March 2012
It was the last tea bag. Graham tore open the packet to make sure there were no more caught up in the wrappings, but it was definitely the last tea bag. Damn! He hadn't intended to go shopping until Thursday – Thursday was pension day. He tipped the contents of the sugar tin into his hand – two pounds and forty seven pence – that was probably just about enough. Even with a year's practice, balancing his budget around a pension still didn't come easy. He slipped on his coat and headed for Morrisons.
On Breakfast TV, that delightful Carol had said that the temperature was going to be above average for February, but, although it was a mild day, the wind was keen and he pulled the neck of his coat tighter, wondering whether he should go back for his scarf. But Morrisons was only a short walk away, so he decided to brave it, walking on determinedly with his head down. A sudden movement drew his eyes upwards and he turned to watch as an orange plastic carrier bag sailed past him, gaining height rapidly in the sudden squally gust.
As he turned back again something hit him full in the face. Frantically he clawed the object away from his eyes, only to find that it was just a piece of paper. He stuffed it into his pocket, intending to throw it in the bin outside the supermarket and reduce the number of flying litter objects by one. The great glass doors slid noiselessly open and he ducked sideways to avoid being mown down by two over laden trolleys racing neck and neck towards him, their owners engaged in a heated conversation. With the commotion fading safely into the distance behind him he stepped inside, but as the doors slid shut he realised he had forgotten the bin, so he turned back and tugged the offending piece of paper from his pocket. It looked vaguely familiar; he turned it over and realised that it was a lottery ticket.
Like countless millions of others, he had cheerfully embraced the lottery when it had first arrived, but had quickly come to realise that it was only ever an easy way to drop your hard earned cash into someone else's money box and he had not bought a ticket himself for more years than he cared to remember.
But he knew that these innocuous pieces of paper could be worth a fortune – why, it was only last week some young couple had won over forty five million on the Euro Lottery – but, for him, even a ten pound payout would be manna from heaven; however he hadn't the faintest idea where to go to see what the numbers were this week. He slipped it into his pocket again and turned back, trying to remember which aisle the tea was in. His eyes fell on the gaudy posters on the cigarette counter and he realised the answer was right under his nose after all and, remarkably, there were only three people in the queue.
As he stopped, a shopping trolley jabbed into his ankle and he turned to see a lady apologising profusely for her clumsiness. He smiled and turned back, shuffling further towards the counter as the next person was served. A cascade of coins hitting the floor behind him drew him back again to find the lady fumbling with her open purse and apologising once more. He helped her to collect her money and was on his hands and knees trying to reach an elusive pound coin which had rolled under the front of the counter when the assistant called out, 'Next please.'
Graham stood, feeling his back complaining at the abuse, and reached in his pocket for the ticket, 'I don't suppose you could tell me if I have won anything with this?' he asked.
The assistant, who, according to his 'Here to help' badge was called Michael, looked clearly irritated; it never ceased to amaze him just how lazy these customers were. He gave the ticket a cursory glance and then his eyes widened like saucers. He checked the numbers printed over the till, then the ticket, and let out his breath in one long gasp. The people behind him in the queue crowded around, drawn by the excitement, but the assistant's face suddenly dropped, 'I'm sorry, sir,' he mumbled, 'But this is last week's ticket.' He held the ticket up and pointed to the date, but then, before Graham had a chance to focus on the tiny figures, tossed it into the bin behind him, 'I thought I recognised the numbers – if you'd had these numbers last week you'd have been a very rich man indeed.'
Graham nodded gratefully and turned to go, but the lady behind him had been watching the assistant carefully and said, 'I think the gentleman would like his ticket back, young man.'
A look of panic flashed across Michael's eyes and he said, 'But I've thrown it away now; it's not even a valid ticket.'
The lady stood her ground, 'Give-It-Back!' she said, forty years in front of a blackboard adding weight to the words.
'Is there a problem here?'
The lady turned to the supervisor and said, 'The young man won't give this gentleman his lottery ticket back.'
The supervisor raised one eyebrow and Michael, his voice breaking, said, 'But it's not a valid ticket, Nigel.' His cheeks glowed. However, under the stern gaze of his boss, which could not in a million years come close to that of the interfering old crow, he reluctantly reached behind him and handed over the ticket.
The supervisor scanned it quickly and walked behind the counter to view the week's numbers. His eyes widened like saucers. He hissed at Michael, 'Wait for me in the staff room!' and handed Graham his ticket, 'Sir, this is not only a valid ticket, but you have all six numbers. I suggest you telephone Camelot immediately to make the necessary arrangements. If you would like to come with me, you are most welcome to use our phone.'
The other customers were jostling and patting his back, shouting excitedly at each other; one man was using his mobile phone to relay the amazing news to his friends. The room was spinning and Graham turned to the lady and said, 'Could you help me here, please, this is all a bit too much.'
As they walked through the store, Graham had a moment of panic as he realised that they would want him to take the ticket to London and he simply did not have the money for the fare. He was worrying unnecessarily as the nice man from Camelot told him to stay right where he was because they were sending a car. Even with a cup of strong sweet tea, Graham still felt light headed and when the lady stood up and said she had to go, he grabbed her arm as a drowning man would grasp a passing log, 'Please don't leave me!' he pleaded.
Limo drivers are the same the world over and Graham and the lady barely managed to get a word in edgeways all the way to the city. Once there it was the full VIP treatment and an interview with the committee. A bottle of champagne was cracked with a flourish and Quentin announced excitedly, 'Let's drink to Graham, who this day is richer by just a few pence more than four point seven million pounds!'
The glass slid through Graham's fingers as the world went fuzzy around the edges and he fell to the floor. He came round to a ring of anxious faces peering down at him. 'Don't you worry one bit, dear boy,' Quentin crooned, 'it affects a lot of people like that.'
Graham moaned, 'It's not that . . .' he struggled to his feet, 'You see . . . it's not my ticket.'
A deathly silence descended on the room, which Graham broke with a faltering explanation of the bizarre sequence of events which had occurred that day.
Quentin stood open mouthed; he had never before experienced a multi-millionaire rejecting his fortune. But he recovered professionally and said, 'Now, Graham, don't let us do anything hasty here. I will run this past the legal team and see what they have to say about it.'
Fifteen minutes later, he returned, 'Now, Graham, this is how we are going to play it – we will wait one calendar month to see if the owner of this ticket comes forward to claim it. They will obviously have to prove where and when they bought it for us to be certain, but, if there is no contact by then, then the money is yours. What you choose to do with it thereafter will be entirely up to you, dear boy.'
Graham carefully counted the pension and folded the notes into his wallet. As he left the Post Office, the telephone box on the other side of the road loomed red and menacing. He was dreading this call.
As Marjory balanced the heavy Morrisons 'bag for life' on her knee and fumbled the key into the lock, the phone began to ring. The door swung open and she grabbed at the tumbling shopping; her handbag slipped from her shoulder and her purse tipped out, coins scattering the length of the hall carpet. She snatched the phone just before it rang off, 'Hello?' she said, breathlessly.
'Er . . . it's Graham . . . um . . . you remember Morrisons? . . . The Lottery ticket?' he paused, 'I promised I'd ring you when I'd spoken to Camelot, whatever the answer.'
His voice was so flat and resigned, she said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Graham, I really am.'
She could almost hear the shrug in his shoulders as he replied, 'I've always thought you have to do the right thing regardless of the consequences.' He paused, trawling his fragile ego for the raw courage to ask the next question. He finally blurted out, 'Would you like to have dinner with a very poor man tomorrow night – there's a new Italian opened in the High Street; it's nothing posh, but I've heard the food is good.' As he slowly re-filled his lungs with air the receiver was pressed hopefully to his ear.
'That would be lovely.' she said.
As the candle flickered down slowly and the Chardonnay evaporated quickly, so their nervousness diminished and they chatted animatedly about anything and everything; the subject of the Lottery having been completely excluded by unspoken agreement.
The meal over, Graham scrutinised the bill and reluctantly dropped just over a third of his weekly pension onto the tray. He sat for a moment staring at the table trying to find the right words, 'Er, Marjory . . . do you think I might I see you again?'
She reached across and clasped her hands around his, 'I would like that very much, Graham.' she said.
He looked up from the table to see her warm smile, the crow's feet crinkling around her eyes. 'Erm . . . what are you doing tomorrow?' She didn't reply, but tilted her head to the side quizzically. 'Only I promised Quentin I would go up there on Saturday; they want to make the announcement live on the program. Afterwards, perhaps you might like to have dinner with a millionaire . . . beside the Grand Canal in Venice?'