The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Maybe they all wanted to buy it but realized they’d never have the cash,” he said slowly. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Win!

  Ursula heaved a sigh as she tossed a sock onto a pile.

  “They want it purely as it’s mines.”

  She snatched a pink ankle sock and searched desperately for the match. Scratch, scratch. Win!

  “Well, it’s done now anyway. For some foolish, gacky reason, Roisin’s her heart set on staying at me mammy’s, so that’s where she’ll stay. I can only imagine the persecution she’ll be putting me through when she swans into Derry, but.”

  Ursula hauled out the ironing board, flung it open and began attacking the clothes.

  Win! Jed chose that impasse to heave silent breaths of excitement as he stole glances down at the five Wins. The pence piece hovered...

  Ursula ironed with wrath for a few minutes. Gradually the strokes softened, and finally she cleared her throat.

  “Speaking of money, Jed,” Ursula said almost apologetically, turning off the iron. “I know I'm just after roaring abuse about me family and how all they want is to get their filthy mitts on some of wer lotto cash...”

  She paused, iron aloft.

  “Not that we’ve much left, like. But Fionnuala cornered me down the town the day and asked us for the lend of 400 quid. They kyanny afford to pay—”

  “Don’t start that crap!” Jed cut her off, the penny almost flying from his fingers. “You just said it yourself, for Chrissake! We paid off that stupid mortgage for them, and they took that money as if it was their God-given right. And look at how they’re treating you now. They’ve got it into their heads that you can spew out money like an ATM! Stick your card in, out pops the money. Stick a compliment in your ear, out spits the dough! I know they’re your family, Ursula, but, really! They act like the lotto winners of the world united owe them a living. I can’t believe she had the nerve...!”

  He was one scratch away from the fare for his escape and wasn’t about to hand it all over to her family. Ursula nodded slowly in agreement and folded up the ironing board.

  “I was only thinking, but—” she began, then stopped herself. She placed the ironing board back in the cupboard.

  Ursula wandered into the scullery and paused by the island unit with the green granite worktop. She contemplated her thoroughly modern fitted scullery. There was something soothing about the flat, clean lines, something welcoming about the warm cherry wood of the cupboards that reached to the ceiling.

  Ursula had given great thought, effort and care to making that room appealing, because she hoped, against all evidence, that the lotto win would transform her into a lady of leisure, a charming hostess to endless cocktail parties.

  She had clearly been out of her mind. The only items in the scullery which got any regular use were the kettle and the microwave. She crossed into the dining room that sat unused. She settled herself on a chair and wondered why for the love of God she had made the decision to buy a dining table that sat eight.

  She chewed her lip in frustration. Nobody in Derry held Roisin’s opulence against her; why did everyone hold the lotto win against Ursula?

  She didn’t relish breaking the news to Fionnuala. Although the sight of her sister-in-law made her sick, and the money was much safer in a bank account collecting interest rather than being poured down Paddy’s throat and pissed down the drain, something didn’t sit right with Ursula. There were the blameless Flood children to think of, searching for their bedrooms under a cloak of darkness, bathing in cold dirty water. And refusing the loan, with Roisin’s visit looming, would hardly endear her to anyone. Well, she supposed with a grimace, the Floods could share their sorrows with their nice new visitor from Hawaii lodging around the corner at 5 Murphy if they wanted. And maybe Roisin would lend them the money. Ursula continued sitting, wondering why that scenario made her even more angry than herself loaning Fionnuala the money would have.

  She had just about enough in her own bank account, didn’t she? It would be tight, but she could just about afford to loan a struggling family £400, couldn’t she?

  Ursula came back to reality with a thump. Gone were the heady post-lotto days, when she most certainly would not have been doing the ironing herself. The housekeeping account was perilously close to zero. Running two foreign, petrol-gobbling cars, property taxes, and the like ensured that she and Jed were barely able to keep their heads above water themselves.

  Unless...

  There were always those national savings bonds Jed had bought right after the lotto win. Five thousand pounds’ worth, if she recalled, in denominations of £500 each. Where had he stored them away again?

  Ursula strode back into the scullery, opened the Gaggenau fridge and slipped a hand into the individually regulated wine cooler. She pulled out the bottle Jed had already guzzled from.

  She wondered if Jed would look up in alarm, thinking she was going to crack it over his skull. But—

  “Let me pour ye another glass,” Ursula would say.

  He would stare in shock as the wine splashed into his glass. But she needed him passed out in a paladic stupor that night so that she could sneak into that old tackle box he kept under the bed. She had made her decision with sudden conviction: she would get her hands on one of those savings bonds to loan Fionnuala the money. And she wouldn’t even be resentful when her sister-in-law never paid her back.

  Ursula marched purposefully into the lounge and stared in shock at the empty Laz-E-Boy, a cigarette butt still smoldering in the ashtray. Her shock turned to anger, and just as quickly dissolved into relief. She didn’t trust herself to run upstairs and rustle through his tackle box right then. The off-license—the only place he might have raced off to—was right around the corner, so he wouldn’t be long. When he came back, however, she would keep refilling that glass for as long as it took.

  £ £ £ £

  Pushing through a fog of John Player Special, Dymphna stepped grimly into the ambiance of sharpened screwdrivers and Euro dancepop that was the Craglooner pub. Vandals’ heads swiveled for a quick inspection, and she was treated to leery stares from punch-hungry rowdies and glares of disapproval from packs of girls less lovely than herself. She paused at the mirror, wincing at the stench of sick from the corner, and peered through the graffiti to be sure the pregnancy couldn’t been seen on her face.

  Heaving herself into the churning throngs, Dymphna searched for her girlfriends while she considered her two options: an abortion, or bearing a Protestant bastard. She caught sight of her brother Eoin in a sordid corner thronged by a pile of skeletal teens and seething alcoholics. Bridie eyed her and waved frenetically through the smog. Dymphna tossed Eoin a frosty glare and stumbled through a field of elbows and cleavage, tripping over handbags and rolling lager bottles.

  Her mates were all perched on bar stools around a pillar: Bridie from the ChipKebab fast food joint, Marie from the bookies down the Strand, Ailish from Pricecutters, and Moire from that swanky new café on Shipquay Street. They were all eyeshadow and slashes of red lipstick and cascading curl hairdos. Dymphna tried to ignore the acne blighting their chip-greased faces and the alarming array of cold sores, some of them festering.

  “Right, Dymphna!” hothered a boozy Bridie over the strains of S Club 7’s “Don’t Stop Moving” and shrieks of unbridled laughter.

  “Right, girls!” Dymphna said.

  She noticed with dismay the dregs of lager in each of their pint glasses.

  “Right ye are, Dymphna,” said Moire, shifting her arse on a stool and allowing Dymphna to perch next to it.

  “What’s the craic, hi?” Ailish asked.

  “It’s fairly black in here the night!” Dymphna said as she settled and motioned to the crowd.

  “Aye,” Bridie and Ailish agreed with eager nods. It was indeed black—crowded.

  “Fag, hi?” Dymphna offered, brandishing her packet of unfiltered Rothman’s. She looked sadly on as fag after fag slipped from her pack and into the lipst
ick-plastered mouths that surrounded her.

  “Sure, I'm parched, so am are,” Marie announced.

  “Aye, I'm gasping and all,” Bridie agreed.

  “I’ve this round in,” Dymphna sighed.

  “Wile civil of ye, hi,” Moire said, and the others nodded, their faces awash with relief.

  “I’ll help ye carry em, so,” Bridie said.

  “Right ye are,” Dymphna said, grimly reaching into her handbag and unshackling a twenty pound note.

  Bridie in tow, Dymphna pushed through the teeming teenaged masses, a hand flicking through her curls, searching for the appropriate father for her child. A big-boned battleaxe of a barmaid greeted them at the bar.

  “Ye right there, love?”

  “Aye, five pints of Smithwicks and a packet of pickled onion crisps.”

  Northern Ireland was the only province in the UK where abortion was still illegal. If Dymphna chose a termination, she would have to join the steady stream of abortion refugees—young Derry girls who took the bus down to Belfast, the ferry over to Birkenhead, a bus to Liverpool, and a taxi to the Powell Street Clinic. And then, of course, a taxi, a bus, the ferry, and the bus back.

  Bridie had been through the shame the year before, and when she had whispered it all to her, Dymphna had been silently repulsed. Now she was grateful, knowing where to turn, knew from Bridie about an organization called Escort, the members of which were girls from the Women’s Group at Liverpool University. They had met Bridie at the ferry terminal, brought her to the clinic and put her up in a B&B. They had visited her in the clinic afterwards and held her hand, and they had even given her a cup of tea! Even with the help of Escort, though, Dymphna would be hard-pressed to afford it. Half her pay packet was handed over to her mammy, and now approaching Ursula again—the only person she knew in Derry without an overdraft—was out of the question. Besides, the thought of murdering an innocent wee creature filled her with disgust.

  Dymphna now mulled over a third option, suddenly happy she was amongst the crowd in the Craglooner. She could find an athletic and employed Catholic lad, entice him for a night of passion in some parking lot down the street and accuse him of being the father of her already- growing child. Then they would get wed at St. Moluag’s.

  She had seen it on a Jerry Springer episode devoted to paternity tests a few months earlier. If she blamed any of the four...five?... Catholic lads she had slept with in February, she had sense enough to realize it would end in tears as they were all useless. And as for a Proddy accompanying her down the altar...the altar? What church would even have her and Rory Riddell?

  “How’s the talent in here the night?” Dymphna asked innocently.

  “Ye see yer man over there?” Bridie asked.

  “Him with the fine arse?”

  “Aye, his cousin shifted me in the loos of the Pullman last week, so he did. And I'm hoping yer man there does the same to me the night.”

  “Ye dirty bitch, ye!” Dymphna said.

  Bridie roared with laughter, and Dymphna peered at the lad in the Derry FC jersey and felt a slight tingle. She had to behave herself, though. She had to find a total stranger to be the new father of her child, an admittedly difficult task in Derry. And a lad her mate was itching to dig her claws into would not do.

  The barmaid heaved the pints on the counter.

  “And I'm away off to introduce meself!” Bridie said.

  She grabbed her beer and teetered off. Dymphna hid her change firmly inside her coin purse, gathered up the remaining glasses and wormed her way back through the pulsating mob.

  The girls were all roaring bawdily when Dymphna deposited the lager on the table. Gamely guzzling down, she tried to join in on their common chitchat, but talk of the latest pop groups and which fit fella had popped into the bookies or Pricecutters irritated her senseless. She seemed to have matured years beyond her mates since the last time they had all sat here in the same pub one week earlier.

  Dymphna sat silent and still, shredding a coaster under the table and keeping the grin of a simpleton plastered on her face. He’s too wee, and he’s too aul, she thought, her eyes darting around the crowd, jumping from fella to fella, too arsified, teeth too big, teeth too few... Dymphna was the outcast, offering around the crisps, with a secret too sordid to reveal to even her best mates. She didn’t even trust herself to confide in Bridie as Bridie had confided in her. She still remembered thinking Bridie a filthy wee slapper, and Bridie’s fella had been a Catholic! She had to tell somebody or she was going to go mental.

  As her mates' guffaws grew more sloppy, and she watched her brother flitting from table to table with a flash of pound notes, she remembered Eoin already knew half her secret. And she also knew that, unless she grassed him up to her parents—an unlikely scenario—that he would, quid pro quo, have to keep her secret to himself. And hadn’t he served on the altar at St. Moluag’s for years? If she could confess to anyone...

  “I'm bursting for a wee, so I'm are,” Dymphna suddenly announced. She grabbed her handbag and headed for the loos. After her business was done, she adjusted her bra straps staring at the point of the wall where the mirror should have been, then exited the toilet.

  She scoured the crowd for her brother. He was laughing away by the dartboard. Dymphna waved him over. Eoin looked annoyed, but muttered something to his clientele and pushed towards her.

  “Ye want some wingers for the night?” he asked her with a quick hug and manic grin. “I can give ye a special rate.”

  “C’mere you now,” Dymphna whispered to him. “I'm at me wit’s end, Eoin. I gotta tell someone about who yer man is, about—”

  She gave a fleeting look at her stomach. Eoin’s glassy eyes widened with sudden understanding and slight surprise.

  “I kyanny tell the girls,” Dymphna said. “I don’t trust meself, sure. But ye’re me brother.”

  Eoin was relieved. Anything more Dymphna told him, he knew his new career was just that bit more secret from their parents.

  “Ye can count on me,” he said, teasing her curls. “Ye know ye were always me favorite sister, Dymphna.”

  “He’s...” Her head swiveled to ensure nobody was listening in. “... a Proddy!”

  Eoin jerked as if she had just smacked him. And even with the Ecstasy filling him with love, he bristled with a hatred older than his years, passed down from generation to generation, as if a barricade had just been erected between them.

  “It’s been sickening the heart out of me,” Dymphna sniffled, grabbing his hand.

  He thrust it off and glowered at her with a simmering apoplexy.

  “An Orange bastard?” he hissed through thin lips. “Merciful Jesus! Ye see you, Dymphna? Ye’re on a fast road to Hell, so ye are.”

  “Now ye see why me mammy kyanny know.”

  She pleaded with her eyes.

  “I’ll give ye one week to sort yerself out,” Eoin said. “After that, all of Derry’s gonny know of yer filthy secret!”

  He fled, leaving her to her own misery.

  Cold fear gripped her as Bridie staggered out of the ladies’, pushing past a silly old fool in a purple track suit and a wide arrange of golden chains.

  “Would ye look at the state of yer man?” Bridie giggled into Dymphna’s shoulder. “Wearing gear fit for a wane! Wile lookin, so he is!”

  “Aye.”

  “Let’s get another round in,” Bridie brayed.

  “Aye, surely,” Dymphna said, the grin plastered more firmly on her face. But there was nothing sure about anything anymore as she staggered towards the bar.

  The man in the purple track suit looked hard at Eoin and scribbled discreetly in a black notebook, then picked up his pint glass and guzzled down with an air of triumph.

  £ £ £ £

  Ursula set her True Crime magazine to the side and glanced at Jed under the soft glow of the reading light. He had eventually arrived back home from the off-license, his face a curious pink, his eyes distracted with glee. There must have
been some extraordinary sale on liquor, Ursula figured.

  It had taken a bottle and a half of that white zinfandel to calm him down, but his deep snores now showed it had been worth it. Jed had even become a bit frisky when they slipped under the bedclothes half an hour earlier, but she had held him at bay with a giggle and a playful slap.

  Ursula slid out of the covers, and her feet found her slippers. Casting glances at her comatose husband, she crouched slowly at the side of the bed and felt around for the tackle box.

  Jed was right, of course; Fionnuala had some bold-faced cheek to ask her for more handouts. However, Jed didn’t understand the strange pull of family. She knew there was no point in trying to make her husband see things from her point of view. Borrowing one simple savings bond was the only solution. It wouldn’t have reached maturity, of course, so she was pissing money down the drain, but she could always buy another and slip it back into the box without Jed knowing. How she would scrounge up the funds for that, she’d worry about later.

  She felt the cold steel, latched her fingers around the handle and tugged it across the carpet. She hauled herself up, then scurried off to the ensuite bathroom. Ursula flicked on the light and stuffed a towel under the door. Settling herself on the toilet seat, she examined the combination lock hanging from the latch of the box. She set the combination at 00000 and tried to the lock. No such luck. She flicked to 00001 and tried the lock again. Nothing. Through the single digits, double digits and the beginning of the triple digits she trawled.

  She caught her reflection in the polished sheen of the towel rack and realized she looked a right eejit—a woman her age in such a position! She only hoped Fionnuala would appreciate what she was doing for her. With each click of the lock, each numerical advance, her frustration rose. Then, at 00146, she realized how simple it was. She flicked to 31567, the date of their marriage. Click!

  Ursula flung the lock to the side, popped open the top and stuck her trembling fingers inside. She flipped through the children’s birth certificates, the deed of the house, Jed’s high school ring which would never again be able to fit on his finger, old medical records...and chanced upon a bunch of letters from the ‘70s she had sent Jed when he had been in Vietnam.