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

by Frank Rawlins

  It was the street kids that did it. The sad, frightened eyes in innocent faces. And the thought that we are so lucky that our children never knew, and, all being well, our grandchildren will never know, such overwhelming fear and deprivation.

  Jules rang up and pledged £1,000. It was no big deal; just the equivalent of us giving a tenner when we were Mr and Mrs Average Income with the average financial worries. It made us feel good though. Let’s hope it makes some kids feel good.

  We vowed to get our charitable donations worked out this week. I will ring Andrew in the morning.

  Tuesday, July 16

  Jules and I went to see Andrew a.m., with a shopping list of good causes: Alzheimer’s Society, Save The Children, Help The Aged, World Wildlife Fund. That will do for starters. Andrew showed us how we should draw up regular-donation covenants as a tax-efficient way of giving – for the charities as well as us, he added as soon as I started a minor rant about the ridiculous juxtaposition of making money from donations. He set us on our way, and left us to finalise the details. Which we spent half of the afternoon doing. And while we were at it we wrote one-off cheques of £200,000 for Alzheimer’s and £100,000 for the other three.

  That made us feel really good. Proud even. Yeah, we had done something worthwhile.

  Then a strange thing happened – Gordon Brown did his damnedest to match us. We switched on the telly to watch our first Widescreen Budget (Budget in July?), and the Chancellor gave away £90billion for public services. About bloody time too!

  Wednesday, July 17

  Bob Eckman came into the office today, as I was busy sorting out the last couple of months’ worth of invoices and receipts for the book-keeper. He’s a worried man. Butler & Stone owe him almost £3K, cash he needs to pay his employee and some bills. He’s only had one cheque since B&S agreed the contract, despite assurances that he would be paid regularly.

  ‘I don’t want to rock the boat, ’cos they keep giving me more work – I just wanted to know if you have any problems with them, Harry,’ he said.

  ‘They have been late paying a couple of times, but nothing serious,’ I said. ‘My only problem usually is dealing with Stone. The bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, he is.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to have a word with Eric today . Do you want me to mention it in passing?’

  ‘It won’t make matters worse, will it?’

  ‘Not with Eric, no. He’ll sort it.’

  Bob departed a happier man. I was left puzzled – how such a meek man could make any sort of a living self-employed.

  I decided to make a day of it (well, morning), starting with Stone. I called Eric, ostensibly to ask him if he was happy with Ronnie’s solo work for B&S (he was very happy), and then just happened to mention in passing that I’d bumped into Bob Eckman and he’d let it slip that he’s got a temporary cash-flow problem…

  I didn’t need to say any more. Good old Eric told me to hang on, he’d just check. It took him two minutes, and it sounded as if he was bloody angry; as if – perhaps – he’d just discovered that someone hadn’t signed a major cheque for Bob. It’s sorted anyway. Bob will get a nice cheque tomorrow.

  It was then I discovered that Joanna Logan still hasn’t paid me from March. I was in no mood to send my usual warning letter so I called her, and said without ceremony, ‘Is that No-Go Jo Lo?’

  ‘Harry?’ she guessed.

  ‘The very Harry who is £249.95 poorer off than he should be. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Okay,’ she sighed. It will be in the post tonight.’

  Good morning. I enjoyed it.

  NOTES

  The IRA have said sorry to their victims and their families! Oh, that makes everything all right then.

  Shares are continuing to plunge. What is this doing to our portfolio? Must ask Andrew.

  Friday, July 19

  Sarah and Mike have at last had their bid on the house accepted (the owners have just returned from holiday apparently), but there is a chain involved so it could be some time before they have to sign anything.

  Our survey on Windolene Heights has not revealed any problems. Good.

  We shall have to think about selling this place soon. Our vague hope that Sarah and Mike might want it have vanished, and Cory seems to have no desire to join the ranks of house-owners. He will, eventually. We all succumb eventually. I well remember when I was a real socialist and insisted on renting a council house. Ah, the idealism of youth. Where does it go?

  My SLF were very painful this morning. What shall I do? No point in seeing the quack again.

  Email from Cory:

  Two TV aerials met on a roof, fell in love, and got married. The ceremony was nothing special, but the reception was brilliant.

  Saturday, July 20

  My little girl was 27 today. And I can still picture her arrival in the world. What a magical moment. What a brave, tearful father (not many of us witnessed the birth in those days).

  Anyway, Sarah opted for an afternoon/evening barbecue at Greythorn. The weather was kind, and so was I. I volunteered to drive so Jules could have a few (can’t quite remember why – oh yes, it was my turn).

  t was just the family plus Ronnie and Mia. Jules and I had agreed that one of us – preferably her, I thought (the woman’s touch and all that) – would try to have a quiet one-to-one chat with Mia at some point, just to see if she would confide in us and maybe let her know she was among friends who would help if they could.

  The opportunity presented itself almost immediately. Mike, Cory, Ronnie, and I were chatting round the barbecue, while Mike chivvied a few ribs around for appetisers before the main course of Carnivore’s Cornucopia (mixed grill of lamb cutlets, wedges of steak, and spicy sausages), and Sarah was busying herself with several different salads. Jules walked Mia up to the end of the garden, where they sat on Great Aunty Nichols’ Bench, and had a quiet, private conversation for ten minutes.

  It wasn’t until we were driving home that a mellow but somewhat melancholy Jules was able to tell me about it.

  ‘She wouldn’t talk about it. I could see she wanted to, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it – well, she hardly knows us really. Perhaps when we know each other better …’

  ‘Shame,’ I said.

  ‘No no, I did make some progress. She told me she had health problems – she was depressed and felt generally unwell – and she knew she needed medical help. And then she said she was afraid she and Ronnie were slipping apart. He had been such a support, she said – but it looked like he couldn’t take much more. It was all very sad.’

  Jules sounded close to tears. I looked across at her, but she seemed okay.

  ‘I told her we’re family now – so if there’s anything we can do …’

  Her words trailed off into thoughts, and we drove the rest of the way home in silence. Thinking our separate but similar sad thoughts about the human condition.

  Oh yes – our present to Sarah was a beautiful Celtic-knot necklace. Not too expensive. She loved it.

  Sunday, July 21

  Had decided earlier in the week to give golf a miss, mainly because Jules hadn’t told me yet that I would be volunteering to drive to the barbecue, and I expected to be hung-over this morning. But I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, did us both a big fry-up, which seemed to revive Jules, and then spent the morning pottering in the garden/garage/shed, vaguely getting a few things ready for our move. I had a sandwich lunch and then settled myself in the living room for an afternoon in front of the BigBox watching the climax of The Open, and in between shots also catching up with the Sunday papers.

  The golf was marginally more dramatic, especially when rank outsider Gary Evans looked like he might snatch an unlikely win. Then Ernie Els tried to blow it as well; glad he didn’t or it could have destroyed him for life.

  Then I spotted some familiar words on the back page – Dennis Wise, Leicester City. The stupid little sod has been sent home from a pre-season trip for hitting team-mate Callum
Davidson (and breaking his jaw!) in a row over a game of cards. What a nice man. The paper says he’ll probably be sacked. Good riddance!

  MLTJ. Good. No hot flushes.

  Had a minor and jovial spat afterwards about the time Ruth burst in on us, in Jules’s bedroom, while we were making love. I was sitting on a chair, Jules was sitting on me, we were joined but clothed, and I chatted to Ruth over Jules’s shoulder for what seemed like eternity, about the weather, Arthur Scargill, and something else. Jules was sure the something else was the tennis at Wimbledon; I thought it was Kevin Keegan.

  Hard to remember which of us was paying more attention …

  Wednesday, July 24

  Popped into ECO midday, as has become my Wednesday wont. Cory is a little depressed. His Big Idea isn’t doing so well. He is confident he can keep selling prestige cars, and was indeed wrapping up the sale of a Merc while I was there, but he needs to start making good money on his Executive Charter to maintain his expensive lease. He seemed to have a strange solution to the problem – spend some more money!

  ‘I’m thinking of taking on a showroom manager,” he said.

  ‘Is that wise?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m having to sit here and do everything over the phone. That’s not the way I like to work, Dad. I’m best out there, talking, schmoozing, doing deals.’

  ‘But what if you take someone on and the Executive Charter still doesn’t work.’

  ‘Then I’ll probably have to sack him. Or her. Now that’s an idea …’

  I was dismayed. I didn’t say anything, but I decided on the drive home that I should. And I would; if and when the time came. I know it’s the way of the modern world now, but that doesn’t make it right. People shouldn’t be commodities to be bought and discarded so blithely. Business isn’t solely about providing the means to manufacture, produce, serve – and make huge money for the few. It’s also about providing the many with gainful employment, a living wage, and some self-respect. We’re all in it together; workers and bosses. You soon hear the bosses whinge when they are deprived of any one of those three things.

  It’s 11.30pm, so here endeth the lesson according to St Harry.

  Thursday, July 25

  Another late night looking for literary inspiration. Doodled with ideas for the book, but nothing satisfactory, so now I’m reduced to my mundane memoirs. And I can’t think of any.

  Oh, yes. Impressive opening ceremony at the Commonwealth Games in Manchester. It was strange to see US-style razzmatazz in the UK, though. It counterpointed all the more the Queen’s British reserve when David Beckham escorted that lovely – but terminally ill – little girl attached to an oxygen cylinder (must look up her name) to the dais; and all the Queen could think to do was smile inanely. A few words would have done; or a slight bend of the knees to shake the girl’s hand.

  Perhaps we are changing; perhaps it was royal reserve rather than British reserve.

  Saturday, July 27

  Lincolnshire, 11.40pm.

  Came up yesterday afternoon. Had a cup of tea with FR’s brothers/sister, whom I’ve known almost as long as my own, and then motored on to Tel and Madge’s. They were doing an evening barbecue (Tel showing off his super new gas doofer) and had also invited Ant and Nina, whom we hadn’t seen for years. It was still warm after a very hot day, so the cold beers and chilled wine slipped down very well. As did the meal. Lovely company, lovely evening.

  Tel and I were up early this morning for my annual game of golf over at Lincoln, and I had my annual nightmare whenever I play with his brother Bill. I still can’t get the hang of greens that all tilt towards the distant cathedral even though they appear to veer sharply the other way. That’s my excuse anyway.

  The highlight of the weekend came tonight when we went to Burghley Park for a firework concert. Bloody brilliant. From the meal to the1950-60s warm-up pop-group to the full orchestra that belted out classics well-known and unknown (by me, at least) to the backdrop of spectacular fireworks and the ancient ancestral home of the Cecils. Tel and Madge are old hands and had it all arranged. They had ordered a meal to be picked up there, and got the rest ready to take with us – folding paste table, folding chairs, candles in candelabras, a choice of red and white wine. Fabulous. Cheers, chaps!

  Sunday, July 28

  Leisurely drive back. Still baking hot.

  British athletes are winning hammer and gymnastic gold medals at the Commonwealth Games. What sort of Mickey Mouse games are they!?

  MLTJ. Bronze, possibly silver, I would say.

  Monday, July 29

  I have upset the Masons, it seems. Oh dear.

  Jim Felix came storming into the office at about 10am. I heard him – shouting the odds at Ronnie – even though I was in the storeroom. He stopped mid-sentence when I popped my head round the door, and a look of puzzlement came over his face.

  ‘What now, Jim?’ I asked evenly.

  ‘Er…somebody told me you’d sold the business,’ he muttered.

  ‘As you can see, I’m still at the helm.’

  ‘Someone saw your lad here, and er –’

  ‘My nephew Ron,’ I intervened. ‘Jim – Ron. Ronnie – Jim Felix, an old work colleague of mine.’

  They nodded and shook hands.

  ‘No, I just thought…’ he said, and thought some more. ‘I, er … have you ever belonged to the Freemasons?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I thought I was getting an invite to join, so I made an appointment to meet somebody I knew was in the Masons.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Jim.

  ‘Well, we’re not that busy, Jim,’ I teased.

  ‘Let’s just say – somebody who’s a printer has been trying to set me up – and someone in the Masons may have got the impression that the printer in question …’

  ‘… Is me!?’ I said with as much indignation as I could summon.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll put them straight – don’t worry.’

  ‘I think you’d better, Jim.’

  I offered him a cup of tea, but he didn’t seem thirsty.

  Just as he was going out of the door, I called out, ‘Jim, where was it you proposed to Gwen? – White Hart or Green Man?’

  He looked at me as if I was mad, shook his head, and went.

  Strangely, Ronnie didn’t ask me for an explanation, when several seemed due. All he said afterwards was, ‘Was that a real nose? Or does he run a joke shop?’

  Wednesday, July 31

  I was woken in the early hours by a ferocious downpour that was expected to be with us all day. I dozed on and off but was still up pretty early. It said on the TV news there had been flash floods in several areas. It’s often all around us – Banbury, Oxford, Abingdon, Kidlington, poor sods – but thankfully never here.

  It had stopped raining in Oxford when I saw Cory for lunch, which was just as well as I had brought burgers and he insisted we eat outside, so as not to ‘contaminate’ his caviar showroom.

  His new showroom manager starts next Monday. A Ms Dove; there’s a name to conjure with! Quite a looker, says Cory. Big dark eyes and big dark hair that bounces. Bouncy personality. Tidy figure. (Tidy? What the hell does that mean, Cory?)

  So I took the opportunity to give him my lecture on the moral responsibility of being an employer. He took it well. That must be some tidy figure …

  The Commonwealth Games finally came to life – Ashia Hansen’s gritty last jump in the long jump to win gold, Kelly Holmes’ smile as she won gold, and the 4x100 relay squad winning by a whisker. Fabulous stuff.

  NOTES

  Just watched the late news – George Best has had a liver transplant. Let’s hope it works. Don’t want to be saying my thanks just yet, Georgie boy. Finest footballer the world has ever seen, so far, including Pele.

  Thursday, August 1

  We have a provisional move date – complete on August 10, move the following week (any day to suit Mrs W-L).


  NOTES

  Telewest’s boss was sacked after dragging the company from a pinnacle down to a quagmire – and then walks away with £1.2million. Good incentive scheme, chaps.

  Saturday, August 3

  Cory’s 24th birthday, and yet another barbie, this one Chez Nous. Cory’s shared yard isn’t quite up to it – but he told us today he is going to start looking for a ‘proper’ house. When he gets some time. I took him aside later and pointed out the bleedin’ obvious – his mum and dad have a ‘proper’ house for sale. His puzzled expression said something like, ‘Why the fuck didn’t I think of that!?’

  Same people as for Sarah’s, plus FR and MJ, and Baz and Kev, the only two of Cory’s close school mates that he still knocks about with regularly.

  This was rather more boozy, especially on my part. Well, a lot more really. I got quite carried away, as I usually do when standing in front of hot coals slaking my thirst for a long period.

  I treated Baz and Kev to the full repertoire of all my favourite silly jokes – they were the only two guaranteed not to have heard them in recent years – and every time Jules went into the house or into a huddle with Sarah and/or Mia I smoked some of the cigar that Baz had started and left for me in the ashtray on the nearby table

  We went on well into the night, talking, playing a drunken game of cricket with a spatula and a tennis ball, singing along to some old 1960s/70s records, and trying out our birthday present to Cory – a set of Snake Eye golf clubs, bag, and trolley. (He was chuffed to bits with the present, but not overkeen on people practising by hitting bread rolls before he’d had a chance to use them properly. Well, they can do a lot of damage to golf clubs, can bread rolls.)