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

by Frank Rawlins

  Can’t write any more.

  Two messages from Arnie on the answer machine.

  Monday April 30

  Me and Arnie, Part Threehundredandsomething …

  He caught me unawares, at lunchtime, when I was expecting a call from FR. This is the gist of it:

  ‘Hi, Bruv. Got you at last. All right?’

  ‘No, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve just nipped home for lunch so I haven’t got long – gotta dash back to work. So … interested in my proposition? Got a lot of good feedback on it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Lots. Bloke in the pub has made almost a grand so far.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘My research so far isn’t quite that optimistic. In fact …’

  ‘Just say it – you’re not interested, are you?’

  ‘I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ve got Parkinson’s Disease.

  ‘Oh yes, very funny.’

  ‘I can’t stop laughing, Arnie.’

  ‘Shit, you’re serious, aren’t you.

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s just that … I really need your money – input.’

  Hopefully my scream will have caused a fatal collapse of his eardrums.

  Wednesday May 2

  Drink with Ronnie and Sally after work. They showed me photos and floor plans of Witney shop; looks good. I told them to go through the figures with Andrew, and if all is well get on with it.

  Thursday May 3

  Full house at ECO. Just as well I bought extra sandwiches. Sarah was there with Grace, and then Mo turned up on her way home, again laden with shopping. It was almost like a family party for an hour, until Cory and Chrissy had to get back to work, so I gave Mo a lift home and had another cup of tea and a gossip about nothing.

  10pm.

  Just spent most of the evening talking on the phone to Leicester rellies, as Sarah has started calling them. Amazingly, not one of them knew what I had told Arnie. There must be a reason he hasn’t told them I have Parkinson’s, but I can’t be arsed to ask him.

  I think ‘shocked’ and ‘concerned’ describes the reaction of every single one. My lovely Sis was, understandably, the most shocked and concerned. She wanted to come down straight away to give me a hug, but I told her I expected to be around for a few years yet so there would be plenty of time for hugs.

  Jayne and John were in their own fashion commendably and quietly comforting, and Jenny was in tears by the time we started our goodbyes, promising to spend all her spare time researching the latest medical news on PD. I was close to tears, too.

  As we both paused to prevent any embarrassing sobbing, I heard someone in the background, a female voice, asking what was the matter; what sort of bastard was making her cry.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said away from the phone. ‘It’s Harry. I told you about him.’

  ‘Better go then,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got Barbara here,’ she explained. ‘My partner. She’s lovely. You’d like her.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll meet before too long, Jenny. Christmas at the very latest, but hopefully before then.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve told,’ she almost whispered.

  ‘Well, thank you. I’m honoured.’

  We had to hang up before we both broke down in tears again.

  Well, done Jennifer. I hope she’s good for you.

  Friday May 4

  NOTES

  Leeds are relegated! Chairman Master Bates – Wily as the papers call him, to avoid costly litigation – took them into administration and bought them back with a newly formed company, but it did cost Leeds a 10 point deduction, meaning they finished bottom of the division.

  Wily and Wisey. A match made in heaven.

  Saturday May 5

  10 pm with supplementary A4.

  What a strange twelve hours. At 10am almost on the dot, as I was clearing up from a late fry-up breakfast, the doorbell rang. I just wandered through, brain dormant except for a vague thought that it must be the postman, and opened the door. And stared for several seconds until it registered that Arnie was standing there.

  ‘Morning, Bruv!’ he said with obviously feigned cheerfulness. ‘Aren’t you gonna let me in then?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘It’s a long story, Aitch. Let me in and put the kettle on.’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘I’m parched after that drive.’

  ‘Where’s Mags?’

  ‘Home. I told her I was working overtime. Back at tea-time.’

  ‘Ah. It must be serious.’

  ‘Fairly.’

  Fairly, eh? The gist was: He had spent £20k salvaging the boat he had bought from cousin Dan and pranged, another £30k on the massive 4x4 that now stood on the drive, another £18k on a conservatory, another £6k on a cruise, which, with the £38k he had initially forked out for cousin Dan’s boat, not only accounted for my generous hand-outs but also most of their savings. And now, the racehorse he had bought …

  ‘Oh, my Christ,’ I interrupted. ‘Good job it’s not serious then. A racehorse? A FUCKING RACEHORSE!? Have you totally lost your fucking marbles?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said quietly. With a mere hint of defiance to prove that he wasn’t totally defeated.

  The second, more important gist was: He owed the horse’s trainer almost £30k for stabling and training the aptly named mare Maggie’s Folly, and the unsmiling trainer had promised, not just threatened, to get the bailiffs sent in if the bill wasn’t paid within a fortnight.

  ‘What would you do if I was still your poor little brother, and not a Lottery winner? Who would you turn to?’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t be in this position,’ he said with a half-smile.

  I exploded, which was a bit messy.

  ‘DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING BLAME ME FOR THIS!’

  Arnie blanched.

  ‘I gave you a nice nest-egg. It should have secured your future, not ruined it. You fucking idiot, Arnie.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Aitch.’

  ‘I should fucking think so. So … who would you turn to?’

  ‘The bank, I should imagine.’

  ‘Right, off you go then. The door’s through there.’

  More tomorrow. I’m knackered.

  NOTES

  LCFC 1 Wolves 4. Still, we stay up.

  Derby 2 Leeds 0. Ho ho ho.

  Sunday May 6

  In the end we talked until the pub opened, and then I treated both of us to lunch, two pints, and two cigars. It turned out the racehorse had a great history, but it was all behind her. They had been sold a pup; an ancient equine pup. They had, belatedly, decided to sell her, but had had no offers so far.

  ‘Give her away or send her to the knackers’ yard,’ I said.

  Arnie nodded.

  ‘Sell the boat,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve tried,’ he said feebly. ‘No takers.’

  ‘Sell it cut-price.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sell the four by four.’

  ‘No. I’d lose at least fifteen grand,’

  ‘Well, I can’t help you then.’

  ‘Just come in with me in the syndicate. Please.’

  ‘That would solve all your problems, would it?’

  ‘Might do.’

  ‘Do you really think might-do is enough, with the bailiffs about to knock on your door?’

  ‘Might have been, when I first asked you…’

  I exploded as quietly as I could.

  I don’t know if it was Arnie and his stupidity or the PD, but several times I had to put my beer down when I noticed and then felt a tremor in the hand holding my glass.

  He left at three o’clock, promising to sell the boat and give away/put down the horse. I promised that if he did that I’d help him to sort out
his long-term finances. I don’t know whether he appreciated that this might just entail advice, and not another handout. Probably not.

  Probably just as well I spent today on my own. I pottered. Kept as busy as I could. Physical work. And witnessed a slight tremor of my right hand. Fuck.

  Monday May 7

  Bank holiday and for once I joined the gawping throng. Treated Sarah and the kids to a day at Cotswold Wildlife Park after much dithering about the weather. Put the wellies and waterproofs in the boot and we were away. Drizzle dried up and we had a lovely day. Grace was more interested in the miniature train that took us round the park than the animals. Sam’s favourite was a giant tortoise the size of a mini-skip.

  In the evening, in the absence of Mrs S today, I caught up with some domestic duties. And moping and mopping around I realised, with some surprise, that I was still depressed about Arnie and the PD DTs.

  Must spend more time with the kids.

  NOTES

  If I really needed it put into any more perspective, just caught up with the news that a three-year-old English girl, Maddy Something, has been snatched from her bed in a Portuguese resort while her parents and friends were dining at a restaurant just round the corner. Apparently one of the grown-ups went to check on the kids every half-hour.

  Bit bloody stupid. Still, the poor sods – the agonies they must be going through.

  Thursday May10

  The now regular gathering at ECO, and my usual Good Samaritan lift for Mo, followed by my reward of a cup of tea and a natter. I enjoy it. It’s a happy routine.

  NOTES

  Hallelujah! Warmonger Blair has given notice to quit. It’s your only legacy, Tony Boy. Stable economy, minimum wage, NHS waiting times slashed – it all means nothing compared to the harm you have done this country by invading Iraq. You silly man.

  Friday May 11

  Arnie rang; I answered. He has sold the boat for a give-away £20K and paid it immediately to the trainer in an attempt to get the bailiffs off his back (but was unsure yet what the horse whisperer will do – he still wants the final £10K by the end of next week).

  I told him to give me another call when he’d disposed of the horse, and then put the phone down.

  Cruel perhaps, but I’m not letting him off the hook now. Give him an inch and he’ll be buying a grouse moor.

  Saturday May 12

  Mike on holiday with The Floozy apparently, so I treated Sarah and the kids again, this time to a day at Legoland, Windsor. Fabulous, fabulous day. They were enthralled; Sarah and I were enchanted.

  We were all exhausted by the time we arrived back at Littlekidsville. Kids had a sandwich before they collapsed into bed, and Sarah rustled up some pasta and red wine for us. Ended up drinking a lot and staying the night.

  We didn’t bother with the telly; just nattered on about everything and nothing.

  That is one great consolation from Jules’s death – I have never been closer to Sarah and Cory. We’re like old mates rather than father and children. Suppose that’s how it should be.

  NOTES

  Over a week since little Maddy McCann was abducted. Apparently her mum is a GP and her dad a heart consultant, so they are no thoughtless chavs. A quiet family resort, no history of trouble or crime, sharing the baby-checking duties with three other couples. Who could have guessed. Yet …

  My God, they must be scourging their very souls.

  Sunday May 13

  So lovely to see the kids first thing in the morning. They were so surprised to find Granddad still there, they leapt all over me when I appeared from the bathroom. And I gave them extra big hugs.

  Please let Maddy be safe …

  Went home via Cory’s. Just wanted to see him, talk to him, give him a hug. Should have rung first; no one in.

  More fucking rain so I spent the afternoon watching Eddie Izzard videos to cheer me up. Worked a treat. It even stopped raining. Had too much wine and a couple of rollies.

  I must cut down on both.

  Thursday May 17

  10.30pm

  Disaster. Well, calamity at very least. A definite 10 on the Embarrassment Scale.

  ECO as usual, took Mo home as usual. She seemed a bit edgy as we drank tea and chatted; I was distracted, too. In pain; feeling every one of my mental scars. Thinking about not thinking about tomorrow. When she sprang it on me.

  It’s her firm’s golden jubilee dinner tomorrow night, and because of last-minute drop-outs the organiser had asked her if she would like to change her mind and bring a guest after all … so she had taken the liberty of putting my name down.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said abruptly.

  ‘Oh.’ She was crestfallen. ‘It’s a lovely hotel.’

  ‘And you shouldn’t take liberties with my name,’ I added, a tad carelessly.

  ‘Sorry. I should have rung and checked.’

  ‘Yes, you should.’

  ‘Cory told me … never mind.’

  ‘What, for God’s sake? He had no right to discuss my affairs.’

  ‘Just that … you’re usually free on a Friday night.’

  ‘Well, this Friday I’m not. There’s something … very special. And private. I think I’d better go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was almost in tears when I left. No hug this time; no kiss on the cheek.

  She rang about 9p.m. and left an apology on the answer machine.

  Friday May 18

  Cory came battering on my front door and barged his way in just before lunchtime.

  Almost without preliminaries, he said, ‘You’ve fucking excelled yourself this time, Dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mo’s in tatters.’

  ‘Has she told you what she did? Tonight!? Of all nights. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad – she didn’t know tonight was your wedding anniversary. WAS – past tense. I appreciate how you must be feeling but you can’t live your life by past dates.’

  ‘She still took a liberty. Fish and chips is one thing …’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She fancies you! Fuck knows why.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She fancies the pants off you. Like some love-sick teenager. Haven’t you noticed the signs? Or at least she did fancy you. She thinks – or thought, rather – that you were such a nice, kind, witty, generous man. Not bad looking, either. Now ...’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘The only man she’s ever known, in the biblical sense, was a cruel bastard. It put her off men for years. Till you became a single man. An eligible man. Now you’ve probably put her off men for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  NOTES

  Owner of ‘pitbull-type’ that killed little Ellie got away with eight weeks in clink. He ought to be locked up with a hungry ‘pitbull-type’.

  Saturday May 19

  Midnight

  I left it till mid-morning (she might have a hangover) and rang. The answerphone was on. I left a humble message and said I’d call round anyway, on the off-chance she was in, to apologise in person.

  She was waiting for me. Kettle boiling for mugs of coffee.

  ‘Sorry if it’s too much of a liberty,’ she said with a smile.

  I shook my head and gave her a hug. Just a brief one – I didn’t want to take any more liberties.

  ‘Cory told me,’ she said. ‘I should have …’

  ‘There’s no way you could have known. I just let it get to me. Sorry. I’m so sorry. I have to learn to let go. Please accept my apology.’

  ‘Only if you let me take you out for lunch. If you’ve got nothing else on, of course. Just down the pub. Well, out in the villages somewhere. Where I won’t bump into anyone I know. You know …’

  ‘I know.’

  We had a lovely day on the edge of the Cotswolds. Beers and brilliant home-made pies (she paid) in Burford, a leisurely walk through go
rgeous countryside, a leisurely drive back to her place, tea and sandwiches, and chat, chat, chat. About anything and everything. Except her fancying me. And me suddenly realising I quite fancied her.

  I told her a little about my Parkinson’s (of which she knew but didn’t seem fazed); I told her lots about Jules; she told me a little about Kevin, her ex-husband who was violent when he drank more than a pint, and how it took her a long time to admit it wasn’t her fault and even longer to pluck up the courage to leave him; we discussed our children and how thrilled we were that Cory and Chrissy were still so happy together. And then I left, with a friendly hug and a just-about chaste kiss on the lips.

  As Kenneth Williams might have said, had a meaningful Barclays for a change. Wowee.

  Sunday May 20

  Nothing planned – kids with Mike, Sarah busy – but I resisted the temptation to pester Mo. Instead I did some gardening. Very satisfying.

  Only just remembered – the end of this week was crunch time in the Arnie/horse whisperer debacle. Haven’t heard a thing from Arnie, so he’s either come to an arrangement for a deferment, sold something else and paid the man, or is about to wake up next to the severed head of Maggie’s Folly.

  NOTES

  MPs have voted themselves exemption from Freedom Of Information Act, on some spurious ‘confidentiality for constituents’ grounds, when really it’s to hide their expenses. It’s the brainchild of a Tory MP – surprise, surprise. David Maclean. Never heard of him. Just another faceless, chinless, selfish, self-serving, money-grabbing Tory tosser. Shame on Labour and Lib Dems for letting it through. Tossers, all of you.

  Tuesday May 22

  Ronnie and Sally want to go ahead with lease on Witney shop. We spent an hour or so going over the figures, which Andrew has already approved, before the lunchtime ‘rush’ began. I told them to go ahead; it’s their baby. I could swear Sally blushed.