The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner)
Page 30
Mo has got a fortnight off! Lake Como here we come!
We went into Oxford and I treated us to a few holiday clothes. We were like two giggling teenagers choosing swimwear. I couldn’t persuade her into a bikini, but she settled for a sexy ‘tankini’ top and shorts with a little wrap-around thingy ‘to cover the bulges’ apparently. She jokingly tried to get me into a pair of skimpy Speedos. I jokingly offered to try them on in the cubicle and then come and parade in front of the Debenhams shoppers.
She said: ‘I’m up for it.’
I replied: ‘What if I am?’
She said: ‘Good point.’
I replied: ‘Quite.’
We made a giggling exit as an assistant descended on us.
Mo stayed over for the first time. We shared the big new bed.
Sunday June 24
Pottering day, like an old married couple. In and out, avoiding the rain. Mo stayed over again. We didn’t make love. Just hugged and kissed and fell asleep. Like an old married couple.
Monday June 25
Mo insisted I rushed her back home and then off to work before Mrs S arrived and discovered us ‘together’.
Probably just as well – I couldn’t stop thinking about Jules. Guilt? Still? Whatever it was, it drove me to my keyboard and I read through my script. It was okay, but I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm to start polishing it. So I just started writing a little story about a man with Parkinson’s Disease, and in my little story the PD developed at an alarming rate.
That cheered me up no end.
The doorbell rang just after 2 o’clock. Mrs S had gone, the house was quiet, I was sitting at the desk, not writing, barely thinking, just staring at the fingers of my right hand, trembling ever so slightly like little branches in a breeze, when it rang – bringing me round with a jump and a curse.
Arnie was standing there. His boss had sent him to see a client in Bicester (as luck would have it), or so he claimed, and he thought he’d take the heaven-sent opportunity to pop in and see what I’d decided about helping him sort out his finances.
It was all over within minutes.
‘Already done it, mate,’ I told him.
‘What?’ he asked, his face full of an awful foreboding.
‘I am giving the bulk of what I have left for research into Parkinson’s and other diseases that affect the brain, like Alzheimer’s.’
‘Oh.’ He knew he hadn’t got a leg to stand on.
‘At the moment I’m hoping to invest in a trial for daffodils in the Black Mountains – in Wales. The altitude makes it the perfect place to produce a compound that can be used to make a dementia drug cheaply. The synthetic product is very expensive, and …’
‘Daffs! You’re spending it all on daffs?’
‘Some of it. Let me explain.’
I tried to explained about galanthamine, but I don’t think he was listening.
‘For Dad,’ I added. ‘And for me. And for thousands and thousands of others. Perhaps you. Perhaps Mags. Perhaps our kids.’
‘Nice one, Aitch,’ he said quietly. I think he meant it.
I didn’t ask him about his finances; he didn’t volunteer any information. He just left with a grim smile and a little hand gesture to indicate his understanding. We had been to Crazy Corner and back. We were still brothers.
I went back to my computer. And opened the folder I was compiling on the Black Mountains project.
Thursday June 28
Full house at ECO. As Mo and I had both told all our work colleagues, we thought we’d better tell our offspring we were going on holiday together. On Saturday. Their gobs were well and truly smacked, but the smiles arrived soon afterwards.
Saturday June 30
7am.
Another hour before I pick up Mo and we begin the trek down to Gatwick. This may be my last entry. Ever. I am toying with the idea of knocking my diarising on the head. It just makes me too fucking introspective. I have to start living for those who for some reason love me. My precious grandkids especially, growing up in this stupid world in these dangerous times. Sarah and Cory and Chrissy. And Mo. I think I love you, Mo.
If I can love you the way I loved Jules, I will be very happy.
Lake Como here we come!
NOTES
In the rush to get everything done (no time for papers or telly) it barely registered with me that Gordon Brown officially took over from the warmonger on Wednesday.
Good luck, Gord.
You’ll need it.
Funny thing, luck …
THE END
Roll the credits ...
Frank Rawlins is a former journalist born in Lincolnshire, England, and now living near Oxford. He edited two provincial newspapers before becoming a freelance writer and editor. Some years later he realised an ambition by venturing into garden design. He combined the two enterprises for a while, until the gardener was overcome by a resurgent writing bug.
Also by Frank Rawlins:
FICTION
Norm
Sam And Sam
when it comes to The Crunch
NON-FICTION
Holiday Of A Lifetime … Never Again!
Cruise Virgins ... Bajan Lovers
A Lifetime Of Holidays … Part One
Teenage memoirs of freedom and Political Incorrectness:
My Huckleberry Friend And Me
And for would-be journalists and other writers:
Simple Matter Of Style
(the omnibus edition of the little primers,
L for Literature, B for Broca’s Area, W for Wordsmith)
More details at www.huckbooks.co.uk