Michael Thornton Books

Jessie never would have known if she hadn’t gone searching for the postage stamp.

The book of stamps was still in her old brown purse, the one which hadn’t left her side for all of ten years. Christmas Day had changed that. Her sister-in law – her brother Mark’s wife Susan – got her in the Kris Kringle, and decided on a shiny red wallet. Mark, an investment banker, had told Susan on Christmas Eve it was a stupid present to give his sister because women, he argued, were thingy about their purse; they chose their own. He doubted Jessie would give up hers easily, even though he’d once heard her describe it as Boring Brown.

‘Nah,’ said Susan, fondling the wallet one last time before smothering it in Santa Claus wrapping paper. ‘She’ll love it. Just you wait and see.’

Jessie took to the gift as if it was a diamond. ‘Wow,’ she repeated in front of everyone as she sat on the floor with her back against the arm chair closest to the tree and began to busily transfer cash and cards from Boring Brown into Shiny Red, which she promptly named it.

Mark watched Jessie do the swapping. He felt for his little sister. It was the third Christmas since her world had headed south, since she lost baby Rachel to SIDS, followed two months later by Jonathan walking out after declaring she was responsible for the death.

Criminal negligence, he’d called it.

The gift proved an excellent diversion. Anything, thought Mark, which stopped Jessie from dwelling on what she’d lost. ‘Looks like I was wrong,’ he happily half-whispered to Susan.

Jessie had forgotten to transfer the stamps. And after spending an hour trying to remember where in her tiny flat she’d put Boring Brown, she suddenly blurted, ‘In the SUITCASE! Stupid girl.’

Pulling the lone suitcase off the cupboard, she glanced around the flat, her world reduced to a uni student’s digs.

Something fell out of the purse onto the floor ahead of the stamps. It was the lotto ticket she’d bought the day after Boxing Day – and completely forgotten about.  Picking up the coupon and the stamps, she mused about the ticket. She’d stood in a fifteen-person queue (she counted them; Jessie always counts things) thinking, why am I wasting my time? People like me don’t win. No one she knew had ever won more than twenty bucks playing lotto. It was futile.

Anyway, she was convinced lotto was rigged.

Yet something had made her remain in the queue, wait her turn at the big red money-eating lotto machine.

She’d taken random numbers – a ‘Quick Eight’ they called it – eight numbers in a single ticket.

She’d not given the matter another thought, not since stuffing the ticket in her purse.

Now, she stared at it. If she had time tomorrow, she’d have it checked at the place she bought it. After all, twenty bucks would mean a Chinese tea; a treat.

After grocery shopping, Jessie spent an hour – a whole hour – at the real estate office trying to persuade Ms Rentals to agree to have the gutter fixed on her side of the flats. ‘You have no idea the torrent that spilled over the gutter during Saturday’s storm,’ she argued, as firmly as she could to Ms Rentals, who looked as bored as any Ms Rentals could.

It was 11.40am. She was due at the doctor’s at midday. If she hurried, she had just enough time to get the lotto ticket checked – not that there was much point.

‘Hoping for winner?’ asked the harried-looking man standing behind the big red money-eating lotto machine. He offered Jessie half a smile. He must use the line with everyone, she thought. She imagined he was an accountant who’d sold his practice expecting to make a killing selling lotto, but all he’d got for his trouble was an ulcer and bulk stress.

‘Might as well check,’ replied Jessie, glancing at her watch. The doctor’s girl had ticked her off twice before for being late.

Suddenly, the big red money-eating lotto machine went into convulsions. It began playing When the Saints Come Marching In – loudly. Heads turned. The harried-looking man jumped backwards, his eyes fixed to the machine’s screen as if it was showing the Australian Open and he had money riding on the player with Match Point.

Jessie stood perplexed. She had no idea what was going on.

‘You’re kidding me,’ the man challenged the machine.

‘Kidding you about what?’ said Jessie, still confused.

‘You mean you don’t know?’ said the man, glancing at Jessie.

‘Know what?’

He took a deep breath and let his eyes revert to the screen. ‘What you’ve got here!’

‘For goodness sake. GOT WHAT?’ Jessie yelled.

‘You’ve won TWENTY MILLION DOLLARS! That’s what.’

‘You’re JOKING,’ screamed Jessie, suddenly in need of a toilet stop.

She was late for the doctor.

It took less than an hour at the lotto headquarters for Jessie to get the twenty million dollars. They offered her a glass – several glasses in fact – of champagne. But she chose instead to take small sips from the bottled water she had with her.

‘Any idea what you’ll do with the money?’ asked the half-interested public relations man, as he got Jessie to sign yet another form, this one indemnifying the company against whatever strife Jessie was bound to get herself into after suddenly having far too much money to play with, and looking for someone to blame after she recklessly lost it all. It had happened to many before her.

‘We do have a professional money manager we can put you onto; he only charges five per cent,’ added the PR man dismissively, clearly of a view that someone of Jessie’s ilk was incapable of managing her money, indeed any money.

But, given Jessie had won, he was more than happy now to relieve her of some of it.

‘What!’ said Jessie. ‘You expect me to give five per cent to some blood-sucker?’ Her face went red as she realised the pair were probably in cahoots – that they shared the commission.

‘Just commercial rates,’ the public relations man objected, affronted that Jessie would dare to question the advisor’s (and his) integrity.

Jessie’s biggest worry was who to tell about her win, fearing people would come out of the woodwork to claim a share. Jonathan might even try to come back. In the end she decided to confide in Mark, given he was an investment banker.

But only after he promised not to tell Susan. Jessie and Mark knew it was promise Mark would never be able to keep.

‘I guess you’ll give a fair slab to SIDS,’ said Mark, after recovering from the shock of the news. ‘Do you want to know what I’d do?’ he asked.

‘That’s why I’m here, to get your advice, you big buffoon.’

Mark ignored his sister’s jibe.

‘You could be like Dick Smith. They say he gives away a million dollars a year. If you resist temptation’ – he gave Jessie a knowing glance – ‘and invest the lot at seven per cent – I’ll do that for you at no commission – you’ll earn one-point-four million a year. Keep the four hundred thousand for yourself – and give away the million, tax-deductible, to cover tax on your earnings. You’ll have enough for a deposit on a pretty decent apartment – and an overseas holiday – if you’re prepared to wait a few months.’

Jessie did indeed get Mark to invest the twenty million, but not the smaller dividend winnings which amounted to a further $18,630. She took the latter in cash to, as she said, ‘keep myself going’.

She also did something else Mark suggested. Just for fun she invested the ‘twenty-mil’ for just thirty days initially, to add to her piggy-bank of cash. That gave her an extra $60,000 to spend after Mark deducted enough for tax.

$78,630 she had, almost all of it up-front.

On the day the funds were invested long-term and began to earn the big income – on the first day of February – Jessie made an appointment to see the state manager of SIDS.

After appropriate small talk, Geoff Agar asked, ‘So, what’s this about, Jess?’

Geoff liked Jessie; she was one of the more useful members of the Auxiliary: a good fundraiser – even if she wasn’t able to give much money herself. Well, she couldn’t afford to.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Jessie replied, pulling small pieces of paper from her wallet.

‘Christmas present?’ asked Geoff, nodding at the shiny red purse.

‘Yes,’ she answered, as she unfolded the pieces. ‘Do you like it?’

Jessie proceeded to lay out four cheques on Geoff’s desk. They were dated 30 April, 31 July and 31 October this year, and 31 January next year.

Each was made payable to SIDS and was for $250,000.

‘Is this a joke?’ Geoff asked, confused, but then feeling terrible that he’d said it. He knew Jessie’s circumstances; he knew she lived in the tiniest flat in town.

‘Why don’t you wait until April and try cashing the first cheque?’ she replied.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Geoff, now completely baffled.

‘You could begin with thank you, and see how we go from there.’

Jessie rose to leave the room.

‘Oh,’ she added from the door, ‘and please find a cure for SIDS.’

After paying off her credit card and spending a day buying clothes and shoes, Jessie sat down at her computer with a glass – no, a bottle – of Pinot Noir by her side, and she googled ‘Danube cruises’. The River, she realised, would be chilly in April, but who cared?

Bound to have open fires onboard, she thought to herself.

Bucharest to Vienna – 15 days – upper deck with French balcony. $6,500. Click!

‘Single supplement.’ Click!

She then googled Etihad Airways. Susan and Mark had raved about the service. How about ten days in London before the cruise? she thought.. Click!

Jess was on a roll. The bottle was empty. She googled ‘City apartments’ and saved into ‘Favourites’ a two bedroom one she really liked the look of in Quay Apartments by the river.

The days flew by. Would she take her laptop with her to Europe?

No, she wouldn’t.

And yet, unable to help herself, she went online one last time. There was a message from Jonathan, asking if she’d like to meet for coffee?

Jessie logged-off and closed the computer. She then stashed it in the suitcase on top of the cupboard.

Lifting the full backpack onto her back, she picked-up her gorgeous red purse, and quietly closed the door behind her.