I have an old friend I went to The Ranch with whose father died recently. He and I were close back then, but we really bonded when we went Interrailing together.
He was a bit prim, didn’t really drink and liked going to Mass no matter what country we were in, but a solid lad and good old craic.
He was from Glenullin, a hamlet outside Garvagh in Co Derry, and the funeral was at 10am on a Friday morning, but when I arrived the place was deserted.
A man told me it was actually at noon, so I decided to kill time and go back to Garvagh for a toastie and coffee.
I found a nice wee café and after ordering I nipped over to a shop to buy an Irish News, but there was a queue, and every single person was buying a scratch card. A blue one.
A spell was cast on me and of course, I bought one as well. The elderly man behind the till smiled softly: “Could be your lucky day.”
I forgot all about it and was sitting during communion at the funeral when I felt the ticket in my pocket and took it out.
It had all the usual stuff on it about this bonus and that jackpot and as the ones beside me were shuffling up the chapel, I decided to scratch the thing. That’s the whole point. It’s irresistible.
Using a coin, I scraped the silver skin off and when I glanced down again, my eyes watered. There, among the numbers, were three £250,000s.
Time stopped for a moment and I dared to glance down again and yes, there it was, as plain as day. My hands trembled as I turned the ticket over and saw ‘3X £250,000 = jackpot!‘
I suppose the family of my friend were wondering who this delighted chap was at the graveside, blurting out “Sorry for you troubles” with a beaming grin. My friend was just delighted to see me of course, but I told him I couldn’t stay for soup and sandwiches at the hall as I had to push on.
What he didn’t know was that I was now rich. I saw on the ticket that any win over £5,000 meant you had to go back to the shop and let the proprietor call the lottery people. And that’s where I was headed.
My whole being was transformed. I reasoned that I better not call Fionnuala until the cat was in the sack, but I had already divvied up the winnings between our families - £5,000 for each sibling, rich or poor, leaving us with £180,000. Yes, £180,000. A nice wee lift.
I arrived at the shop but the old man had been replaced by a woman with glasses at the end of her nose doing something at the till.
“Is the boss about?” I smiled nonchalantly.
“Are you a salesman?” I had forgotten I was wearing a suit.
“No,” I snorted, “I’m not a salesman. It’s a different matter.”
“He’s at his tea. Did you get a win on a scratch card?” She was still looking at the till.
“Yes.”
”A significant one?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t hide my joy. “A blue one. The big one.” I lifted the precious card out and waved it carefully.
“And are they all in a line?” Still looking earnestly at the till.
“What?” I gulped.
“Are they all in a line?”
This time she looked up, peering over her glasses like a heron at a fish.
“Because if they’re not, you don’t need to see the boss.”
I drove home in a daydream, humiliated and chastised, thankful only that I hadn’t been foolish enough to have rung home.
Fabien McQuillan's diary of his new life in Co Tyrone continues weekly