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

by Frank Rawlins

  There was only one criterion, as far as I was concerned: ‘Are you sure you two can get on well enough to see this through?’

  They both assured me, with lots of smiles and laughs, that they got on like a house on fire.

  ‘No, this is serious. I don’t mean to be personal, Ronnie, but that’s what you thought once about Mia, isn’t it?’

  He didn’t look terribly happy about the comparison, but he let me continue: ‘It sounds bloody corny, but it’s true – a business partnership is like a marriage, and just as difficult to sustain. Probably harder because you spend much more time together than most married couples. Day in day out.’

  They were still smiling. I smiled back and offered a hand to both of them in turn.

  ‘Spend some time together while I pass all this in front of the accountant and bank manager,’ I said. They both nodded. Well pleased.

  Wednesday, September 4

  I gave a similar warning to Cory. Having a relationship with an employee is even more fraught than a partnership. And he and Chrissy are obviously already in the throes of something pretty passionate.

  He thanked me for my concern – in the sort or tone that said ‘the old man hasn’t got a clue, but he means well’.

  Thursday, September 5

  I dropped Jules at the garage, gave the salesman a sort of ‘I’ve got a Lexus – keep your common old Peugeots’ look, and waited while he showed Jules what all the various knobs and switches did. Then he pressed the switch that folded the roof down, and gave me a sort of ‘let’s-see-you-do-that-you-bastard’ look. Jules, too, looked rather superior as she tilted her face towards the sun. I grimaced and switched on my air conditioning.

  As ordered, I followed her home – ‘just in case’ she had any problems with unfamiliar controls – and then took the cheeky 306 for my own little test-drive.

  I haven’t told her, but if this weather continues, I might have to check it out every day.

  Friday, September 6

  Jayne rang this evening. Jules answered the phone. Seconds out, round one.

  They were at it within seconds, with the sort of low-key, even-voiced ferocity that probably only sisters can sustain – or survive. Jules filled me in afterwards on Jayne’s side of the conversation, but I thought I would just jot down the side I could hear – to give me a chuckle, instead of a dull ache, when the old memory’s gone.

  ‘It’s a loan,’ Jules said.

  ‘It’s a loan,’ she repeated several seconds later.

  (Now imagine the pauses, Aitch.)

  ‘It’s a fucking loan, Jayne; pardon my French. How many more times?’

  ‘He will pay it back.’

  ‘No, we didn’t specify. Maybe two years.’

  ‘Hadn’t even thought of it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Either that or his balls.’

  ‘If he’s got any sense.’

  ‘She’s probably got more balls than him.’

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’

  ‘Yeah – with the rough end of a pineapple.’

  ‘Are you asking for ten grand?’

  ‘We’ll give ten grand to everyone we’ve ever known, shall we? Just in case we’ve ever upset them. We’ll be broke within a fortnight and then we can come and ask you for ten grand!’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t. Not that it’ll make any difference.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  Jules marched straight outside, picked up the garden fork I had left stuck in the ex-veg patch, walked the few yards to one of the old apple trees, and smashed the fork against its trunk. The fork handle broke where it joined the metal socket of the tines; the tree creaked but showed only one long graze for its pains.

  ‘Sorry, tree,’ she said remorsefully to the tree, and walked back to the french windows where I was waiting. She put her arms round my neck, her head in the crook of my shoulder, and cried.

  Not a wimpy, girlie cry, but a loud cry of frustration and sadness.

  MLTJ. KY. A1. Strangely cold. Surprisingly … mmmmmmm.

  Saturday, September 7

  Drove over to Greythorn. We hadn’t been invited; Jules just wanted to show off the cabriolet, and cheer herself up after the horrors of last night.

  Just over a fortnight to go before the baby is due. Sarah is enormous but fed-up; the last few weeks are really dragging for her. Mike is doing all he can to keep her spirits up, but we got the impression that he’s treading on glass. One false move and he’ll probably be the recipient of the green end of a pineapple.

  They just about have their house move mapped out. The survey showed no major faults, they are due to exchange in the next week, complete at around the time the baby is due, and get the keys maybe a week after that. So Jules wrote a big cheque – her turn – and it brought a smile to all our faces.

  After that, not surprisingly, both Sarah and Jules seemed to relax as we sat in the sun, discussing decorating and home improvements. So Jules rustled up a salad and a few odds and ends, and we sat and let the talk drift on to babies and football and stuff. And by the time Jules and Sarah had finished with the merits of Thierry Henry versus Ruud van Nistelrooy, and Mike and I had dusted off terry nappies versus disposables, the world was looking a better place again. For all of us. And all this without so much as a sniff of an Orgasm, or even a glass of wine; just tea and soft drinks.

  Got home in time to see the footie results coming in. Incredible match at Wimbledon. Leicester were two down but came back to win 3-2. Only a tiny crowd watched this spectacle, thanks to the protest over Wimbledon’s proposed move to Milton Keynes.

  How can Wimbledon play at Milton Keynes!? Within a year they would be Milton Keynes FC in all but name, and no longer Wimbledon. The people in charge there must be from the Ratner School Of Public Relations.

  No matter how thick you think the punters are, all you Geralds … they can spot a tosser at ten paces.

  Sunday, September 8

  Medal was on a Sunday for some reason I am still unable to fathom. Played with FR and a pleasant young man called Jake (Chris L and Dave are on some sort of works golf weekend; Peter was away). We all did okay, but not well enough to win anything. I couldn’t miss with the putter for about eleven holes, and then it went so spectacularly awry I would have had a job hitting a tennis ball into a quarry from five feet.

  Just the one pint (and cigar) ’cos we both had jobs to do.

  I wanted to shift the pile of shingle that had been delivered on Friday; the laying of the slabs could wait. The ground was dug, so it was just a matter of cutting the membrane to fit, and then barrowing the shingle some ten-fifteen yards, and raking it around a bit.

  It sounds a lot, a ton (or tonne, as the youngsters would have us believe), but it goes nowhere. I shall need at least the same again for a good depth of gravel. I shall order it as soon I have the strength to lift the phone again.

  NOTES

  Blair is in America, cosying up to Bush again. It looks like he and Bush have agreed on war to oust Saddam. I wonder if I should tell them that it could, ultimately, spell the end of their political careers. You can’t take the voters for mugs, chaps; not in front of their faces, anyway. Just ask those tossers at Wimbledon.

  N.B. Aitch – when you read this in your dotage – that’s Tony, not Lionel.

  Monday, September 9

  I think I’m showing signs of my age – in the best possible way. For once I’ve been wise before the event, after a lifetime of being wise after the event.

  Pricey rang me first thing – did I know Eric Butler had had a heart attack? Not fatal but serious enough. No, I didn’t. Did I know that in the past couple of weeks he’d had a major bust-up with Dermot Stone. No, I didn’t. Pricey didn’t know the details but rumour had it (a pretty reliable rumour believed to have emanated from within B&S) that there had been heated rows over a change of accounting methods o
r some sort of financial problem. He would let me know as soon as he heard more.

  Say what you like about our gay friends, but they aren’t half good at gossip and scandal. Put most reporters to shame. Unless, of course … most reporters are gay. I shall have to ask FR. Subtly, of course. Don’t want the Political Correctness Police hammering on my door; while I’m watching my Kenny Everett tapes.

  Anyway, it gave me a certain perverse pleasure to tell Ronnie and then Cory about the seeming collapse of a solid-looking business partnership and the seeming stress-related, near-death conclusion. I may have heaped it on a bit – but who knows?

  It gave me no pleasure whatsoever to ring Dorothy Butler, whom I had met a mere dozen times, but knew well enough to greet with an air kiss at the more recent meetings. She sounded in a terrible state, but did at least confirm that the doctors had said Eric should make a good recovery. He would be off work some time, but it was the stress of work that had brought it on, so a long rest was no bad thing.

  I know a little of the Butlers’ set-up. They have no children, just two yapping terriers which they dote on as if they were babies. Dorothy has devoted her life to Eric. He is her rock; she depends on him for everything. He is the bread-winner, the organiser, the ultimate man of the house. She is the submissive housewife the PC Police would have to put to sleep while no one was looking. But if anything happened to Eric, she would save them the trouble. I’m sure she would just fade away quite quickly. And I’m sure Dermot Stone knows this. I think I’ll make sure he knows that I know.

  Tuesday, September 10

  My fingers were killing me when I woke up this morning. What was really worrying was that similar, but not as strong, pains were trying to knot my toes. Which is very worrying because it seems conclusive proof that the pain in my fingers has nothing to do with inflammation; well, inflammation caused by physical work, anyway.

  I made that appointment to see Doc Macca, and resolved to have a search of tinternet, but didn’t get round to it.

  Soon, very soon.

  NOTES

  There was another lynch-mob outside the court where the Soham Two were charged. They want the pair hanged before they can have a trial. The caretaker and his moll are guilty before anyone has heard one word of evidence, apparently. Thick bastards.

  Blair made a good speech to the TUC on the advisability of war with Iraq. But I’m still not convinced.

  He should stick to tap-dancing.

  Wednesday, September 11

  I looked up September 11 in last year’s diary. Not that I needed a lot of reminding about that dreadful day we now call 9/11. The only thing I had forgotten was that I’d had a bit of a barney with Dermot Stone in the morning. Ha. What goes round …

  Sally was in the office when I arrived late morning. She had been visiting her parents and house-hunting, and popped in to see if there was any news about her buy-in. There wasn’t, officially, but I assured her I couldn’t see any difficulties. We switched on Ronnie’s TV, watched some of the emotional events in New York and London, and had our own little one-minute silence. As we waited for the appointed time, 1.46pm, it felt a bit silly, just the three of us standing in silence, but when the moment arrived it seemed the least we could do, to express our fellow feelings.

  I gave ECO a miss and drove home. Sad and thoughtful. Wondering what sort of world Sarah and Mike will be bringing their child into.

  Caroline rang early evening. She is bringing her ‘boyfriend’ down for inspection on Saturday.

  NOTES

  Watched the documentary Fire Engine 7, Ladder 1 – part of which was shot inside one of the Twin Towers as it was all happening. Fascinating, emotional, totally riveting.

  Thursday, September 12

  Is it me, or is it a general thing? Whenever melancholy dissipates, it is replaced by anger. Usually anger at the thing that has caused the melancholy, I guess. I don’t suppose Dermot Stone is to blame for September 11 (although he is almost swarthy enough to be al-Qaeda), but the associated barney and the recent revelation about Eric were enough to trip the switch.

  I popped in on the pretext of asking him how Eric was doing. That done, I didn’t beat about the bush.

  ‘I heard you and Eric had a barney a few days before his heart attack,’ I ventured, almost conversationally.

  He looked surprised, puzzled, and not a little cross; but he wasn’t about to give anything away.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked after only a brief pause.

  ‘You know how these things get around. Is it true?’

  ‘All businesses have disagreements. It’s the nature of business. Me and Eric have at least one disagreement a week. Nothing too serious, though.’

  ‘I heard it was quite a bust-up.’

  ‘Nah.’

  I knew, just knew, he was lying; and I wasn’t going to let it lie.

  ‘The word is that somebody or something at work left Eric totally stressed out. It’s a wonder he made it home …’

  This elicited no response, so I continued: ‘If those of us in the local business community who like and respect Eric find anything untoward, then we’re not going to be very happy.’

  Dermot is obviously not a great bluffer; for an estate agent, anyway.

  He got up from his chair and said bitterly, ‘Get out of here now! Coming in here and accusing me of …’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You know. Now get out. And don’t talk to anyone on the way out …’

  What a give-away. I didn’t need to after that.

  NOTES

  Bush made a reasonable, reasoned speech to the United Nations on the Iraq problem, putting the onus firmly on the UN. But I’m still not convinced.

  He should stick to making a prat of himself.

  Friday, September 13

  Lucky for some; possibly me.

  Doc Macca seemed to think it was likely that my digital pains might be neuritic (inflammation of the nerves) rather than arthritic (of the joints), which would have shown up in the blood tests. However, to set my mind at rest, she said she would arrange X-rays and a couple more tests at the hospital.

  Oh yeah, that really banished my worries.

  Still haven’t found time to scour tinternet again. Will do so very soon.

  Finally got round to start reading another book, after filling in with some old Reader’s Digests. (Another prize draw Jules didn’t win when we were poor. I wouldn’t mind but she never got round to stopping the subscription.)

  At last – Bill Bryson. Now make me laugh, Bill. Please.

  Saturday, September 14

  Liam Callaghan. Tallish, handsome-ish, too much hair for a 45-year-old, and with a slight Irish brogue flattened by almost 30 years of living in the Midlands. Charming, seemingly well-off, attentive to Caroline. Calm with a hint of a twinkle in his eye. Good traits for a 999 emergency controller for the ambulance service.

  Jules and I are 90-plus per cent sure that he is her Mr Right. But just a little part of us says: Is he too good to be true? We shall see.

  It dawned another pleasant day, but we didn’t fancy yet another barbie, so after handshakes and coffees we took them down to our new local, The Cocked Hat. And it certainly knocked The Crown into one (not that we would have subjected Liam to that shower on first acquaintance).

  Three of us had cod that almost matched my annual Newlyn Cod, and Jules had a gammon steak which she declared Truly Scrumptious. Thus proving, Ye can serve Cod and Gammon. We didn’t dwell too long afterwards; Jules wanted to show them round our new domain, and Liam wasn’t over-keen on staying because he couldn’t drink. He spilled most of it. No no – they came down in his car, a nice W-reg Citroen, and he assured me he never drives on more than one pint.

  They admired the house and garden, relaxed with us on the patio, and stayed for afternoon tea.

  Lovely day.

  Shame Caroline had to bring up Jayne and John just before they left.

  ‘She rang me, to tell me about Arnie’s lo
an,’ she said non-committally.

  ‘I suppose everybody knows now,’ I said almost as non-committally.

  ‘She asked me to check – it is a loan, isn’t it? Sorry sorry, Harry. I had to promise I’d ask, just to get rid of her.’

  ‘Fair enough. Yeah, it’s a loan. I suppose everybody thinks I’m a tight bastard. Insisting he pays it back, when we’ve got millions. But it’s the bloody principle of the thing.’

  ‘I told her that.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’

  What a lovely sister I’ve got. So why does another tiny part of my brain wonder if she’s telling me the whole truth?

  Fucking money. Fucking with my brain. With their brains. Well, those who have any.

  NOTES

  We beat old enemy Derby 3-1. We owed ’em that.

  Sunday, September 15

  FR was away for the day so I gave golf a miss and had a hard day’s surfing instead.

  The people who acclaim the internet as man’s biggest ever step forward in communication must be the half dozen who can find what they want within half an hour. The rest of us poor mortals can link-to-link-to-link for days on end without finding quite what we want. I’m sure going to a decent library must be quicker and easier – even by public transport.

  I went through God-knows how many websites on neuritis/neuralgia, and frightened the life out of myself by coming across constant references to optic neuritis – a little matter of sudden blindness. I should be grateful the pains haven’t spread to my eyeballs yet.

  Then I realised that the Doc hadn’t specified what these further tests at the hospital might be.