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

by Frank Rawlins

  Before the inevitable happened I sometimes thought it would be a tremendous relief when the limbo ended, whether it ended in life or death. When it did happen, I would have given my right arm for limbo. Probably a leg or two, too. Certainly all our money. Basically, everything up to my own life.

  Possibly to my eternal shame, I don’t think I could have given my life to save Jules’s; not in those circumstances. Before, when she was full of life, I would have defended her against a maniac, yes. But this … it saps you.

  It’s probably just as well the two abominable anniversaries come so close together – get it over with as quickly as possible.

  10pm.

  Subdued day at work. Obviously no one wanted to tread on my grief. Good old Ronnie did have the courage and empathy to mention it (it would have been unreal, surreal even, if no one had dared say a thing).

  ‘Sad day, Uncle Harry,’ he said quietly as we made coffee before opening the shop (first time he had called me ‘uncle’ in an age). ‘Think of Aunt Jules a lot. Miss her a lot.’

  ‘Me too, Ronnie,’ I said.

  We smiled, both with tears in our eyes, and turned our heads downwards to concentrate on the coffee ritual.

  ‘Why don’t you have the day off? Or would that make it worse?’

  ‘I’m okay. I need to keep busy. Do something useful.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We went our separate work ways, communicating quietly as and when necessary, with no mention of second shops, empires, accidents, or deaths.

  As agreed, both Sarah and Cory phoned me during the day for brief chats, and both asked for the umpteenth time if I’d like to go round their place for a meal after a work. I declined for the umpteenth time. I think we all know deep down it’s best to deal with this in our individual ways and not collectively.

  Mike surprised me – and redeemed himself slightly – by emailing: ‘Thinking of you, Aitch.’ A good man still lurks in there somewhere.

  Goodnight, Jules, my darling. I will always love you.

  Thursday April 5

  Today was worse in a way; to start with, at least.

  It was almost as if my lack of tears yesterday set the seal on Jules’s death, and my acceptance of it. I had got over the worst in a remarkably short time – well, the year had flown by. Somehow it seemed an abnegation of everything that Jules and I had had. She had given me 40 years, give or take, of love and care and consideration. She had organised me, she had worried over me, she had cleaned and tidied after me, she had given me two wonderful children, she had given her all to our marriage – and suddenly it seemed none of it mattered enough to me to even shed a tear.

  I had a burger lunch with Cory and Chrissy at ECO – out the back because the weather was so good – and they tried to make it like any other old ECO lunch, relaxed and full of banter, but it never happened. They quite rightly realised it would take more than a day to get over the anniversary, but not why.

  We were saying our subdued goodbyes when Maureen dropped in, one her way home from shopping, laden with bags. She had got fed up with waiting for a bus and had decided to walk – as far as ECO at least – for a cup of tea and then cadge a lift for the last half a mile. It was on my way so I volunteered, and had another cup of tea myself, even though I wasn’t particularly in a sociable mood.

  At six o’clock there was an unexpected knock on the door. Maureen was standing there with a carrier bag.

  ‘I thought you might need some company … and this,’ she said, opening the bag to reveal a bottle of white wine, a silver cigar tube, and packaging that could only contain fish and chips. ‘You do like Pinnott, don’t you?’

  I don’t know why, but I took the Eliza by the Doolittles.

  ‘Peeno – Maureen. And yes, I love it.’

  ‘Good. And you pronounce it Mo, by the way …’

  We laughed like naughty kids.

  ‘I’ve organised a taxi to take me home at half-past eight. And don’t say you’ll drive me – you’ll be half-pissed by then.’

  And I was. We just sat at the kitchen table, eating and drinking, and yakking, yakking, yakking like two old buddies; everything except the very personal stuff. I discovered she loves Codeword puzzles and reading whodunnits, likes to travel when she can afford it, and works for Huckerby’s, something in admin, on ‘a sort of flexitime’, hence the frequent early starts-early finishes. It barely registered when she encouraged me to light the fine Havana indoors, so she could have a drag, too.

  The taxi turned up at the appointed hour, we hugged, and I kissed her chastely on the cheek.

  Fine woman. Clever woman. Thanks, Mo.

  NOTES

  Faye and the other hostages are being released. They are due to fly back home tomorrow thanks to a magnanimous gesture by Iran. Good. Now we can bomb the bastards!

  Friday April 6

  Good Friday. Well, not bad. Gorgeous sunshine again. I pottered for a while and then roughed out a scenario for ‘Sam And Sam’. Quite like it.

  NOTES

  The hostages returned – as the news broke that four young soldiers, two of them women and all aged around the 20 mark, have been killed in Basra. One of them was a friend of Prince William, though what that’s got to do with anything, fuck knows.

  Sunday April 8

  I cooked a full Sunday roast, mainly for me and Sarah: lovely piece of beef, roasties, parsnips, peas, and Yorkshires (admittedly, Aunt Bessie’s). I don’t know who was more impressed – me or Sarah. Sam and Grace were only interested in their Easter eggs, served as dessert.

  We ate early so we could drive into Oxford for the afternoon, where we walked in the University Parks and fed the ducks, and then did the ‘Dinosaur Museum’. Kids adored both.

  Monday April 9

  Mrs S away for Easter, so I did lots of hoovering, cleaning-type stuff; very badly. I popped out mid-afternoon to do a big shop and found the answer-machine light flashing away when I got back. Arnie has finally cracked. He wants to know if I have made a decision about his ‘investment’ proposal.

  Yes, Arnie. My decision is not to tell you what my decision is – until I really have to.

  NOTES

  Faye and her cohorts have been given permission to sell their stories to the media! What a fucking crass decision. Just imagine it – one skint soldier, not too bright, desperate to send some money home to his pregnant wife, thinks to himself, ‘Now if I can accidentally-on-purpose trip over and lob a grenade into this busy market place …get the missus to ring The Sun …’

  Wednesday April 11

  Can a leopard change his spots? Can a Beaky Bastard really be a Cute Retroussé Nose struggling to get out?

  I bumped into the aforementioned Beak in town this morning, and again he was all sweetness and light, as if none of the bitterness between us had ever existed. Am I right to be suspicious?

  I haven’t seen him since the funeral, when he turned up unexpectedly, uninvited, but full of sympathy and condolences. He didn’t try to gatecrash the ‘wake’ – he just tactfully disappeared.

  I suppose that’s what the death of a good person does to people. It brings out what humanity they have.

  We had a little chat today before we both had ‘to dash off’ (hmm?). Of course, he made some oblique reference to the Freemasons. I guess – oh, my God! I’ve just realised. He’s a Mason now! And they’ve turned him into a Nice Person!

  Second Lodge Ondaleft – I salute you!

  Thursday April 12

  Surprised to find Sarah and Grace at ECO (Sam at school) when I rolled up for lunch. She hadn’t told me but she’s been looking for a part-time job she can do from home, and Cory has found her one – researching prestige motors for Chrissy to buy and Cory to sell.

  ‘Got to earn my own keep now, Dad,’ she reminded me with a smile, as if she was looking forward to having something constructive, something adult, to do.

  I almost reprimanded her for not coming to me first, but realised in the nick of time that she probably di
dn’t want to be beholden to me any more than she thought she already was (as if).

  Besides, it was good to see brother and sister in cahoots as they had been for much of their childhood.

  Friday April 13

  Slipped up this morning. I had somehow left the answerphone off and I was just about to pick up the phone when I saw Arnie’s number flashing up on the display. I just sat down and listened to his slightly narky request about his ‘investment’.

  Toyed with ‘Sam And Sam’. Thought some more as I pottered.

  NOTES

  So – Mandaric the saviour? He promises to get us back into the Premiership and signs a new manager who will strike fear into the heart of … Tellytubbies FC. Nigel Worthington. Not quite the Special One, Milan old boy.

  Defence Secretary Des Browne quite rightly in the shit over sailors selling their story.

  Saturday April 14

  Copy of email to Arnie:

  Sorry I haven’t rung yet. Snowed under with work, and I’ve been trying to sort out the garden evenings and weekends.

  Anyway, I really want to do some research of my own on syndicates like the one you suggested (it’s the businessman in me) before we speak. The good news is, I have some time to spare today and I will begin my labours.

  Could take a little while, Bruv, so bear with me.

  NOTES

  It was a match made in heaven – new man Nigel Worthington and Leicester City versus his old club, Norwich. At home. How he must have been fired up! How he must have hailed it as a springboard to safety! How he failed to ignite his troops. LCFC 1 Norwich 2.

  Three games left to save us from unthinkable relegation, two of those against high-fliers Birmingham and Preston and one against fellow strugglers Barnsley. Shit.

  Sunday April 15

  Gorgeous sunny weather again. Spent the day in the garden (must have been a twinge of conscience, Arnie!). Tidied up the spent daffs like Jules had shown me, mowed the lawns, forked over a couple of areas of the veg plot, weeded them yet again, and sowed some salad crops. Dug a trench ready to take compost/kitchen rubbish and then runner beans, which I will sow in a couple of weeks. Getting a right old Titchmarsh.

  NOTES

  The only cloud on the horizon was the news that Prince William has split up with his girlfriend Kate Thingy. Oh dear, I am distraught. How will I get through next week?

  Thursday April 19

  6.10am.

  Woke few minutes ago from a weird dream; first one I’ve really remembered for a long time.

  Jules was standing on a river bank with Ruth. They both had fishing rods. Ruth, who appeared to be something of an expert, was teaching Jules how to cast the line. Jules whisked her line back over her shoulder and there was a huge squawk as she caught a pigeon flying overhead. The bird did a sort of bellyflop into the river, making a huge splash that drenched Jules and Ruth.

  ‘My sainted fanny!’ said Ruth (who as far as I know has never fished or mentioned bodily parts in public in her life).

  The women started to giggle as Jules reeled in her catch.

  ‘It’s a flying fish!” said Jules.

  And they collapsed against each other, their knees weak with laughter.

  NOTES

  Duncan Fletcher has at last resigned after England’s pathetic display in the thrashing by South Africa that put them out of the World Cup. About bloody time, too. (What happened to Freddie Flintoff’s 110 per cent? I wonder). Now all we need is for Steve McClaren to fall on his sword to make a fine hat-trick for the year.

  Friday April 20

  I’m writing a script! Good stuff, I think. It’s more serious than I imagined, or my humour is grimmer now; or both. It’s an absolute doddle compared to writing a book.

  NOTES

  Been trying hard not to blow my top over the South Korean maniac Cho who shot 32 people dead on the Virginia Tech campus in America before shooting himself; back on Monday, I think. But I can’t hold it in any longer. First some red-neck gun seller blames the college for having a no-gun policy on campus – they could have defended themselves if they’d been armed, he said in all seriousness. The twat. Then at lunchtime, casually watching the lovely Loose Women TV show, some brain-dead drummer from some teeny-bopper US group says the media shouldn’t have covered it – it’s only glorifying a madman.

  You stupid fucking little twat – how is the world gonna find out about these nutters, do something about the nutters, hopefully change your stupid fucking country’s gun laws one day, without the media telling the world. Grow up, boy.

  Phew …

  Monday April 23

  First barbie of the year!

  For some strange reason, Mo had decided at short notice on Saturday to have a St George’s Day barbecue at her place. She said it was really a thank-you to Cory and Chrissy and me for our hospitality over the past few years, but, as a devout patriot, it was nice to have a good excuse for a party.

  She’s a housing association tenant, and made her excuses as if it was a hovel compared to the rest of us; but it’s a nice enough end-of-terrace (sort of place I was brought up in) with a lawned back garden and high enough fences to give her – and us – some privacy. She had obviously been busy, mowing and tidying and planting, and it looked like a cosy haven.

  She had taken some trouble with herself as well. A short, spiky new haircut that really suited her and smart-casual trousers and top that looked new. She’s probably lost some weight, too. Quite a different woman from the one I first met four years ago. I also finally got to meet Mo’s other daughter Dawn and partner Oliver, who live in Manchester. Not a bit like Chrissy in looks – blonde and lithe and striking in a waif-like way – but just as chirpy. As Cory turned the burgers and bangers (no way Mo could be let loose with a barbie!), Dawn kept teasing her mum about slaying the dragon for a St George’s Day feast. Mo laughed but she was embarrassed about something.

  Cory was driving us home, so I had three beers and a fair bit of wine (a tad more than Mr Kinsey’s ‘moderation’), and a cigar that Mo had bought for me. She was quite tiddly by the end and gave me a big hug as we filed out to the car.

  Lovely lady; she’s really blossoming.

  NOTES

  Preston 0 LCFC 1 (last-minute goal), easing relegation fears. Leeds lost, heightening relegation fears. Oh dear.

  Tuesday April 24

  10pm.

  Went to work with a hangover; first time I’ve done that in many a year. Don’t know if it was that or my SLF/PD, but I had great trouble getting my keyboard to make sense. Not exactly mistyping, but hitting two keys together or occasionally being so slow to release the key it would type the same letter two or three times. At one stage I seemed to get stuck on the ‘l’ key – it came out like a Welsh route planner.

  Please be the hangover!

  Wednesday April 25

  Drink with Ronnie and Sally after work. Sal has seen an ad for a property for lease in Witney, and wants us to go and look it over. I said I was more than happy to let her and Ronnie continue with the expansion research, which pleased them both.

  Friday April 27

  FR rang out of the blue this afternoon and asked if I fancied a game of golf at the weekend. He was over in Banbury this morning and bumped into Peter B, who rarely plays these days either, but was itching for a game.

  Not even sure where my clubs are, or if they are in a fit state to play, but I said yes anyway. Looking forward to it.

  Saturday April 28

  The clubs were in the boxroom, almost clean, and begging me to swing them. But God, did it feel strange. At least I didn’t need to worry about my old fault of gripping too tightly. The SLF made sure of that. Could I hold the damn things tight enough? was more like it. It took me a long time but eventually I was chipping and pitching up and down the lawn reasonably well, without too much discomfort. I left it there before it started going wrong again. But I will get there a bit early tomorrow and hit some balls down the range.

  I will relax and enjo
y the exercise, and if I play like a bozo, so what? It’s not important in the scheme of things. After the last few years I should know that.

  NOTES

  Barnsley 0 LCFC 1 (own goal), ending relegation fears. Leeds drew 1-1, further heightening relegation fears. Oh dear oh dear.

  And the sad news – little Alan Ball, man of the match in England’s 1966 World Cup final, has died.

  Sunday April 29

  11pm.

  I’m as relaxed as a newt.

  Didn’t play too badly, long lay-off considered. Hit some good balls on the range, eventually, and carried out my relaxed strategy. Hit lots of good approach shots. Not very good from the fringes and absolutely crap on the greens, but we had a good laugh and I managed 29 points. Not bad at all. Bandit Peter won.

  The plan started to come unravelled in the clubhouse. Peter made some jokey remark about us all getting old and slowing down – gait, speech, everything – and I knew he was talking about me. Speech!? Christ, that threw me. Totally. So I told them.

  I had been waiting almost two months for the right moment to tell FR, and it all just tumbled out. Not that slowly either! They were gobsmacked. Very concerned, wanting to know what they could do, both immediately and in the longer term. I said I’d let them know.

  FR invited me back for a late lunch, so we could tell MJ together and get pissed, as befitted such news. We sure did. Sorry, Mr K – can’t do ‘moderation’ all the time.