Millions (7 page)

The woman was very kind. She told him all about how mortgages work and she gave him piles of leaflets, describing available properties, mostly three-bedroom detached new-builds.

‘What if you don’t want a mortgage? What if you wanted to just pay all at once in cash?’

‘Well, you’d need a wheelbarrow and a lot of security.’

Anthony laughed. He had to explain the funny side of this to me later. It was about how hard it would be to carry such a lot of cash. ‘People don’t really understand just how little 229,000 pounds really is,’ he said sadly.

The minute we got home he went through all the leaflets, looking for a property that was not too near our house (in case Dad got suspicious) but not too far away (so we could keep an eye on it).

I did say, ‘Anthony, this isn’t right. We don’t want a house. We’ve got a house. What’s the point of having two houses? Think about it.’

He handed me one of the leaflets. It was a picture of our old house. Underneath, it said it was a character property with surviving period details, inc. fire surround, in a settled residential area. Two bedrooms, two reception, kitchen and separate utility room. And that was it. Nothing about us or what happened there. You wouldn’t know it was our house except for the address.

I said, ‘Why hasn’t anyone bought it?’

‘No one wants it. I told Dad to rent it out to students. It doesn’t matter. The insurance paid the mortgage off.’

‘What insurance?’

‘Never mind. Look at this. Number 17 Badger’s Rake, conveniently placed for the Shopping City.’

If 229,000 pounds equals possibly 458 steps up the ladder, then spending 229,000 pounds on a house equals 458 steps down the ladder obviously. There is no patron saint of estate agents because no estate agent has ever become a saint. There have been saints who were sailors, blacksmiths, soldiers, bakers, teachers, housewives, swineherds, kings even. But in the whole of history, not one estate agent ever became a saint or even a blessed. It makes you think.

I have heard of people having a sinking feeling before, but I thought they were being metaphorical. When the taxi came to school and I discovered that Anthony had pre-booked it to take us to 17 Badger’s Rake, I felt my stomach lurch, just the way it does in a lift. We went down and down and down, along the streets of the Old Town. The houses in Badger’s Rake were even less saintly than ours. They had bay windows with criss-cross metal on them, fir trees all around and rapid, unimpeded access to the motorway. At number 17, the lady from the estate agent’s was already waiting on the doorstep.

Anthony jumped out of the car and shook her hand. ‘We haven’t got the money on us. But we can get it to you if you come to ours.’

‘Oh, really,’ said the woman. She didn’t look as friendly as she did in the shop. ‘Look, I’ve helped you with your project already. This is going a bit far. This is cheeky. I’m going to call your school and speak to the head teacher.’

‘No. This isn’t for the project. This is for our –my dad’s – property portfolio. We – my dad – really wants to buy the house.’

‘Well, then, where is he?’

‘He said to start without him.’

‘Start without him? How can we start without him? How can you show someone round a house who isn’t here?’

Anthony pulled out the digital camera shaped like a pen. ‘He gave us this. He said to take some pictures and show him later.’

The woman looked at her watch and opened the door. ‘I need a pee anyway. You might as well come in.’

Anthony asked her if she thought the house would hold its value.

‘I’m
on the toilet
, if you
don’t
mind,’ she shouted through the toilet door.

We went to look at the sunken bath in the en suite while we were waiting for her to come out. We heard a flush and then a shout.

‘Come on. Out, the pair of you. Come on.’ She was holding the front door open, for us to go out.

‘We can offer 210,000, cash. And obviously there’s no chain,’ said Anthony. ‘What do you think? Deal?’

He’d already explained to me that people would do anything for cash. So I was expecting her to say, ‘Oh, thanks very much. It’s all yours.’ But she didn’t. She glared at him and said, ‘You are one cheeky little git,’ then drove off in her Nissan Micra.

Divine intervention the only explanation.

It was a long walk back to the Shopping City and we didn’t pass any buses, or any taxis. In fact, there wasn’t even a pavement to speak of and it was getting dark. But I was so happy, the oncoming headlights seemed to be haloes dancing round us. One of the parakeets flew by. It flashed through the streetlight like a tongue of fire. I wanted to say something comforting to Anthony, but all I could think of was, ‘I’m starving. Can we buy a pizza?’

‘We can buy a Pizza
Hut
if we want to.’

‘Just a pizza for now.’

And then – just outside Dixons – another miracle – a girl in a parka stepped in front of us and said, ‘
Big Issue
. Help the homeless.’

I gave her a tenner and told her to keep the change.

‘Thanks, mate. I’ve had nothing to eat all day.’

‘Oh. We’re just going for a pizza. Come with us.’

‘Brilliant.’ The girl picked up her bag of magazines. She was going to come with us.

Anthony tried to put her off. ‘She doesn’t really want a pizza. She wants more money. We haven’t got any more money.’

‘No, I really fancy a pizza actually. Can I ask my friend?’

She nodded to a boy with a dog who was crouched in the doorway. ‘Course you can,’ I said. ‘The more the merrier.’

The girl had five friends between Dixons and Pizza Hut. The waiter had to put two tables together to fit us all in. Two people had to share menus because there weren’t enough to go round. They do a pizza that goes right to the edge of the pan, so it’s an inch bigger in diameter than the normal one. It’s called ‘The Edge’. I had a Hawaiian Edge and so did the girl in the parka. Two of her mates had a Farmhouse Edge. One of them had spicy beef. Anthony and the other two had Meat Feasts. Everyone had garlic bread with extra garlic. And we all went to the salad bar. It was amazing. It was the most food I’ve seen in one place since First Communion. Six meals equals six good deeds equals six rungs surely.

I said, ‘This is fantastic. Anthony said there were no poor people round here because of house prices, but there’s loads of you.’

They all wanted pudding. Anthony was against this, but then it turned out that they had an Ice Cream Factory – it’s a yellow machine that lets you serve yourself ice cream and then you can put chocolate shavings or hundreds and thousands or tiny marshmallows on top, and three different sauces. It was completely quality. I wondered if pudding constituted a separate good deed from the actual pizza. In which case we were looking at twelve rungs.

‘You see,’ I said as we got on the bus. ‘We helped the poor and we had those little marshmallow things. That is what we should be doing every day.’

The bill came to 175 quid. Anthony took out his calculator and worked out how many times we’d have to do that to get rid of all the money. ‘That’s 1,303.517. Call that tips. Which mean 1,300 trips to Pizza Hut. And d’you know how many days we’ve got to get rid of this money?’

The answer was twelve.

If you’ve got an idea, twelve days is plenty of time. I had a brilliant idea and it would have worked too, if it hadn’t been for people.

The Latter-day Saints people all dressed the same in white shirts and black jackets, and all carried the same smart black briefcases. They always left the house together, walking in a line, and as they passed you they would each nod at you, one after the other, like ducks in a shooting gallery. Anthony thought they were too conspicuous.

‘Look at them,’ he’d say. ‘Like penguins in a playground. And you know where they’re going with the briefcases, don’t you?’

‘Of course! To help the poor?’ I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. They called themselves saints. There must be a reason for it. ‘They go and help the poor.’

‘The launderette. Look.’

It was true. If you looked carefully, there was always a corner of undie sticking out of the smart black briefcase. So they had no washing machine and they had no cars. They all lived together in the same house and in the daytime they all went off together like the twelve Apostles. You know what they were? They were a set of rungs waiting to be climbed. That was my brilliant idea: give the money to the Latter-day Saints.

After school the next day, I sat on their wall and waited till the first one came home. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Do you help the poor?’

‘What poor? Excuse me?’ He had a strong accent, like a footballer. Maybe he was from Sweden or Holland.

‘Any.’

‘You’re asking for money?’

‘No.’

‘We have no cash kept on the premises. Don’t take the wrong idea from our respectable clothing. We live simply. No dishwasher. No cable TV. No microwave, even though I don’t see why not personally. Also, no car obviously.’

‘So you’re poor?’

‘In a sense, yes.’

I managed to shove 7,000 pounds through their letter box that night when I was supposed to be taking the rubbish out. After the first few hundred, I got worried that it seemed to be taking ages, so I prayed for help and St Nicholas turned up. He explained that it was easier to drop it down the chimney. I explained to him about solar heating. After we’d done about 4,000, St Nicholas got bored and cross. It was his busiest time of year. He said, ‘
Noli sollicitum esse. Pauperes semper nobiscum erunt
.’ (
Don’t worry about it. The poor will always be with us.
) And we walked back to the house.

I asked him if he’d ever come across a St Maureen.

‘
Quis?
’

‘Maureen.’

‘
Dubito, etsi raro in publicum prodeo
.’ (
I don’t think so, but then I don’t get out much.
)

‘Except at this time of year obviously.’

‘
Sane.
’

If we’re saying 500 pounds equals one rung, then 4,000 is eight rungs. Plus I helped Santa on his round! Quality!

I was on a roll. I wasn’t even surprised when I spotted another rung in the playground, before school had started. When the second whistle went, we all walked quickly to our lines and I was in front of Barry.

He leaned into my ear and said, ‘Pringles.’

I passed them back to him.

The girl with the lovely corn rows was in the next line. She said, ‘Why don’t you buy your own Pringles?’

‘Don’t need to. I eat everyone else’s.’ Barry popped the lid of mine and winked at me.

It was the wink that put the thought in my head. I thought, Hello, is this another rung? And I said, ‘Barry, are you poor?’

Barry’s left eyelid had still not come up from its wink. Now it fluttered a bit, then it opened wide, wide, wide and stared into mine.

‘What?’

‘Are you poor?’

He hit me very hard across the face. I remembered to turn the other cheek. He hit me in the stomach. I had to sit on the floor to get my breath back. He put his shoe next to my face and said, ‘See that shoe? What does it say on it?’

It said, Rockport.

‘Would I have Rockports if I was poor?’ And then he kicked me and I couldn’t breathe for what seemed like a long weekend.

Now this might sound like it wasn’t that successful, but that depends how you look at it. It’s true I didn’t help a poor person but I did try, so that’s got to be worth a rung, and, more importantly, I did suffer persecution, which is just fantastic. I mean, five rungs at least. In fact, as I was lying on the tarmac, I actually did start to feel a bit floaty, like I might rise up into Heaven. Anthony said that this was due to a change in air pressure inside my head caused by the loss of blood from my nose.

It was the blood that made the girl with the lovely corn rows start screaming. Mr Quinn came running over. Barry kept saying, ‘D’you know what he said? D’you know what he said?’

Mr Quinn sent him to the head and told the girl with the corn rows to take me off to the quiet corner while I recovered my equilibrium. She got me a drink of water and sat chatting to me. She told me her name was Gemma and asked me lots of questions, such as, ‘What team does your Anthony support?’ and ‘What music does your Anthony like?’ and ‘Does your Anthony ever go to the Early Bird session at the baths first thing on a Saturday, because it’s free if you’ve got your leisure pass? Tell him.’

On the way home, I asked Anthony, ‘What’s so special about Rockports?’

‘Rockports! That’s a great idea. We could both have a pair.’

‘But why?’

‘They’re great. You tuck the laces in the side instead of tying them. Dead, you know, state-of-the-art.’

‘And they really hurt if someone kicks you with them.’

‘Right. We’ll get some.’

Surprisingly, there actually was a St Gemma. Her name was Gemma Galgani (1878–1903). She was an ecstatic who excelled in the practice of heroic poverty and her feast is 11 April. I was in the hermitage, trying to look up heroic poverty, when someone said, ‘Anyone there?’

I looked out. There was a man in a Tommy Hilfiger jacket with lots of stubble on his face. The stubble made me think it might be St Damian of Molokai, who was a bit rough, though very good. But that didn’t really tie in with the Hilfiger jacket. He definitely wasn’t Gemma Galgani. I said, ‘I don’t know who you are.’

He said, ‘Mutual that, then.’

I tried to look him in the eye, but I realized that one eye was looking straight at me and the other was looking off to the left. I wasn’t sure which eye to look into.

‘This yours?’ he asked, pointing at the hermitage.

I nodded.

‘Very nice. Close to the railway. What’s inside?’

He bent down and peeped in. He couldn’t see the scooters or the Airzooka because they were still covered by the tartan blanket. He put his hand in and rooted around. He found the little tube. ‘What’s this?’

‘Tinted moisturizer.’

He nodded and looked off into the distance. He threw the tube to me.

‘What are you looking for?’