The Woman Who

The Woman Who Won The Lottery

Kindle edition here                                                                        Paperback edition here 
                                                        Extract here                                                                                      

Effie Thacker shares a rusting Louisiana trailer with the rats and the cockroaches, refusing to touch the $7 million she won years before. So what does make her suddenly decide to take her winnings, flee the trailer park, and set off on a grand spree? But you try spending freely when all you’ve ever known is scarcity and the discounts and the deals. And even after the breakthrough with a couple of Cadillac cars and the affair with the suicidal billionaire, why does certain boredom set in?

A trip to one of India’s designated scarcity regions to assist a malnourished child dying of TB only succeeds in bringing Effie face to face with all she sought to escape fleeing the trailer park, which all those millions haven’t erased. Back she goes to face the music – and to discover maybe there’s a bit of wealth beyond her winnings.

Review copies . . .  

Interview in pro per: 

EP: Does the title suggest this book might be a pot-boiler?

TC: Or an airport novel?

EP: Is it?

TC: Read it. Make up your own mind.

EP: And where did it come from?

TC: Well, as ever, what was planned didn’t turn out – quite the opposite in fact. I’d wanted to explore how it might be to accept huge wealth into my life; the difference it would make. I wanted to luxuriate in wealth, in everything that money might buy that I needed or indeed didn’t need. I want to open myself to the possibility of having wealth descend and overpower me -

EP: And that’s not the way it turned out?

TC: You know, I’ve written things before and three months or so later, they’ve begun playing out in my life. Really - as if writing was a very detailed visualization process. But not this time. I’ve yet to win the lottery – it would help if I bought a ticket more than twice a year, wouldn’t it?

EP: So what did the novel become to be about?

TC: I would say now, as it turns out, it’s about how early conditioning, especially violent and scarcity conditioning, thereafter runs the rest of our lives – which is as far from luxuriating in wealth as the chance most have of winning the lottery.

EP: Back to the old pain?

TC: Or is it authenticity?

EP: But there is a woman who does win the lottery.

TC: Oh, yes. I have to be careful about not giving away the plot: there is a plot . . . Effie wins the lottery – I can say that. What she discovers, and what’s revealed in the train of events the win kicks off, is that changing your life isn’t so easy.

EP: And it seems to me - I did actually read it – that it’s not just Effie. I don’t think there’s a single character in the book who doesn’t find themselves caught by the consequences of a fairly violent upbringing.

TC: With scarcity being the spur for that violence.

EP: Yes. That’s evident through the characters of Jack Lucky, Effie’s daughter, and of course Tom Seth, the trailer park manager. You could actually have written a novel about any one of them.

TC: I might revisit Jack Lucky one day – well, except of course . . . .

EP: Yes, you mustn’t give away the plot? Now presumably you did a lot of research into trailer park life?

TC: There’s a lot of research material out there, and of course you can't get anything wrong, but I’m a bit ambivalent about research. One used to sit for weeks on end in the Westminster Reference Library in Orange Street – I remember researching there for a film set in Malta, where I’d never been. We finally went out on a recce to the island with a rough first draft. And you know I really thought the recce was unnecessary – the sites lived in my imagination far more pertinently, more vividly than the reality.

But I suppose the Louisiana trailer park, and the landscapes of Texas, really come out of my travels in the States so many years ago – just as the earlier book, Holli and Bill did in fact. Inevitably you are only passing through, yet you pick up a scent of lost hope, of the small moments of holiness people find across those landscapes of despair; that touches you, you don’t forget it.

EP: And Effie? What do you suppose she’ll finally do with her millions?

TC: I don’t think she’ll blow them, which - if you do your research - you’ll discover is what so many lottery winners do. I guess she’ll spend her life trying to repair the damage. Isn’t that what most of us do?

  Extract (1) 

  . . . when they were finished eating, they went back to the Oso Blanco, the Cadillac following the Ferrari. She thought the crunch would come when La Hacienda bill arrived – would he wait for her to stump up for the tab because he really was without a red cent? In fact, no bill was brought to them at all. Tuke just waved to the headwaiter and went on out. Did he own the joint? Or was the headwaiter in on the scam to fleece a lottery winner?

At the Oso Blanco they stepped out of their cars, and he said, ‘I’ll join you in ten.’ Strangely, Effie thought this somehow seemed to make sense, it wasn’t a presumption or a move, why shouldn’t they continue the conversation they’d been having?

So 10 minutes later, Tuke reappeared with two bottles of Californian red and the conversation continued.

How come, Effie wanted to know, was he shacked up at the Oso Blanco Motel – which had no stars, recommendations, nothing.

‘I have this addiction whereby I’m drawn to motel signs,’ he replied. ‘Anywhere across America, riding down the Blue Mountains, there’s a glowing red sign saying, Rose’s Motel, and I just have to head there, pull in for the night.’

‘How come?’

‘Maybe, I figure in motels I’ll find the authenticity I’m looking for - in Rose’s Motel there’s a girl, all of 15 years, sitting at the desk, all blond and blue eyed. ‘’Time to check in?’’ I ask. ‘’Ain’t it just about midnight?’’ she says in that long drawl and the way she says it just epitomizes something so real.’

‘Ain’t always the same is it, every motel?’

‘Always something. Something I ain’t got, wasn’t given or gifted with. Somehow I know the only act that will be undeniably authentic in my life will be my death. Sometimes I even try to invite it – you know, 150 – 160 – 170 – but you can never go fast enough, never quite get there.’

‘Because you wanna live, maybe?’

‘I guess,’ he said.

So the conversation went on – and on and on until around 4.30 a.m. in the morning: Tuke talking about worlds she never knew, traveling, getting an education, poetry and writers and protesting against governments and even falling in love. He even gave some of his readings, and Effie was kind of enchanted though she found this difficult to admit. ‘Tuke,’ she said, ‘Are you for real?’

And then he touched her face. ‘This beautiful poem,’ he said, ‘Like a poem by some distant daughter of Whitman.’ And then he recited:

‘Scars are passing

Expressions of love

Marks hiding joy

And a heart of magnificence.

A smile lets slip the scars;

The face of the sun shines spectacularly . . . ’

Well, that kind of did it for Effie, what with all the wine and all. But what really got her was his incredible gentleness, the way he took care of her, like he wasn’t there for himself but to pay a kind of homage to her, and the pleasure this gave her just blew her away.

Afterwards she just wanted to weep for the whole life she had missed with people like this.

She opened her eyes and felt the thud of a sever hangover hit her. Tuke wasn’t there. She trod carefully to the window, each step ricocheting through her head. The Ferrari wasn’t there. She felt abandoned. Maybe, she thought, he just wanted material for another poem. I was just a source of authenticity – whatever that is. Still she felt empty and disappointed. Dare she say she missed him? Well, there’d been no promises made; and she guessed being such different animals, it would never have gone anywhere anyway. So next, she decided she’d get the hell out of Zapata. 
As she checked out the manager, a skinny neurotic type, said, 'You using the '83, you may get a hold up. Hear there was one hell of an accident down there.'

Extract (2)


. . . Just 30 minutes later he was walking away feeling like he was floating – almost. He was holding a bunch of Pastor Krondike's church diaries – the bunch dated 2002/2004. He didn't know if there was really anything in them but a cursory glance at the January entries had given him hope. He had glimpsed Effie's name.

He drove back, cursing the old Mustang air con for failing to work on a day when the temperature was hitting 35. Yet still he carried the sense the real moment awaiting him that day was yet to come. Hope springs eternal, he muttered, and put his foot to the floor.

Rita was waiting for him in his office.

'Hi, Rita!' he said, 'You good?'

She smiled and leaned her head sideways. 'So, so.' She stared at him. She'd thought carefully about this meeting. Spent the whole of yesterday thinking it through. And she knew she was right. 'You okay?'

'I'm not bad,' he said, 'Not bad.'

He poured some water, drank, then looked at her. There was something different about her – something kind of attractive. Then he saw she was wearing a purple pashmina. 'Hey, that looks good,' he said.

Again she just smiled. She knew it was another fake one she'd picked up yesterday.

'So you want an update? I may even have something here.'

She shrugged. 'Kind of cooling down a bit now, ain’t it? Thought we might go for a drive out to the gully, it's cool there.' She looked at him, and smiled. Jack melted: couldn't he see the angelic kid she had been still in her face?

'Well, we did kind of rush away from each other that morning last week,' she said. 'Kind of need a bit more closure on something like that.'

Jack felt sudden excitement race through his old heart. Here was a promise, the cool river, the pashmina, the angelic face. Jack knew the moment awaiting him all day was not far off now.

'Well, yeah, why not?' he said. 'Sounds like a great idea.'

'Okay then.'

Rita rose, Jack followed her out, locking the office door with a glance to the church diaries sitting on the desk.

'Take my car, okay?' said Rita, 'Air con's really efficient.'

'You bet,' said Jack, after a seconds hesitation because putting yourself in someones car was always a trust thing with him and also because there was some directive in the way Rita had said it like she had it planned all along.

They drove in a strange silence. This disturbed Jack. He tried to make conversation.

'Guess this heat will hold the rest of the week now?'

'Looks like it,' was Rita's only response.

'Things round here don't change much do they?'

'Nope.'

That was it.

So Jack decided to give himself to the silence. He became aware of her perfume. Breathed deep. She put a hand on his thigh and squeezed it. Jack closed his eyes and was transported. And he wanted to talk about it then – wanted to talk to Rita, the kid she had been, the night, the body, that moment of religious ecstasy – hadn't she lived it all with him?

But he let it go. 'Hey,' he said, 'We could strip the vines and go swim in the river.'

'Well, maybe we will,' she said smiling slowly.

And again Jack felt excitement and couldn't wait to get there.

The drive was around 20 minutes but the gully where they stopped and where the river ran was in fact just over the other side of the hill that backed onto the trailer park. 'Kind of weird that we can be so close to the Palms yet you feel you’re in a different space altogether,' Jack said, for he was conscious that just on the other side of the hill, the near side to the park, Tom Seth had his trailer parked.

Rita joined him as he sat on the small shaded fishing jetty. 'We used to come here as kids,' she said, unwrapping her pashmina and letting it blow at her side. 'We'd kind of crawl right around the bottom of the hill, it was real fun.'

Jack looked back to her. In the trees behind her, late sun twinkled through the leaves giving her face an aura. 'I could be in heaven,' he said. Then, 'Hey, you're wearing your ear rings!' He noted the little gold studs framing her face.

'Spent yesterday shopping for everything I was wearing just like before, Jack – and all just for you.'

'Just like before?' Jack said, kind of crying somewhere inside himself. But then he stopped dead. Something about Rita's eyes suddenly wide open and searing him. 

'Just for you,' she said again and smiled. But the smile was calculated and cold for she knew for certain now, only the man who raped her could ever know she wore gold studs on that night because she'd never worn them since.

But despite the cold smile Jack wanted to hear what she said, as an invitation to go back, to open, to acknowledge what had passed between them was something magical neither ever found again.

'You are so beautiful,' he said, 'Always were.' He reached towards her.

She threw off the pashmina. Jack saw a purple haze, this swirl of color and reached forward to her, but suddenly felt a sharp pain that quickly dulled and then he was seeing just deep purple and it was only the viscosity of the fluid covering his eyes that told him it was his blood and most likely he had been shot in the head somewhere. He was conscious of a second crack! that blew him to the wooden deck of the jetty.

'Picked up the gun along with my shopping trip,' Rita said.

She sat a while then just watching Jack Lucky strewn across the jetty and twitching. She was glad she'd kind of missed the brain. She wanted him to suffer.

In a moment she'd push him into the river. There were a lot of people who wouldn't mind seeing Jack Lucky dead – including probably the Sheriff. No investigation was really going to go so deep that they would nail her. And even if they did it would have been worth it. Provocation, self-defense, a good lawyer, she'd get three down to one.

So she sat there. Jack moaned.

'I been moaning like that because of what you done to me for seven god-damn years,' she said. There was no remorse. And there was no reply.

She looked down at the gun in her hand.

'Jesus Christ.'

She looked up at the voice. It was Tom.

'I heard the shots,' he said and stepped forward to Jack. He helped him into a half sitting position.

'Jack?' he whispered.

Jack opened just one eye like he was play-acting all along. But he wasn't. 'What a moment to wait for,' he slurred, 'All fucking day for this?'

Tom saw he was on the way out, and even if he laid him back down and called for the medics, he’d be long dead by the time they arrived.

'Anything I can do for you?' he said quietly, glancing to Rita behind him who was sitting quite still with her head bowed.

'D12,' moaned Jack, 'What is it really?'

Tom paused.

'Tell me and I'll give you something,' Jack moaned.

Still dealing, Tom thought, even in death. 'D12 is Effie. Simple story. January 2004 she won the lottery. She refused to touch it. Don't ask me why. I look after it. $7 million. End of story.'

'$7 million?' said Jack. If he could have whistled he would have done. 'Knew I could smell money.'

Tom reckoned he was going to breathe his last now but he kept on spitting out the words. 'This kid we're looking for, it's my kid,' he said. 'So, on my desk, a bunch of stuff from Krondike – diaries or something – might say what happened. You know, wouldn't you want to find out what happened to a kid of yours?'

At that moment all Tom felt was the weight of Rita as she landed a foot in Jack's face with such force he was hurled off the jetty into the river.

'Rita!' Tom yelled and leaned right out over the jetty to haul Jack back. He was lifeless. Blood mixing with the river water was everywhere.

Rita was back, crouched, head hung and sobbing. Tom was stood above her.

‘He raped me,’ Rita said.

Tom nodded. ‘Just about figured it was him,‘ he said. ‘But that was a way back – this, here, now?’

‘He was going to rape me again.’

Tom paused. 'You know I'm going to have to take you in, don't you, Rita?'

She looked up and nodded. 'But what about my kid?' she whispered.

Tom's heart kind of broke.

By the time he found himself driving back into the trailer park he was wrecked. He'd taken Rita into the Sheriff's office. The Sheriff had dispatched his boys out to the gully to pick up Jack Lucky. Rita had been charged. She hadn't pleaded anything. 'Guy tried to rape me,' she said. 'Guy did rape me, you know?'

Well, the Sheriff said they'd see about all that when it came to court because he wasn't particularly well disposed to the Thackers anyway. So Tom felt bad as he left Rita there but knew he’d had to do it. His heart ached the whole of that drive back to Palms for he knew too he’d now have to break the news to Effie.

Yet the moment he stepped out of his pick-up, saw Effie’s old Chevy not there, he knew the pale blue trailer was deserted. He entered the unlocked door. Effie was gone. He knew it. She’d flown for good. He was too late. He sat down, saddened and his legs trembling. Effie was gone.