Crossing the Naniken, the gurgling brook which drains St Anne’s Park, Vinny Fitzpatrick felt lighter in spirit than he had for some time. He was also about to be considerably lighter in pocket too, for which he was most grateful.
As he headed for his destination, Vinny felt inside his jacket pocket for the envelope, patted it for reassurance, and continued on past the Rose Garden.
Instead of being the best of times, it had, Vinny acknowledged, been the worst of times in Foley’s pub, where the atmosphere had been positively sulphuric in the fall-out of the Lotto win.
Friends of long standing refused to acknowledge each other as sides were taken and battle lines drawn in the Spider versus Brennie bantamweight duel over a slice of the €1m plus jackpot.
Amongst the lads in the Dublin Bus garage, where Vinny did his daily shift on the 130, opinions were split as to whether Brennie was entitled to his share of the booty. Even the passengers on the Clontarf Road had heard of the ructions.
“Mr Fitzpatrick, something will have to be done. The reputation of the parish is at stake,” wailed Gladys Cadwalader of the Clontarf Warblers.
Such were the tension levels, Vinny joked aloud one night that there would be no shortage of extras for the re-enactment of the Battle of Clontarf next April – his jest was greeted with a stony silence. After a few days, Vinny couldn't take the strain any more. He donned his Kofi Annan hat, pulled the warring factions together and resolved the crisis which had threatened to overspill into civil war.
Syndicate members
Over a soup and sambo lunch, Vinny summoned the members of the syndicate into the back bar and presented them with a sheet of paper, a pencil, and an ultimatum.
“Lads, we have to sort out this Lotto business and move on. Here’s what I’m suggesting. Write Y if you feel Brennie is entitled to one eighth of the prize; X if you feel it should be pooled among the other seven. It’s a secret ballot so no one will know how anyone else voted, not even me. One more thing,” he added. “Whatever we agree to, we don’t look back. We accept the consequences unconditionally, is that okay?”
There had been general acceptance at the proposal, if not the outcome, 6-2 in favour of Brennie, which prompted Spider to storm off in a huff. “Leave him be, he’ll come around,” said Charlie St John Vernon.
As for Vinny, while perplexed the outcome hadn’t been more emphatic, he was relived the unseemly row was over. The episode had left its mark, however, on the good-natured bus driver.
While he loved the thrill of the chase – nothing could beat picking the winner of the big handicap on a mid-winter weekend – he was saddened that friendships had been strained over a share of the Lotto loot.
Woe of woes
What should have been a joy of joys became a woe of woes, and all over a lousy outstanding €12 from a friend of 30 years standing. And even though he now had €135,000 more in his bank account than he had a week ago, a part of Vinny wished he had never won the Lotto. So much so, that the night before he had come up with a cunning plan.
Over a gin and tonic, when all was quiet in Mount Prospect Avenue, he put his proposal on the table to Angie. Firstly, Vinny pointed out how they had got by before the Lotto winnings, and would continue to do so once things settled down.
“We have two houses Ange, each with a modest mortgage, and we both have a job, and a car. How many folks can say that? And no matter how tough times have been, we’ve always had enough in the kitty to put bread on the table and milk in the fridge. Isn’t that right?” he said.
With that, Vinny made his pitch. He suggested that €10,000 each be given to Angie’s daughter, Emma, Angie’s sister, Debs, to his two sisters, Mary and Bernie and to his daughter Niamh.
A further €10,000 each was to be put in trust for each of the twins, and Little Vinny, until they were 18.
“That’s €80,000, by my reckoning,” he said. “I’m going to put €5,000 in the Credit Union account for a holiday for us next year. The rest,” he said with a pause, “I’m going to give away.”
In fairness, Angie hadn't raised any objection, save to salute her husband's philanthropy and warn him about the uncertainty over what exactly charity organisations were doing with their money.
Vinny's perambulation
"Just be careful love that you pick out the right one," she cautioned.Vinny winked, and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. "Leave that with me," he smiled. It explained Vinny's perambulation on a dry Tuesday morning to Raheny. He was heading for St Francis Hospice, a place close to his heart, with a bank draft for fifty grand under his oxter.
Some 14 years ago, his old man, Finbarr Fitzpatrick, had spent his final days, raging against the dying light, in the tender care of the hospice.
The nursing and support for his Da had left a huge impression on Vinny who had quietly donated €500 every year since to the Hospice.
As he ambled through St Anne’s, he recalled how his aul fellah introduced him to every nook and cranny of the northside’s finest park, complete with its follies, gardens, grand central avenue and his personal favourite, the chestnut walk from the rock garden to the duck pond.
He had skinned his knees in St Anne’s, both on the playing pitches and the gravel tennis courts and had learned of love and abc’s – one of his first smooches was in the arboretum with Imelda Dowling, on whom he still had a crush almost 45 years later.
At Watermill Road, he allowed himself a wistful look back on a part of Dublin which was ingrained in his DNA. With that, he turned towards Raheny Village. If no lives would be saved by his donation to St Francis Hospice, the quality of one or two would be improved. And that, for Vinny, was worth far more than any Lotto win.
