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

by Frank Rawlins

  Wednesday, April 24

  Bob Eckman dropped into the office this morning, bringing grateful thanks and a tiny job (new business cards); he has agreed a contract with Butler & Stone to tart up properties-to-let and taken on an employee. He’s now an employer and proud of it! Good for you, Bob. Just keep an eye out for that sneaky bastard Dermot Stone.

  NOTES

  Italy 1, Sweden 0: Or to put it another way, Ulrika announces she’s pulling out.

  It appears the French are finally ashamed of themselves – demonstrations against Le Pen are mounting in numbers and virulence. Jolly bon, mes amis.

  Friday, April 26

  Ronnie has had a superb week. Find it harder than ever to figure out how Arnie spawned such a fine young man; or perhaps what happened to Arnie in his twenties and thirties to make me have to wonder such a thing.

  I’m pretty sure I can leave Ronnie on his own from now, but I’ll keep going in most days.

  Dr Macca has decided it’s time Jules came off her original HRT prescription, and moved to a different one. A slightly more powerful one, which I thought was slightly worrying, but what do I know? Anyway, Jules seems happier now that the Doc has spoken. The fount of all comfort.

  NOTES

  Headline in The Rag today: MACARONI WAS TO BLAME

  I won’t try to explain it – just look forward to trying to figure it out in my dotage.

  Saturday, April 27

  Jules and I went into town a.m. to look for a new dishwasher (the programme on the old one was shot to pieces). We had hardly got out of the car when we found Jim Felix and his aquiline nose bearing down on us.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted with his usual decorum as I tried to veer away. We had to stop. I stuck out a hand to shake his, to disarm him; Jules smiled and appeared to be about to say something – no doubt asking after his prissy missus – but he beat her to it.

  ‘Your business up for sale?’ he asked me without any preliminaries as his big mitt squeezed my dainty digits.

  Before Jules could say a word, I jumped in with, ‘Nah. Why? Nice to see you, too, Jim.’ I tried to look him fearlessly in the eye, but I couldn’t wrench my gaze away from the beak. God, it had grown.

  ‘Yeah, well…’ He was obviously in no mood for apologies.

  ‘What gave you that idea anyway?’ I asked, much to Jules’s bewilderment.

  ‘Nothing. Just … just … someone trying to take me for a mug. If I catch the bloody swine …’

  ‘How’s that then?’

  He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. I looked blank. But not as blank as Jules.

  ‘Do you know any printers up for sale?’ he asked.

  ‘Round here?’

  ‘Yeah. Think so.’

  ‘Nah.’

  I had told Jules about the Beaky Bastard’s application, but had somehow forgotten to mention my little bit of teasing. She was not terribly amused. Childish and vindictive were just two of her epithets. I reminded her of what Felix had done to me back in nineteen seventy … and even as I searched for the year it sounded pathetic to hold a grudge for so long.

  ‘Sorry, Jim,’ I told her in lieu of him and a thick ear. ‘But you have to admit, he’s still a tosser…’

  Jules nodded vaguely, lost in thought. ‘Has his nose grown?’ she asked eventually.

  Sunday, April 28

  House-hunting day. Ronnie and Mia went off to Banbury and Brackley to look at houses/flats to let, and Jules and I went to look at manors and mansions; well, expensive properties. But only from a distance. It just didn’t feel right somehow, working-class, down-to-earth H & J looking at houses worth up to half a million pounds. So we parked a short stroll away from each of the three properties we'd selected from our new brochures and sauntered nonchalantly by, slowing down and then stopping at each entrance on the pretext of studying the piece of paper in Jules’s hand – our Tesco shopping list. As a result we dubbed the first house Marmite Manor, the second Aspirin Villa, and the last one Windolene Heights.

  Windolene Heights was a mere £379,950, and we fell in love with it. The house wasn’t that big, not enormous, manageable for two with plenty of space for visitors – oh, but the setting. A neatly-cut verge in front of a low wall, a thirty-yard drive up a gentle slope levelling off to an unpretentious balustraded terrace (can balustrades be unpretentious?) around the front of the stone property. On either side, and no doubt behind, lush lawns with mature borders and lots and lots of wonderful mature trees. Trees to die for.

  We went home, studied the brochure many times, and decided to make an appointment to view. Good.

  MLTJ. Very good.

  Monday, April 29

  Wrote a brief letter to Jim Felix, saying the sale of the business had been concluded (hinting it was based in Wiltshire), but omitting any mention of the Freemasons or Second Lodge Ondaleft.

  Wednesday, May 1

  11p.m.

  Had a bit of a spat with Jules as we were abluting. She said that seeing Jim Felix had reminded her of the time Jim had proposed to Gwendoline at The White Hart. I remembered it vividly – it was at The Green Man. She wasn’t in a good mood; certainly in no mood to capitulate. Me neither. We let it peter out. She went to bed; I said I wanted to write.

  Bloody hormones.

  Thursday, May 2

  We went to vote in the district council elections this evening. The village hall was deserted; just two tellers watching a portable TV. We felt like we were the first voters there all day, but one of the blokes said there had been ‘a steady trickle’. That must have been Incontinent Iris.

  Friday, May 3

  Election turnout wasn’t quite the disaster I feared. Predictably all three main parties claimed they had done well. But Burnley did a France – its fine people elected three BNP candidates. Yes, I tar you all, Burnleyites. If 10,000 of you can vote for these racists it must be a general malaise.

  Just going to bed when the late news announced Barbara Castle had died. What a fine lady, what a fighter, what a politician. What an antithesis of everything Burnley.

  Even Hartlepool’s monkey mayor put Burnley to shame. The football club’s mascot, who promised free bananas for schoolchildren, became the town’s first elected mayor. And then promised to be a serious politician. Good – I’m glad he’s not taking the piss at £50,000 a year.

  Saturday, May 4

  Great day. Told Jules over breakfast she had a fortnight to get a summer holiday outfit ready – we’re off to Barbados for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. She was surprised, delighted, and a bit disappointed. She had always wanted to go to Barbados, but thirty years was a bit special and she was hoping we could spend it with the kids; and besides Bali was top of her Lottery Wish List.

  I bit my lip and told her we could go to Bali later in the year; and besides, 30 years was very special and I wanted a romantic break so we could canoodle like the teenagers we were when we first met. We could have a special meal with the kids when we got back. I had chosen Barbados because of its romantic reputation and because I had found a special villa by a romantic secluded beach. I swear there was a glint of a tear in one eye.

  Just as well I didn’t mention the golf course up the road.

  We had an appointment to view Windolene Heights late morning, and Jules got dolled up as if we were going to Cookingham Palace. I didn’t say anything – the day was going so well. Mrs Webb-Lawson, the owner, was obviously of a similar ilk; she was dolled up as if she was expecting the Windsors and not little old us.

  They got on like an expensive house on fire, which was a little disconcerting because it could prove a handicap to haggling. And haggling there undoubtedly will be. I told Mrs W-L we quite liked the house (what a fib – we loved it) and would be in touch with her estate agent.

  I phoned Toon And Country as soon as we got home and put in an offer a mere £10K below the asking price – after a blazing row with Jules who was afraid we’d lose the house if we didn’t put in the full asking price, or something a bit
nearer. I told her the market had changed since we last bought a house – an offer £10K under was about right for an opening bid (or so someone had told me).

  You’d better be right, Frankie boy – Windolene Heights is perfect for us. Just a little bit bigger than this place but with a long open-plan living/dining room that opens up almost right along its entire length on to the garden.

  We almost said it at the same time as we brewed a cuppa afterwards: ‘You know, that bit beyond the dining area is made for a swimming pool.’

  My God! A swimming pool – now we are talking Lottery winners. Flash Lottery winners. It’s just not us. What next? A helicopter pad?

  But – you could put a little pool in there, add some matching sliding doors, and you’ve got an indoor pool for the cold months and one open to the sun for the three weeks of an English summer. We both saw it immediately. And we had been promising ourselves for months that we would get back to regular swimming – it was just that normally we were too tired (couldn’t be arsed) to get in the car and drive into town.

  Now, if we had our own pool …

  Sunday, May 5

  Haven’t seen anything of Ronnie and Mia this weekend. They have been house/flat-hunting in between a trip back to Leicester. Have just heard Ronnie (11p.m.) come in on his own; hope there isn’t any trouble between them.

  I was tempted to go have a word with him but he went straight to bed.

  Haven’t seen anything of the kids either. Cory is busy planning/preparing his grand opening for ECO while still wheeling-dealing (driving a Jaguar now apparently); Mike and Sarah have gone to Kent to see his parents. Still, nice quiet bank holiday weekend (and sunny!) with the old girl, pottering, tidying up the garden for when we sell.

  Jules is still having the odd hot flush. Irregular but still intense apparently. She described one to me this evening:

  First there is a strange ‘warning’ tingle, and then within two minutes the temperature of your face and upper body suddenly shoots up as a great wave of heat reddens the face, prickles the skin, and purges the system. The chest and then the back start to leak. It feels like your top half has been shoved into an oven and leaves you feeling totally drained. And it takes half an hour or so for the body to cool down again to normal and comfortable.

  Wonder why some people find hot flushes so amusing.

  NOTES

  When will the Tories ever learn? When will they ever change? – is probably more to the point. Ann Winterton tells a racist joke so unfunny only a racist could possibly laugh at it. And like all good Tories she didn’t resign until she was pushed into it.

  France has come to its senses. Chirac wrote off Le Pen in the second election.

  Tuesday, May 7

  Spent most of the day in the office. Ronnie was well on top of everything, but I did help him out with a little tweakery on the final CB Confectionery proof. I left him to it and re-read my first pages of Chained To A Lunatic. God, it was crap. Shredded it and disposed of the evidence.

  I think I should take a break from first-person pieces. Got a good idea for a third-person story. Well, more of a third-animal story. Yes, must give it some thought.

  Just remembered – Ronnie says Mia has a modelling job on, but both Jules and I fear something is amiss.

  NOTES

  What is happening across Europe? The Dutch have obviously got more shame than the French – some nutter shot their far-right candidate dead yesterday. Graphic pic in the paper.

  Friday, May 10

  Jules couldn’t bear the suspense any more – she rang Toon And Country and asked if Mrs W-L had accepted our offer on Windolene Heights (aptly named in view of all the glass overlooking the garden). She was fobbed off, which made us suspect that there hadn’t been any other offers but Mrs W-L didn’t want to come down by £10K. Apparently the man dealing with it was out and wouldn’t be in again until next Wednesday.

  Jules didn’t say it; she didn’t have to. Her look said: ‘If we lose this house because you were too tight-fisted to put in a proper offer, I’ll chop your balls off, sauté them, and feed them to Sarah’s moggy.’

  I may have got the odd word wrong, but that was the gist of it. Well, we have been communing for 31 years.

  Saturday, May 11

  Medal day. I had my best-ever Medal score – 86, nett four under par. Might be in with an outside chance of the Div Three Medal. For once I didn’t do my usual Medal Collapse and tear up my card half way round. Pete had a reasonable one-under; Dave and Chris L both had a bad day.

  NOTES

  Hard to be too cheerful after watching the TV aftermath of the train crash yesterday (smashed into platform at Potters Bar). So far seven dead. What a good idea privatisation was.

  Monday, May 13

  Weird phone call from Arnie at the office this morning.

  ‘Hello, Aitch! You okay?’ he said with uncustomary cheer.

  No alarm bells rang.

  There was a bit of banter about LCFC and the family, and then he added: ‘Hey – thanks for giving Ron the job. Doing all right, is he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I made a good move there.’

  ‘Cheers, Bro.’ (He really should stop watching EastEnders.)

  ‘No probs. He earned it. A bright young man you’ve reared there, Arnie.’

  ‘Gave him a couple of grand as well, I gather.’

  ‘Lent him a couple of grand. Wouldn’t have been fair on John and Jayne’s kids otherwise; and the various cousins.’

  ‘Right. But, er …’

  One alarm bell rang. Set off by Arnie’s tone gradually taking on a whinging, cringing edge.

  ‘… Um, what if, er … never mind. Look, cousin Dan is in a bit of a bad way financially. I said I’d help by buying his boat off him, er, but that would leave me a bit near the knuckle …’

  Long pause.

  ‘You want me to give you more…’ I hazarded eventually.

  ‘No no no,’ he interrupted. ‘I was just wondering, er … if you wanted to go halves with me.’

  ‘Oh, and how often would I be able to use a boat moored near Leicester?’

  ‘Whenever you like. We’d be able to see more of you!’

  Oh, nice one, Arnie; lying bastard. But I was diplomatic.

  ‘Nice idea, Arnie, but…’

  ‘Twenty grand each, Aitch. Chicken feed to you now. It’s a bargain – worth at least fifty, I reckon.’

  ‘I’m not a sailor, Arnie. Didn’t know you were…’

  ‘Jaunts up and down the river, enjoying the sun, fishing, mooring at every pub, you know – it’s hardly sailing, Aitch.’

  ‘I’ll see if Jules is interested – but I wouldn’t bank on it. She gets seasick getting in the bath.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said quietly, totally deflated.

  And that’s where we left it. But I don’t suppose it’s the end of the matter.

  Tuesday, May 14

  So, subject to a planning inquiry, Bicester is scheduled to get a centre for asylum-seekers on its doorstep – the rumours were true. Unlike the hysterical flier we had through the letterbox today accusing refugees of being layabouts, thieves, arsonists, child molesters, rapists, murderers, and God knows what else.

  The truth is, of course, these protesters have one even worse fear – property prices in the immediate area will fall.

  Checked at the golf club – came third in the Medal. Shame.

  Wednesday, May 15

  I rang Mr Devonshire at Toon And Country, and he told me bluntly that Mrs W-L wasn’t prepared to drop £10K on Windolene Heights. So I asked him bluntly if he thought she would be prepared to drop £7K. He said: ‘Possibly’. He will ring me back tomorrow.

  Thursday, May 16

  Mr Devonshire: ‘Make it £5K under and you’re on.’

  Me: ‘Done!.’

  Jules: ‘Moggy will be disappointed.’

  MLTJ. One of the very good ones. Just a few seconds between us. Good old Doc Macca.

  Friday, May 17

>   It was a close-run thing. Jules wanted to phone Cory and Sarah before we drove off to the airport (writing this in the rather posh Radisson Hotel at Heathrow), but couldn’t get either. Jules was worrying about it, nagging at it like an old bone, so I had to take the initiative. I called up first Cory, and then later Sarah, on their mobiles while Jules was packing. Her brain was so wrapped up in making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything it didn’t even occur to her that she was talking to the kids on their mobiles. And that they were a long way away.

  Saturday, May 18

  It was one of the great moments of our 31 years of communing. We walked out on to the concourse at Barbados airport and there were three signs held up in a row, hiding three faces. The first said ‘MUM’, the second ‘AND’, the third ‘DAD’. Jules and I saw them at about the same time. She smiled and nudged me. I laughed, because I knew what was coming.

  The three signs dropped, and Sarah, Mike, and Cory were revealed in all their smiling, summer-shirted-and-shorted glory; whooping, shouting, calling ‘Surprise, surprise!’ and ‘Happy anniversary!’.

  A totally gobsmacked and thus open-mouthed Jules looked at me and knew instantly.