by Alan Jansen
I didn’t want to shoot Uncle down or dash his hopes, but I replied tartly, a stern look of disapproval on my young face. ‘You’ll be in the dog house, Uncle, if you buy any of that cake and stuff. That’s one thing that really makes Mom cross. It’s the same every Christmas. She’s got this “traditional” thing where she insists all Christmas sweets, cakes, and stuff be made at home. Last year, Pop bought a large hamper from the Rothwell superstore loaded with bags of cakes and sweets and things, and Mom didn’t speak to him for three whole days. It was as though he had perpetrated a major crime. And mind you, that was at Christmas! She gave away most of the hamper to old Pottersworth, the tramp, a day before Christmas, keeping only the alcohol and fruit drinks that came with it. It’s just no good. The only way we can have all that Fortnum stuff is if we win it in a lottery. Mom couldn’t possibly be annoyed with anyone that way. A lottery is a lottery and we would be only guilty of buying a ticket.’
‘Harrumph!’ Uncle exclaimed under his breath, a postern of hope lighting up his pale face, only to be doused seconds later. ‘A lottery, you say, eh? But who the devil sells such lotteries here in the village? Hell and damnation! Julia did tell me firmly that I was not to buy any Christmas cake and stuff from the shops, but I didn’t know if she was really being serious or not. After what you just told me, I’m afraid we will have abide by her stupid rule after all. I can’t risk being on bad terms with Julia, not now – not at Christmas! I guess we will have to put up with your mother’s efforts after all. I’m sorry, Turtle. It’s not the money, you know. … I can buy that whole damn Fortnum section at the general store or even at the superstore in Rothwell if I want to, but I don’t want to cross Julia. Besides, even if I flout her rule and buy a Fortnum hamper, she would probably give the whole lot to blooming old Pottersworth once again – not that I mind the old rascal gobbling all that Fortnum stuff, poor chap!’
I knew that Uncle was loaded. He had unending funds in a vast Aladdin’s cove of riches and was our wealthiest relative. How he had become so stinking rich none of us really knew, although he often spoke of his investments in France or his famous art collection that none of us had actually ever seen. On and off he would talk of some famous painting and say he was its present owner. We had no cause to doubt his word, for Uncle, despite his philandering ways, and a somewhat anarchistic approach to life, was an honest man – a dying breed. As for the investments, I never did find out what he invested in at that time. Of course I know today at my great age how he had come by his great wealth, but that’s a story for later …
After our shopping expedition, we walked back to Pop’s old pickup, which was parked a good way down the main street. Mom left us suddenly, saying she forgot to buy icing sugar or something like that, announcing she would be back in a jiffy. As Uncle, Pop, Ben, and I, laden with Mom’s shopping bags full of assorted stuff, walked on slowly to the parked pickup, we passed Verity Hayward’s cake, confectionary, liquor, and wine store. We stopped abruptly to gaze at her impressive window display. A huge wicker basket packed with Fortnum and Mason’s very best stood in majestic splendour in the middle of the window display. Several bottles of quality whiskies, wines, and champagnes took pride of place, jutting out in between the glossy and sparkling transparent cake packages, mouth-watering packets of sweets, Turkish delight, assorted confectionary, and colourfully illustrated biscuit tins. Underneath the basket was a large printed sign that read, ‘Win this wonderful hamper for Christmas. Buy a raffle ticket today.’ Below the large print was information about the raffle tickets, including where one could buy them. Uncle stopped in his tracks and stood there for more than five minutes checking out the hamper and absorbing the information about the raffle. He had a faraway look on his face, as though he had just solved a mighty big problem. Just then Verity herself came out of her shop, with a window cleaner following keenly in tow. Outside, she gave off a few brief commands to the workman, turning her back momentarily on us. She had a most shapely rear, the contour of her knickers clinging tightly to an alluring bottom underneath the slightly transparent dress of white rayon she wore. Turning around and seeing us, she smiled in recognition at Ben and me, and cast a curious but very appreciative look at Uncle Cheroot. Uncle was instantly liked by most people, seldom sending vibes of polarization in any company he found himself in. Women without exception took it several notches further. They were all, without exception, instantly drawn to and deeply attracted to Uncle. Even prim and proper damsels reputed for demureness would abandon their natural shyness and force themselves upon Uncle in some way or other.
The village general store also sold confectionary and spirits, but Verity’s Sortiments was considered much superior and cost considerably more, as expected. Her regular customers all hailed from the rich upper class, of which there were a good many living on properties near the village and even beyond. Verity had for several years organized a Christmas raffle where an enormous and expensive Christmas hamper was the only prize offered. Mr Hayward, her late husband, was for many years the only confectioner and baker in the community. After his demise, Verity took over the prospering business. The latter, twenty years younger than her late husband, was still a very attractive woman with a great figure and flowing black hair that reached almost to her waist. She ran her business with perceivable vigour and a shrewd moneymaking acumen, second to none. There was, though, an element of hardness, an element of snobbishness, and an almost total lack of empathy in her character. For instance, she never gave old Pottersworth the homeless village tramp anything when he went on his begging rounds through the village, causing the latter to utter multiple invectives and curses whenever he passed by her shop. Pottersworth’s rounds were solely to beg for a few shillings or pence so that he could buy food. Although not a tippler, he liked alcohol and often bought a bottle or two of ale at the general store after his daily ‘tour’ and diligent rummaging in skips was over. Verity frowned on people on the bottom rung of the social ladder and, stopping short of shooing them out of her store, was cold and distant towards them, hoping they would leave as quickly as possible. Despite these shortcomings of hers, there was nothing sleazy or dishonest in her business concept or management, with one exception: she cheated in her yearly raffle. … Every year it was always one of her favourite customers who won, although at times she even allowed a complete stranger who had caught her fancy in some way or another to win. Verity Hayward was immensely fired up – ecstatic actually – to be able to steer the outcome of her raffle. She took morbid pleasure in playing God, pleased as punch that she could choose the winner.
Verity had ambitions of being elected to the parish town council, for which purpose she relentlessly and sometimes even shamefully targeted old Lord Markham, who lived nearby on the Markham estate. Our village was governed by the Rothwell Town Council, and it was there that Verity had set her political targets. Lord Markham along with another aristocrat, Lady Janet De Court Plutney, were the only true blue bloods that lived close to our village, both very influential and stinking rich. There had been a third, Lord Sidcup, but he had died a few years back. Lord Markham was a widower in his late seventies living quite alone, his two sons having left the nest a long time ago to pursue careers of notable distinction in London. Verity would regularly send Lord Markham small baskets of sweets and cake and even an occasional bottle of the finest whisky from her shop – all complimentary, of course! Lord Markham was the chairman of the Rothwell Conservative Party and his influence was considerable, stretching even to nominating party candidates for election to the council. Verity was hoping to canvass as a candidate the next year when elections came around to the council board. She was hoping to, and had ambitions of, being elected to the five-member board, thus paving the way for total dominance and sway over the affairs of our little community, so often fallaciously called a ‘village’ by many. Despite lacking official village status in a strict political sense, we did have a post office, a prominent bank’s branch office, a GP, a vete
rinary practitioner, a small library, a few small shops, a large general store that employed an impressive staff of six, and a vicar presiding over the affairs of our medium-sized church and parish.
Rumour had it that Verity had sown plenty of wild oats in London before winning a small fortune on the pools to settle down in neighbouring Rothwell, where she had met and married Mr Hayward. Even after her marriage, she wasn’t averse to having brief affaires de cœur now and then with men and was known to have had a long-term sexual liaison with the late Lord Sidcup from the manor house in the valley, until the latter fell off his horse during a fox hunt and succumbed to a broken neck. Mr Hayward was quite wealthy; despite Verity’s sexual indiscretions, they lived happily enough, until the former’s death in a motoring accident – swaying and colliding with a tree in his Bentley while trying to avoid an oncoming speeding lorry. He left Verity with a massive cash balance in the bank, as well as a gargantuan sum of money from a life insurance policy citing her as the sole beneficiary.
Uncle Cheroot didn’t lose much time in buying a raffle ticket for Verity’s much-prized hamper, as he says in his diary entry which you will read shortly. Besides, being the natural sexual predator he was, I doubt he had forgotten the sight of Verity’s alluring bottom and figure enclosed in that see-through dress of hers that day outside her shop. He was probably itching to make her acquaintance despite his ongoing affair with Mom. Uncle was like that. He nearly always blotted his life canvas with uncontrollable pursuits of erotic adventures brought about by animal-like carnal lust. The raffle was his way out of Mom’s confectionary ban, or so I gathered when reading his diary entry that covered the whole matter. There was no question of his winning, it seemed. … It was the perfect way to lay his hands on that fantastic hamper in Verity’s shop window containing all the culinary treats associated with Christmas without offending Mom’s feelings and to add another woman to his long list of female conquests! Reading his diary entry about this particular adventure, I reacted with real anger – anger because he so readily was willing to betray Mom for someone else, or so it seemed. Here is what he wrote:
I just had to do something about Julia’s Christmas terror, and that Verity woman’s raffle was my ticket in. Julia had put her foot down, insisting that we don’t buy cakes and other sweets from the shops, but surely she couldn’t do anything much about it all if I went and won the stuff in a raffle, could she? I could always say I didn’t know what the prize would be! I was sure to win that raffle prize. I always won the first prize in any old raffle competition I entered, if I really wanted, through the power of my mind – a trick I learnt from my dear departed friend Akawander. Besides, my old sexual failings once again rose to the surface, demanding that I simply must have Verity! I am, and always have been, powerless to control my sexual urges. Every attractive woman troubles me no end, for in spite of it all I do have a conscience and dislike taking advantage of any woman. Verity, however, gave me very little qualms. The woman was a widower and, to my knowledge, wasn’t involved in any serious liaison at the moment. The only thing that gnawed my conscience, and troubled me deeply, was Julia. I don’t want to lose Julia. She is special and will be my reigning queen someday. Nobody else will do … but I just had to have Verity, even if was going to be for just a few nights. What a prize that would be! As I saw it, I stood to win two prizes in this heaven-sent raffle! I’ll have to tread carefully though. I don’t want Julia finding out …
Later in the week Uncle visited Verity’s shop to buy a few raffle tickets, but he ended up, as he had undoubtedly intended, having a rollicking affair with her as well. Throughout my association with Uncle, I knew that women, whether young, middle-aged, or elderly, besides instantly liking Uncle, were also susceptible to Uncle’s sexual advances if he made a move in that direction. … Every woman he met and wanted, he conquered in resplendent style – Verity proving no exception. Uncle devoted an impressive ten pages in his diary to describe his affair with Verity Hayward. It seemed that not only was his intention to win the Christmas hamper, but also he was hell-bent on seducing Verity – an additional bonus. As Uncle had written in his diary, he always won lotteries through some special trick he had learnt from a certain friend in the past – a person called ‘Akawander’. I often wondered in my early association with Uncle if his vast fortune was made by winning the national lottery several times incognito, and not through his business ventures as he often purported. Perhaps it was some strange Druid magic of sorts that lay at the bottom of it all. … Mom, who had observed Uncle win a few times in lotteries in her past association with him, always encouraged him to bet heavily on the big horse races at Epsom and Ascot, or the Grand National at Aintree, but Uncle didn’t – just laughing away Mom’s suggestions.
‘I’m not that kind of a gambler, Julia. If I go and win, I will be depriving some poor soul from a rightful fortune. You know I don’t need the money!’
Mom replied, ‘Oh, pish-posh, Cheroot. You have as much a chance to win as any other person, poor soul or not! I know you’re loaded like Midas, Cheroot, but if you really don’t want to win, perhaps you can give me a few tips! I wouldn’t mind a punt! It might win me a fortune! Cor! Think of what I could do with, say, a lovely ten thousand pounds!’
‘My dear Julia, listen to me carefully and allow me to play the prophet for a while. I do firmly declare that you will soon be pocketing much more than ten thousand pounds! You keep up that painting of yours and I promise you that I will see to it that your work is exhibited at a few leading London galleries in London and Paris. Bah! Ten thousand? Dang-blast it all. What’s ten thousand! You just keep on painting, dear, and your ten thousand will be double, treble, and then quadruple! It will soon pay off. I promise you that!’
‘Promises, promises, promises, Cheroot. What’s the use of promises? It’s not that we need the money, dear. Jim doesn’t, and in my deepest heart I don’t either. But it would be wonderful if I could have the money to send Turtle to a good university later on. The girl’s so clever! I would wish the same for young Ben too, but the dear boy takes up after Jim, and I don’t think he’ll ever settle for a professional education of any sort. Farming is in his blood.’
Uncle answered in a strange sing-song sort of intonation, saying, ‘Turtle will be admitted to the finest university in England, Julia, and you will become this country’s most famous painter. It will happen, you know!’
Mom laughed away Uncle’s prophecies, hardly giving his efforts at predicting the future any credibility. In fact, nobody listening to Uncle would have believed anything he had just declared, but all of it did happen eventually, as my story reveals once these chapters unravel …
Anyway, back to Uncle’s first diary entry and his account of his affair with Verity. His liaison with Verity wasn’t liasoon amoureuse, as the French would say, but just Uncle’s callous way of satisfying his unquenchable carnal lust – a major flaw in his character, perhaps the only one. Following are his words:
A splendid woman, Verity, although she would squeal like a pig when I penetrated her. I really don’t mind loud women, but it was a bit awkward having sex with her at the hotel in Rothwell. The hotel wasn’t very big, so sound carried very well there. All the other guests knew what we were up to, of course, and it was amusing to see Verity trying to keep a straight face amongst our dining companions while having our breakfast in the small breakfast hall, very much aware of how much she had squealed and shouted out her pleasure the previous night and again a short while before our breakfast rendezvous. Underneath her haughty and snobbish exterior, Verity hid a very powerful sexual appetite. Almost a libertine, she has insatiable needs and often insisted on performing advanced sexual games, during which she would squeal even louder. At night she preferred to dine in, ordering from the hotel’s in-dining menu, Verity always ordering extra butter, which we used pretty much all of …
Another entry read as follows:
While at dinner on our second evening
at the hotel, I brought up the matter of her annual raffle, expressing my desire to buy five tickets. Verity immediately put on a very conspiratorial look as she gazed into my eyes, saying very determinedly, ‘Why, Cheroot dearest, I didn’t know you were interested in my poor old raffle. Don’t Jim and Julia do very well on the farm? Everybody in the village hankers after Jim’s cured bacon and sausages. And Julia preserves jams and things for sale, doesn’t she? I’ve seen her stall at the village fair sometimes, where she sells quite a lot of her stuff. I’m sure she bakes quite a lot at Christmas too.’
‘Yes, yes, she does, Verity. But, you see, the children can do with something else, something more divergent and exquisite. Turtle and Ben say you have everything in that hamper of yours, all that mouth-watering Fortnum and Mason stuff and other things. And Jim would appreciate all that good whisky and brandy. It will be such a thrill if I can win it. It would make a perfect gift for the family. One can never tell … maybe I might just get lucky, you know!’
‘Nonsense, Cheroot. What’s luck got to do with it? You don’t have to try a punt! Just buy a damn raffle ticket and I’ll see to it that you win the hamper. That is, if you really want it, of course!’
I was gobsmacked to learn of her deceit. Nothing in the way of human nature surprised me much these days. I had long since arrived at the conclusion that human beings were the worst creatures on this planet. If it was up to me, I would, like the mad Roman emperor Caligula, try and wipe them all out with one blow of my sword. It was not just Verity’s petty cheating that surprised me. It was also the notion that this attractive woman, obviously belonging to the gentry and with such fine manners, could cheat as well as anybody else. I knew I always won raffles through my indomitable Druid will, which the blood of Merlin had infused me with, but I was totally surprised to know that this time I would win through unscrupulous means and not by my own will. In retrospect, it could be said that winning raffles through Druid magic (if you could call it that) was no better than Verity’s cheating and that my criticism of human nature is perhaps hypocritical. But then again, in my defence, I had evolved into a super-anarchist of sorts and no longer considered myself human. … Besides, I never bought a raffle or lottery ticket where the expected winnings were high. If for some reason I did will myself to win, I didn’t accept my winnings, allowing the next lucky number to get the prize. I had made, or rather obtained, my fortune long ago, and am still making tons of money through my business schemes in France, well handled by well-reimbursed and trusted lawyers and bankers.