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

by Frank Rawlins

  The kids and our extended family were unstinting and unwavering in their support; sitting in for me, sitting in with me, keeping the mundanities of my life ticking over (paying bills, organising laundry, shopping, feeding me) while juggling with their own lives and their own levels of grief. Sarah and Mike, Cory and Chrissy, Ronnie and Sally were all wonderful. Even Chrissy’s mother Maureen helped, and she had never met either of us before. Ruth came down regularly to help me tend her daughter, even though she was not in great health herself, Jennifer and Jayne were constantly in touch, and Caroline sat with me at least once a month. Even Arnie and Mags did their bit.

  No one asked me about money; no one asked me for money. I hadn’t a clue what was happening with my bank account and my investments. I received regular statements, of course, but I couldn’t take anything in. Was I still rich? Was I getting poorer? Or was I getting richer?

  It didn’t matter a flying fart.

  The old fool who crashed into Jules (the name Stanley Archer is forever etched on my psyche) said a cat had run in front of his car and he had instinctively swerved to avoid it. Tragically by the time he hit our drive a second or two afterwards it was too late to swerve and avoid Jules.

  She gave her life for a cat.

  Excuse me while I squeeze out a few more tears.

  A fucking moggie! Jesus. Jules didn’t even like cats!

  Early in May 2004 Jules was declared to be in permanent vegetative state. I know all about this, too.

  The British Medical Association recommends that people in vegetative state should have a high standard of nursing care, good nutrition, and stimulation. But if after a year doctors believe the condition is irreversible, and that keeping the patient alive is not in his or her best interests, consideration can be given to withdrawal of treatment.

  In England, any decision to stop a person's care has to be verified by the courts.

  Over the year three consultants had been involved in Jules’s case (it wouldn’t be fair to name them). Each considered her to be a borderline case. But when it came to the crunch, one was in favour of stopping treatment, one was in favour of continuing treatment, one was in favour of a six-month extension before a decision was made.

  We had no option but to take the third way.

  Life went on. More than that. New life began.

  Sarah gave birth to Grace Julia on August 3, 2004. She looked like Samuel at birth, only dark-haired and even more beautiful.

  A month later she saw her grandmother for the first time; and Samuel saw her for just the second time since the accident. Sam was still a baby when he first saw his grandma in hospital, a baby with no speech and no long-term memory, but Sarah was sure he had gone home upset by the experience. But now he had a few words and a little understanding she thought it was right to try again. And I just had this feeling that Jules’s new granddaughter might somehow, by some unknown miracle, I suppose, ignite a tiny spark somewhere deep in her psyche. Just a gurgle, or a cough, or even a little cry might awaken something deep down in Jules’s brain perhaps. Anything was worth a try. Besides, it was only right that grandmother and granddaughter be introduced.

  When both were still and quiet, seemingly both asleep, Sarah gently pulled down the sheet covering Jules, adjusted her gown, and laid little Grace on her grandma’s bosom, holding her lightly, ready to remove the burden should either party seem distressed. A contentment seemed to settle on them both. Jules appeared to smile. And for a while we all held our collective breath and hoped against hope that this might be the beginning of some miracle. But then Jules grimaced, and hope faded.

  Samuel seemed more inquisitive than upset, fascinated by the equipment; the dials, the lights, the tubes were all strange objects to be touched and hopefully played with. In the end Mike had to pick him and keep him out of harm’s way.

  I think it was then that I knew – these two beautiful children would never know their Grandmother Jules. We all knew. It was a very sad day.

  There can be no harder decision for anyone. To have the power of life or death for your special loved one. At first I couldn’t bring myself to do it. To say Yes, let’s switch it off. Let’s switch her off.

  The hardest thing is to get over the feeling – at times, the almost certain knowledge – that you are doing this for yourself. That you can’t live this way for the rest of your life; that you are not brave enough to go on and on and on; that you are doing it to make some sense of the rest of your life.

  But even when you start to come to terms with that, how do you know your special loved one will never recover? Seemingly miraculous recoveries have happened; some after many years. How can you deny someone that chance?

  I didn’t think I could.

  One decision I did make, also after much agonising, albeit not on a life-or-death scale, was to write my story.

  The whole town now knew Jules and I were Lottery jackpot winners, and I just had the feeling that whether Jules made any sort of recovery or not I probably wouldn’t be able to bring myself to write anything worthwhile. I would probably NEVER FINISH THAT FUCKING NOVEL!

  Or if I did, it would be shite. So …

  I had this story, already three-quarters written in my diary. The Diary Of A Lottery Winner. Perhaps now it had some sort of worthwhile meaning.

  I give the local papers their due. They didn’t publish the story of ‘The Town’s First Lottery Jackpot’. Whether that was out of respect for a former colleague, or because I had issued some veiled threats, I have no idea. But The Echo’s story of the accident began, ‘A Lottery jackpot winner was critically injured this week …’

  FR told me, when I was in a good enough state to be told, that a new editor had started only a couple of weeks earlier, and he was determined to make his mark on the paper with his own hard-hitting style. I can’t blame him for that. The story meant nothing to him except a headline.

  FR also told me, journalism being what it was, he would probably have done the same. Not for a close mate, obviously, but for somebody he didn’t know.

  I had worked on newspapers long enough to know, had I become the trainee reporter rather than FR, I would probably also have succumbed to the temptation to make the most of a good local story.

  I still consider myself a writer as well as a printer, but I don’t know how good, or bad, I am. Or perhaps, was. I virtually abandoned my diary after the accident; I had other things to do. And the novel, of course, has moved on not one jot.

  However, FR does know good writing when he sees it, so I had no hesitation in asking him to look at my story and knock into shape if need be.

  Thanks, mate.

  So here goes. The diary picks up roughly where my life began to pick up. Rounded up a little, to give a nice neat restart.

  2007

  Monday, January 1

  10.35pm.

  Spent the day in a dream. Got absolutely slaughtered at The Cocked Hat last night. Smoked like a chimney fire, too.

  Just me and the Usual Suspects. Sarah and Mike were down in Kent, Cory and Chrissy in Edinburgh (street party called off because of high winds after they had driven all that way!), Ronnie and Sally in Leicester, FR and MJ in Lincolnshire. Lots of calls and lots of texts after midnight. I must practise my texting; it took me half an hour to reply to just one.

  Glad I didn’t go to The Crown. The only person I missed was Blind Hugh.

  NOTES

  Nothing changes, does it? Except the embargo on the New Year’s Honours List, apparently. Found out at the weekend that knighthoods had gone to MI6 chief John Scarlett for taking the rap for ‘sexing-up’ the dossier on Iraq, allowing Tony Blair to go to war, and to James Dyson for taking hundreds of UK jobs to the Far East.

  Arise, Sir Fall Guy!

  Arise, Sir Takenustothecleaners!

  For the record, and totally unconnected of course, Saddam Hussein was hanged on Saturday, December 30, 2006.

  Tuesday, January 2

  Non-alcohol day. Just two rollies.


  Went into the shop for a couple of hours mid-morning. Proofread a few bits for Ronnie; went over the books with Sal. Everything seems to be fine.

  Very sad day. See below.

  Love you, Jules.

  NOTES

  Pretty five-year-old girl Elle Lawrenson was mauled to death by a ‘pitbull-type’ dog owned by her uncle. Her granny was badly injured fighting the dog off. The dog was shot.

  The uncle should be, too. And every other macho owner of a macho dog. Sad inadequate twats.

  Thursday, January 4

  Almost midnight.

  I wasn’t going to write anything today. A, I’d got nothing to say; B, the old fingers are painful. But I ought to record this painful note ...

  NOTES

  Fucking cricketers capitulated again. Shameful 5-0 whitewash after winning the Ashes only 15 months ago. Gutless bastards. Bad mistake making Freddie Flintoff captain. Hope it doesn’t ruin him as an all-rounder.

  Saturday, January 6

  11.45pm.

  Baby-sat Samuel and Grace (belated Christmas do for sports centre staff). Sam was still awake when I arrived, but he fell asleep as I read a story. Grace slept through my entire stay. She is beautiful. I sat just looking at her for ages. Wishing …

  Sarah and Mike arrived back, as promised, at about 11.30. Mike was pissed (haven’t seen him drunk for ages, and probably never quite that bad, but he did warn us); Sarah was fuming. It sounded like they had been arguing all night. Very unlike them, but then not even family knows what goes on behind closed doors. Anyway, I made my excuses and left. As stone-cold sober as the night. But I did stand at the French windows with a rather large Orgasm and a cigar until the muse came over me. That was a first for a long time, too.

  Sunday, January 7

  Mmmm … fuck.

  Rather a short-lived muse.

  Wednesday, January 10

  Did almost a full day at the abattoir. Not sure if I was appreciated or not. The youngsters tend to tiptoe round me. I’m sure they breathe a big sigh of relief as soon as I leave.

  Popped over to Kidsville afterwards to see the little kids. Read them a story. Then played piggy-backs and rides and throwing and tickling. Grace giggles like a maniac. Her hair is quite long now; a proper little girl. My little angel with a devilish giggle. Then I had to read them another story to calm them down.

  Friday, January 12

  Fucking weather. Will it ever get any better? Seems like we’ve had gales and rain since Christmas. Spent half the day trying to save the bit of trellis dividing off the veg patch. Should have just let it blow away. Think I can still afford a bit of trellis.

  Email from Cory:

  Late Christmas joke … One of Three Wise Men entering stable cracks his head on the lintel and exclaims, ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Mary tells Joseph, ‘Make a note of that – it’s better than Derek.’

  NOTES

  Here’s another cracker:

  Yesterday George Bush announced that the US will send another 21,500 troops to Iraq to sort out the insurgents. This morning we learn that the US House of Representatives has passed a bill backing embryonic stem cell research, which could eventually lead to cures for Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, but George Bush is against it because it would ‘destroy human life’.

  It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

  Fucking fundamental extremist tosser.

  Saturday, January 13

  Lucky for some. But not many (see below).

  NOTES

  Now Poodle Blair announces Britain must be a war-maker as well as a peace-keeper. He and Bush are so fucking transparent – trying to justify their unjustifiable positions. Two fine Christians, eh? What a joke. You’re just two stupid, pathetic men with the blood of a generation on your hands. Lots of it.

  ‘Give War A Chance’ eh? Tony. Let’s make it the next election manifesto and see how many vote for it.

  Fucking fundamental extremist tosser.

  Sunday, January 14

  My first proper Sunday lunch for several weeks, since Sarah last took pity on me. This time it was Cory and Chrissy. Maureen was there, too. Nice old girl. Well, not that old. Probably a bit older than me, but I daren’t ask. What if she’s only 40! Just not weathered very well. Mind you, she’s been through it, too – nasty divorce apparently.

  As usual, they all did their best to keep me cheerful. And I was.

  Love you, Jules.

  Monday, January 15

  Another dry day! Well, mostly. Did a much-needed morning of physical work, spreading compost over the veg patch and some of Jules’s new borders. Caught up with work pm, after Mrs South had finished the cleaning.

  Thursday, January 18

  Sarah and the kids came round for tea. I knocked us all up Cordon Bleu fish fingers, waffles, and peas. I think Sarah and I enjoyed it as much as the kids. Then we all watched CBeebies for a while, before a little ‘rough’ play to tire them out for bed. But I think it knackered me more than them. Much more tiring than muck-spreading!

  Non-alcohol day. But a couple of rollies after they had gone.

  My only belated New Year Resolution is to devote as much time as I can, as will be appreciated without overdoing it, to Sam and Grace. Feel much better when they are around.

  Friday, January 19

  Went for my six-monthly blood-pressure check. A tad high according to Dr Macca, but nothing to worry about. Somehow got round to SLF, which are playing up after unaccustomed physical work, and somehow found myself agreeing to see a new neurologist (I managed to refrain from asking if she had developed a stutter) at the hospital. She knows the bloke apparently, so she’s hoping to get me a quick appointment. Disgraceful nepotism. I shall write to my MP.

  Saturday, January 20

  Sarah and the kids dropped in unexpectedly as I was pottering in the garden this morning, enjoying an unexpected burst of sunshine. Mike was working and she said she just wanted to get out of the house. Her eyes looked a bit puffy so naturally I asked her if everything was all right. She assured me it was. So why do I know it isn’t? I didn’t press her. Christ, Jules and I had enough ups and downs. They’ll sort it out.

  We’ve both got too much on our minds obviously, because we realised we’d both blocked out my ‘Six-Oh’ celebration next weekend, when we should have been writing lists and shopping.

  I would have been happy just to piss off abroad somewhere but Sarah and Chrissy persuaded me it would do me good to have everyone around me. I think it will just reduce me to a pathetic crying wreck. We shall see.

  Sarah and Cory volunteered to jointly host/organise the occasion, but at my place so I can just stumble up the stairs when it’s over. And if I am reduced to a pathetic crying wreck it won’t be in public.

  Our place, Jules. Sorry.

  Love you.

  NOTES

  This ugly, thick person called Jade Goody proves herself a bullying racist – and people are surprised? She and Celebrity Big Brother have quite rightly become a national scandal. I don’t just blame Channel 4 for wallowing in it. I blame the people who watch this shit. If they had more brains Channel 4 wouldn’t have an audience.

  What the fuck happened to this pioneering channel?

  Sunday, January 21

  Didn’t see another soul today. Couldn’t face the pub. Read a while, thought a lot, watched some crap on the TV. Nothing seems to interest me. Except perhaps the garden.

  Monday, January 22

  Did some more mooching in the bitter cold (Mrs South’s hoovering was driving me mad). Until I couldn’t feel my SLF or SLT. Surfed listlessly. Tried to start new Bill Bryson, but couldn’t even knuckle down to that.

  Wednesday, January 24

  11pm.

  Cory came round mid-afternoon with a bootful of booze, mainly beer and wine, and a box of hired glasses. He commandeered half the kitchen to set up a little ‘bar’ ready for Sunday, while we tested one of the real ales. It was so good we had another. Before we knew it, it was six o
’clock, and I made us some pasta with a speedy cook-in sauce and we opened a bottle of red wine to sample that. It was very good.

  We talked business and nonsense, sport and TV. And finished the bottle of wine. Chrissy was away ‘up North’ on business so he was happy to drink and stay the night, but I think he only did it so he didn’t have to leave me alone.

  He got quite pissed. He’s in the spare room. I can hear him snoring.

  I still feel sober, but I don’t suppose I am.

  Saturday, January 27

  Sarah and Mike and the kids spent most of the afternoon with me. They seemed to be okay, a bit subdued but smiling and relaxed. They brought with them two big boxes full of goodies, some of which went into the fridge, some into the larder, some straight into the dining room. I let Sarah and Mike get on with it while I occupied the kids.

  I showed Sam how to play noughts and crosses, which he thought was brilliant, even though he couldn’t grasp the strategy, and then we all played Snap. Giggles galore.

  Great afternoon.

  Sunday, January 28

  10pm.

  This morning I didn’t feel 60; or rather 59 and 362 days. Tonight I feel a least 69 and 362 days.

  What a day.

  I woke early feeling good, the sun shone, my cooked breakfast was a feast. All the Oxford émigrés arrived together – three cars in a convoy, horns blaring, the last one pulling a trailer with a big gift-wrapped tarpaulin hiding its pregnant secret. They made me unwrap it straight away. My ride-on mower! After all these years of threatening to buy one. Gob-smacked just about describes it.