 29

  Maggie rang me at work. To apologise ‘if Arnie got a bit carried away’. Hmm. ‘He’s so worried about Ron’s financial problems, he wasn’t thinking straight.’ I accepted her apology as gracefully as I could but didn’t add anything to the conversation. I couldn’t decide whether she was making sure I didn’t change my mind and give them nothing, or whether she was trying to prepare the ground for another attempt to up their share.

  If they’re not careful, the latter could lead to the former.

  NOTES

  Meretricious = superficially attractive but without real value; seemingly plausible but actually insincere; originally meaning, of or befitting a prostitute.

  A word I had known but forgotten. Now, thanks again to Kenneth Williams, I have rediscovered it. Why does it keep springing to my mind!

  Wednesday, January 30

  Sorry, Carol (Vord, that is, not Sis) – there is a rival for your affection. Sue Barker looked absolutely stunning on Question Of Sport this evening. A new hairstyle and virtually no make-up (according to Jules). Is this a mid-life crisis, or am I turning into a dirty old man? Do nearly-55s across the country drool after the Vord and Co, even when they’re happily married? Probably. Anyway, showed my mettle by giving Ms V a miss tonight – couldn’t bear to watch Britain’s Brainiest Footballers. Contradiction in terms. Watched Home Front In The Garden instead. Thoroughly enjoyed it! Yeah, definitely a mid-life crisis.

  Thursday, January 31

  Yessiree, 55 today. And I don’t feel a day over 54. Lovely day. Jules and I went into Oxford, looked in lots of estate agents’ windows, and did some last-minute shopping for Venice. Spent nearly £500 on a necklace for her. She bought me a smart casual black leather ‘blouson’ (nearly £200) for my birthday. We both had qualms – but shit! we’re going to do our bit for the starving. Had a light lunch at Browns, meandered back, watched Countdown, and dressed in all our finery for the evening. Just the five of us for an
expensive but lovely dinner at Rigoletto’s. I was going to pay, but Cory and Sarah insisted on splitting the bill between them. Well, they can afford it! Cory gave me a set of cufflinks, expensive looking with £ signs on. Sarah and Mike gave me a Bill Bryson hardback and The Best Of Van Morrison CD. Thank you, thank you!

  Glad to see Sarah is taking her parental duties seriously – she’s virtually given up drinking already. She just had one small glass of wine while the rest of us got slowly merry, and then drove us home. I love you, girl. More than you’ll ever know.

  MLTJ. Very noisy. Hope Tom and Annie next door had their windows shut.

  Friday, February 1

  Cory arrived 10am to drive us to Heathrow. Not in Renault or BMW – but a smart W-reg Polo. Simple explanation.

  ‘Sold the BMW for twenty-seven grand! Told you it was a bargain, didn’t I?’

  Apparently the bloke he bought it off was desperate. His business was going tits up and he needed some cash urgently. Cory, with little compunction, saw his chance and went for it. Seems I’ve bred a Capitalist.

  Realised I’d left my still-unfinished KW Diaries and my Bill Bryson at home so I thought I’d see what all the Harry Potter fuss is about and bought the first volume at the airport. I’d finished several chapters when we landed. Very good, JK.

  Arrived at Hotel Tocasta on the central waterfront late afternoon. Only semi-luxury (four star) but we still felt a little awkward with all the uniformed staff flitting around, obviously trying to find out if we were rich or awful nouveau riche who never knew when and how, and how much, to tip. One even tried to explain Euros to us, no doubt to make sure we knew roughly what was acceptable. You’ll soon find out, signor.