“I dunno, Donc. Maybe they use them to baa-ter for drugs.”
“Maybe,” he said, not convinced.
I didn’t think it was funny either. But right now I was fresh out of sheep jokes.
17
“Parish registers, electoral rolls, estate records, court proceedings.” Lisa had chosen Saturday morning to give me a bit of an insight into researching someone’s family tree.
“Court proceedings? Not relatives of Mr bleedin’ Cavendish, surely?”
“They would have been sitting on the bench perhaps, in his case.”
“Right.”
“It’s fascinating what you can dig up once you start trying,” said Lisa dreamily. “All it needs is a bit of time and someone who knows where to look.”
“That’s you, of course.”
“Well, I think so.”
“I’m glad you’ve got so much time.”
“Well, the Hardwick Hall job is only part-time, you know.”
“Yeah. And there’s nothing else for you to do with yourself, so obviously you need Cavendish and his little job to occupy you. I understand.”
“Come on. Get those numbers filled in.”
“I can’t think of any.”
“You don’t have to think of any, they’re printed on the cards for you. You just have to cross a few off.”
“It’s hard. It’s too much like maths.”
“The numbers only run from one to forty-nine. Surely you can add up that far?”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “I can see you never did Differential Calculus.”
“If you don’t stop messing about and fill those numbers in, we’ll miss the draw.”
I can’t really see the point of the National Lottery. Let’s face it, all we’re doing is rushing like lemmings to pour our money into the pockets of a load of fat cats. Okay, so someone has to win a few million now and then. But it won’t be you or me, I guarantee it. I’ve never been one for gambling. I prefer a safe bet. Life itself is too much of a gamble as it is. Sometimes it seems like we spend our entire lives queuing up with all the other mugs in Peter Vardi’s 24-hour superstore and video hire, clutching our lottery tickets and hoping that one day some big glittery finger will come down out of the sky and make the whole bleedin’ thing worth while. But then one day our number really does come up, and it’s bingo! Sorry, is that the wrong game?
No use saying this to Lisa, though. She’s the sort who reads the horoscopes in six newspapers and ten magazines every week — and believes them all without blinking. She has a lucky teddy bear and a lucky pixie on her key ring and won’t open the door to a tall dark stranger if there’s a ‘p’ in the month. When it comes to the lottery, she naturally picks her numbers using the birthdays of her mum, dad, sister, boyfriend and dog. Then she sticks with them every week, for God’s sake. This is a disaster. It’s exactly what they want you to do. Because you can’t miss a week then, can you? You’re obsessed with the fear that your numbers will come up the week you don’t bother. It’s a prospect too terrible to contemplate. Awful. What would become of you? Well, actually, you’d be in exactly the same position you were before — except a few pounds better off from the money you didn’t spend on lottery tickets.
“Have you done it yet?”
“Oh, er... can I have 12 six times?”
“You’re in an awkward mood today, aren’t you?”
“Is that ‘no’?”
“Are you jealous of Michael Cavendish?”
“Don’t forget his hyphens. His name might fall apart without them.”
“You are, aren’t you? That’s what all that business was about at Rufford yesterday. I thought at first you were just being obnoxious as usual.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m only working for him, you know. Nothing more.”
“Sure. Helping him to make a family.”
“Helping him to find a family. Silly pillock.”
“He is, duck, I agree. I’m glad you’ve seen through him.”
“I meant you.”
“It’s no use trying to talk me round. Let me get on with my lottery numbers. What’s two and two?”
“In your case, whatever you decide to make it.”
“That’ll do, then. Two hundred and thirty seven million, nine hundred and twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty.”
“What?”
“Two. Three. Seven. Nine. Twelve. And Forty-six.”
“Oh.”
“Are we off now?”
“Did you hear what I was telling you, Stones?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ll be upset if you keep this up.”
Lisa thought she really had my number, but she was wrong. She was just acting out her part. Have you noticed how women are like that? I don’t want to sound sexist or anything, but it’s true. Some women seem to accept whatever role is forced on them, as if they’re in some kind of play and have no choice. That’s okay if you get a good part. But sometimes the Great Director in the Sky says to you: “All right — here’s your part, kid. You’re going to be a bloody martyr for the rest of your life. Everyone’s going to shit on you from a great height, and you’ll just have to lump it.” A bloke, now, would be likely to say: “Stuff that, mate. I’d rather have a part where I can knock about with the lads a bit, watch some football on Saturday, go to the pub, you know? I’m not bothered if it’s a small part, as long as I can have a bit of fun.” But women? They go along with it, play the role to the hilt as if they’re going for a bleedin’ Oscar. Year’s Best Portrayal of a Martyr or something. ‘And I’d like to thank my dear old mother, for whom nothing I ever did was good enough, and my dad who really wanted a boy, and of course my husband who put himself about all over the county for years, got drunk every night and beat me black and blue. Not forgetting my kids, who walked all over me without a word of thanks. I couldn’t have done it without them.’
But to me they always seem to ham it up too much, overdo the melodrama. If I was a critic, I’d give most of ’em a two-star rating. You’d only go and see it if the tickets are free and there’s nothing on the telly except Blind Date.
Personally, if I wanted a bit of dodgy method acting I’d go and watch some old Marlon Brando films. At least you can get back out into the real world after a couple of hours. And you don’t get those long-suffering looks when you eat your popcorn either.
We walked down to Vardi’s to get our lottery tickets. I don’t know what my stars said I had in store, but I knew my luck wasn’t in, not this week.
I hung about outside the shop while Lisa went in to queue for the tickets. Idly, I read the postcards in the window. Most of them were offering second hand Sega Megadrives and unused baby buggies. There were several adverts for homeworkers, promising earnings of up to three hundred pounds a week. For some reason, all the companies seemed to be based in Birmingham.
From here, I could see the health centre down Yew Tree Avenue and the roof of the junior school. Just past the shops was the alleyway that led to the old people’s bungalows with their concrete fencing and postage stamp gardens. The path was decorated with Walkers crisp packets and small heaps of dog muck. A couple of blokes carrying snooker cues in leather cases walked past on their way to the Welfare. A dog was barking somewhere as usual, and behind me I could hear stirrings in the Bombay Duck takeaway as they got ready for the lunchtime trade. This week, their window posters were promoting a special offer on doner kebabs and naan bread. The Duck was the only shop in the parade not to have steel shutters on its windows. Who’d want to nick some chicken curry?
I was thinking about this when I noticed a car parked past the Bombay Duck, outside the little motor spares shop. It was pulled into the kerb, with its boot towards me, but I noticed it because its brake lights were on. If somebody sits with their brake lights on while they’re stationary, it tends to make you think they’re ready for a quick getaway.