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

by Frank Rawlins

  They asked Jules and me back to our place on Sunday for lunch – our old place, that is – along with Sarah and Mike. And possibly Ronnie and, er … Sally?

  Thursday, November 14

  11pm.

  The trite is often true. Life is a roller-coaster – although I’ve never known such ups and downs as this year is delivering.

  There I was coasting along nicely, the spirits rising gently, when Bob Eckman walked into the office again. Dermot Stone wouldn’t answer his phone calls or his letters. Had I any more ideas? I suggested he should call in at the B&S office and ask to see Stone. And if the receptionist said he was out or busy, just smile and say you’ll wait. That would flush him out eventually. And – whatever you do – don’t accept any more work from him until you’ve been paid what’s owed – even if he does make a plausible excuse and a plausible promise that it won’t happen again.

  Fuck, what was I suddenly? Who was I? Marje Proops? Dear Deirdre? Miriam Bleedin’ Stoppard? John Harvey Jones? Ed Balls?

  Yes. Obviously. All those and more. For midway through the afternoon Dorothy Butler phoned and asked if I could pop in on my way home. And her tone left me in no doubt that there was more agony to come.

  As soon as she had poured me a cup of tea she showed me a document which purported to be a 15-year-old letter from Stone to Butler, with amazingly convoluted small print which seemed to say, among many other things, that in the event of the death of one partner, the other would inherit his share of the business.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked shakily. ‘Eric told me everything would be all right if anything …’ The sentence tailed off.

  I tried to reassure her. ‘I would think it very unlikely that Eric would agree to this. Certainly Dermot wouldn’t.’

  ‘It’s his signature.’

  ‘Did Eric ever mention it? Show you his copy?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Have you checked with your solicitor or bank whether they have a copy of any partnership agreement?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You ought to, Dorothy. Because this is so – unlikely …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Suddenly I detected a hint of resolve in her tone.

  I shrugged non-committally.

  ‘You don’t think it could be a forgery, do you?’

  ‘Well … I don’t trust Dermot. I’m not saying he’s a crook, but …’

  She closed her eyes for a few moments and shook her head as a not-very-nice thought seemed to occur to her. She opened her eyes and I saw a steely blue. ‘He’s been trying to convince me that everything was all right, and I was beginning to believe him. But Eric told me the partnership was in real trouble. They had almost stopped talking when … when Eric had his first heart attack. But Dermot won’t admit it. He wants people to believe everything was all right …’

  ‘Make those phone calls tomorrow. And if the business has a separate solicitor, check with him as well. And let me know.’

  ‘I will, Harry. Thank you.’

  Friday, November 15

  Dorothy rang at about teatime. Her solicitor had no such copy; the bank would be able to show her everything in its safe keeping on Monday. The former also promised to check with the solicitor who dealt with B&S affairs.

  NOTES

  Myra Hindley has died. Good.

  I’m not usually an eye-for-an-eye merchant, and I like to think I respect the sanctity of life. But this particular life forfeited its right to sanctity a long time ago.

  Saturday, November 16

  The girls didn’t mind one bit, which was just as well because I needed something to take my mind right away from Dermot Stone, so by 2pm FR and I were ensconced in the Sports Bar of The Hat watching England v Australia. The girls didn’t mind because they could go swanning off to Milton Keynes for a girlie day out – shopping, lunch, Mel Gibson film in the afternoon – without any qualms.

  I think we got the best of the deal. England were awesome, coming from behind to beat the World Champions. Lethal Weapon? Our boys were the lethal weapons. By comparison, Mel was a limp stick of rhubarb.

  Life is never quite perfect. LCFC were two goals up within three minutes at Millwall, but the bastards came back to draw 2-2. And guess who scored the equaliser …

  Fuck.

  Sunday, November 17

  Missed golf in favour of Chrissy’s first Sunday lunch (with more than a little help from Cory) for the family. She opted for an Italian meal – probably very wisely since she was obviously nervous of developing Broccoli Sickness if she tried a roast first time out. But what a superb alternative. From antipasti to primi piatti (pasta pomodoro), secondi piatti (fritto misto), dessert (zabaglione), and cheese (gorgonzola?). The works, washed down with Valpolicella and Frascati. Multo bene. Shame I had to stay sober to drive.

  Samuel tried his damnedest to take the spotlight from the meal and our chefs. He now spends less time sleeping and more time alert, watching what is going on. He shows his Dad’s strength in his back and neck, so he can now sit up with just the loosest support for his head, occasionally throwing his head back forcefully just to make sure you’re concentrating. Jules and I took it in turns to bottle-feed him while Sarah and Mike helped to wash up. (No Ronnie or Sally or Mia, by the way.)

  Tried to write when we got home, but couldn’t concentrate.

  Monday, November 18

  Dorothy rang again at teatime. The only document in the bank safe relating to the business was from when S&B was founded. It was a letter drawn up by the two men setting out in general terms an agreement for a 50-50 partnership – everything shared, from setting-up expenses to profits – and what would happen if one of them wanted to end the partnership (a vague buy-out clause that looked to have little legal substance), but nothing about what would happen in the event of a death.

  And, yes, the business did have its own solicitor. But, no, he didn’t have any documents similar to the one Dermot had shown Dorothy.

  Mmm. I asked her to let me have a think about it for a few days. Meanwhile, not to worry – Stone didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  NOTES

  The UN chief weapons inspectors are back in Baghdad. Wonder what advice they could give me for unearthing Stone?

  Tuesday, November 19

  Finally got my letter from the hospital today. I have an appointment on December 13 – Friday, December 13. Oh, jolly good! Good job I’m not superstitious. Mind you, I’m pretty sure it’s unlucky to walk under a black cat.

  Michael Jackson has finally flipped. Amazing TV pictures of him dangling his baby son out of hotel bedroom window 60ft above the street. Tosser!

  Oops – possibly not the most appropriate choice of profanity.

  NOTES

  James Coburn died. Cool dude. Well, cold dude now.

  Wednesday, November 20

  I stopped at Dorothy’s on the way in to work. I advised her to see her solicitor, tell him what she had told me, and get him to write a letter to Stone. That would sort him out.

  I was a model of restraint and common sense.

  Probably just as well I didn’t see her after I’d gone through this morning’s mail. A letter from Butler & Stone informed me that Mr Stone would no longer be requiring the Early Spring Brochure which I had printed for B&S for the past ten years. Furthermore, they would no longer be requiring my services for any printed material. And further to the furthermore, Mr Stone offered me fifty per cent of the money owing on our last invoice because the work was not up the standard required.

  I phoned the bastard straight away. I was a model of unleashed fury. I told him the standard of our last job was as high as ever; the only standard I had noticed slipping lately was in Abingdon and had been brought about by the death of Eric Butler; I didn’t want to work for a fucking twat like Dermot Stone anyway; and if I didn’t get my final invoice paid in full by the end of the week – it was now ten days beyond the usual thirty-days’ grace – I would be round there to punch his fucking
lights out. Or words to that effect.

  I was shaking by the time I put the phone down. I’d never spoken to anyone like that in my life before; not even a fucking twat. I detest violence, even verbal violence. Even if I don’t like people I am usually polite/calm/reasonable (one or t’other) to their face. Behind their back is occasionally a different matter.

  I didn’t say anything about Dorothy. Perhaps just as well.

  Ronnie and Sally had undoubtedly heard me ranting, even though the press was going, and they wisely spent the morning studiously giving me a wide berth.

  I made my excuses to Cory and Chrissy and went home at lunchtime.

  Jules was as worried as I was. She put it down to stress – a pile of straws building up on my back; not that she was comparing me to a camel. Our siblings and the money, Bob Eckman, my father dying, Eric Butler dying, funerals, Stone and Dorothy… it was bound to have some sort of cumulative effect.

  ‘You need a holiday,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t,’ I said wistfully. ‘Got the big move in less than a fortnight. Gotta go over to Abingdon and punch some lights out. Gotta… what else?’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me – Sarah phoned this morning. They’re having their stripping party this Saturday. Quite a lot of their mates are free apparently. I told her we’d be there. Er …’

  ‘No problem. Just watch out, fucking wallpaper.’

  NOTES

  There are riots in Nigeria – hundreds dead apparently – and it’s something to do with the Miss World competition due to be staged there. Sadly all the bimbos who perpetuate this stupid, pathetic, semi-pornographic, fucking meat market – the bimbos who denigrate my wife, and denigrate all the women I know – are still alive.

  I am fucking angry. Look out, tomorrow.

  Thursday, November 21

  I woke calm and focused, and remained that way even though my SLF were throbbing (probably tension, I suspected). I would focus on work, until the big move was over, and then Jules and I would have a few days’ sunshine before Christmas. Canaries or somewhere; not too far away.

  Quiet day. Home in time for Countdown. Looking good, Vord.

  Ronnie and Sally are going out to dinner quite regularly, it appears. Trust Jules to be right. I am still wary about their relationship because we are talking two partnerships here, and they both mean a lot to me.

  Friday, November 22

  Saw a Green Goddess as I drove in to work. It did look quaint, and marginally more useful than its army crew would be lined up pissing against a blaze. I watched it pulling up to a pump at the Esso station. The sight of the driver fiddling to open the fuel cap filled me with great confidence, as the radio news told me all about the firefighters’ eight-day strike starting today.

  Another quiet day. No sign of a cheque from B&S. I remained calm, and decided to allow for the vagaries of the modern postal service. It will probably be in Monday’s post. If not I shall take a little drive over to Abingdon.

  And punch the fucker’s lights out.

  Saturday, November 23

  I’d completely forgotten about the England v South Africa rugby match on the TV when I agreed to join Mike and Sarah’s stripping party. There was no Sky TV at Kidsville, no electricity even at present, which meant either watching the early-evening highlights on BBC or going back on my word. And we couldn’t have either of those eventualities, could we?

  So … I made a couple of phone calls and organised a third scenario to please all parties, with the possible exceptions of Jules and MJ. But, hey, Aitch and FR are used to that. My old mucker agreed to come and strip with me in the morning, as it were, and Sarah was happy to swap my two hours-off in the afternoon for an extra pair of hands in the morning (assuaging her guilt that she and Mike will be away for the weekend of the office move, I suspect).

  There was an unforeseen snag: when FR and I announced soon after our primus-stove hotdogfest that we were nipping off for a while – to watch the rugby down the pub – seven other male strippers revealed they were all avid sports fans. The girls weren’t best pleased, but democracy won out (there were only eight of them). So nine of us trooped down to The Cocked Hat and were royally entertained by the finest rugby team in the world – and the dirtiest. The Boks were thugs who got what they deserved, a 53-3 thrashing.

  We got back to Kidsville, elated and sober enough to actually want to return to work, five minutes after the match ended – to find most of the girls pissed out of their heads on the canned beer we should have been drinking. Only Sarah was definitely sober, but she had Sam to see to.

  Women, eh – you just can’t trust ’em when there’s booze around.

  It was beginning to get dark so we all piled in to finish one bedroom and then called it a day, amid much giggling by the girls. We had already completely stripped the living and dining rooms and got halfway through the second bedroom. A good day’s work.

  Jules and I walked home in the dark absolutely knackered, one of us nevertheless finding the energy to giggle like a girl.

  Must stop doing that.

  Sunday, November 24

  Jules and I did something we haven’t done for a long time, at least at home. We had a lie-in-cum-love-in. I’m usually Captain Slow first thing in the morning – an ideal partner for women who like to know they have as long as they like to reach orgasm without some premature idiot coming to a shuddering halt just as things are getting interesting – but I guess Jules isn’t very good at mornings either.

  She was this morning. She rode me like a bronco, and near snapped the damned thing off.

  NOTES

  The Miss World contestants were flown to London to try to stage the competition here. Watching them on the TV news was like going back 30 years. Sad, sad, sad.

  Monday, November 25

  10.45pm.

  I have just sat up watching Alan Partridge and discovered he drives a Lexus. And all I could do was smile in a resigned sort of way. I guess I’m punch drunk.

  There was, of course, no B&S cheque in the post this morning. I didn’t drive over straight away. First I rehearsed my little speech. That took all of two minutes.

  I gave the receptionist a nice smile, said Mr Stone was expecting me, and swept on by towards his office. The door was closed. I knocked and went in without waiting for an invitation.

  Stone closed the file on his desk with some guilt, looked at me with not a little indignation, and said with quite a bit of venom, ‘Get out!’

  ‘I’ve come for my cheque, Dermot,’ I replied with all the force I could muster. ‘And don’t tell me it’s in the post.’

  ‘You haven’t replied to my offer.’

  ‘Yes, I have – on the phone. Our work was fine. I want the full sum as agreed between me and Butler and Stone.’

  ‘Between you and Butler.’

  ‘Was Eric not a partner here?’

  ‘I’m saying … I didn’t agree to it.’

  There was a slight pause while we both thought. I decided I had to take the bully by the horns.

  ‘Right. I guess I’ll have to punch your lights out then,’ I said.

  Stone lifted the receiver off the phone. I put my hand on top of his and slammed it down again. Like some bad movie. He got to his feet and said, ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  I did! I fucking did!

  I frightened the life out of myself doing it, but I caught him flush on the chin with a right hook. I’d boxed half a dozen times at school, properly in a ring, and spent most of the time back-pedalling, but I did learn how to throw a punch properly. It must be like learning to ride a bike because this was the first time I had actually got round to doing it in forty years. It hurt my knuckles like hell, but presumably not as much as it hurt Stone.

  The punch sent him back into his seat. He sat looking at me, dazed and bemused, not sure what to do next. I thought I had better help him along a bit.

  ‘Do you want another one?’ I asked, silently praying that he didn’t, while behind my back I rubbed my throbbing
knuckles.

  He shook his head to say No. Then shook it again to try to recover his wits. With at least half of them back in place, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a fat company chequebook.

  While he wrote, I said, ‘If this bounces you’re in big trouble. And if you don’t stop trying to con Dorothy Butler you will have the police knocking at your door.’

  His eyes opened wide. They were full of incredulity.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to this business, or are planning to do, but if Dorothy doesn’t get her just desserts … the next time I come knocking at your door I’ll have every businessman in Oxfordshire with me, waiting their turn to punch your fucking lights out. All right?’

  He nodded, his eyes now haunted with fear.

  I went home. Stopping en route to bank his cheque.

  I haven’t told Jules yet. She was out when I got back home, spending the day with Sarah and Samuel – in reality taking Sarah for her first girlie shopping day since the birth, and Sam on his first of many. They went to Milton Keynes, spent too much money, and rang me soon after five. Jules was staying to watch Sam have his bath and then have a meal with them; did I mind getting my own meal?

  Not at all. I welcomed it. I oven-cooked some haddock and chips from the freezer, and then settled in front of the widescreen, mindlessly watching – something – and mindlessly drinking whisky. God knows how much I had but I still feel sober, and Jules went to bed soon after her late return without noticing anything untoward.

  Women.

  Tuesday, November 26

  Buried myself in work. Moving office is probably more stressful than moving house, if you’re the boss (and your livelihood depends on it), so we three bosses got stuck in big time. We worked like Trojans. Until we decided the bottom had fallen out of the hollow wooden horse market, and then went back to packing and discarding.