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

by Frank Rawlins

  ‘Yeah, suppose so.’

  Jules and I looked at each other. She saw I might be about to explode, and took over the interrogation. ‘Had enough of working as a despatch department manager then?’ she asked.

  ‘It was only ever going to be temporary, Mum,’ he replied.

  ‘What about your degree?’

  ‘There’s not a lot of call for geology round here. Besides …’ Cory paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’ve wasted those years at college, and I appreciate all you did for me. I still find geology and archaeology fascinating, but I’ve never known a buzz like this before. It’s me. Honestly.’

  I jumped in: ‘What, wheeler-dealing? The Del Boy of Oxfordshire?’

  He was stung by that, and that’s what persuaded me.

  ‘This isn’t Trotters Independent Traders. Or even Boycey. This is class stuff. Classic cars. Prestige cars. And I’ve got the chance of a deal that could set me up. Seventy grand would do.’

  Jules and I looked at each other. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Give me a brief business plan in the next day or two, including details of this deal, and if we’re happy you can have the money within the week. Okay?’

  He thought about it for all of five seconds. ‘Okay. Thank you very much, Dad.’ He shook my hand, and gave me a little hug. ‘And the power behind the throne,’ he added, giving his mother a very big hug.

  Tuesday, March 12

  Had a surprise visitor to the office this morning – Bob Eckman, painter, decorator, all-round good egg, and piss-poor businessman. Or at least, so I thought. He told me confidentially he had been offered a contract by Butler & Stone, to tart up houses to let, which could generate some big money but it might mean him having to take on somebody else, or a use a subcontractor, and, as I had often praised Andrew at the bank, could I give him an idea of the services on offer – for instance, would they check out a contract, as it was all Double Dutch to him, and he really hadn’t got a solicitor, not that he didn’t trust Eric Butler of course, but that Dermot Stone, well, Bob had heard a few stories, didn’t know if they were true or not …

  We both took a long breath.

  I phoned Andrew and arranged for him to meet Bob.

  Wednesday, March 13

  What is it about me and money? Suddenly I’m a banker, philanthropist, and business adviser. The truth is, money is all a mystery to me. It’s like driving a car: I can drive a car but I haven’t a clue how it works. I can earn money, I can spend money, but I’ve no idea how it works. Now at least I can afford to have someone else make it work. But I didn’t bother explaining any of that when Mike and Sarah came round after their badminton, to give me my third financial day in a row. They had made a decision; of sorts. They would like their mortgage paid off, please, and a nice lump sum to cover themselves when Sarah left work. About half of what I had originally offered should do it; thank you very much. Hugs and kisses followed, and Jules and I both expressed our admiration that they had turned down £250,000. But we made it clear that it was there should they need it. Sarah made it clear that she wouldn’t hesitate to get back to us should they need it.

  And now the important bit: Sarah has her first scan picture, and proudly showed us the image of our first grandchild. I swear my little girl is beginning to get big in the belly. Well, I thought her usual svelte self was showing signs of a slight swell (think I’ve just invented a new tongue-twister), but she said I was imagining it. Whatever – I felt really proud of her, just looking at that non-existent swelling. All is well apparently, except for the occasional bout of morning sickness.

  Lucky girl; her mum was throwing up like a puking machine – i.e. a baby – for weeks on end. More like morning, afternoon, and evening sickness. She artexed the kitchen one weekend.

  Thursday, March 14

  Just for a change, Jules and I had a serious financial conversation. Was there any reason why we shouldn’t tell people we were multi-millionaires? What were we worried about? For a start, we were worried about the begging letters. But we decided to keep sending them – boom boom! We also decided there was another reason, beside the fact that all sorts of leeches would crawl out of the swamp; and that reason was that people would treat us differently; we would become different people.

  We are quite happy with the people we are. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and to our family, mainly, and just have a small circle of friends with whom we socialise. Very small. In fact just SIX old friends! – FR and MJ, Tel and Madge, Pedro and Murdo. And that’s enough for anybody. Better than legions of acquaintances.

  Anyway, we decided that when we buy a bigger house, or sell the business, people will start asking questions. So we will tell them then; those we feel like telling, anyway.

  MLTJ. Not one of our great ones. Jules says her hormones are playing up. Says we might have to try KY. Huh?

  NOTES

  Cracking piece in The Mirror about the Big Pigs of BP. The chief executive ‘won’ a pay rise taking his basic salary to £1.2million. With bonuses and benefits such as free shares and huge pension payments, it reached a cool £7million. Five other executives earned between £2-3million. Who needs to win the Lottery!? And all BP could say was an ‘independent’ committee set the pay levels – ‘which reflect achievement and the need to retain top talent’. Independent, my arse!

  It’s a fucking disgrace when workers are lucky to get a couple of hundred extra each year. When will the Government act? All shareholders must have the right and opportunity to vote annually on executive pay, by post and/or email. Now!

  Saturday, March 16

  Another solitary point. Bassett must go!

  Sunday, March 17

  Strange game of golf. I had a nightmare first hole. My tee shot went about 200 yards – up in the air, that is, and landed about 20 feet in front of me. But then I settled down, had a little purple patch, but couldn’t win a hole. The boys were scattered all over the park on the 11th. I was on the edge of the green for one, chipped to within 8ft for two, and then Dave thinned a chip which shot across the green, smacked into the pin, and dropped in the hole. For three! I missed my putt; Dave won the hole. Still, I won four Skins (wonder what a non-golfer would make of that!), and ended up shelling out £2. Had a spurious moan about how much Skins was costing me. Very naughty.

  Monday, March 18

  Arnie’s Ron rang me at work this afternoon, out of the blue. Surprising call, surprising conversation. I’d forgotten what a charming young man my nephew can be. Unlike his dad. Polite, witty, deferential to age and experience, and just a thoroughly nice, easy-going, intelligent, considerate human being. Not a waster; not a candidate for Skid Row. I felt awful turning him down; I really did.

  He didn’t want a hand-out; he wanted a loan. Which was fair enough. But, in fairness to our other nephew and niece, I had to tell him: ‘Ask your dad, Ronnie.’

  ‘I have, Uncle Harry. Flat refusal. Thinks I’m a shirker. I’m not.’

  ‘I think you’re old enough to drop the Uncle.’

  ‘It might be better, Harry. But you’ll always be my favourite uncle. And I’m not just saying that because … you know.’

  ‘I know, Ronnie. Thank you. Look, hang on a minute …’ I thought about it for a few seconds and then said, ‘Get a job, any old job, stacking shelves if you like, just to show him, and me, and I’ll send you a couple of grand. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough, Harry. Forgive me but I’ve got to dash – I’ve got an appointment at Tesco’s.’

  Cory turned up tonight with his business plan. Haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. He told me to take my time – Wednesday/Thursday would do. Cheeky sod.

  NOTES

  Apparently 1,700 of our finest troops are to be sent to Afghanistan. Is this wise? We shall see.

  Tuesday, March 19

  Sally Balm came to look at the business this morning. Attractive youngish lady (about Sarah’s age, and, with dark curly hair, not unlike Sarah) and seeming
ly sincere. She wanted to have a look round the town afterwards, so I took her for a drink and a sandwich at the pub first; but still didn’t manage to find out how she acquired the readies, or collateral, to buy her own business.

  I was just saying goodbye to her outside when I heard an insistent car horn nearby – FR had pulled up at the traffic lights and was grinning inanely, hooting the hooter, as if to say, ‘What are you up to, you old tosser; chatting up totty at your age; should be ashamed of yourself; wait till I see Jules’.

  Very expressive horns, those old Mondeos.

  NOTES

  A Labour government has yet again chickened out on fox hunting. It looks like ‘a middle way’ may be found whereby hunts can be licensed. Spineless bastards. Let the carnage continue.

  Can anyone imagine Maggie Thatcher holding back if fox-hunting had been the preserve of the miner? The Amalgamated Black Dyke Chace and Grimethorpe Hunt would be chacing no more – unless they had switched to drag-hunting with black puddings.

  Thursday, March 21

  Another box number snail mail delivery – Jim Felix wants to know more about the Second Lodge Ondaleft. (Like where did that strange Masonic name come from, eh, Jim?) He also wants to see the business. If it’s as good as he thinks, he might make a firm offer. Oh shit.

  Ms Balm rang me late morning. She is very keen, is just tying up some loose ends on her finance, and will make a concrete offer by the end of next week; please will I wait that long before accepting another offer? No problem. No other offer ondatable.

  Ronnie rang me at work again in the afternoon. He has a job rounding up trolleys (possible promotion to shelf-filling!) at Sainsbury’s. He thought Sainsbury’s was more in line with his aspirations.

  I just caught the post with my cheque.

  NOTES

  Alain Baxter has been stripped of his skiing medal – apparently the banned drug was in an American version of his Vicks inhaler/spray/whatever. Bad luck or what?

  Friday, March 22

  Barry Johnson rang – he’d like to make a firm offer; it would be in writing, in the post tonight. He would have made it earlier apparently but he’d mislaid his file with all his figures in; then he’d had to spend a couple of days explaining his figures to his bank manager and an accountant; and then he had mislaid my books – but not to worry, they were at his barber’s the whole time.

  Barber’s? My books were at the barber’s!? Now why would I worry, Barry?

  MLTJ.

  NOTES

  Mrs Thatcher has been ordered by her doctor to give up public speaking after a series of mini-strokes. Hallelujah! No – I don't wish a stroke on anyone, but I have long wished silence on Maggie. Of course all the far-right Tories immediately hogged the cameras to bemoan the day. Will they ever realise that it was their beloved Maggie who started the dramatic decline in Tory fortunes?

  It took a while to sink into the collective consciousness, but we got there in the end. Giving away the ‘family silver’ to a bunch of greedy bastards, while starving health and education so it appeared the private sector was the only hope.

  Sunday, March 24

  Sat reading Cory’s business plan tonight while Jules watched some almost-funny, almost-dramatic comedy-drama. Why do they have to write them by formula? – attractive young hero and heroine who fall in love/fall out/fall in love/fall out with monotonous regularity; a parent not very good at showing emotions; two village idiots who supposedly do funny things every week. Shit me.

  Anyway, Cory’s plan: the bits I could understand looked fine; very professional. I shall ring him in the morning; ask him when he wants his cheque.

  MLTJ.

  Monday, March 25

  Ronnie rang during his morning coffee-break to thank me for the cheque. He had already paid off what he owed on the car, and was busy looking for a ‘proper job’ so he didn’t get into the same kind of mess again.

  There was sod all to do in the office really, so I spent most of the morning sitting and thinking, and surfing the web and thinking. It was lunchtime before my ideas and research came together, so in the afternoon I started writing notes. The provisional title is ‘Chained To A Lunatic’.

  I shall definitely finish this novel.

  Tuesday, March 26

  Had a barney with Joanna Logan this morning. What a tight, conniving bastard she is. Jo-Lo the no-go when it comes to paying bills. I should have blackballed her, as it were, the first time she tried it on. Except I fell for her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-knickers Baby Spice appeal. She tried to tell me her flyer wasn’t up to scratch – after I had roughed out three ideas for her, she had eulogised about all three, and asked for a couple of features from each. If she wasn’t a woman I would have gone round there and … done something a tad aggressive.

  She offered to pay half the bill; I told her to piss off. If she doesn’t pay I might take her to the small claims court. Just for the fun of it.

  Couldn’t face any writing after that. The only thing I wrote all day was a cheque for Cory – we had compromised on £85,000. Couldn’t stop laughing afterwards; I’d almost got violent over an overdue couple of hundred quid and here I was writing a cheque for £85,000! Funnier still, when I rang Cory tonight he was in no hurry for it! Said he’d pop round and pick it up in the next day or two.

  NOTES

  What the fuck does any of it matter? Just watched the parents of the missing girl on TV. Come home, Milly Dowler, please.

  Thursday, March 28

  Received two offers on the business today; one early, one late. Barry Johnson obviously didn’t get his in the post on Friday night, and Ms Balm got hers in a day earlier than expected. Bumbling Barry offered £102 and 39pence more than sweet Sally. Where the fuck did he get 39pence from? Who the hell makes a bid for a business and sticks 39p on the end of an almost round figure!?

  Hello, Barry…

  Finalised my notes for the opus.

  NOTES

  Dudley Moore died yesterday. Thanks, Dud; particularly for Mr Spiggott and your work with Peter Cook. You certainly weren’t deficient in the talent department.

  Must dig out that tape of you and Cookie corpsing.

  Saturday, March 30

  Having a lazy day when I idly switched on the telly to see what was happening in the world and discovered that the Queen Mum had died.

  I wasn’t particularly sad or upset – and not just because of my Republican tendencies. She had, after all, made it to 101! Great innings, life of incredible privilege, nothing to complain about. By bedtime, and they were still showing ‘special’ programmes, I was pissed off.

  Jules wasn’t over-amused, either. Having to miss Casualty! Is nothing sacrosanct?

  I told her as we were doing our ablutions together, ‘All the story boils down to really is “Old Lady Dies”.’

  She wasn’t entirely convinced.

  ‘It’s a bit of history though, isn’t it?’ she ventured.

  ‘A bit of history that’s over,’ I counter-ventured.

  But I don’t suppose it will be over for many days yet. Until the funeral is over. Will it bore us all to death?

  NOTES

  The boys have won a game! Too late, but never mind. Bassett must go.

  Sunday, March 31

  Another lazy day, reading and trying to avoid TV and radio programmes about the Queen Mum. We pored over houses for sale in all the local papers. Nothing we fancied.

  I decided after much musing, and consulting Jules, to accept Sally’s offer on the business. Jules also decided that I should have a word with Andrew first; to make sure we’re getting a reasonable price. Just because we’ve got a few bob now it doesn’t mean we should give it away. It wouldn’t hurt to ask her for a few quid more; or at least to let her stew for a few days.

  Haven’t seen Jules this stroppy for a long while. Since the days of Mervyn Kelly. Have I upset her?

  JNI. Hormones again probably; because I’m pretty sure I haven’t done anything untoward. When I asked what was
the matter, she snapped back, ‘Nothing!’

  NOTES

  Barry Took has died. God, they’re dropping like flies at the moment! Anyway, thanks for Round The Horne, Barry, even though – I suspect – Marty Feldman wrote all my favourite lines. Never mind, I still play the tapes in the car, and still laugh. Many times. Many many many times.

  Monday, April 1

  April Fools’ Day. Not my favourite day. People who play pranks are generally tossers, but I’d been saving up my next reply to Jim Felix for this day, because I’m being a tad tosser-ish with the Beaky Bastard. But don’t some people just deserve it.

  I booted up the Mac and bashed out a mock two-sided A4 ‘stand-by’ prospectus (‘a new one is currently being prepared’, I lied) for the Second Lodge Ondaleft. My inventions included a brief history going back 200 years (but 99 per cent of which I couldn’t divulge in the public post), regalia of gold made by a local goldsmith in the 19th century, and – my piece de resistance – two members related to our Royal Family.

  I printed it out on expensive paper, complete with the give-away date to give the fall guy a fighting chance, and signed it with a flourish that not even a pharmacist could read.

  It got the creative juices going so much I wrote another little fiction – telling Ms Balm and Mr Johnson that because of the level of interest it would be another couple of weeks before I could give them an answer. And then I started on the novel. Wrote two pages of A4.