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

by Frank Rawlins

And another lovely day. Not a lot to do with the birth of Christ, but I’m sure he would accept that a warm family celebration is in the Christian spirit.

  Presents first, which took an age because of the huge pile for Sam. As agreed, nobody had splashed out – we had done enough of that this year – but we were all happy with inexpensive personal gifts: books, videos, music CDs, some gardening stuff for Jules, tasteful odds and ends for Kidsville for Mike and Sarah.

  Then we all walked down to The Hat – although Sam did accept a push in his buggy – and were first in at 12.05p.m.. We ensconced ourselves in an alcove near the fire, Sarah and Jules and occasionally me taking it in turn to hold Sam, and spent a pleasant hour warming our cockles, as a steady stream of happy people came in for a wassail. Then, our pockets bulging with tepid crustaceans, we toddled back and ensconced ourselves in the kitchen, where we all helped prepare the meal, some more than others, and tested two bottles of wine. They were both fine.

  Cooking the turkey a day early was a triumph. It tasted terrific and allowed the chefs to prepare the vegetables and trimmings at a leisurely pace, thus eliminating customary Christmas frayed tempers, clashes, and cusswords. We all stuffed ourselves, read the silly cracker jokes, put on silly hats, and played an impromptu game of Snap with the miniature playing cards in Cory’s cracker.

  Then we sat and did nothing for an hour except chat quietly, until Cory and Chrissy had to fulfil the second part of their Christmas family obligation – a late tea with Chrissy’s family (mum, sister, her partner, and toddler daughter).

  It was to be Cory’s first meeting with Chrissy’s mum Maureen – and no doubt we will get the full details in the next day or two.

  The rest of us watched the soaps and/or put Sam to bed and/or had a snooze, amazingly managed to stuff a few morsels of supper down ourselves, and then went to bed.

  I can hear Jules snoring lightly. Mike is intermittently making a noise like a train coming through the house. God knows how Sarah ever gets any sleep.

  My eyes are drooping.

  Thursday, December 26

  I was amazed the calls didn’t come yesterday – but everybody had obviously decided to stick to our tradition of phone-thanks on Boxing Day.

  They were all thrilled and, except for Arnie, not a little embarrassed. As Caroline put it, it’s not every year you get a cheque for £30,000 in your Christmas stocking, and from someone alleged to be a tight git.

  Arnie felt he had been vindicated in saying that £100,000 each was a reasonable sum for siblings. I pointed out that I had written the cheques before the thought had even crossed his mind.

  ‘Yeah, but I was right, wasn’t I?’ he said.

  ‘If you say so, Bruv.’

  ‘I do. Right, gotta go, mate – I’m off to see our boys play.’ He said it with a proud proprietorial air.

  Sadly, they lost again to Ipswich. Two late goals after being 1-0 up.

  NOTES

  Even more sadly, Leicester’s other legend (other than St Gary), Arthur Rowley, has died. I believe he still holds the record as the highest League goal scorer, but was never capped for England.

  Just looked it up – 464 goals in 18 seasons.

  Saturday, December 28

  Fucking rain. Is there no end to it? Jules and I wanted to do some tidy-up/remedial /creative work outside. So, instead, we drove into town to see if the shop was okay. Ronnie and Sally are taking it in turns to man the counter, with Kim, who is taking all the work she can get. All is well.

  Invited round to FR’s for dinner. MJ did some Cajun dish. I think she must have overdone the chillies or something. At any rate, FR and I had to pour a lot of beer down our throats to quench something.

  Frankie boy persuaded us to spend New Year’s Eve at The Crown – possibly our last one there. Only a fiver a head, music and buffet included, and he’d organise the tickets. Bit late but Alec wouldn’t mind.

  Just remembered – Cory phoned. He and ‘Mo’ got on like a house on fire – now she keeps asking Chrissy when the wedding will be.

  NOTES

  Strange story about the strange Raelian sect, whose strange members claim we are all descended from aliens. They expect us to believe that their scientists have become the first to clone a human baby.

  Doo do doo do doo do …

  Sunday, December 29

  Bit of a lie-in, until the head stopped throbbing; then I mooched around for a while. I needed to work. More specifically, I needed to write. So after a bacon-butty brunch I shut myself away in the study and picked up the threads of ‘Mad Dogs And Roy Keane’. This entailed reading over what I had already written. I was not disappointed, but I wasn’t sure where to go next. I wrote a few sentences, rewrote them, deleted them, tried something new, but with the same result. Nothing seemed right.

  I’m desperate to write – but I’m not in the mood. In the zone. So I’m writing this instead.

  Let me look up that quote.

  Hugh Leonard: ‘Writing is neither profession nor vocation but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.’

  Presumably, if he’s right and it is incurable, then publication will not end this self-serving misery. But I’ll still be a failure if I don’t achieve it.

  Monday, December 30

  Shut myself away first thing. It took me a long time to get going, but eventually I did. I was going so well that I could slide some of my office stash of CDs into the computer – The Best Of Van Morrison, Pet Sounds, Beatles 1, The Beautiful South Solid Bronze, Big Squeeze – and enjoy the music without it detracting from what I was doing.

  I was in there all day, bar a short break for a sandwich lunch, and almost doubled my output thus far. Jules was quite happy to leave me to it while she drew up a plan for the altered garden area at the end of the pool extension.

  Quiet night.

  Tuesday, December 31

  3.30p.m.

  A letter dropped on the mat from the hospital mid-morning. They would like to take some more spinal fluid. Nothing to worry about; just a technical problem rendered the test inconclusive.

  Worried!? Course I wasn’t. I rang the surgery straight away, and fortunately Dr Macca was free. She reassured me that if they had spotted anything untoward they would have told me. A technical problem meant just that – an equipment failure, or something.

  Her vague ‘or something’ was no more reassuring than the hospital’s ‘inconclusive’. Why hadn’t they said ‘void’? Or did that just stem from the general malaise these days of imprecise English?

  More likely the latter, I think. Ask a hundred people what ‘invariable’ means and only a few will say correctly ‘always, without exception’. The rest will say ‘usually’ – invariably.

  Anyway, I decided my brain needed a break from the written word; and vowed to try my darnedest to put my inconclusive test out of mind, for at least the rest of 2002.

  Sarah and Mike are staying in – partly because of the New Year’s Eve baby-sitter problem, and partly because they’re not great fans of set-piece piss-ups. Cory and Chrissy are motoring up to Edinburgh, where they are celebrating with an old friend of Chrissy, now living in that fine city, and her husband. They called in for a coffee at about 11am, before setting off, so they should be nearly there by now.

  They were both full of the joys of life, as they should be at their age.

  ‘Everything’s going all right then,’ I said to Cory as Chrissy toddled off to the kitchen to see Jules. ‘You know, ECO. Chrissy …’

  ‘Couldn’t be better, Dad,’ he replied. ‘On both counts.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to call on your generosity again. Thank you for everything.’

  He put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. I was moved, but he didn’t allow me to be moved for too long. ‘Hey – you know what you told us on Chr
istmas Day, about Leicester … well, I had a thought yesterday.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if the Lineker Consortium publish a list of major donors – shareholders, or whatever? And you’re not on it? Which you won’t be 'cos you were never on it, you lying bugger. How will you talk your way out of that one?’

  ‘Well, I shall have to tell Arnie and Co that I asked for No Publicity.’

  God, we laughed.

  2003

  Wednesday, January 1

  I’ve made one New Year Resolution, for a change: I WILL FINISH THAT FUCKING NOVEL!

  There would be several more if it was a wish list rather than a will list: let’s hope we are left unpestered; let’s hope all my loved ones stay healthy and happy; let’s hope my SLF and SLT remain just that; let’s hope Jules and I can begin our graceful slide into full early retirement, and our new pool, and our revamped garden.

  Think I’ll forget the golf green. For now.

  Pissed as a fart last night/this morning apparently. Or so Jules says. But she was crapulent again. This is definitely the last time we go to The Crown for New Year’s Eve.

  I did at least do something I can be proud of this time. I sat and chatted to Blind Hugh as the twatish DJ built up to the conga. There was a general drunken call for Hugh to lead the line but I fended them all off. Hugh was so pissed he wanted to go, but I held him firmly by one arm and shouted imprecations into his nearest ear to drown out all the other noises

  That smooth git FR chatted up Jules all night. Still, had a nice snog with his missus after Auld Lang Syne. HO again. Naughty boy. And she just looked me in the eye and smiled knowingly. Naughty girl.

  Jules and I spent today quietly on our own, recovering, like the old farts we are. And wondering who had left a 4ft-long blow-up trout in the bath.

  This afternoon we settled in front of the widescreen and watched Mary Poppins all the way through.

  Yeah, must have been pissed last night/this morning.

  Early night…

  MLTJ – the best.

  Narrator’s note

  December 2006

  It seems a lifetime ago. And in a way it is.

  So much has happened since 2003 dawned so full of hope. But there is only one date from that year that has any significance for me.

  April 1.

  All Fools’ Day.

  How fucking ironic can you get.

  This is going to shock you, as it did me, coming out of the blue. Crashing in from absolutely nowhere into a routine that had settled into a largely happy, mainly peaceful existence after the anguishes of the previous December.

  It was a warm spring day, and we were pottering in the garden; a real joy after the damp and dismal rigours of winter. Jules was down at the entrance to the drive, by the road, tidying up the spent dwarf daffodils that had made a surprise but welcome early appearance through the grass. I was completing my preparations for turning the ex-veg patch into a bona fide renewed veg patch. I had used some old bricks and paving slabs to make a veggie parterre, I had dug the earth over again, and now I was ready to sow salad seeds. This was a first for me. The first time I had ever sown any seeds in my life. In my mid-fifties. Ridiculous. Why had it taken me so long to discover the joy of growing? I have no idea. Sheer idleness probably.

  I was actually getting excited about sowing some lettuce seeds …

  When there was a screech of tyres, an almighty thump of metal into something, and a shocking wail-cum-scream that shattered the quiet of the neighbourhood and several lives.

  It took me a matter of seconds to dash down there and find a big Volvo estate car crumpled into the wall, and several seconds more to realise that Jules was crushed beneath the metal monster. The front wheel nearest me was across her ankles; the wheel farthest away, on her head. The engine was dead, the driver was still at the wheel in shock, his eyes glazed and goggling at the same time, his head shaking, his mouth open. He was old, he was bald, he was bespectacled. I saw it all; but I saw nothing except Jules.

  I shrieked something – I know no what – at the driver. His only reaction was to turn his goggling, shaking head away from the wall and towards me.

  I dashed round to his door, yanked the old fool out, making the car – and its offside front tyre on Jules’s head – wobble. I realised I couldn’t risk starting the car to move it, and momentarily didn’t know what to do, but instinct kicked in. I closed the driver’s door as gently as I could, crouched and felt beneath for a solid piece of chassis. I’ve no idea what I grabbed, but I just grabbed it as firmly as I could, and then lifted like a pumped-up weightlifter, using every ounce of leverage I could from my legs, straightening little by little from the knees.

  And lifted the Volvo off Jules.

  I eased it a few inches away from the wall and then hurled it, with the waning strength I had left, down the little slope away from my wife. The driver, who was standing behind me and to the side, turned and watched it bounce on the verge and settle half on the road, half on our drive; still mesmerised by events.

  I don’t know where I got the strength – presumably a combination of desperation and adrenalin gave it to me – but at the time I didn’t even think about it. I just did what I had to do and then tended to Jules.

  She wasn’t dead and I couldn’t see any blood, but her breathing was very shallow and her limbs were splayed about in frightening, unnatural positions.

  I put my arms round her head, to comfort her and keep her warm, making sure not to move her, and just talked and talked in a quiet, soothing voice while I waited for help. I’ve no idea what I said, except how much I loved her, how much Sarah and Cory and Samuel and Mike loved her, and everything would be all right.

  I knew several neighbours had dashed to the scene soon after I had, and I heard at least two different voices telling me an ambulance was on its way. Someone draped a blanket over Jules, and someone else patted my shoulder. I saw the unmistakable legs of a policeman, and then two paramedics.

  We were at the hospital less than twenty minutes after the crash.

  And that was just the start of the nightmare that was 2003.

  I have learned a lot about comas. From doctors, nurses, consultants, books, the internet. I know as much as most of them about the Glasgow Coma Scale, or indeed, Glasgow Coma Score, but this isn’t the time or place for medical minutiae.

  This is a good basic description of comas I found on the internet the other day (I couldn’t be arsed to find my own words – I need them for other things):

  A coma is a deep state of unconsciousness, during which an individual is unable to react to his or her environment or to any form of stimulation. Coma can be caused by an underlying illness, or it can result from head trauma. A comatose person is still alive; not simply asleep. You can wake a sleeping person; you can't wake a person in a coma. A coma usually does not last for more than a few weeks. Many people eventually recover their full physical and mental functioning. Others require various forms of therapy to recover as much functioning as possible. Some patients never recover anything but very basic body functions.

  Sometimes a comatose person may enter a vegetative state. A person who has been in a vegetative state for more than one month is said to be in a persistent vegetative state. This is then considered permanent after a year.

  Patients in persistent vegetative state have lost all cognitive neurological function but are still able to breathe and may exhibit various spontaneous movements. They may even awake and appear to be normal but, because the cognitive part of their brain no longer functions, they are not able to respond to their environment. A vegetative state can last for years.

  Usually a coma is considered to be a neurological emergency, and action needs to be taken quickly to avoid permanent damage.

  Jules was operated on as soon as it became apparent that there was swelling – and possibly massive bleeding – in the brain, leading to dangerous pressure in the skull.

  She was on a ventilator the next time
I saw her, hooked up to all sorts of other medical equipment. She was pale and immobile but incredibly beautiful. Serene almost. Like the young girl I had woo-ed and won so many years ago. Lucky me. And now I ached for her in such a different way. It was so painful to see her in limbo, somewhere between life and death. If she died, a huge part of me would die. We had shared so much – virtually everything – for thirty-odd years. We had laughed and loved, teased and bickered, annoyed and angered each other in turn, every week of the way. We were a couple, an item, no matter what. We had expected to grow old together; probably to shuffle off this mortal coil within days of each other.

  The tears came, but not for long. I had to fight for Jules. As always. It was me and her against the world.

  She wasn’t brain-dead, the consultant told me, so there was a possibility of some sort of recovery. More than that he wouldn’t venture. Only time would tell. Sometimes there was a pretty full recovery; sometimes not; sometimes nothing. It was a matter of waiting and intensive nursing care.

  Jules came out of her coma in mid-June, about six weeks after the accident, but she had lost all cognitive neurological function – in other words, she had entered vegetative state. By mid-July the consultant informed me she was in persistent vegetative state.

  She made noises, she wriggled and rucked the bed, she kicked and thrashed sometimes, she grimaced and she smiled, occasionally she opened her eyes, giving me false hope. The body was alive; the mind was … God knows.

  I virtually gave up work and devoted the rest of the year to Jules; holding her hand, mopping her brow, washing her, helping the nurses whenever and wherever I could, and, possibly more importantly, researching her condition and hundreds of recorded recoveries. I bought a lap-top so I could sit with her and research at the same time.