‘What on Earth have you been doing?’ Mam asked over breakfast the next day. ‘Yvonne Foster told me you’d not been to work.’
‘Oh, er… I spent most of my time at the library. Searching for a full-time job.’ He poured milk on his Cheerios and scooped, but she seemed to be waiting for more. ‘It’s hopeless, he added. ‘There’s nothing.’
His mam leaned over him, gave his shoulders a squeeze and kissed his forehead. ‘Poor Sammy. Don’t worry, love. Something’s sure to turn up.’
He gave a waxen smile. If he managed to convince the lottery people he really did own the ticket, he’d tell her he’d found a job elsewhere and move out of the village.
Yet somehow, the thought of living in a big house no longer held any magic. He tried conjuring up the image of the four-poster and Betty Hodgkins again, but she wouldn’t play ball this time. The bed remained empty and the house looked bleak and cold. When would the Lotto company contact him? He wished to hell for it all to be over, and tried to persuade himself that things would work out.
He returned to Mrs G.’s.
‘My word!’ She stared as Sammy plonked her tray of tea down. ‘You’ve lost weight!’ He glanced at his gaunt reflection in the wall mirror, where lifeless eyes stared back, dark semi-circles beneath each.
‘Just not feeling too well. I’ll be fine.’ He shuffled out. ‘I’ll wash your dishes and be off, if that’s okay.’
She watched, frowning, as he lumbered to the door. Here, he turned, looking awkward. ‘Sorry I’m not very sociable today.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘You go home. Have a good rest. Take care of yourself.’
When he arrived home that afternoon, he discovered an e-mail from the Lotto people, with the date for his trip to Watford. The message was both businesslike and congratulatory. They were delighted to be paying him three million, they said, subject to the statutory checks. They had champagne on ice in readiness, and suggested he take advice in financial management.
#
He’d chewed his nails to the quick by the time he arrived at Mrs G.’s the following morning. He was desperate for the loo. His stomach wasn’t right.
Mrs G. studied him closely. ‘Is anything the matter, Sammy? You mustn’t come here if you’re ill, you know.’
‘
He mumbled, ‘No. It’s nothing. I’ll be as right as rain soon.’ His hand trembled as he poured the tea. She placed her hand on his.
‘
I’m worried about you, dear.’ She paused for a few seconds as he put the teapot down. ‘I’m only an old woman, but if ever you need any help…’
She’d probably have left the sentence unfinished anyway, but Sammy burst into tears. A tight knot had formed in his throat, making speech difficult and not a little painful.
‘
Oh, Mrs G. I’ve been a stupid fool. I’ve got a confession to make.’
She watched and waited as he controlled his blubbing. Then she listened, impassive, as he told her about the ticket, about the madness that had possessed him, how he hadn’t thought things through. He told her he really liked her and felt like a shit, pardon his French, and how guilt had made him feel so bad. ‘Honest, Mrs G., I’d do anything to turn the clock back, to before I was so daft. I’ve contacted the Lottery people now, and told them–’
‘How much did I win?’
‘Three million.’
As she stared in gobsmacked silence, a key sounded at the lock of the front door. Sammy quickly wiped his tears, studying Mrs G.’s wrinkled face for signs of what she might be thinking. They stared at each other as footsteps sounded in the hallway.
