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

by Frank Rawlins

  ‘Did you know about this?’ she asked eventually, rhetorically, her voice beginning to crack. Then she gathered us all into one big hug and cried her eyes out.

  They had prepared a wonderful anniversary meal at the villa, complete with Moet, an Havana cigar for me, and Belgium chocolates for Jules.

  NOTES

  For future reference: I am writing this, and the subsequent week or so, after our return home. Sorry, Diary – this was supposed to be a romantic holiday. No room for you, mate.

  Sunday, May 19

  A constant 30-ish degrees, with a cooling breeze. Just right. Warming the old bones, not burning the ageing flesh.

  Lazy, recuperating day by the villa pool. Ate a lot, drank a lot, read a lot.

  (Yet again I’d left an unfinished book – this time, Harry Potter II – at home, and also forgot the Bill Bryson I wanted to start. The previous week some book snob on the telly had said Philip Pullman was superior to JK so I bought Northern Lights at Heathrow. Apparently PP lives in Oxford, but I’d never heard of him. I should have done; it’s bloody good. But what the fuck does anbaric mean?)

  We shifted our lazy arses as evening fell and had a trip to The Gap (St Lawrence Gap). Non-drinking Sarah drove. Superb fishy meal; listened to the superb and occasionally surprising music – apparently our arrival had coincided with Gospelfest, hence the gospel music mixed in. Still warm.

  Monday, May 20

  The kids went out on a shopping trip to Bridgetown and left us to a romantic day. I was up for it last night, as it were, but Jules was too tired (i.e. afraid the kids would hear even though their rooms are miles away). But today the gorgeous weather, the ambience, the relaxation and shedding of tension, well …

  We let our breakfasts go down, read a little, admired the garden, had a brief swim, showered together, and then had a rare but glorious daylight coupling in bed. And in the afternoon we did it in the pool! Well, almost. It wasn’t easy, trying not to laugh, not to giggle, not to drown. We had just reached a settled position against the side of the pool, both of us holding on to the inner gutter, joined but still, enjoying the unusual sensations of buoyant hydrosex, when there was a cough some distance behind us.

  ‘It’s only me,’ trilled Cara the maid. ‘You just carry on whatever you’re doing – you won’t even know I’m here.’

  Talk about deflated. As soon as she went indoors I made a dash for the towels on our loungers. I was but a foot away when a singing Cara came out of the french windows, laughed ‘Oh, my!’, and did a quick U-turn.

  I shouted a jokey apology and quickly ran back to the pool with a towel for Jules. We were still laughing about it when the kids got back. It was like we were kids again; like the first few times, in the long grass of the meadows, so excited but frightened a dog walker might stumble on us.

  I love you very much, girl. More than you’ll ever know.

  Tuesday, May 21

  One of many highlights – we all went in the tourist submarine to see the amazing sea life around this amazing coral coastline. What sights, what colours, what memories as I look again at our photographs.

  We all bought snorkels and flippers and spent most of the evening spluttering about the pool, trying to get the hang of them. Well, me and the two ladies did. Mike, of course, being a sporty/swimmy type, found it easy, and Cory, determined not to be outdone, soon made sure he got the hang of it, too.

  They saw to the barbecue while I ploughed on, until my entire body looked like a gigantic crinkled-cut chip and the water was beginning to feel cold. But I was just about proficient enough and confident enough to say okay to their planned sea-snorkelling expedition the next morning.

  Wednesday, May 22

  I found it hard going, and didn’t see much of the wonders witnessed on the submarine trip, but I did it. I went snorkelling in the sea. I saw some beautiful azure water, I saw some dramatic rock/coral formations, I saw some colourful fish, I saw some crabs, I saw a greeny-brown planty thing that would have baffled both Alan Titchmarsh and Jacques Cousteau. And after that I saw a lot of the two lads swimming like fish, while I watched from the beach. And the girls had a lazy day.

  Thursday, May 23

  We went on an organised coach trip round the island and saw ‘The Seven Wonders Of Barbados’. Beautiful, just beautiful. Loved the caves, the gardens, the forest, and the Baobab tree – the Fatty Arbuckle of trees. Terrific but tiring day.

  Friday, May 24

  Relaxing/reading/drinking by the pool day. Till we lads got bored and I gave them some rudimentary golf lessons with the clubs the owner of the villa had obligingly left in the summerhouse. They both shaped up better than I had expected – but tomorrow I would lead the way.

  Finished Northern Lights in record time. (And I still don’t know what anbaric means. I tried my Concise and Encarta back home, but it’s not there. Perhaps it’s a word Pullman made up. Maybe I’ll phone him as he’s almost a neighbour.)

  Saturday, May 25

  The bastards. There was me trying to tell them how to play golf, and then each would step up to the ball, smile nervously, and smack it out of sight down the fairway.

  They had conveniently forgotten to tell me that they had been for a couple of lessons together, oh, and a round of golf, at North Oxford the week before the holiday. Although they were still beginners, both had good hand-eye co-ordination and could hit a ball.

  I did manage to win; but only just. It was the lads who did the crowing when we met up with the girls after their shopping expedition.

  Sunday, May 26

  Went out in the hire car in the morning for some final sightseeing. Had a delicious fruity lunch at a remote village where some smiling cheeky youngsters offered to sell us ‘banana done fresh pick by hand off we very own tree, plenty fresh and bring here, just for you, darlings’.

  We bought loads, and spent the afternoon – in between swimming and chipping golf balls on the lawn – trying to perfect the perfect barbecued banana.

  They do get a bit sickly after the first fifty ...

  Back to The Gap in the evening for a light meal, moderately heavy drinking, and some great music, spoiled only by our singing.

  Perfect way to round off the holiday.

  Tuesday, May 28

  Didn’t see one English newspaper while we were away, or one TV news bulletin, but it doesn’t appear that we’ve missed much. Best story seemingly, judging by stuff I found on tinternet, was Roy Keane being sent home from the World Cup in disgrace. Talk about Mad Dogs And Irishmen.

  Smug Stephen Byers at least had the decency to wait until we got back before he resigned. Transport Secretary? Yes please – as far away as possible.

  The pile of mail at home included two missives from the parish council committee trying to organise the Golden Jubilee celebrations. They didn’t seem to be any further forward; still asking for ideas and food. Jules and I decided we’d better look for another party; preferably one without kids and jelly.

  Caught up with Ronnie and the office – all seems to be well. Both at work and with Mia. They have found a two-bedroom house to rent at Heycott. They move in this coming Saturday and have invited us all to Sunday lunch the following weekend.

  Checked with Toon And Country; everything okay, everything going through in its own sweet time. We only need to ring Mrs W-L to see the house again, to measure up and so on.

  We’ve decided not to put our own house on the market for a while; just in case. No point in becoming part of a soul/sale-destroying chain if we don’t have to. And anyway, one of the kids might be interested eventually.

  Temperature not bad here today but it feels cold after Barbados. Swear my fingers and toes were tingling most of the morning until I got re-acclimatised.

  Wednesday, May 29

  Arnie phoned this evening.

  ‘Heard you’d been away. Barbados, eh? All right for some. Have a good time?’

  ‘Lovely, Arnie, thank you.’

  ‘About this boat…’

&
nbsp; Master Of Tact And Diplomacy, my brother.

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s not for us.’

  ‘Oh, right. I shall have to get Dan to knock the price down a bit then.’

  ‘Or buy something cheaper.’

  ‘Quite. Sorry, Aitch, gotta dash – there’s someone at the door.’

  Someone from Spendthrift Anonymous, no doubt. Cash Burning A Hole In The Pockets Sub-Committee.

  Friday, May 31

  My superwide telly arrived – an hour before the World Cup kicked off in Japan; or was it Korea? It looks enormous in our cosy living room – but, as I told a disgruntled Jules a dozen times before the World Cup kicked off, it will be in proportion in Windolene Heights. It took the delivery man most of that hour to set up the system (DVD player and assorted speakers as well), and then he sat down and watched most of the first half of France v Senegal with me while he lingered over the mug of coffee that Jules had proffered.

  Senegal won 1-0! The move for the goal started somewhere near the living room door and finished roughly to the right of the sideboard.

  I was glued to the news in the evening (it seemed larger than life somehow) when Jules came in, wearing an old cotton jacket and matching mini-skirt, fishnets and high heels, and carrying a home-made cardboard-and-string tray bearing a packet of Mintoes, two chocolate-chip muffins, a Mars bar, some biscuits, and two cans of Coke. She flashed our old car torch in my eyes, smiled simperingly, batted her eyelashes and wiggled her hips, and nodded at the contents of her tray.

  We both cracked up laughing, and ended up in a heap on the settee. We were still there, trying to rearrange ourselves into two sane persons, when Ronnie came in late from work.

  He took one look at the monster telly, one at Jules’s fetching fishnet legs, and said, ‘Shall I come back when the main feature’s over?’

  MLTJ. In the fishnets!

  I’ll let her wear ’em next time …

  Saturday, June 1

  Ooh, it was a difficult decision – gardening or new superscreen TV/World Cup?

  Ireland managed a creditable 1-1 draw with Cameroon; without the Mr Calm that is Roy Keane. And the Krauts beat Saudi 8-0! Oh dear. Don’t say they are going to come out of their trough at exactly the right time yet again?

  Did an hour’s gardening in the afternoon. My usherette was not terribly impressed.

  Still chuckling over Jules’s little gem. She’s normally a pretty normal person, practical and down-to-earth, to complement the stupid and occasional artistic in me, but once in a while, maybe once a year, she will come up with something surreal or ridiculous.

  I like to think it’s my influence.

  Sunday, June 2

  The first of the big ones – England 1 Sweden 1, and we were lucky to get a draw. What is Sven playing at!? Humping hopeful long balls down the middle, at this pinnacle of international football. And what the hell was Heskey doing on the left wing? Bloody ridiculous.

  I did some more gardening in the afternoon and cooked the evening meal while I let Jules monopolise the TV. By the time the Spag Bol was ready she was hooked on Superscreen Viewing.

  My fellow monarchy-lover FR phoned two minutes after we’d sat down to eat – immaculate timing as usual – and asked if we’d like to go round there for a hastily arranged Non-Jubilee Party tomorrow. In the garden, weather permitting. Bring a bottle; they’d supply the burgers and hot dogs. He’d already rounded up a dozen similar souls.

  Sorry, Mrs Windsor …

  Checked with Ronnie – move went well. He’d been adamant he didn’t need any help, but in the event Cory turned up with good intent, beer and butties, and watched the footie with them. Well, with Ronnie. Mia apparently just sat in a chair smoking and making PI comments about the players’ legs and arses – when she could have been unpacking.

  Talk about sexist …

  Monday, June 3

  Impromptu parties are always the best. This was a beaut. Warm and sunny, light wind, four drops of rain all afternoon despite a worrying forecast, good people, good conversation, the beer and Pimms went down a treat, the burgers and fried onions were sensational. I spent an hour in the company of Sarah’s mate Georgie girl, discussing laser eye operations (she got fed up with contacts, and I am beginning to). I think Jules was a tad jealous, so she went and monopolised Frankie boy. I left Georgie girl when I spotted MJ frowning at Jules monopolising FR. Think I got that right.

  A meaningless hiccup in a good day. I was very mellow, Jules was sober and driving. We watched the Golden Jubilee Party At The Palace in widescreen when we got home. It was good, emotional even. I even felt a certain empathy with the monarchy. Well, with Queen (even without Freddie Mercury). Plus Rod Stewart, Paul McCartney, Ray Davies, Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton; a Who’s Who of our youth. But very sad to see poor old Brian Wilson going through the Beach Boys’ repertoire like a shop dummy, voice shot to pieces. Still, he is a clever bastard.

  NOTES

  Brazil scraped a 2- 1 win against Turkey. And England won a Test match – easily!

  Tuesday, June 4

  I fear the Republican cause is doomed for at least another generation. Even I must admit that the celebration in the Mall – with apparently a million people waving, cheering, and singing like crazy – was an amazing endorsement for the Windsors. I could almost have been converted – but for the sight of Prince Philip smirking like a smug Saxe-Coburg-Gotha because he knew it, too.

  Still, nice to know a football match can put them in perspective – there were even more fervent patriotic scenes on the TV as Japan draw 2-2 with Belgium and South Korea beat Poland 2-0.

  Wednesday, June 5

  The great thing about being your own boss – and having enough dosh not to worry about the consequences – is you can take a day off to watch the World Cup on the telly whenever you like.

  I rang Ronnie this morning and he was fine. The good ol’ USA were even better, shocking Portugal with a 3-2 win. And then Ireland shocked the Krauts with 1-1 last-gasp equaliser.

  Did some more gardening in the afternoon, and enjoyed it. It’s starting to look good; shame I left it till we’re thinking of leaving. Just got that old back wall to repoint, before it falls down.

  Friday, June 7

  England 1 Argentina 0. What a performance, what a great team effort. Beckham holding his nerve for the penalty was breathtaking. Keep playing like this, lads, and we can win the whole damned shooting match.

  Went to work after lunch just to see how Ronnie was coping. I needn’t have bothered – he had his little portable TV in there! Sneaky bastard – just what I would have done.

  Started doodling some notes for my new idea. Did some research on tinternet on how dogs communicate. Got some good stuff. Very rewarding.

  Finally finished Harry Potter II this evening. A magical day.

  Saturday, June 8

  I proved to Jules that I am neither a TV addict nor a World Cup addict by foregoing the last 20 minutes of the Italy match to visit Windolene Heights, pay our respects, take a few measurements, and so on. (Damn! Missed a vital goal!)

  Mrs W-L (or Elaine, as Jules now calls her) doesn’t seem in any hurry to move, and fortunately neither are we. There are no chains involved at either end, so we came to a loose agreement that mid-August, while the weather is still (hopefully) fine, would do nicely. Gives us all plenty of time to organise things.

  We were standing at the bottom of the little incline where the drive meets the road, shaking on it, when I heard a car behind me slow down suddenly, and sensed it coming almost to a stop. We all looked in its direction, and there in their old Mondeo were FR and MJ, waving and grinning inanely. Jules and I looked at each other and returned twin sickly smiles, and on the pretext of swatting at flies I made a ‘go away’ gesture behind Mrs W-L’s back.

  They looked perplexed and not a little put out, but they went.

  We spent the journey back home trying to make up a plausible story of why we were in this affluent neighbourhood talking to the local Ma
rgot. Our combined brain power couldn’t come up with one idea that was reporter-proof.

  They didn’t phone, but they will.

  Started Potter III. Seem to be hooked.

  Sunday, June 9

  The clan gathered at Heycott for lunch. It’s a nice little place, reasonable-sized rooms, clean, tidy, already quite homely with Ronnie’s bits and pieces. There were drinks on the sideboard, and the smell of a Sunday roast drifted in from the kitchen. There was only one thing missing – Mia. Ronnie made his – and her – apologies, and said he would give us the full story once he had finished the cooking and we were settled for lunch.

  Boy, what a story.

  ‘Well, to put it as simply as I can, Mia has a problem with cocaine …’

  Ronnie paused, as he knew he must, after that bombshell. We all mumbled our sorrows, and both Jules and Sarah, sitting either side of him, slid a delicate, caring hand on to the sturdy, tensed hand resting nearby on the table.

  ‘When I’m around to look after her, she’s fine. When I’m not there, she slowly slips. Give her her due, she can hold out a bit longer these days – her willpower has improved – but she always ends up ringing her dealer.’

  Her dealer. The simple use of the pronoun sent shivers through me; this was no weekend dalliance.

  Jules and I know nothing of drugs, despite being Children Of The Sixties. We shared a couple of joints at drunken parties, but that was it. I suppose, like most people of our age and backgrounds, alcohol was and is our chosen ‘drug’. Fortunately in our cases, it’s not proved addictive. But I have been, and probably still am, addicted to tobacco, so I do know something of the agony of addiction. I can’t vouch for my children, however. Drugs were more and more readily available as they were growing up. I can’t imagine Sarah trying more than a joint, but I have had lots of worries about Cory. And now Mike as well.