Rohort went to France

by Robin Young

  Few knew whose idea Lottery town was barely more could remember its early struggles of existence, but a searchlight shone on the reason for its birth. It was the winners. The behaviour of some was the chagrin of many, there was a sense of general despair.

  The jubilant faces would gather at the annual reunions, some would be seen again later waiting their turn in a food bank queue.

  It was a disenchanting sight, the abrupt change, the appalling new refugee like status. There was widespread disillusionment. Ticket sales were flat.

  It was an onus on the lottery board. There was a growing belief ‘That something should be done.’

  In desperation it was announced that Lottery Town would be built. Here the winners would live, their prizes managed and further embarrassment averted.

  How it would be implemented had hardly been considered. A committee was formed and the public’s appetite for action was momentarily assuaged.

  Assuaged perhaps, but the interest was not extinguished, the large sums of money were as oxygen to fire and naming the committee became a further quest.

  There were a profusion of suggestions, but two labels quickly stuck. The Sin Eradication Committee and Uncle Righteous’s experiment became the popular titles.

  Life in lottery town was expected to be dour and lascivious behaviour unlikely.

  There’d be no drenching with money of erotic desire lucre would not be a coolant. There were tales of extravagant spending, of unleashed amounts, of an undamming of want, but in Lottery town there would be containment.

  There was now a lull. The public had been calmed, the crisis stalled and the conception of Lottery Town was on slow incubation.

  In this state of inactivity the committee meetings were bliss. A large file marked quarantine became a hiding place for any difficult agendas.

  The announcement and the committee’s formation beamed forth a great ray of hope and brought relief to the town’s originator. Old Magic Fingers was a legendary winner, but he was a fugitive from his prizes. His idea had become the idea of the town, but it was a fading vision.

  He was always at the annual reunions, but they were less and less enchanting. I think it was the children. The raised hopes the excited expectations. But it was a lapse, an interlude. There’d be the inevitable mismanagement of funds and a return to a world filled with rigour.

  “We’d have so many things.” They’d say to old Joe, that was his name. But the things would wear and break and become nothings. And these were the disappointments old Joe found hardest.

  The complexities of finance may have baffled the minds of children, but there were speakers and they were a mystery to Joe. But the rambling prolixity was often soothing. It would lull and though he would fight and struggle, he’d be carried away by sleep. But he’d be rescued by the clapping and somehow he’d manage to join in.

  “And it our job to protect your investment from the capricious whims and gyrations of the market.” The speaker was an expert, finance his field.

  And spreading confusion was on his list of strengths. Joe was completely flummoxed. The words had no meaning, perhaps he’d dreamt them. Later he asked his friend young Sam.

  Joe had been dreaming, the fish had been biting and whim had been muddled with fin. But deeper and more profound confusion lay ahead.

  It was a subsequent reunion and refreshments time.

  Joe had been swallowed by the crowd, his cake he’d have to savour. He was hemmed in, cut off from the cake stand there’s be no second helping. Joe pondered this press that had suddenly engulfed him. There was a conspicuous unusualness, but it quickly ceased to puzzle him. There was no hint or hum of conversation, no one spoke, it was a crowd without stir or sound it was completely silent.

  “The advice I give, I reiterate, I stress, I say and say again.”

  Joe knew the voice, he peered he saw the speaker. It was that expert again.

  He stood at the centre of the crowd he was the reason for its gathering. He was expounding his ideas on the theory of investment. There was much interest in his thesis, he had a burdensome reputation. It was high it took him right up on the list his name was close to God’s.

  The expert gazed into his cup, he only drank boiled water. Reinforcement was deemed dangerous, his thought patterns might fragment.

  The crowd continued silent, the wisdom continued.

  “Ask a friend if you can borrow his white rats.”

  A sigh, almost a gasp went through that crowd, as though a paddle had passed through a soup of disappointment. The vista of riches had become a cageful of rats.

  Joe was confounded. His first reaction was young Sam, but he hesitated. Sam might worry about him and these reunions. He might wonder if Joe was working properly, especially the part above his neck.

  Joe’d heard about the market, but his knowledge was rudimentary. He had fisherman mates, they moaned about it, but the problem was the prices, never rats.

  The guru had read extensively, from the writings of long ago by De la Vega, to a more recent update by Gerald Loeb. Caution was the watchword, never exemplified better than by a rat.

  Old Joe had won several prizes, big ones. The money had come and gone, but it didn’t matter to him, he had little use for it. I think he’d given most of it away and that was why he gave up buying tickets in the lottery. People would be stuck, short of money, problems paying the bills and Joe would help them out.

  He’d see them again later, but nothing would have changed, it was as though a Drill Sergeant had barked out.

  ‘As you were.’

  Indebtedness levels unchanged, the same unpaid bills and worse the expectation of another bail out. Joe despaired, déjà vu and his view of human frailties could not have been clearer and it was then he renounced the lottery.

  “If I don’t buy tickets I can’t win, if I don’t win I can’t help them out, if I don’t help them out I won’t see them make fools of themselves again.”

  Joe’s logic was plain and simple.

  Joe was staying with Sam when he won his first big prize. It was Christmas time.

  The summons of a distant bureaucrat had brought Joe into town. His address had almost vanished into the filing. A tide of paper flowed, subsided then ceased.

  Joe endeavoured to extricate himself from that building. There were fire exits signs everywhere and warning against using the lift during a fire. He followed some stairs, but they lead to a basement. There were more large notices, this time in a different colour. They advised evacuation procedures in the event of a flood.

  Fire, floods but what of the pressing calls of nature? Convenience signs were nowhere to be seen.

  Joe was in a car parking area, lost and in need of an essential service.

  A kindly motorist noticed his predicament. The location of the plumbing was found and Joe was dropped off near Sam’s house.

  “Time of the year for turkey Joe. What a ya doing in the thick of civilization?” Was young Sam’s greeting.

  Then followed the dreary details that encroach upon and almost swamp our lives. The description of Joe’s accommodation was just as dimming.

  But Joe’s stay was to be brief. The town was an overwhelming place. The harsh sounds, the incoherence of movement, it was an unfamiliar discord.

  But Joe brightened up when the conversation veered towards the back country.

  “Ya can’t abandon us Joe, its Christmas time.” Exclaimed the horrified Sam.

  He was not allowing Joe to disappear on them during the season of good cheer.

  It was a time for sharing. Joe was to stay with Sam. His accommodation was deemed unfit for a civilized person.

  The two had met in a remote part of the country. It was foot access only and bring your own signposts. Sam was sluicing in a river for gold. Joe had more realistic expectations he was downstream on the coast whitebaiting.

  It was reached by a rough track. In places it was strewn with windf
alls from the gales and there were dead and decaying trees. The occasional rusty marker still hung from a branch and Joe had heaped up some cairns to assist with the navigation.

  Joe had seen distant smoke it was from Sam’s fire. He’d come upstream to see what was happening.

  Sam’s campsite was elevated above his working. Trees sheltered and shaded it from the hot noon day sun it was beyond the intrusion of the waters.

  A bag of flour lay inside the entrance of the tent, but it was a place of reduced eating. The trees grew, they thickened, but Sam shrank and his bones protruded. There were strains on his wardrobe it couldn’t match his changing outline.

  “Like some downstream diet young fellah?”

  And a large container was hauled out of Joe’s pack.

  Sam looked whitebait, fresh food, the flavour. Respite had arrived, Sam could face the menu. Whitebait would be pencilled in and rat bait struck out.

  “I’ll take payment for it in upstream money.” And Joe pointed to the mining.

  But the rocks and gravel and the endless flow of water did not represent scarcity.

  Joe knew the difficulty of Sam’s quest and had expected nothing.

  He enjoyed the young fellows company and stayed for several days, before heading back downstream and away from some difficult eating.

  Sam struck camp soon afterwards and spent the rest of the season with Joe white baiting.

  The friendship was enduring. Unexpected meetings, but always far from road, gates and fences.

  Then Sam met a lady. The canons of conformity were sated by a visit to a church and earmuffs became his habiliments of domesticity. Kath his young companion was a clever negotiator, they had been thrown in free with that mechanized evil the lawn mower.

  But Sam was not a creature to be tethered to the grass there were still excursions to the wild and beautiful. In the winter there was the thrilling snow, but I think it was the spring that was the most compelling. They would visit Joe by the river. It was known as Joe’s spot, but Kath renamed it a place of heavenly eating.

  Then came Joe’s visit, unannounced and at Christmas, Sam was lifted. They would talk and Sam would journey. The amorphous clatter of the neighbourhood would recede, the present and all that was around him would fade and Sam would imagine and relish places where goats and other dexterous creatures might be found.

  Joe’s choice of Christmas present was a hasty decision. Kath was dismayed. They were standing near a lottery outlet. A prize of unprecedented size was advertised, it had ignited an unseen enthusiasm. The multitude was buying. Joe was carried in. He was a novice buyer, no neophyte was keener. He affirmed the mantra there is no greater zealot than a convert. A recruiting sergeant could not have found a more determined man.

  He needed guidance with his purchase, Kath became his pilot, although her knowledge and experience were little more than his.

  His fervour, I believe, inspired their choice of numbers and briefly took from Kath the notion that lottery tickets were just more weight to press down on some poor dustman’s back.

  There was a crowd in that house when the draw for the lottery was made. Joe was sanguine, Kath dour, but Sam was nowhere in the spectrum. Money, chance and the working of the lottery were an enigma to him.

  But the rest of them in that room expected the usual outcome. Almost nearly, but not quite, always close enough to keep the fish biting, but always a nibble, never a strike.

  The numbers came up on the T V screen. They commanded a silence. Joe was hitting the target. First came three, then four, then five. The silence deepened and movement became as likely as stirring in a cemetery.

  Aunt Maisy was taken with a sudden urge to cough. She was revered in the town, a model of living and health, her bed never filled by the worse epidemics.

  Kath winced, closed her eyes then gripped her chair. The temples of commonsense were being invaded. The devil had arrived. Unlikely probability was urging on the besiegers.

  Sam rushed to the toilet, a fugitive from the suspense, but a cheer went up before he could undo any buttons. Joe’d done it. He’d nailed the hard one. He’d hit big number six. It was down out and no longer flying.

  He’d also brought an on the spot solution to Aunt Maisy’s cough. It was gone she couldn’t even clear her throat. He’d tackled the tickle.

  But the most vicious barking fit would have gone unnoticed in the loud babble that followed.

  Joe’s hand was almost shaken of its arm. But calm came and lowered the tumult.

  Kath raised her hand and motioned for all to be still. Joe stood on a chair and spoke.

  “Does anyone owe any money?”

  There was no response. Mouths remained shut, tongues tethered to their moorings. There was no stirring or churning of the silence.

  Joe was puzzled. No money worries, an unfilled debtor’s prison, pulse rates unfluttered by lucre or the lack of it.

  Joe was trusting, but something budged and something turned the wheels inside his head, it was as though a long period of hibernation had ceased, his brain was waking to a new and unexpected burden.

  He tried again.

  “Do you all live in surplus?”

  “Surplus!” And he was interrupted by a loud explosion of the word and Aunt Maisy’s laughter.

  Her cough had been containable, her mirth irrepressible. She knew most of them. Some were beyond the hope of any budget service. The confusion at the bottom of a waterfall was more ordered than their chaotic finances.

  Aunt Maisy’s laughter was the trumpet call that made all debt stand up and shriek.

  Aunt Maisy surprisingly led the way in the confession of guilt, for Aunt Maisy to admit debt was almost like sin. She spoke of a time long ago before electronic banking and other mind mangling methods. A world without cash had not then been reached. It was everywhere, under mattresses, pockets, in people’s hands, but in museums it was not to be seen.

  There had been a coincidence of the worse winter on record and a temporary relocation of the power board’s office for the payment of bills. It was inconvenient and remote.

  Umbrellas were no use in the gale force winds and coats were almost wrenched off at the buttons.

  Aunt Maisy was an exponent of the use of feet and only occasionally took lifts with friends.

  She’d run a gauntlet of power disconnection and the hostile penetrating weather.

  The lights in her house never went out but she’d lain in some extra candles.

  Aunt Maisy’s account would have been acclaimed. It would have been welcomed at any debt collector’s conference. But the summary that followed was barely digestible. The numbers, they were passable, but the excuses, the suffocating whitewash, Kath was nearly driven from the room, not even a dog could swallow it.

  Not fit for the passage down a dog’s esophagus, but what of a sojourn in a credit man’s ear?

  It was one more plate of the same old diet, heading via a shovel down a credit man’s throat. It was a remorseless theme so familiar it was sometimes whistled as a tune.

  And all of it without correction was within the glossy covers of the association’s big book, known by all professionals as the mendicant’s lament.

  Then Aunt Maisy spoke and the plague of gloom was lifted. An unexpected invitation had arrived to a wedding in faraway Oz. The bother of bulging budgets was a phenomenon unknown to her, but there had been no time to plan the fare.

  Joe nodded. He knew about money and the allocation of resources.

  “And a bouquet too for the bride.” He added.

  Then Joe agreed to pay down everyone’s debt.

  All the backs in that room straightened. There was a sudden upward movement. The spiders on the ceiling trembled. The handicap had been lifted.

  Joe stepped down off the podium and there was a commencement of the counting.

  In that motley midst there was numerate young lady. She was a bush accountant, a real fair din
kum one (genuine). A dweller in the forest, her world was trees and numbers.

  Tetra the tally clerk was from a distant logging camp.

  The schedule was complete, all indebtedness was listed. The slate was sponged, it gleamed. Next week’s pay was pure and white, untainted by last week’s spending.

  There had been an onslaught on the prize, but like the excuses it was puny. The bounty remained dressed, ready for the slaughter.

  Then Joe made an addition to the schedule.

  Aunt Maisy – foreign travel.

  It was heavily underlined and on the right hand side was an amount column with a dollar sign. Aunt Maisy was being given money not sacks of potatoes.

  Then came the sub headings.

  1. Fare to get there.

  2 What to wear there.

  3. Accommodation once there.

  4. Spending during the holiday.

  5. Miscellaneous – unforgotten and overlooked items, this was a generous amount and for many it would have been a dream.

  Aunt Maisy was to enjoy her experience of travel. She was not to be a cipher in the budget herd. Joe’d heard about aeroplanes, a mate’d sworn he’d grow feathers first before he’d go anywhere again airborne. The squeezed cramped seats, the endless wriggling the beautiful blue sky was a place of torment.

  Clothing and accommodation were to be commensurate.

  No rummaging amongst the oddments in the lucky lot bin hoping to turn something up. Specials dress shop was to be right off limits and accommodation where sleep was possible and pilfering and plundering of gear was not an advertised feature or remotely possible. Aunt Maisy was not to stay in a modern version of an alms house paid for by the government.

  Then Joe announced he was tired. Would everyone mind going home he’d like an early night.

  The unexpected win and generosity were welcome. There was a stirring and shuffling and a movement towards the door. Joe’s hand came in for another bout of shaking.

  The chorus was busy.

  “Have a happy night.” Was chanted frequently.

  In Joe’s glossary this read.

  Time cherished for being memorably uneventful.

  The win had been a jolt, an intrusion into his pleasant vacuum of nothingness. He yearned for a period of inertia, of choking boredom. Even the mirage of excitement would have been unwelcome.

  Finally the door closed and Joe and Sam and his young companion Kath were alone.

  “There’s them, there’s Aunt Maisy and now there’s you.” And Joe gripped young Kath by the hand.

  Then he dug around in his possessions.

  “Got it.” He said and out came a cheque book. The tattered traveler, the shipwreck survivor it’s appearance belied the task ahead of it. Big numbers were being written in the battered book.

  First there were the thems. Kath was to be the cashier and make the disbursement. Then there was Aunt Maisy’s .

  “And now yours.” Said Joe.

  And he handed Sam a valedictory notice to money worries.

  “But what about you?” Protested Sam.

  “My bank book’d be stunned by the numbers and there’s far too many noughts. It could be the coming of a new kind of nothing.” Said Joe.

  Then it was bed, lights out and sleep. And in the haste no final bed time reading.

  The next morning Joe was away unabluted. The cockerel was hailing a new beginning and the sounds from distant revellers were sliding into the shadow of one more yesterday.

  And the reason for Joe’s urgent exit was soon revealed to Sam.

  The big win, the generosity, the banishment of debt. An airplane dropping leaflets could not have spread the word faster.

  Sam had no idea the town contained so many penurious people. They came like a swarm of locusts. He was reminded of the seagulls on the beach, near and around the fishermen.

  He’d wished he’d gone with Joe. Flight was a tempting option.

  But Kath was unyielding.

  “They’d have cleaned us out.” She said.

  The house would have been emptied.

  The deluge of demanding people slowed, subsided and then became like a small stream in the summer heat, a trickle that disappears into the sand.

  The outcome of an entirely random process had slotted Sam up many slots.

  But more fortunate and more important was his decision to make his life with Kath.

  The young lady may have brought flowers to the altar, but unseen, but like wedding cake was slice upon slice of sense.

  Her perspective of the win was thus.

  `We’ll live like the rest of them round here, except unlike them we won’t have to think about money.'

  Paying the bills was no longer a time for somberness and foreboding and that hidden menace the direct debit could be forgotten.

  Sam sometimes felt worms lived in his bank account. A healthy balance would unexpectedly become nothing.

  But there were some changes. Need could not be denied.

  Another lawnmower this time one that arrived in a carton. It was swish and Sam was through the swathe around the house.

  But ‘Ancient Harry’ the loyal relic was retained. It was put out to grass in full view of the clippings.

  It was a memento of how it was before the win. But its dissonance was, I believe, replaced by cheering.

  The rusty remnants called roofing iron were firmly banished. Sam wondered how they kept dry. There’d be no more rushing to the pumps and bailing out during storms and heavy rain. And he’d be smiling through every weather forecast.

  But the vagaries of the weather retained their status of importance. Sam’s agenda was not distorted by the win. He sought the same unchanging pleasures, a tent was still an item highly prized.

  He and Kath would venture where money could be exchanged for nothing, where the product and services of man did not exist.

  But beyond the boundaries of worth there was still value. Effort did not disappear without reward. The sun would demand cooling liquid. The harsh climb held rest in contempt. Enticement did not surrender to exertion. The aches, that would turn a night’s rest into a tempestuous journey, would not deter.

  It was an ambient of endless stimulation. It was a lure Sam could not resist.

  It was a place of hopeless addiction. But it was such good fun, no one thought of forming a support group for relief. Sam was caught by a compulsion, the urge would not give way to stress, there was no cure or remedy and Sam would just go back and back.

  But enjoyable too and another inducement was there chance encounters with Joe.

  “The living Joe, not the image in the papers.” Was Sam’s greeting.

  He was referring of course to the annual reunion of lottery winners.

  There was much interest, it brought the press in numbers, but anger and resentment were stirred by the event.

  Leaders and other significant people of importance would be ignored, displaced and would disappear entirely from the news.

  Joe was living in very rudimentary accommodation. Its sparseness would not tempt mice. It was far from roads and power. But Joe did have modern fire lighting equipment. There was ample fuel it came from a nearby river.

  The location was chosen for its remoteness. It was the apogee, the furthest distance from any lottery shop.

  “This is the place.” Said Kath and continued.

  “Certain for recuperation. You’ll be completely cured. Rid of ticket buyer’s fever.”

  Joe went very silent.

  There’d been a slip, a big black blot, another dabble at the lottery shop.

  Kath shook her head.

  The flight, the locusts. Joe’d even read about it in the papers. The aftermath of the win. He’d expected something, but the scale was a shock.

  A dibble and a dabble and another win, but Joe’d made his final purchase. It had been inculcated, beaten in that tickets did win prizes.

  The mon
ey was a burden a load he could not face.

  “The bigger the pile, the greater grow the problems.” Was his comment.

  There had been further rescues. People hauled out from debt.

  But his endeavors were not entirely wasted his help was of some use. There’d be a pause, relief from debt and in the lull the bailiff would catch up on the crosswords.

  Joe’d been daunted, his simple views contorted by the follies he had seen, his mind wrenched, its resilience deflated, it was like a garment that had gone many times through a wringer.

  But a candle flickered, a light burnt. The example of the young couple and Aunt Maisy were a balm, the serenity in which he lived gave back hope.

  Despair was near the ramparts, but there was water, there was still the moat.

  Joe’s views were shrunken, his beliefs compressed, but they lingered, they were not entirely gone.

  “They can’t handle the money.” He was referring to the winners.

  A problem had been clearly identified.

  “Large amounts of money squandered in a short time and on what?” He asked.

  A situation that would make any reasonable person wonder.

  “It’s their money, they won it, but they shouldn’t be allowed to handle it.” Joe saw wasted opportunity.

  The foetal shape of lottery town was now appearing.

  The money could be managed, a trustee found.

  But there were still more contour lines to cross. There were the locusts they were not a bump, but a significant navigational hazard.

  But Joe’s brain was warm, his blood invading every crevice.

  “They can’t be thrown into the wild world.” He said.

  Padding and insulation were needed.

  The gestation of Lottery Town had momentum.

  “They need to live in a special place.” Said Joe and continued.

  “Away from the swarm and harm.”

  Lottery Town was set and firm, definite and in a rigid mould.

  Joe discussed his ideas at the next annual reunion. He was a classic winner, a legend, but his status made no impact on his thesis.

  A few scrambled notes were taken, a hasty précis made. It became a rudderless shape, adrift in the lottery board’s filing.

  It was the final ice, the cool reception was the chill, Joe’s faith was in a lifeless tundra.

  He’d made his final pilgrimage, he’d never again visit. There’d be a gap, an unfilled space, the chair of the great winner emblazoned ‘Occupant Needed.’

  But the lottery board was under siege. Enemy scouts had been seen, there was the rumble of faraway artillery.

  There was increasing displeasure at the behaviour of some winners. It was filling more space in the papers.

  Some unemployed journalist had been brought back into service. There was meat for their teeth to savour.

  An atmosphere pervaded the board. There were frequent absences from meetings. Then someone blurted out the idea of Lottery Town.

  No one could remember where the notion came from, provenance remained a mystery. Joe’s theme had not vanished in a vapour. It had lodged, stuck, blocked in a conduit, somewhere in someone’s head.

  The concept was hailed its proponent was a hero. There was an announcement, a proposal had been made. A broad outline for Lottery Town had been agreed on.

  There was respite and for a time peace.

  Then came a most improbable coincidence. The government’s popularity had reached a zenith. To criticize would risk the public’s ire.

  The white flag had been raised, all firing must cease. The media had no target.

  But the still on the front was brief its termination spectacularly.

  There was a story it was dire it spread only in hushed whispers. It involved the Lottery Town board. Its approval rating was taken to the nadir.

  The wife of a winner of a prodigious amount was engaged in a most demeaning occupation.

  The action station buzzer rang in the offices of the media.

  There was a rush and a loud cry.

  “Grab spears and sharp knives boys. Don’t bother with pens.”

  The stooges in suits had become cannibals.

  A report was concocted around the woman’s misfortunes. It was slanted to imply it was somehow the Lottery Town board’s doing. There was public anger. It was most embarrassing.

  There was a desperate search, a solution was sought inaction was no longer tolerable.

  The quarantine file was scoured, it was scrutinized in minute detail, but it offered no solutions.

  A bright beam was shone on the team of Uncle Righteous. The committee was no longer a place of tranquil waters. There were frequent meetings, even work. It was a most unexpected experience.

  There was panic, haste and a sudden announcement.

  Lottery Town would be built.

  The guillotine’s blade was held steady.

  But there were fears about the future size of the town. It might grow exponentially.

  There was discussion and further discussion and then a proposal was made. An accumulation of assets would exempt residence.

  Or as one sour winner put it.

  “If you’ve got plenty, they’ll give you more.”

  The Town was the envy of every mayor in the land. Deferred was an item unheard of.

  The civic buildings and gardens were an architect’s vision. It was a fantasy unimpeded by expense.

  But many of its inhabitants weren’t happy.

  They were homesick. They yearned for the familiar, the rusty cars the potholed streets. They were unaccustomed to the lack of litter and the language it was barren the word budget was not in widespread use.

  A restlessness was a bother in many of their lives. It added to the sense of alienation.

  The advice of the town’s psychologist was sought. But there was no explanation of cause or a possible solution.

  There was a search, it was fruitless it led in many directions. Then a cure was inadvertently stumbled on.

  A group of sufferers was taken on a tour. They travelled beyond the town boundary. They passed a shop, they saw prices again. Calm came. It was then realized it was necessary to worry about money.

  Some renounced their winnings to return from whence they’d come. A service was set up to help them.

  Many had great difficulty making it back to the other side. They lacked conviction. They had to be convinced life existed beyond money.

  But one couple stood out, they confounded the budget specialists. They brought greying to anyone who saw them.

  They were incorrigible, yet lovable, they were completely unforgettable. Reports and more reports were written, but no one had the heart to write the truth. Pens were never filled with ink, only whitewash.

  Drink inspired an artist at an office party. Graffiti appeared on some filing cabinets.

  Shoe string Sally and no frills Bill were here and we were too.

  We were here to help you, but we need help too.

  Rumours trickled from the town, they spread like spilt treacle. Even Joe was informed, nothing could stop their propulsion.

  The outcome of his winnings had incarcerated Joe in gloom. But the announcement and the construction of the town had brought hope.

  But its occupation and the tales that followed, dimmed, shut out and took away the light.

  Joe felt ashamed.

  He’d been generous, rescued people, had heard the shipwrecked mariner’s call.

  But his endeavours had been futile.

  The Town was another bid to help, but it’d become a place of exile.

  Joe sought sanctuary amongst the beautiful and the remote, where it is possible to gaze on views that never tire. The sound of the river would refresh and the ever changing shapes and patterns in the sky would titillate, inspire and deny monotony the vista.

  No anaesthetic could so quickly dull and take away the pain. Joe could and did forget. />
  And every spring he can be found by that river somewhere in South Westland. Sam and Kath always visit. They never talk about the lottery anymore, just the season and the whitebait.

 

  Teront