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

by Frank Rawlins

  Friday May 25

  10pm.

  Just got home – from work on Thursday. Dirty stop-out.

  In the words of Errol Brown, it started with a kiss. In the hall, just as I was leaving after my customary Thursday cup of tea, which I had already dragged out till half-five. A little chaste peck on the lips. I lingered a tad longer than last time. Or did she linger longer? (Shame she’s not called Langer.) Just lips. To start with. And then, after our long linger, just a brush of the tongues, and that was it really.

  She whispered, ‘Don’t go yet. Have a bite to eat.’

  She smiled and then laughed.

  What could I say, except Thank You.

  She fed me, we had quite a lot of wine, we watched telly, cuddled up on her sofa, and then snogged. A proper teenage so-that’s-what-tongues-are-for kiss. It was thrilling. I got an instant hard-on.

  It was then that I offered to go, and she told me I probably ought to go because time wasn’t a problem any more and with our track records we really shouldn’t rush into anything. But we snogged again and it went right out of our heads. Getting undressed and into bed was a bit embarrassing – neither of us had seen a member of the opposite sex naked, up close and personal, for some years; many years in Mo’s case. Anyway, that’s enough of that …

  In the last 24 hours I have discovered many of the little things I didn’t know, or hadn’t taken the trouble to notice, about Mo. Like her eyes are almost grey. Grey-blue with little darker flecks; almost almond-shaped. Her hair is grey, this time white-grey, at the roots, and is dyed a mid-blonde with some darker streaks. Her teeth are small and incredibly white for her age (I didn’t ask, but I don’t think it’s chemical). Her ears are small and neat still. Her hands are small and cool. She has a small spare tyre, which embarrasses her and gurgles like mad when you stroke or kiss it. Her breasts are smallish but surprisingly firm for a mother-of-two in her fifties (I didn’t dare ask for a precise date). She’s on HRT. She’s a noisy fucker. Literally.

  Afterwards, she was mortified that her neighbour might have heard us apparently trying to wake the dead.

  Shit, bad choice of phrase.

  Sunday May 27

  10pm.

  Strange weekend. By turns, wanted to see Mo – desperately – but then didn’t want to see her; wanted to phone her but didn’t want to phone her because over the ether it would all come out wrong. And besides, she was off to Manchester for a long weekend, and God knows where she’d be or what she’d be doing if I rang her mobile number.

  Yesterday I took Sarah and the kids into Banbury to help her choose some wallpaper and shelving for Sam’s room, and to treat the kids to a ‘Donalds’.

  All the time there was this nagging voice: What had I done? Had I forsaken Jules, or at least her memory? Would those precious memories just fade and die as a new love usurped my long-term soulmate? Indeed, do I, could I, love Mo? Do I just want some comfort, some sex?

  I’ve no fucking idea.

  What if we both want some comfort, some sex … what’s wrong with that?

  I didn’t tell Sarah about Mo. I couldn’t tell her. I had made love to someone other than her mother. How could I, after what Mike had done to her?

  I wonder if Mo has told anyone. Chrissy? In which case, does Cory know?

  Spent most of today mooching, looking at the pissing rain, wishing I could get out into the garden, and churning it over. Churning, churning, churning.

  Strange word.

  Arnie rang mid-afternoon. Sounded like he’d followed his usual routine – several pints, Sunday roast, kip, do as Mags tells him to appease her. He wasn’t exactly slurred but he wasn’t overly coherent. He’s sold the horse for a couple of grand and with almost the last of his savings (listen to the violins, Bruv) has paid off the trainer. And can we have another meet and a serious chat about investment ideas?

  I told him I was up to my eyes in it at work – plans for a new shop, you know – so I would get back to him in a couple of weeks.

  His ears pricked up; which was obviously more than Maggie’s Folly’s ever did.

  ‘New shop? You must be doing all right then, Aitch …’

  Bugger.

  Bad slip, Aitch.

  NOTES

  LCFC have a new manager. Martin ‘Mad Dog’ Allen from MK Dons. Mandaric And The Mad Dog – sounds like a trashy Michael Winner movie. Wonder if I can persuade Mad Dog to nip along to Arnie’s. Bite his ankles a bit. For starters.

  Monday May 28

  Another Blank Holiday. Just me and my thoughts, and another day of pissing rain. Tried to write for a while but couldn’t concentrate on it, and then started reading my new book, Michael Palin Diaries 1969-1979 The Python Years. It took me a while to get into that, too, but it’s 600-plus pages long, so I thought I’d better make a good start. And I did. It’s not Pythonesque at all. Mundane, businesslike, but fascinating to see how the phenomenon came about.

  Tuesday May 29

  Davina called in sick (sounded like a post-Bank Holiday sickie to me), so I decided to work in the shop today. Good decision – Mo came in at lunchtime and asked if I was allowed out for a coffee. Not really, but I went anyway. We just chatted, a little nervously to start with, held hands under the table – we actually held hands under the table! – and made arrangements to skip ECO on Thursday to spend the afternoon in the Costswolds. Meal out, stop over at her place.

  Chaste kiss goodbye outside Costa.

  Friday June 1

  It was pissing down with rain yesterday so we went to Tesco’s, instead of the Cotswolds, picked up some victuals, and went straight to Mo’s. We snogged and went to bed. Got up for Coronation Street – well, Mo watched while I cooked cod, rice, and baby vegetables. Went back to bed late-ish after the run of comedy shows on TV – and couldn’t stop laughing when Mo said I was the answer to a nymphomaniac’s prayers. Not because of my technique but because it takes me so long to climax in my dotage, especially second time around. Not that she’s a nymphomaniac, of course.

  Saturday June 2

  10.30 pm.

  Mo came home with me this morning – late morning, after bacon and eggs. We didn’t go to bed. She helped me in the garden. Then I cooked and we watched TV together. We didn’t go to bed then either. Just drank a lot of wine.

  It was obvious what we were both thinking so she said I wasn’t ready for it. At her house was fine; it was too soon for her to take Jules’s place in my double bed. She didn’t want to spoil things between us, and that probably would.

  Her taxi has just left. And I feel sad. But I understand.

  Both my hands are shaking. Not monumentally, but enough to make writing difficult and deter me from the best glasses and crockery. I fancy a medicinal whisky and water. Wonder what it tastes like in Samuel’s plastic beaker? There’s only one way to find out.

  Sunday June 3

  Didn’t spill a drop of Glenhoddle. It tasted a mite odd, but not odd enough to stop me having two more large ones before I fell asleep in front of the TV. Woke soon after 3am. and got myself to bed.

  Woke again at 10am. shaking all over (cue for song), but that was probably my hangover as much as anything, because all the wobbly bits had subsided by lunchtime.

  Still, I think I’d better make some pretty swift decisions.

  NOTES

  George Bush has a plan to combat climate change. As long as America leads the way and the world follows. Like father like son. George Senior snubbed the Kyoto Agreement because they weren’t in charge. It’s just like World War Two. We’ll come in very late, save the day, and the world will be very grateful. Fuck off, Yanks. If we leave it to you, there’ll be no world left to be grateful.

  Monday June 4

  Almost midnight.

  Couldn’t wait till Thursday so on the spur of the moment I went straight to Mo’s after work. She was thrilled. I cooked, she watched Coronation Street (twice!), and then we went to bed. But as I hadn’t got a change of clothes or even a toothbrush we thought it
best for me to come home.

  Pile of mail waiting on the doormat included a letter from the hospital. Time for a medication check-up with Mr Kinsey. Appointment in two weeks.

  That brought me back down to earth.

  Fuck – what have I done to Mo? I have set her up for a huge dose of misery/worry/sheer bloody hard and depressing work when my symptoms really kick in and she becomes a carer, as she undoubtedly will, and a gi-normous bout of grief when I die prematurely.

  That’s bloody selfish, Aitch.

  Wednesday June 6

  10.30pm.

  Mo is a rampant royalist. Oh dear. I just wanted to talk this evening. Not exactly spell it out but just to get a feel for how she feels. But she told me to bugger off – she was watching the documentary on Princess Di’s death on Channel 4.

  I said I would bugger off if she promised not to talk about it tomorrow, or ever. Should be good for a few spats. Eh, Jules? I listened to some old LPs with a whisky and a cigar. And I’m quite mellow, man.

  Friday June 8

  I’m not sure if I’ve been honest with Mo or subconsciously devious.

  We discussed it in bed – AFTER making love, when we were warm and cosy and loving and feeling very close. I’ve got a feeling if we’d talked about it first, dispassionately, it might have been a very different discussion.

  Mo was adamant. She wanted to be with me; whatever. In sickness and in health.

  ‘Not that I want to marry you, you old fart,’ she said.

  I slapped her bum. Realised what I’d done and apologised profusely. Thankfully, she laughed.

  ‘I do know the difference between play and reality,’ she scolded. ‘Anyway, I like my freedom. I’ve got used to it. That doesn’t mean I’m not committed. I am. Already. I – I may well love you. I’m not sure I know what love is any more. I had it all battered out of me. But I care for you very much. And I love the way we shag together. Now – got any rollies?’

  Saturday June 9

  I took Sarah and the kids to Yarnton to shop for playthings and plants. We bought garden noughts and crosses and a giant Connect 4 for the kids and a trolleyful of summer/autumn perennials and climbers for Sarah. I insisted on paying so she bought us all a snack lunch.

  Spent the afternoon playing garden games, trying in vain to instil the logic of noughts and crosses into Grace’s butterfly brain, and then helping Sarah to plant out her goodies. I bluffed my way through and she was quite impressed by the little horticultural knowledge I have acquired.

  She put the kids to bed while I rustled up a bowl of salad and cooked pork chops. Over coffee I told her about Mo – well, that we were ‘seeing each other’.

  ‘Is that all?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  I almost blushed. Talk about role reversal …

  Sunday June 10

  Early-tee off with FR, fresh and glowing from his holiday by Lake Como. First game since I spilled the beans – indeed first meeting since then – but neither of us even mentioned the dreaded PD. Just enjoyed the golf – well, the exercise. We were both crap, but we had hell of a laugh. Just like the old days. Thank Christ for good mates.

  Only a pint afterwards – he had a family commitment – so on the spur of the moment I took a detour on the way home to the bed shop in Botley. I ordered a ‘king-size metal bed with antique brass finish’ and a ‘sumptuous but firm mattress’.

  Tuesday June 12

  Email from Cory at work yesterday afternoon:

  It’s official then.

  Reply: What?

  His reply: You and Mo. Sarah told me – so it must be official.

  My reply: Sort of. Early days yet. We’ll let you know when it’s REALLY official. Haven’t you go any work to do?

  His reply: Piles of it – this is more interesting. My Dad on the pull!

  My reply: Fuck off.

  His reply: Okay, Daddy. Over and out.

  I thought I did well to resist the temptation to tell him that the Old Fart had pulled some time ago.

  Spent the night at Mo’s – took an overnight bag this time. Dropped her off at work this morning.

  Thursday June 14

  Gave ECO a miss – told Cory I had a date. Mo and I drove to Yarnton and bought a trolleyful of plants (very addictive, plants) and spent the latter part of the afternoon and early evening starting to reshape Mo’s garden. Looks great.

  She cooked! Under my tutelage. I talked her though a bowl of pasta with a home-made tomato sauce, lots of mushrooms and olives. It was okay.

  Then we went to bed. Very good.

  Friday June 15

  Mo working today and tomorrow, covering for holidays.

  Bed arrived. Deliverers took the old one away and left the new one in its place. Now all I have to do is persuade Mo.

  I spent the afternoon mowing the lawn, pottering, dodging the showers – and wondering, Why do I keep getting this feeling I’ve done something very crass?

  Saturday June 16

  Another showery day. I wrote a bit. I played, appropriately enough, Solitaire on screen for far too long, had a lunchtime pint-and-a-half at The Hat. Snoozed. Cooked myself a steak. With just a little bit of salad and a lot of red wine.

  Time for bed.

  NOTES

  Arise Sir Beefy! For once the Honours List doesn’t seem so bad. Knighthood for Ian Botham, and honours also for Dame Edna, Peter Sallis of Wallace And Grommit fame, and Joe Cocker. Now – if we must have one – that’s what I call an Honours List.

  Sunday June 17

  Wonderful day.

  Impromptu late-lunch afternoon barbecue at Cory’s. He rang early-ish, said they had a load of meat to use up from a barbie yesterday for their mates, and did I fancy it? Just the family. Sarah and the kids – and Mo, of course.

  Warm and sunny, balmy rather than blistering, just right. Everybody relaxed, in a good mood. After we’d had a couple of drinks and started picking out some goodies coming off Cory’s production line, Mo came and stood beside me, and whispered, ‘Happy?’

  I nodded. ‘You?’ I reciprocated.

  She nodded.

  ‘All right there?’ called Cory, obviously watching us closely.

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ I told him.

  Later on, as we sat next to each other, and Dadwatch seemed to have ended, I reached across and took Mo’s hand. She was surprised but didn’t try to pull away. I entwined fingers, which normally I don’t like, and she smiled. Nobody seemed to notice – until Samuel screeched to a halt as he was whizzing by, chasing Grace, and shouted, ‘Mummy, Granddad’s got a girlfriend!?’

  I told them we were ‘courting’. The lovely old-fashioned word drew an even bigger laugh.

  Monday June 18

  From the sublime to the neurologist. Mr Kinsey was at his smoothest; some might say smarmiest. He asked all the obvious questions about my limbs, my medication, and so on, did a few perfunctory tests – motor and personality – and said he was happy with my progress. But then he went and spoilt it all (another cue for song) by saying severe symptoms could kick in at any time, and I should be prepared for quite a change in my lifestyle. Meanwhile, chin up. The wanker.

  I didn’t go to work afterwards. I went home. I’ve spent the afternoon making phone calls and surfing tinternet. Getting things sorted.

  Tuesday June 19

  Costa lunch with Mo. Too noisy, too busy to tell her my plans.

  Left work half an hour early – and bumped into Bob Eckman in the car park. Hadn’t seen him for years. He was looking healthy and prosperous. And rather more confident than the old Bob. Apparently his work for Butler & Stone had impressed a couple of other estate agents, and he now has a thriving business, employing two others.

  Wonder if he’s joined Second Lodge Ondaleft as well?

  Thursday June 20

  ECO lunch – without too many wisecracks – and then we drove to Stoke Lyne woods. We found a gorgeous glade and talked for an hour. This time I gave her the full works on Parkinson’s rathe
r than my previous potted and somewhat sanitised version. She took it in her stride. I told her I had probably got lots of useful years in me, but I wasn’t going to waste any of it, because it might just be a few. She agreed I should. I told her I would like her to share it, and we could share every day if we lived together, whether at her place or mine, but mine would make more sense because of its size and the garden which I had grown to love; and the pool for the kids and possibly for me as physiotherapy when the PD really kicked in. And then I proposed:

  ‘Come on holiday with me and let’s see how we get on for a fortnight without any respite from each other. We might hate each other by the end of it , but at least we’ll know.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, not unreasonably.

  ‘Italy. Lake Como. A highly recommended resort, four-star hotel, from Saturday June 30. DIY package. I have a room provisionally booked.’

  ‘My God, Harry – you weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t going to waste any time.’

  ‘No. Sorry. It’s very presumptuous of me. The whole thing.’

  ‘It does make sense. Quick way to find out if we’re really compatible. Guess I’d better see if I can take some time off then. Be a long sickie otherwise.’

  Saturday June 23