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

by Frank Rawlins

  I heard Tom next door coughing pointedly a couple of times at about 9pm, but I was buggered if I was going to ask him round to bore everybody with his tales of a lifetime behind an ironmonger’s counter.

  Unless, of course… no, we weren’t that noisy, were we?

  Nothing more forthcoming from Mia. Or Ronnie. They hardly spoke to each other. Sad.

  Sunday August 4

  Third Sunday in a row without golf; and another Medal missed yesterday. I was tempted to go and hit a few bread rolls, but it’s never quite the same. Especially sober, with a bit of a hangover.

  FR is getting worried about my current lack of golf; he said last night I’ll be spending Sundays washing the car soon. Don’t be silly. Gardening maybe …

  Jules and I had a late brekky (big fry-up, which sorted out my hangover), went into the garden and cleared away the debris of a good night, and then sat enjoying the sun, drinking some Chateau Hair Du Chien, and reading the papers*. Later I did a little pottering in the garden, resisted the temptation to wash anything outdoors, and then went and looked up the LCFC website*.

  *Yes, it’s right – Dennis Wise has had his £35,000-a-week contract terminated, a move that will reportedly cost him more than £3million. Good.

  MLTJ. Very good.

  I told her afterwards about my painful fingers. It can’t still be bloody inflammation. She agreed, and suggested I had another word with Doc Macca. I shall.

  Monday, August 5

  Strange old dream, vaguely remembered this morning, as sometimes happens after periods of over-indulgence:

  I was sitting at a table by a sunny foreign harbour; Jules was looking at postcards outside a souvenir shop a few yards away. Suddenly she lost her temper, picked up the revolving postcard stand, and threw it at two nuns walking by. They swore in some strange language and ran off. Jules stuck her tongue out at them, and then came and sat next to me at the table. I pretended not to know her and looked at my newspaper – which seemed to be in Greek, and which, even more remarkably, I seemed to understand. A skinny black cat jumped on to my lap, and then on to the table. It wound itself slowly into a comfortable position and then purred at Jules, ‘Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrat!’

  That was some purr.

  Tuesday, August 6

  We went looking for cars today. We have managed with one between us since Jules’s Metro packed up last December. It’s time she had her own again and I bought something rather more comfortable. We had asked Cory on Saturday, but he said his cars wouldn’t really be suitable for us. Which proved to us that he hasn’t entirely sold his soul to Mammon. So we looked at the basic Lexus IS 200 – nothing too flash – and loved it. But we decided two would be a bit extravagant. So we ordered one Lexus and then popped round to the Peugeot dealer and ordered a 306 cabriolet (just right for this weather).

  I’m getting quite blasé about signing big cheques. Which is a bit worrying …

  On the way home we popped into Windolene Heights, to exchange final check-lists. Our removers are booked for 8am a week on Thursday; they are doing some of the packing (the things Jules feels she can trust them with) and should be ready to roll early afternoon. Elaine, who is going to live with her widowed brother, has been moving her stuff bit by bit for the past month. They have a van hired, a strapping nephew on standby, and she reckons she will be out by mid/late-morning on the Thursday.

  Can’t wait.

  NOTES

  A couple of hours ago Rolling-Bonce-True-Grit-Brit Paula Radcliffe won gold in the European championships in Germany in torrential rain. Her 10,000-metre run was historic and inspirational; she lapped everybody but second and third place runners, and just failed to beat the magic 30-minute mark by one second. This was the finest distance runner I have seen, of either sex, possibly the finest of all time, at her absolute peak.

  It was basically watching one person going round and round a track for lap after lap, but it was gripping, mesmeric almost. A privilege to watch.

  Wednesday, August 7

  Definitely a game of two halves. But what halves!

  Went to see Cory at lunchtime. And Ms Dove, of course. Wow! For ‘tidy’, read ‘magnificent’. She’s good-looking, too – in an angular Zoe Ball sort of way (but without the sticky-out ears) – and charming and confident with it. Bright. Quick on the uptake. By the name of Christine. Bit of a let-down after the wonderful ‘Dove’, but you can’t quite have everything; even if you’re a beautiful young woman with half the world ready to die for you.

  I think Cory is in love already. I might be soon if I don’t watch out.

  But I think I blew it by cracking the ‘name to conjure with’ gag. Of course, I realised too late, today’s youngsters have probably never seen a magician using doves – it’s all chainsaws, severed arms, and fainting 50-year-olds these days. She gave me a very odd look as I shared out our burgers and fries.

  The second half was possibly the start of my next nightmare.

  John rang me early evening, no doubt on orders from Jayne, who was no doubt hovering at his shoulder. He started in his usual fashion:

  ‘Hiya, mate. How’s you? And the lovely Jules? Still worth a fortune? Jules -Jewels–fortune. I didn’t mean, um –’

  ‘Don’t worry, John. That’s a little gem,’ I countered.

  ‘Gem!’ He laughed.

  ‘What can I do for you, mate?’ I asked before we got stuck in a loop of pathetic puns.

  ‘Um – Jayne and I heard, sort of on the family, er, grapevine that, er …’

  He was silent for a few seconds and I could have sworn that I heard Jayne mouthing, obviously two decibels above silently, ‘Ask him!’

  ‘Er … the word is that you’ve given Arnie some more, um … another ten grand.’

  He said the last three words quietly but quickly, glad to be rid of them.

  There followed a long pause. I could picture them both holding their breath, straining not to utter a single breath that might obscure my reply, Jayne twisting her neck to get an ear near the receiver.

  I let the pause go on until, I estimated, they were close to dying, and then said quite loudly, ‘Lent him ten grand.’

  ‘Oh!’ they both said together.

  ‘Jayne there?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘She’s just, um – er, is he gonna pay you back then?’

  ‘That’s the intention.’

  ‘And you think he will?’ This was half question, half incredulity.

  ‘He said he would.’

  ‘Right.’

  And basically that’s where we left it. They didn’t ask for ten grand, but I bet they will.

  Friday, August 9

  It’s nice to know your children think of you occasionally.

  Cory rang this morning to ask if I’d like to go to Cropredy with him, Baz, and Ronnie to see the annual Fairport Convention gig, or whatever they call it. Great music and, unlike most other big festivals, a great family atmosphere, so he said.

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ came the quick answer. ‘Over there by lunchtime, go to the pub by the canal, have a few drinks and a roast pig bun, stroll on to the next pub, till late afternoon, stroll over to the festival, enjoy the music, have a few more pints, try one of the mega-pasties, flake out. Free camping overnight.’

  ‘So how come you’ve got a spare ticket?’

  ‘Kev can’t make it.’

  Finally finished Harry Potter III, much to Jules’ pleasure as she has been waiting for it. We have IV all ready to go, but it’s of daunting thickness, so I may leave it a while. (I would have thought, JK, such a long read would have been off-putting for many children, but then again – you’ve sold millions of books and I’ve sold exactly, er, zilch.)

  Sunday, August 11

  11pm. Jules is snoring. I am suddenly wide awake.

  Yesterday’s itinerary went almost exactly as Cory had described it. He hadn’t, however, done justice to the amount of alcohol we would sink.

  In h
is cups – mine too, come to that – Cory told me that he sometimes thought, now I was well into my fifties, how awful it would be not to have a dad around. And now he was thinking more and more, as the months and years went by, that we ought to spend more time together. Because you never know when the end might come. And he would regret for ever if I went tomorrow and we hadn’t done the things we ought to do.

  ‘It was great being on holiday with you and Mum again,’ he slurred. ‘Playing golf , duba-sciving, all that stuff.’

  ‘Duba-sciving?’ I slurred back. ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  Ronnie and Baz looked at us askance as we clung on to our ribs and fold-up chairs, hysterically trying to stay upright, while all around us unknowing people jigged and jiggled to the marvellous music.

  The two lads strolled off to find something to eat from the huge cosmopolitan choice available while Cory and I continued our bonding session; until we slowly wound down, our brains gradually submerging beneath the tide of beer; all bonded out.

  ‘It’s good to get pissed together, Dad,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, pushing myself from the garden chair. Just in time. Suddenly I was in that once-familiar-now-rare drunken vortex: head/brain/inner being/whatever spinning like crazy, eyes trying to close, me trying to force them to stay open or – inevitably – I would eventually sink to my knees and throw up violently. Possibly on somebody’s boots.

  Fortunately the night was beginning to get a little chilly. That little cold edge helped me to keep my eyes open as I forced myself up the hill towards the main Portaloo area. People all around were swerving out of the way as I maintained my beeline for sanctuary; drunken bastards. I ploughed my way through the mud, fortunately straight to an unoccupied cabin, locked myself in the fetid hellhole, lobbed out the old man, and stood over the bowl, one arm propped up against the back wall, for what seemed like an eternity. Well, until the spinning in my head had all but died down. Then I squeezed out a few drops of urine, and went off in search of some food.

  We all met up some time after midnight back at Baz’s huge tent, had the last of the beers from our communal coolboxes, and then snored for England. A huge fry-up each in the village this morning got us back into equilibrium, and Ronnie, no doubt still over the alcohol limit, drove us back to sanity.

  We must bond some more, Cory. Before I die. Thanks for a great day out. I love you, son. More than you’ll ever know.

  NOTES

  Leicester’s first Division One game of the new season at the new Walker Stadium. Thirty-one thousand packed in, and we beat Watford 2-0. Well done, lads. Well done, Micky.

  I enjoyed hearing the result, but it was rendered meaningless by the bulletins coming from Soham about missing Holly and Jessica. Poor little mites. And Milly, still missing after five/six weeks. What must their parents be feeling, thinking? We all hope against hope. But I fear they will never know the joy that your grown-up children can bring.

  Monday, August 12

  Jules and I spent most of the day packing valuables and breakables into tea chests. At times it is very useful being the owner of vast quantities of paper.

  Amazing how much stuff you accumulate over the years. We got rid of a few things, but not nearly enough.

  Tuesday, August 13

  My fingers were playing up something terrible this morning, after all that packing yesterday. I’ll give it till after the move before I phone the Doc.

  Caroline rang out of the blue pm.

  ‘Hi, Broth!’ she chirped . Her tone was the clue, but I must be getting paranoid.

  ‘Don’t tell me – you’ve heard about Arnie,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard about the loan. And no, I don’t want any more. And don’t tar me with his brush. Brother he may be, you know …’

  I apologised. She shussed me.

  ‘Can I come down soonish?’ she asked.

  ‘Any time we’re not busy; you know that. Er…’

  ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet. A friend.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘I’m a bit old for boyfriends, Harry, but – yeah, it‘s a man, and we’re … courting.’

  ‘Courting – good word. If my little Sis is courting, I want to check out this suitor – make sure he’s worthy of you. Can we leave it for a couple of weeks, though – we’re moving on Thursday.’

  ‘Just give me a ring,’ she chirped again.

  ‘Perhaps your friend will do that.’

  She laughed like the Caroline of old.

  Just watched a dramatic newsflash at the end of the late bulletin: freshly dug mounds of earth have been found by a jogger in woodland at Newmarket. ITV reporter Colin Baker almost cracked up when he was rushed on to camera, but he recovered to give his report like the good pro he is.

  Wednesday, August 14

  7am bulletin: no bodies have been found. The earth was dug up by badgers, it is believed. Thank God.

  NOTES

  It’s baking hot here but half of Europe is under water. Prague looks like a ghost city.

  Stoke 0 LCFC 1

  Thursday, August 15

  11.45pm

  Jules is still unpacking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her work so feverishly. I keep telling her to go to bed; she keeps telling me ‘as soon as I’ve finished the kitchen and our bedroom’. These apparently have to be finished tonight. God knows why; she couldn’t or wouldn’t explain when I asked.

  Sarah finished work last Friday, and Mike got today off so they came over early to help (Cory was too busy, Ronnie was slaving at the Mac, Mia is back with her mother). Sarah wouldn’t be left out, despite a tum that looks more like a blimp every day. She brewed tea, moved things that weighed less than a stone, liaised with Mrs W-L, and generally amazed us with her energy and radiance.

  When we arrived at Windolene Heights at 2.30p.m., she directed operations until the armchairs and sofa were in the living room – and then plonked herself down and fell fast asleep. In which state she remained until Mike returned from a trip into town to fetch fish and chips for everybody.

  I have never tipped tradesmen. They get paid to do their job; so do I, and nobody ever tips me. That is my philosophy; or at least was. Today not only did I give them fish and chips each, but I also pressed a fiver into each sweaty hand.

  Perhaps I was a good guy waiting to get out. Or waiting to get rich.

  Friday, August 16

  I was in bed and asleep by midnight last night. Jules tells me she came up soon afterwards. I wonder. But she still does look remarkably fresh.

  We had a leisurely breakfast and then got stuck in again. I attended to the most important jobs first: getting the widescreen/DVD system set up and then installing my Mac in my new ground-floor study/office. Checked immediately for emails. And found four wishing us all the best in our new home – from Cory, Caroline, Cornwall, and Lincolnshire. Thank you, folks.

  I shall be as snug as a bug in my new little den here.

  We had a sandwich for lunch, but were soon back to the business of transferring our lives from one house to another. We finally collapsed about half-six, stuck a pizza in the oven, and saw our first TV news bulletin for two days. We were amazed to find out that the caretaker at Holly and Jessica’s school and his girlfriend have been arrested.

  What’s all that about!?

  Saturday, August 17

  Cory came over mid-morning to help – with the delectable Ms Dove! They already look – and talk – like an item. Jules was thrilled. She dotes on Christine already, after an acquaintance of a few hours. And she’s probably already thinking about her wedding outfit and another grandchild.

  We had made remarkable progress since Thursday afternoon, so we didn’t tax Cory and Christine too much. They spent some time helping me to sort out the gardening equipment and other household stuff that will be stored in the brick shed at the back. Then I got our old barbecue out on to the patio, gave Cory some cash to sort out four nice steaks, ready-made salad, some beer/wine,
and told them we expected to be fed by about 3p.m. – so get to it!

  They were like a cross between two kids at Christmas and two teenagers falling in love. And didn’t even know it. When Cory saw me smiling at them, he looked puzzled and said innocently, ‘What!?’

  I continued smiling and shook my head.

  They came back with an extra – Elvis’s Greatest Hits CD.

  ‘A little prezzie, Dad,’ said Cory. ‘It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death. Did you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Well, I know all your old Elvis records are knackered.’

  He looked as pleased as punch. He also insisted on cooking, showing off to Christine, as Jules and I relaxed with beers in our hands, listening to the strains of Love Me Tender.

  AMLTJ. We started going through the motions and then both fell asleep!

  Sunday, August 18

  Under orders from FR, I went and played golf. Under orders from me, my little Amazon had a lie-in followed by a lazy day – stretched out on her recliner on the patio reading and occasionally snoozing, she told me with a little smile of pleasure.

  I had a reasonable game (Chris L took the money, but it only cost me a quid), had a very quick drink, and then drove home. I made a light lunch for me and my little Amazon – scrambled eggs on toast – and then had a short snooze before hoovering the three rooms we have so far more-or-less finished.