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

by Frank Rawlins

  Monday, December 9

  Our pool man came first thing. His drawings were worth the wait. The two ideas were very similar; one was just quite a bit larger than the other, taking up more of the garden, and costing about £8K more.

  Spent 11am-3pm in the shop and abattoir, and discovered the reality of a bleak Monday in the high street, or at least Ironmonger Street. Trade was slow, except for a flurry at lunchtime when office workers took their break; but at least we had the orders from Saturday to work on, plus flyers for Pizza Shed and a brochure for Kearney-Clarke’s next auction. Things are okay.

  Tuesday, December 10

  Fairly quiet but busy in the abattoir butchering Pizza Shed’s piss-poor copy.

  Wednesday, December 11

  Slightly busier.

  NOTES

  An inquest ruled that John Entwistle died from heart failure brought on by cocaine abuse. So much for Ronnie’s assertion that cocaine isn’t a lethal drug.

  Friday, December 13

  Nothing horrific happened at the hospital, except that I had to wait an hour and a bit before I got to see a consultant. Mr Lysett-Khan thought it most unlikely that my SLF and occasional SLT were the result of anything serious, such as Motor Neurone or Osteoarthritis or MS (I fear I was putting diseases into his mouth).

  It then took another hour for a junior doctor of some description to take some blood, some spinal fluid (a painful procedure, or a clumsy doctor, or both), and eventually escort me to X-Ray, where – surprise surprise – there was no queue and I went straight in.

  I left feeling morbid, my digits hurting, my back in spasm. I called in briefly at the shop. They told me I looked terrible and ordered me to go home. I did.

  Saturday, December 14

  I woke with agonising pain in my fingers, but my usual exercises did the trick. And thankfully my back seemed okay.

  Busy day in the shop, but we’re not talking Hamley’s Christmas rush here. It was bearable, partly because we had Kim to help us, and partly because we’re getting the hang of it. Bit of a strange girl, Kim. If anything, prettier than her sister, in a Goth sort of way, but with a disconcerting habit of staring without blinking while coming up with statements too profound for most of us. Statements that do not require a comment or answer, but because of the way she looks at you, you feel you have to say something, so it usually comes out as trite or nonsensical.

  Still, give her her due, she didn’t disconcert any customers; just Jules and me. We couldn’t work out whether she was being serious or not. Ronnie just smiled at her every comment; he must have got used to her.

  Anyway, we were winding down in The Half Moon when something even more disconcerting than Kim befell us. A young lady I vaguely recognised walked towards our alcove and, before any of us had even focused on her, she had pulled a camera from behind her back and taken two pictures of our group.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, and turned towards the bar, from where someone else I vaguely recognised was approaching.

  As soon as he stretched a hand out to introduce himself, I remembered: the reporter and photographer from the Echo. Jules and I remained calm; Ronnie and Sally were bemused; Kim seemed amused.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the girl again. ‘I got such a terrible telling-off from the editor last time for not taking a picture, even though we wouldn’t have used it.’

  ‘Policy,’ added the reporter, Mark. ‘Take one just in case. If there’s no story …’

  ‘In case of what?’ I asked.

  He did at least have the sensitivity to move closer into the alcove and lower his voice, so that if there was no story to print we could be sure that the customers of The Half Moon wouldn’t do his job for him. ‘In case … sorry about this, but we’ve had another strong tip-off. Um, our source told us, er, you definitely won the jackpot, and you used the money to set up a new business …’ He nodded towards Ironmonger Street. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘No comment,’ I said.

  ‘That usually means it is true.’

  ‘Take it to mean what you like. I take it to mean I am not dignifying an anonymous source with a comment. Print what you feel you have to print. I would just say that I worked in newspapers for many years, and I do know about the industry’s Code Of Practice, not to mention the laws of libel. So exercise some caution. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some drinking to do.’

  ‘It is unwise to shoot the messenger,’ said Kim evenly and mysteriously, ‘but past experience shows us that … a good kicking in the bollocks usually does the trick.’

  NOTES

  Leicester beat Millwall 4-1, after being 0-1 down within seconds. The otiose Wise got a lot of abuse and a booking. Yabbadabbadoo!

  The even better news is that the bid by the Lineker consortium to buy LCFC has been accepted by the administrators. We will not die! We will grow and flourish under St Gary! He just needs a few more millions apparently.

  Sunday, December 15

  SLF, SLT.

  I laid it on the table for Jules at breakfast (and then we talked, boom, boom!): much more of this and I’ll crack up. I had spent the night tossing and turning, trying to work out what was happening here, and what we could do about it. And I thought I had come up with not only a likely scenario but also a possible final act. She agreed, and helped me work out the timetable:

  12.05p.m.: Arnie enters The Duke Of York (oooh-er, Matron), under the mistaken impression that leaving it till five minutes after opening won’t make him look too eager.

  1.05: Arnie has had three pints of Cooking and is feeling like a king.

  2.05: Arnie leaves half cut. The walk home is a bit meandering so it takes longer than the five minutes it took to get there.

  2.40: Arnie has finished a lovely Sunday roast, with maybe a big glass of wine, followed by ice-cream, and is burping loudly; a noise which means ‘bring me my cup of tea, woman’.

  2.45: Arnie has settled in his armchair. Another 10 minutes and he’ll be snoring.

  I rang at 2.50p.m. precisely. Mags answered, but she soon roused Arnie from his chair.

  ‘Why did you have to go and do it, Arnie?’ I said without preamble.

  ‘What?’ he muttered.

  ‘Go and tell the press. It’s not very nice thing to do, Arnie; to your own brother. Not once but twice. Why did you do it, Arnie?’

  ‘What d’yer mean?’ He sounded befuddled and alarmed.

  ‘Telling them I’d won the Lottery jackpot. It’s not as if it’s a story any more. A piddling three million.’

  ‘Piddling! Three and half bloody million. The bloody half would do most people!’

  ‘You need at least a roll-over these days, preferably a double roll-over, to make it newsworthy.’

  ‘Not for a local newspaper.’

  ‘Ah…’

  I’d never heard a befuddled silence before, but this was one.

  ‘Why did you do it, Arnie?’

  ‘Because you’re a tight git, and some tosser told me they’d pay me for the story.’

  My silence was more one of total deflation.

  Sold for thirty pieces of silver by my own brother. Well, in spirit if not reality …

  ‘But I haven’t made a penny out of it,’ he added lamely, as if this were some sort of mitigation.

  I rang off.

  Monday, December 16

  The answerphone has been buzzing since 5pm yesterday; bit like a voice-mail choir. Arnie, Mags, Arnie, Arnie, Mags, Double Glazing Twat, Arnie … click.

  I went into work, gave strict instructions that no phone calls were to be put through to me, killed some time in the abattoir until after lunch, and then went home.

  I rang Arnie mid-afternoon, when it was almost certain that they would both be out, and left this message on their machine: ‘Arnie, we’ll be up on Sunday, as agreed. I do not wish to speak to you about this matter before then. We can talk at John’s.’

  Jules and I finally got round to hunting out our Christmas tree and decorations – yes, in the loft –
and made the living room and kitchen Chistmassy. Then we drank rather a lot of wine while I prepared and cooked a chicken/vegetable stir-fry.

  MLTJ. Bit of a mistake. Neither of us was really up for it; just going through the motions. God, I must be getting old.

  Tuesday, December 17

  Shop getting into a nice routine now. Kim is a godsend – I can come home early again with a clear conscience!

  Sarah and Mike stopped off for tea with us, largely, we suspect, because they know we like to see Samuel as often as possible. And also because they wouldn’t be making the trip to Leicester (Kent again – being considerate and making sure David and Sylvia share the joy that is Sam).

  Dorothy Butler phoned early evening with great news and effusive thanks. Dermot Stone has gone back on everything he said about the mysterious letter. He is in the process of selling the business, or at least Eric’s half of it, and has promised her a cheque that will provide a good retirement income.

  She believes him. I think I do; he sounds a frightened man.

  Wednesday, December 18

  Went round to ECO for the first time in weeks. I do believe Cory and Chrissy were snogging the moment before I entered the showroom. At least they were emerging from a hug when I walked in.

  ‘Oi!’ I said, ‘customers don’t want to see that. Well, not male customers – it reminds them of why they need to buy a sex-substitute in the first place.’

  I swear Chrissy blushed.

  ‘Why, Christine, you’re blushing,’ I said mischievously.

  ‘Am I?’ she giggled. And blushed some more.

  Cory asked if it was okay if he and Chrissy met up with us at Leicester, so she could meet the rest of the clan. I couldn’t say No, even though I knew that would be the wisest thing to say. It was just too complicated to explain.

  I got home to find a bunch of flowers waiting for me – from Dorothy – along with a sweet note.

  Friday, December 20

  Oh, my God – St Gary’s consortium could be in trouble before it’s even got going. It appears that the greedy bastard taxman wants the consortium to cough up £4million before it does anything else. A club spokesman allegedly said this puts everything at risk again.

  Couldn’t have happened at a better time.

  Two eye-catchers in The Rag.

  Headline on a small WI report : TROUT AT DANCE

  And a page lead that said the National Front is to launch a branch at Bicester – this as the public inquiry into to the proposed asylum centre opens. Sad bastards. Don’t think too many people will be fooled.

  Saturday, December 21

  10.50pm.

  The last Saturday before Christmas – but you’d never have guessed it. The town wasn’t exactly quiet, but it wasn’t heaving either. More like an averagely busy spring Saturday. We had girded our loins when a bit of Velcro would have done.

  Still, it was a pleasant anti-climax, which climaxed in us eschewing The Half Moon at closing time in favour of a left-over bottle of Bucks Fizz. It was over our paper-cup bubbly that Ronnie decided he ought to mention that he was taking Sally with him to Leicester to meet the folks.

  Oh dear.

  Sunday, December 22

  10.50pm.

  Jules and I made sure we were the first at John and Jayne’s. Arnie must have had more than an inkling because he and Mags were there a few minutes after us. I don’t know if he had put the word round, but Caroline, usually a late-comer, followed a minute later; without Liam. No worries, she told us; he was working. No rest for the 999 service. It was another fifteen minutes before Jennifer and Ruth appeared, but at least they had all arrived before any of the kids. So I launched straight into my speech – rehearsed silently and at length under the duvet in the early hours – to prevent sullying any of those younger ears.

  ‘I’ve been close to cracking up recently, and my health isn’t good – I’ve had to see a specialist about the pains in my joints – and I’m not taking any more of this shit. I’m just not. Otherwise it will be Crazy Corner for me; before my time. It seems whatever I do isn’t right, however much I hand out isn’t enough. I think I’ve been reasonably generous; some of you think I’m a tight git. Now, thanks to some… careless words… my private life might be splashed all over the paper. Those who don’t understand will have to ask Arnie …’

  His expression revealed a momentary thought about protesting, but sanity obviously prevailed and his open mouth closed again.

  ‘Anyway, Jules and I have decided we don’t need all this – and that includes the money. We have a new house, paid for, my new business is going well, our kids have had their inheritance already, so …’

  Talk about gripped. A Boeing 747 could have crash-landed outside as I paused for breath and the denouement, and none of them would have noticed.

  ‘To prevent any more arguments, we’re just keeping enough for a decent retirement fund, and giving away the rest …’

  The gripped and the gobsmacked looked round at each other. Only Ruth was smiling, a tad vacantly. I don’t think she had a clue what was going on.

  ‘It’s going to Gary Lineker’s consortium. To save the City. Where hopefully it will help to bring a lot of pleasure to a lot of people.’

  It was at least half a minute before Jayne said, ‘If you’re going to give it away, why don’t you give it to the family.’

  ‘What and cause more grief? You want me to have a heart attack, do you? It’s done, anyway. The cheque’s written.’

  There followed one of those ‘rhubarb rhubarb’ gabbling conversation scenes from The Goons, where everybody seemed to be talking to everybody else all at once, so Jules and I just slid away towards the sideboard and topped up our drinks.

  Arnie was the first to address us. ‘If it had been me, I would have cut all you lot in for hundred-grand each.’

  Jules said calmly, ‘Idle words, Arnie – it wasn’t you. Learn to live with it.’

  Good one, girl.

  Arnie was unbowed. ‘And I wouldn’t have favoured Cory or Sarah over you two.’

  Jules replied, ‘Ah – that’s what it’s all about. You’re jealous of your own son.’

  Another good one, girl. Jules had obviously been rehearsing as well.

  Arnie spluttered while his brain whirred. Thankfully, the kids (Cory, Ronnie, Stephen, Rebecca, and partners) – who had met up in town for a beer – chose that moment to knock on the door and walk in together, singing carols.

  Ruth broke the momentary defeated silence so swiftly that I don’t think any of the kids noticed. She took great delight in meeting Chrissy and Sally and joshing with Cory and Ronnie about weddings in the New Year.

  A bit of a party broke out. Wow.

  It wasn’t until we were all saying our initial goodbyes (usually at least twenty minutes before final goodbyes) that Arnie inadvertently let the cat out of the bag. And I had to tell the kids what Jules and I had decided.

  Again, there was a stunned silence. Cory was the first to react: ‘Brave step, Dad. Just don’t come to me for a loan when your business goes tits up.’

  Ronnie shook my hand. ‘That’s brilliant, Harry. Well done! Will you be on the club board? Will we get free tickets to see the City.’

  The ensuing laughter did us all good – and set the stage for a reasonably cordial finale. There were some wary kisses and handshakes as Jules and I stood on the threshold of the front door.

  I pointed to the group of carrier bags, holding their presents from Jules and me, under the kitchen table. ‘Arnie was right about me being a cheapskate – there are some cards in there as well. Be careful what you throw away.’

  Monday, December 23

  Only averagely busy at the shop. Knocked off early and went to Wellington’s to pick up our fresh turkey. My only decent freebie every year. It just shows how a thoroughly professional job is appreciated. Thank you, Donald.

  We’re going to try cooking it tomorrow, a la Rick Stein (or was it Worrel-Thingy?), and warming it through in g
ravy on Christmas Day, so Jules doesn’t spend the entire day cooking. I volunteered to be cook, but she just laughed.

  NOTES

  Shit. Joe Strummer has died of a heart attack at just 50 years old. I’m not a great punk fan but The Clash put some much-needed brain into punk.

  They were class rather than crass.

  Tuesday, December 24

  Strangely quiet on Ironmonger Street. People must have finished their Christmas shopping early. I’m not surprised when Christmas starts in October. Eee, when I were a lad …

  We shut up shop at 4pm when Jules came in – mission accomplished, turkey cooked – and gathered in the abattoir for a Christmas drink and some still-warm mince pies she had baked 20 minutes earlier.

  We gave them wrapped Christmas presents, to be unwrapped a day early – a gift box of port and stilton each for Ronnie and Sally, plus cheques for £1,000 each as a bonus for their hard work to make the Big Move so successful – and a £100 book token for Kim, who had spent the past week moaning about the price of her course books. Her squeal of delight was as gratifying, and only a tad louder, than the joint ‘Wow!’ from Ronnie and Sally.

  We received a joint present from Ronnie and Sally – a superb framed engraving of the old butcher’s shop from about 1910 – and a box of Belgian chocolates from Kim.

  Lovely day.

  Just remembered – Ronnie and Sally coyly revealed that they were off in the car as soon as the shop closed, to drive to Herefordshire where they were spending Christmas together in a country hotel.

  Good for them!

  Wednesday, December 25

  11.30pm.