Book Read Free

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

Page 19

by Frank Rawlins


  ‘Very carefully,’ was my immediate reaction, but I promised Bob I would have a think and rough out on paper how he should approach it.

  Bloody business adviser as well now!

  I shall have to start charging.

  Dorothy rang me at home in the evening, to thank me for my note, and ask if Jules and I could be at the funeral on Thursday; Eric would have appreciated it. Neither of us wanted another funeral, but we couldn’t say No.

  Wednesday, October 30

  I haven’t told either of the kids about my SLF. But apparently I’ve given the game away in the past couple of weeks with my constant finger exercises. Cory caught me doing it again today as we had what could be our last burger feast (it’s getting a bit bloody cold for alfresco dining). My early-morning exercises exorcise most of the malaise, but intermittent twinges are becoming more common, and I do the joined-fingers stretch almost subconsciously. Cory nodded at my hands as another materialised from nowhere.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a twinge,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re having a lot of twinges lately.’

  So I had to tell him all about it. He was more sympathetic than I expected (our bonding must be working) and came up with a treatment I hadn’t considered – cannabis, hash, mari-joo-ana.

  ‘I saw it on the telly, Dad. It can make a lot of difference to some people. There’s talk of it being legalised for some conditions.’

  ‘Yeah, to alleviate severe pain. I don’t think Stiff Little Fingers will keep me out of the magistrates’ court.’

  ‘Nonsense – personal use is okay these days. I’ll get you some.’

  ‘What? Just like that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘If it gets any worse perhaps. I’ll let you know. Thanks, Cory.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Thursday, October 31

  I don’t know if Dorothy realised when she, or whoever, arranged the funeral that the Thursday fell on Hallowe’en. But we obviously weren’t the only ones to notice the date, judging by the whispering and wistful smiles being exchanged between several couples as a large group of mourners milled round the entrance to Oxford Crematorium. Like us, they were probably glad we weren’t milling around gravestones at the cold, cold cemetery.

  There was a fair gathering of business people, mainly from Abingdon, where Butler & Stone started out, but a few from town and we passed the time of day in a reverential way until Dorothy arrived with two men, later identified as her brothers. Dermot Stone was the last to arrive, the bastard.

  I was determined to have a word with him afterwards, but as soon as everyone was milling outside again I saw him in deep conversation with Dorothy. Well, he was doing all the talking, one arm solicitously round her back; she was nodding, somewhat vacantly. Then he strode off towards the car park and was gone. The bastard.

  NOTES

  Oh my God, is there no end to the killing? More little innocents this time – 28 kids and two adults buried under a school that collapsed in an earthquake in Italy. I’m glad I don’t have to wonder why my merciful God lets people suffer like this.

  Friday, November 1

  Jules and I took the day off and drove out to the Cotswolds in the Lexus. Nice and leisurely, like Lord and Lady Muck progressing slowly through the plebs in our expensive carriage. First stop Stow-on-the-Wold for coffee and a browse round the nice home-and-garden shop (so much we didn’t know what to buy, but we will be back); second stop the Slaughters to lap up the chocolate-box cottages; third stop Bourton-on-the-Water to slaver some more over lunch.

  We returned via a little loop to Bibury and then on to Burford, where we stopped at the garden centre, bought two expensive Japanese maples with lingering fiery red foliage (Acers, apparently) and a pot of tea, and got back just as the light finally faded.

  God, I’d forgotten how much I hate British Winter Time.

  NOTES

  Saw the news for the first time today at 6pm to discover the Paul Burrell fiasco. The case against Princess Di’s ‘Rock’ has collapsed after the Queen apparently remembered at the eleventh hour a conversation with butler Burrell, in which he told her he had some of the Princess’s possessions. Amazing timing. Wonder why the Plod didn’t say something like, ‘Oh yeah? – and corgis can fly, Mrs Windsor.’ Because they didn’t ask her any fucking questions at all, that’s why. Why didn’t someone point out that not even the Queen is above the law?

  Saturday, November 2

  Too wet to do anything except write. Hard going, but I persevered, and wrote some reasonable stuff eventually. That’s obviously the secret. If you wait for the muse, you’ll wait for ever. Gave up mid-afternoon, by when my fingers and wrists were aching, to watch the footie results coming in. Forgot Leicester are playing Sunday.

  MLTJ.

  Sunday, November 3

  The golfing gods were against us again. Rain, rain, more fucking rain. We started off in a lightish drizzle, reached the fourth in a steady downpour, gave up at the ninth sopping wet. One day I’ll find some waterproofs that actually keep me dry. Of course, I could afford a caddie now to hold an umbrella over me, but I can just imagine the ‘rich git’ jibes from the others; that’s providing they deigned to play with me again. Fucking stupid game.

  Tried to settle to some writing after lunch, but couldn’t get started, so I plonked myself in front of the widescreen and watched some mindless pap. Well, I would have done if I hadn’t slept through most of it.

  Woke up in time to see the news and some amazing footage of a gang being arrested in connection with a plot to kidnap Victoria Beckham and her kids. Leeds United fans, I shouldn't wonder. Or possibly music lovers.

  NOTES

  Leicester beat Pompey 0-2 on a paddy field of a pitch. Like our game of golf, it should never have been played. But we’ll take the three points, thank you very much.

  It seems the players have been asked to accept another pay cut. Poor sods will be down to a living wage soon …

  Monday, November 4

  The pool man came first thing. Measured up, took lots of photos, gave us the spiel, and left lots of brochures. Nice bloke. The carpet man was due to come mid-morning. I left for work, post haste. Pools I can cope with.

  Sally has everything sorted. We get the key to our new premises on November 29, give up our weekend to clean/shift out rubbish/shift in our own rubbish, oversee the move of the press to the abattoir on the Monday, the digital equipment over the next two days, get ourselves sorted out on the Thursday, and open to the public on Friday (Dec 6). Piece of cake.

  Arrived home to find new carpets in place of swirly ones. Very good. Bit of a domestic genius, my Jules.

  NOTES

  Lonnie Donegan died last night. Another part of my youth gone. I don’t think we really appreciated at the time how good Lonnie was (the semi-novelty records didn’t help), but now I play his King Of Skiffle CD all the time. Great stuff. Thank you, Lonnie.

  Tuesday, November 5

  I brought some sparklers home for Jules, as a joke really, as a nice memory of the Bonfire Nights we used to have when the kids were young, but she got into the spirit of spontaneity and set to work on hot dogs and onions in lieu of a proper dinner. I gathered a load of household/garden material piled in and around the shed and earmarked for tipping or burning, and built a small bonfire on the ex-veg patch. We had the most low-key Bonfire Night ever, and enjoyed it. Little things …

  Funny thing is, both of us now think it’s about time private fireworks parties were banned. There are so many unnecessary and gruesome accidents that it’s just not worth risking life and limb, especially when there are some brilliant public displays these days.

  NOTES

  The proposed site for an asylum centre at rural Throckmorton has been scrapped by the government. But no such reprieve for Bicester. Yet. Wonder what sort of nonsense this will generate in The Rag.

  Paul Burrell has sold his story to The Mirror. Good first-day read, showing what a hope
less case it was, thanks to some hopeless Ploddery. Jules believes in Burrell 100 per cent; I have some reservations. Or perhaps I’m confusing royalty-loyalty with sycophancy. Wonder why.

  Thursday, November 7

  Had a team meeting this morning! Or, to be more precise, we all gathered round the kettle, made ourselves coffee, and had a chat. We have to make sure all our urgent, all our Christmas and New Year print work is done by November 25/26, and it seems we are well on schedule. We agreed that the only new work we will accept between now and then is work that can be turned around very quickly or work that can wait until December. Doddle, these team meetings.

  I went into town early afternoon, to buy Jules’s birthday card and presents, plural, and then went home. Jules was on tinternet so I snuck her prezzies into the utility room, hid them away in the darkest recesses of our old tallboy (that’s not as rude as it sounds), and then went to see what she was doing. Research, she told me. Gardening and garden design. (Who’s a clever boy, Aitch!) She wants to do a college course – not only because she’s discovered she loves gardening and wants to learn more, but because she needs something to fill up her time when the house and pool are finally sorted out. She says she’ll be bored out of her skull being a lady of leisure, and as much as she has enjoyed catching up on her reading, there is only so much reading she can do before the need for some physical activity kicks in.

  ‘How about some naked floor exercises?’ I suggested.

  ‘I don’t mean right now,’ she replied nonchalantly.

  ‘Oh.’

  I left her to it, and went to watch Countdown; for the mental stimulation, of course. I did discover, however, a new-look Vord (hadn’t seen the programme for ages). Her rats’ tails have been straightened and carefully coiffured and she has had what looks like a professional make-up make-over. She looks years younger. More gorgeous than ever.

  Interesting programme, too. I kept seeing words no one else had spotted. Not always the longest words, true.

  Three letters: sex

  Four letters: love

  I did improve, though.

  Six letters: coitus

  Seven letters: coupled

  Eighteen letters: yourandybastardyou.

  I had a cold beer and decided to start preparing a meal. A meal that would get Jules in the mood.

  MLTJ. Very good.

  NOTES

  Dennis Wise says he has had death threats from Leicester fans in the run-up to the game at Millwall. But as no Leicester fans are being allowed in to The Den it all seems a bit otiose.

  Friday, November 8

  Jules is 53. My child-bride is a middle-aged granny. But still looking good. And still feeling good. She loved her prezzies – the best garden design computer program on the market (so I was assured), Alan Titchmarsh’s book How To be A Gardener, the RHS Encyclopedia Of Plants And Flowers, posh gardening gloves, all parcelled up (at 6.30 this morning) with a trowel and hand-fork in a traditional gardener’s trug. Sounds rude to me. ‘Fancy a quick trug, darling?’

  I made her a bacon and scrambled eggs breakfast, helped her sort out her CD Rom, and left her to it. She spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon redesigning the garden – getting rid of some of my lawn and incorporating more borders and trees. She wanted me to go out measuring, to make a more accurate plan, but as it was raining most of the time she settled for my guesstimates from the bedroom windows.

  The kids came round for tea; the strange idea that somehow evolved when they left home for college is now a family tradition. They arrived about 4pm-ish bearing flowers and gifts (two music CDs from Sarah and Mike, a surprisingly tasteful bracelet from Cory, and a box of champagne truffle chocolates from Sam, whose card showed a surprising skill at writing for one so young).

  Savouries were strictly for starters: a few thinly-sliced sandwiches, slivers of pork pie, little chicken ball thingies, a few Pringles, pâté on Ritz crackers. Then it was straight on to Cholesterol City. We had chocolate cake, carrot cake, almond slices, walnut whips, muffins with butter, scones with jam and cream, washed down with lashings of Earl Grey or Assam, and followed by trifle and/or blancmange. Sam will absolutely adore it when he’s old enough. Today, though, he just watched studiously until he fell asleep.

  The kids were off by half-six. Jules and I just slumped into our chairs, feeling a mite queasy.

  MLTJ. Eventually, when we stopped laughing. She had come into the bedroom wearing just gardening gloves and wellies.

  Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

  NOTES

  For the first time since Jules and I have been a couple I also spared a birthday thought for Granddad William – he would have been 100 today.

  Saturday, November 9

  The ground has been drying quite well, so we donned our wellies and trampled all over the area of lawn near the front hedge where Jules wants to create a new ‘mixed bed’ and where, she asseverated, the Acers will do well. We made a committee decision on the size and shape of the border, and I marked it out with sand. Then, under Jules’s instructions, I put the Acers to bed.

  I was going to dig out the whole area, but the lawn was beginning to churn up, including bits we didn’t want to churn up, so we decided to have a leisurely stroll down to The Cocked Hat for a leisurely light lunch. On the spur of the moment I rang FR. He said they were mooching round wondering what to do – and it was a pub they had never tried – so he’d see us there in 20 minutes.

  What neither of us knew was that The Hat had a Sports Bar at the back, for the local lads, complete with bar billiards table (there’s posh, not to mention old fashioned), darts board, and TV with Sky connection. And what the girls didn’t know was that England were playing the All Blacks at Twickenham, and although BBC had highlights at about half-five, it was live on Sky, kick-off 2pm.

  What a game! What a wonderful win for England!

  The girls, for some strange reason, walked back to Windolene at half-time; apparently so Jules could show MJ her plans for the garden, and generally show off the house, new carpets, new trug, that sort of thing. FR and I were back by four. The impromptu party for four that followed ended at 9pm – after we had demolished two pizzas and almost three bottles of wine – when FR’s chauffeur decided she had had enough soft drinks to last her till, well, the next time. We lads, who had done most of the drinking, made no objections.

  The girls deserve some consideration. They will get plenty before next Saturday – when England take on Australia at Twickers. And even more the following week, before we face South Africa.

  Sunday, November 10

  My best round of golf for years. Shot 85! Had 41 on the first nine (elated but still slightly annoyed I didn’t get the 40, or better it), and a slightly wobbly 44 on the second nine. But for a poor finish I would have beaten my previous best of 84.

  Shame FR wasn’t there to see it (working, poor lad!) Peter B played well; both Dave and Chris L so-so. I took most of the money but handed it all back over the bar to buy drinks.

  I dug out the rest of the front border pm, finishing, absolutely knackered, just before it got dark. Fell asleep in the chair, to be woken an hour or so later by Jules, who had done one of her super shepherd’s pies. Or should that be shepherds’ pies? I’m too fuddled to work it out now.

  Monday, November 11

  9am.

  While I can still remember. Woke up in the middle of a strange dream. A thirtysomething Jules and I were at some wood-panelled posh place, complete with ballroom, both in our finery (long frock, showing a bit too much cleavage, I thought; smart DJ), and everybody was dancing in a different way. Jules ran off when it was my turn to demonstrate my two left feet (that bit is usually not a dream). I found her at the end of the room sitting on the floor chatting to two youngish, handsome-ish members of the dance band, who were lying prone on the polished wood. She introduced me (can’t remember the names), and one of them, the most handsome one, said he and his friend were getting ready to do a ‘Caesar�
��s lick’. ‘Is it legal?’ I asked. I didn’t think it was that funny but they both fell about laughing.

  What the fuck is all that about!? I looked up ‘Caesar’ in several dictionaries and on the net, but could find no reference, musical or otherwise, to a ‘lick’. So how did the brain come up with that one?

  God help us if we ever fathom the brain.

  Life will be so boring.

  Wednesday, November 13

  Started a new regime today for the ECO lunch-break. I took a selection of healthy sandwiches and polythene cartons of salad – leaves and fruit – for three of us to share; a value-for-money fifteen-quids-worth from Ertha’s Pantry. Which we ate in the warmth of the showroom.

  Chrissy had had a successful couple of weeks rounding up two Jags, a Bentley, and several Mercs, half of which Cory had already sold for a handsome profit. Even ECO 2 has been doing well. They were both looking pleased with life, and each other.

  Chrissy looked fabulous; the very epitome of a sexy, sassy, modern women. Not conventionally beautiful; just, well – I’ll come back to that when I think of the right word.

  I left ECO wishing I was twentysomething again, and remembering when Jules was the sassiest thing on two legs (and I wasn’t so bad myself). And hoping that Cory and Chrissy make it as a couple. It’s a long and very often painful journey to fiftysomethingtogether. But, if you’ve got the sassiest thing on two legs to love, you’d be a fool to let a little pain kill it off.

 

‹ Prev