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

by Frank Rawlins

  We were there most of the afternoon – Jules and I, Arnie and Mags, Caroline (Liam had volunteered to come and hold her hand, but she didn’t think it fair to burden him with the death of somebody he had never met). A chair was pulled up on either side of the bed, and we took it in turns to sit, and then stand and stare or stroll away from the sad scene for a short while.

  Dad opened his eyes for a few seconds while Arnie held his hand, and looked straight into the eyes of his eldest son. Then he closed them again; before any of us could say anything. Arnie was the first to gather his wits.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ he said. ‘We’re all here. Don’t be afraid – you’ll soon be with Mum.’ And then we were all quiet again.

  I didn’t believe it (I believe Mum is but dust in the Universe) but I appreciated and respected his sentiment and his sincerity. I hadn’t seen Arnie show any sort of sensitive emotion since we were kids.

  We made a collective decision that there was no point in mounting a constant vigil at his bedside (although anyone who wanted to could obviously do so); he could be lingering for another day, two days. We were conveying this decision to the Matron when he died. At 4.56 p.m.

  We are staying overnight at Arnie’s; mainly because neither of us could face driving home. It is 12.20 a.m. and I am in the kitchen, drinking tea laced with whisky, writing this.

  We had a quiet dinner, talked calmly about funeral arrangements over coffee and brandy, and all went to bed early. Thinking our own thoughts. I don’t know what the two ladies are thinking, but I bet Arnie’s mind keeps coming back, like mine, to the worst thought in the world.

  I AM AN ORPHAN. Now both the two people who made me, loved me, nurtured me, are no more. That’s hard to bear.

  Sunday, September 29

  For some reason we all awoke starving and ate an enormous breakfast. Cereal, fry-up, toast and marmalade, the works. Jules and I let the weight on our tums subside a tad, while talk turned once more to funeral arrangements (Arnie solemnly volunteered to take care of everything; I volunteered to pay for everything; he accepted), and then we motored home at a fairly sedate speed.

  The first song to come on the car radio when we switched it on was Elton John’s Circle Of Life. I’m not sure we interpreted it the way he and Tim Rice had intended, but Jules and I looked at each other and smiled.

  We carried on past Windolene Heights to Sarah’s. To give her but mainly Sam, who had filled his great-grandfather’s gap in the Circle, a kiss and a cuddle.

  Spent a pleasant afternoon trying to distract myself, catching up with the papers and listening to the final round of the Ryder Cup on the radio; and explaining to Jules why we have to have Sky TV before the next Ryder Cup in 2004.

  And although my mind kept wandering back to Leicester, the world became a much nicer place as the afternoon wore on.

  First there was the Page One story of the most unlikely coupling since The Krankies – John Major and Edwina Currie. Mr Grey and Cruella de Ville had been having it off for four years without anyone even suspecting. Well, who would have suspected!? I keep trying to imagine them both naked in bed – but can’t do it. He’s got his grey socks and suspenders on, possibly some old Y-fronts; she’s wearing a red satin cloak with winged collars.

  And then we whupped the Yankees at golf. What a sensational finish. What a result. Bliss.

  Cory rang to talk about his Granddad and the funeral – and to tell us he wanted to buy our old place.

  ‘Fair market price, Dad,’ he insisted. ‘Get it valued, and I’ll make you an offer. A reasonable one, of course …’

  ‘Okay. But I think you’ll find what we still owe you – from the Lottery dosh – will cover most of it.’

  ‘Proper valuation, proper offer, Dad.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We left it at that.

  Monday, September 30

  Back to the workaday life for half a day. Ronnie, too, had elected to work, rather than mope about the house mourning his grandfather. Sally came into the office early on, after spending the weekend with her parents, and we asked her if she would care for a trial run – look after the business for a day – while Ronnie and I were at a funeral. She offered her condolences, and gladly agreed to step into the breach.

  Sally has two possible ‘retail premises’ (or shops, as I prefer to call them) for us to look at: one on Ironmonger Street, which is pretty central, and the other on Bridge Street, which is near enough. And closer to the River Car Park, which could be even handier for people bringing along stuff for photocopying and laminating. Both have separate workshops at the back.

  I asked her to set up viewings on Wednesday.

  Spent the afternoon in the garden, lifting the old patio slabs. It was hard work and good therapy.

  It’s now nearly 11p.m., and I have just watched the first episode of a new series of The Office on BBC. Every bit as good as the first. Fabulous. Even better therapy than lugging slabs around.

  Tuesday, October 1

  Took the day off to continue the therapy and finish the patio. The old slabs had been laid on a dry mix and came up fairly evenly, leaving a pattern of squares beneath. The new slabs were the same size – just prettier – and heavy enough to go down with the minimum of new muck added to make them wobble-free. I just added some where corners of the original mix had cracked up and then renewed all the outer edges.

  Looks good. Very satisfying. Grouting still to do. And find a use for the old slabs; can’t chuck ’em away.

  What the fuck am I doing, writing about the intricacies of paving slabs!? Perhaps it’s part of the therapy, too. I bloody hope so.

  Wednesday, October 2

  We went for the old butcher’s shop on Ironmonger Street. It was almost a grand a year more than the Bridge Street shop, but it would put us right in the heart of the town, making the extra cash readily recoupable. (Is that a word? Must check.) And the workshop is ideal. It had been the butcher’s abattoir in the nineteenth century – which meant the walls were built sound-proofed (bloody thick) to muffle the sounds of death, and thus would ensure our itsy-bitsy press didn’t drive our new neighbours to distraction, or court.

  I went straight to the agent’s and put in our application. Then I joined Sally and Ronnie back at the ranch and went through the proposed partnership with them, as agreed with Steve and Andrew. I will keep 5O per cent of the business for the time being, Ronnie and Sally will take 25 per cent each, but, as the two working partners, they will each take 40 per cent of the profit; based on an estimated monthly wage plus whatever is their share of the profits each April as an annual bonus. I will continue to work as I have with Ronnie; being there when I’m needed, and offering my vast experience when needed.

  Ronnie was delighted; Sally wasn’t so sure. Without asking, I guessed that she felt she should get more than Ronnie because of the money she was putting into the business. I explained that I had nominally given Ronnie a similar amount for taking over the business from me for the past five months. She accepted that with good grace. It was my business; Ronnie was my nephew.

  Thursday, October 3

  Jules and I spent half the day searching tinternet for last-minute holiday bargains (collective guilty conscience, I think, for spending so much in such a short time). But Bali bargains aren’t that common or that cheap.

  The funeral is tomorrow; we want to be off by Monday at the latest. The first Bali date, at a hotel/price we fancied, was next Friday. We hummed and ha-ed for ages. Jules has had a hankering for a long time, long before we could afford it, to see Bali, but in the end we decided we had to get away as soon as poss after the funeral. There are plenty of other places. We can ‘do’ Bali at our leisure next year.

  Then Jules had a brainwave – England! And not just any old part of England. Why didn’t we make it an odyssey in memory of the good man that was my father, the man inside the shell of Alzheimer’s? Grief therapy as well as a holiday.

  I had over the years said many times that I would like to track d
own my roots. My father had been born in Devon, and indeed a scattering of distant relatives still live down there. He had left his small home village as a young man, never to return, although he and Mum had taken us to visit the others at Axminster, Honiton, and Exeter when we were kids. The sibs said the village was called Fitzcombe but none of us had ever been there, had ever seen his name on a parish register.

  I would change all that.

  Friday, October 4

  It’s probably my imagination, or it might be the special topography of cemeteries, but the day seemed five degrees colder than anything we have had of late. Definitely autumnal. Almost cornily atmospheric. Wind sweeping leaves around, whistling off corners of the chapel, a weak sun dipping in and out of clouds, somewhere in the distance a dog barking sadly and intermittently.

  I had promised myself after Mum’s funeral that I would not make such an exhibition of myself at Dad’s. Whenever I close my eyes and think back, I can still hear the noise I made as Mum’s coffin went in the earth. It was almost a howl, as the finality of death finally hit me. I would never ever see my mother again. (Being an atheist, with occasional bouts of agnosticism when I concede that we should never rule out anything, meant I didn’t even have the faint hope of a believer.) Never ever see that crooked smile again; the smile that forgave everything; the smile that healed everything; the smile of unconditional love. Never ever kiss her again, touch her, talk to her, tell her I love her. Why didn’t I tell her how much I loved her? I sobbed like a very big, very loud baby. Jules put her arm round me and led me to the edge of the circle of mourners round the grave, to take me away from this scene of torture, to let the others hear what the vicar was saying.

  Today I didn’t shed a tear, utter a single howl as Dad was lowered into the earth beside Mum. I even threw some earth on top of the gleaming coffin. Then I walked away on my own, leaving Jules with the kids, towards the far end of the cemetery where the dog was barking. And cried my eyes out as quietly as I could.

  Good job I didn’t come across the barking dog. I would have strangled the bastard.

  Goodbye, Dad. Thank you for everything.

  11.20p.m., home.

  The ‘wake’ at Arnie’s was a short, subdued affair with just the immediate family. It was good to see all the kids together – our two, Ronnie, Stephen and Rebecca looking remarkably like a miniature John and Jayne – getting on better, it seemed, than their parents. Jennifer was with her friend Naomi again, and again nobody made any untoward comments. We toasted Dad/Granddad, we remembered his little ways, we laughed at his oft-repeated silly jokes, we smiled at family lore half-forgotten but rekindled by death. We ate Maggie’s Melton Mowbray pork pies, we made a fuss of Sam when he finally woke up for his first family occasion, we went home.

  And when Jules and I arrived back to the warm womb that is Windolene Heights, we sank a lot of whisky and brandy respectively. And then, half cut, we laughed like drains at the live TV tribute to Spike Milligan.

  Dad never really understood Spike’s humour. But now, in death, the two are inextricably linked.

  Monday, October 7

  Lyme Regis, 10pm.

  We drove down steadily, stopping for coffee/meal breaks at places we had never seen before – Salisbury (saw Stonehenge from a distance) and Bournemouth/Poole (both seemingly nice resorts). Booked into The Royal and had a pleasant dinner.

  Now to try out the bed.

  Shame Jules is moaning about being knackered.

  Oh, yes – just remembered. Rang Cory before we left. Gave him a bogus, somewhat low valuation figure I had made up for the old place. He offered me five grand lower; I accepted. I said I’d sort out the transfer of deeds as soon as we got back. He said, ‘We’ll move in as soon as poss.’

  We! Jules’s eyes lit up as she earwigged close to the phone. She took the receiver from me and said, ‘You’ve still got a key, haven’t you? Well – get in there then! Tell Chrissy it needs a good airing …’

  Tuesday, October 8

  Found Fitzcombe without too much trouble. The small church is a Norman building, so Jules informed me, with a little tower but no spire. Unfortunately it was locked. We asked at the pub/village store/post office. The ‘hello, my lovely’ assistant told us there had been some vandalism, hence the lock, but old Mr Crake, the churchwarden, would let us in.

  She was a nosy cow. Why did we want to see the church? – it was nothing special. Oh, the parish register – why did we want to see that? Relatives down hereabouts, my lovely? Who was that then? Oh, look … not much escapes him …

  We were saved by the arrival on his old crossbar-less bike of old Mr Crake. Should have been old Mr Creak. He looked older than Methuselah, and his every painstaking movement screamed for a squirt of WD40. But he could still ride his bike. He rode it the extra 20 yards to the church, up the path, and to the door. He let us in, and said he’d be back to lock up at four o’clock; the only words he uttered the whole time.

  It didn’t take us long to find the entry that confirmed Dad had indeed been born in the parish of Fitzcombe-with-Smallington on February 25, 1926, to William and Rachael (nee Sneddon). Wish I’d known them. Granddad died before I was born; Grandma when I was a few months old.

  It took us another hour to find my grandparents’ wedding (July 29, 1924), and nearly another two hours – interrupted by lunch at the pub/village store/post office – to track down William’s birth: November 8, 1902. November 8 – the same birthday as Jules! Which seemed a bit spooky but was just one of those coincidences that life throws up. We couldn’t find any other references to Rachael. Perhaps she was born in another parish.

  Then the obvious smacked us right in the face – Creaky Crake must be about the same age as Dad. So we strolled round the village till 4pm (a main chocolate-box area of thatched cottages and an old farmhouse, but a pot-noodle area of council houses in a horrible biscuity brick spoiled the ancient charm) and then awaited the return of the Ancient Pedaller.

  It was an unusual conversation when he arrived.

  ‘My Dad Jack was born here in 1926. Do you remember him?’ I asked.

  ‘No. No Jack hereabouts,’ he replied without too much careful thought.

  ‘It’s in the register. He was born in Fitzcombe to William and Rachael.’

  ‘No. No William and Rachael hereabouts.’

  ‘They were married in this church in 1924. Jonathan London and Ethel Marrs were the witnesses.’

  ‘No. No London or Marrs hereabouts.’

  I was stumped. Then Jules asked, ‘Were you born in the village?’

  ‘No. No Crakes hereabouts.’

  ‘You’re a Crake, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mind your own bloody business.’

  Not much escapes him, did she say!? We did, pronto.

  Early night; both knackered.

  Wednesday, October 9

  We decided not to pursue it any more. I had found what I was looking for, and had no desire to become a genealogist. However, we didn’t want to go home yet; which left us basically with two choices – whizz down to Cornwall to see Pedro and Murdo, or explore Dorset on a leisurely drive back. Pedro and Murdo would no doubt welcome us, but they would be too polite to tell us they were busy, and didn’t feel like entertaining, so piss off back to Oxfordshire and give us some warning next time. Which left a leisurely drive home.

  We motored slowly through lots of villages as picturesque as their names, and made watering/feeding stops at Dorchester, Blandford Forum, and Wimborne Minster. Where I now sit in a very pleasant room writing this, waiting for a refreshed Jules to come out of the bathroom and seduce me.

  Yes, she’s smiling, and waving the KY at me. Little hussy.

  Thursday, October 10

  And so to Hampshire. We had a ploughman’s lunch in a New Forest pub (he wasn’t very happy about it), and then spent the afternoon/evening exploring Winchester. Lovely place.

  And now we’re in another nice room, but we’re missing home. The kids, Sam. The house, the
garden. We’re so lucky.

  Mind you, hotels do have their compensation. It’s not even 9p.m. and we’re already getting ready for bed. Jules is in the bathroom; time to put the KY in the mini-bar.

  Mmmmmmmmmmmmm …

  11.30pm.

  Must be the cash; the deliverance from stress. Bar the odd humdinger, our spats are getting rarer, shorter, more light-hearted. After making love I made some silly remark about KY meaning Keeping Youthful. This prompted a minor set-to on whether KY actually stood for anything or was just two initials plucked from the air by the manufacturer. Neither the tube nor its box revealed the answer, and neither of us gave a toss.

  Friday, October 11

  Home sweet home. We feel as if we’ve lived a lifetime at Windolene, and loved every second of it. We were back mid-morning, and we immediately had a walk round the garden together, inspecting our plants, our shingle, our refurbished patio. Yes, they were all blossoming.

  I rang the office (all well; two new lucrative orders).

  Jules rang Sarah (all well; Sam is smiling!) and Cory (all well; house aired; already partly furnished; he and Chrissy moving in more bits and bobs tomorrow).

  Jules arranged for us to go round to Greythorn tomorrow to witness the miracle of Sam smiling. And perhaps call in at the old place on the way back …

  NOTES

  My God, this is bloody serious … Leicester City shares have been suspended on the Stock Exchange. Apparently the players have refused to take a 20 per cent pay cut deemed necessary to prevent the possibility of the club going into administration. The greedy, short-sighted bastards.