Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (12 page)

As you know, diary, my neck is my Achilles’ heel. One thing led to another and, within the space of a minute, I was fumbling with her bra strap.

She said huskily, ‘Slide the board into the hatch.’

It was some time before I realized that this was not sexual linguistics, but that she literally wanted me to
secure our privacy by sliding the cover over the open hatch to the attic.

In doing so my ardour cooled a little, but the sight of her pretty breasts and rosy nipples revived me, and it wasn’t long before we were engaging in sexual intercourse on a pile of old fur coats that had been thrown into a dark corner of the attic.

As soon as I had come to my senses and after telling her she was beautiful etc., etc., etc., I asked her if she was on the pill.

She said that she didn’t believe in putting chemicals into her body.

As I write this, diary, I wish that I had not put anything into her body.

As I was climbing down the loft ladder I got a text message:

Where are you, Aidy? I’m at Rat Wharf. Love Pandora.

I almost certainly exceeded the speed limit in my rush to get to Rat Wharf, but I was too late. Pandora sent me another text to say that she was on the motorway going back to London.

Mr Carlton-Hayes valued the four Grey Owls at £725. I told him that the books belonged to Michael Flowers and that I had estimated their total value at £200.

Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘And was the dreadful Michael Flowers happy [pronounced heppy] with that [pronounced thet]?’

I said, ‘He seemed pitifully grateful. I think he’s on his way to Carey Street.’

Mr Carlton-Hayes was delighted at my literary reference.

He phoned a private collector of Canadian frontier history and gently reminded the boff of the rarity of finding four signed Grey Owl first editions. The boff said he had sold his collection to pay for his daughter’s college fees. Mr Carlton-Hayes commiserated with him and phoned a bloke who collects fraudsters’ signed first editions, Josh Pullman in Brighton, who immediately offered £1,000 for the set.

Apparently Mr Pullman’s Jeffrey Archer collection is second to none. I went out to Brucciani’s and bought two takeaway cappuccinos and two of their split cream buns to celebrate the sale, and also to mark a significant anniversary. It is a year since I started work at Carlton-Hayes Antiquarian and Second-hand Books. I admire my employer more than any person I have ever met. He is up there with Nelson Mandela and Tony Blair. He can even eat a split cream bun with dignity.

On my way to the post office to post Mr Pullman his books, I took a cheque for £200 to Michael Flowers.

Marigold was behind the counter. Her eyes were still puffy. There was nobody in the shop. Marigold said that her parents were at the bank, having an emergency meeting with the business accounts manager.

She came from behind the counter and kissed my neck. But this time it left me cold and I was relieved when she said, ‘Have you heard the latest news? The Madrigal Society is amalgamating with some members of the cathedral choir and they are calling themselves the Leicester Mummers.’

I said no, I had not heard this earth-shattering news. I continued, ‘Have you phoned the
Guardian
and asked them to hold the front page? Does the editor of the
Today Programme
know? Have you phoned CNN?’

Marigold said, ‘Adrian, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’

I said that I was not being sarcastic, I was being satirical.

She said that she had joined the Mummers and would be rehearsing or performing most evenings before Christmas. She invited me to join the group, but her invitation was only half-hearted.

I said, ‘Surprisingly, Marigold, I do not wish to dress up as a yokel in a smock and mask and perform in deeply unfunny medieval plays on cold village greens to a scornful or indifferent public. There are some traditions which should be allowed to die – madrigals, mummery and Morris dancing.’

Marigold said, ‘I told Mummy and Daddy last night that we had become lovers. They are very happy for us. Mummy gave me a box of organic condoms. The latex is made in Malaysia under fair trade conditions. Daddy said that you can sleep in my bed on Saturdays and Thursdays.’

An old bloke came in and asked for a packet of sunflower seeds. While she was serving him, I took
the opportunity to leave the shop without making a date to see her again.

I received a redirected letter this morning from Ms Ruth Rendell, regretting that she could not join the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group on December 23rd as she would be in Australia.

This reminded me that I have got to tackle the Gladys Fordingbridge problem. I will do it tomorrow.

I have also decided to ask Mr Carlton-Hayes for a rise. My mortgage and store card payments are due next week. My wages, after tax and National Insurance, are £ 1,083.33 a month, and I have a horrible feeling that my mortgage, Visa and store card payments are in excess of £900. Perhaps I should sit down and work out my monthly outgoings. I can’t afford to hire Parvez, not at £125 an hour.

Moon’s Last Quarter

I telephoned Gladys and arranged to go round at 7.30, so when Marigold rang I was able to tell her, truthfully, that I was visiting an old lady and would not be able to see her after mummery rehearsals.

Gladys has found a publisher for her cat poems. A community worker at the old people’s club she attends on Monday afternoons has convinced her that her poetry
‘is really, really good’. She has said that Gladys’s ‘voice must be heard’. She is to be published by Grey Panther Community Press.

She read me her latest poem:

‘Naughty paws

Lives indoors

Doesn’t stray

From the litter tray

He loves his Whiskas

But will never throw a discus

No athlete he

He stays near me

I love my paws

He stays indoors.’

She wanted my advice on what to call her book. I suggested
Poems about Cats
, but Gladys said that was too plain and she wanted something a bit fancy.

I said cruelly, ‘Then call it
Contemplations on our Feline Friends
,’ and Gladys said, ‘That’s champion. Thank you, Mr Mole.’

I lied and told Gladys that, according to the rules of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group, she would have to leave because, once published, she would have to renounce her amateur status.

She seemed quite proud of this and even asked if she could dedicate the book to me.

I said that I would be delighted, but I did not feel proud of myself as I wished her luck with the book and left her house for the last time.

Spent an uncomfortable night in Marigold’s single bed, which she has had since she was a small girl. It is the shape of Cinderella’s coach.

Marigold said, ‘It was hand-made by a crafts person and painted by a disabled retiree.’

In the morning I woke to find parallel lines running down one side of my face, having been pressed against a carved pumpkin all night.

The sex was fair to middling and lasted about seven minutes.

Had sex with Marigold on futon at Rat Wharf. We both had to keep our vests on as the underfloor heating didn’t seem to be working.

Considering there are only three Saturdays left before Christmas, business was very slow. The shop was full of browsers at times, but hardly anybody bought anything.

On the way back from the post office I was handed a flyer by a dopey-looking youth in a woolly hat. It said:

Randy Applestein,
America’s Mr Motivator,
is holding a seminar in the Garden Room
at the Great Eastern Hotel in Leicester on
Sunday December 8th.

Treble your turnover,
Achieve your Life Goals,
Look good – feel good.

Power breakfast and lunch included.
Money-back guarantee.

I asked the dopey youth in the bobble hat if he had attended a seminar himself. He said that he had.

I gave the leaflet back to him and said, ‘The seminar obviously didn’t work for you. I hope you got your money back.’

My parents came into the shop. They were looking for building manuals. My father looked uncomfortable. The proximity of so many books makes him nervous. Since leaving school, he has only finished one book,
Jonathan Livingstone Seagull
.

He said, ‘Aidy, have you got anything on pigsty conversion?’

I pretended to look along the shelves, and then said with a heavy irony which was lost on him, ‘No, we don’t seem to have anything in at the moment. There’s been quite a rush on pigsty conversion manuals.’

He looked pleased to hear this, and said, ‘Yeah, John Prescott has opened up the can of worms that used to tie
up greenfield development. He’s beckoned me and your mother inside.’

I said, ‘Inside what, the can of worms?’

He said, ‘No, the greenfield with the pigsties in it. Me and your mum are surfing the crest of a new trend.’

I laughed in his face. My father is ill equipped to spot a trend: he was the last man in Leicester to give up flared trousers.

My mother collected a hefty pile of manuals on bricklaying, joinery, electrical wiring and plumbing, and stacked them on the counter.

Mr Carlton-Hayes tied them together with brown string and made a loop for ease of carrying.

My mother said to him, ‘You could do with a few chairs in here, Mr Carlton-Hayes.’

To my amazement, he said, ‘Yes, I was thinking of bringing some from home.’

My mother said, ‘And the smell of coffee is always attractive in a bookshop.’

He said, ‘Do you think so, Mrs Mole?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘If you give your customers a free cup of coffee, they feel obliged to buy something.’

I said mockingly, ‘And how about a mince pie and a slice of Yule log, and a chocolate Santa for the children?’

Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘That’s rather a charming idea.’

I had a horrible vision of a badly behaved kid smearing chocolate over some of our precious books.

Once started, my mother could not stop. ‘You could unblock that fireplace,’ she said, pointing to the boarded-up chimney breast. ‘A Christmas tree in the
window with fairy lights would be welcoming.’ She half closed her eyes and seemed to sway a little, lost in a reverie of refurbishment.

Mr Carlton-Hayes was like a benign snake, hypnotized by its charmer. He was caught up in my mother’s vision of Christmas past. And to my astonishment he allowed my father to pull away the sheet of plywood that was blocking the fireplace. A dusty and sooty fire grate was revealed, a leftover from when Mr Arthur Carlton-Hayes founded the shop in 1929.

My mother continued to interfere and rang a chimney sweep and arranged to have the chimney swept on Tuesday morning.

Then, while I served a late surge of customers, she and Mr Carlton-Hayes began to plan to convert the shop. I wondered to myself who would cart the logs, brew the coffee, buy the mince pies and wash everything up afterwards.

My mother suggested to Mr Carlton-Hayes that we go and eat somewhere
en famille
. He said that he would like to join us but that he would have to phone Leslie first. I told her about my 10 per cent discount at the Imperial Dragon.

Wayne Wong told my mother that Pandora had spent last Saturday night at Rat Wharf, and then said, ‘I’m glad you’ve finished with that weirdo, Marigold.’

I informed him coldly that I had not yet finished with Marigold and that I would be seeing her later that night. He said that he was sorry to hear it. My mother was agog, of course.

She said, ‘Why don’t you phone her and ask her to join us?’

I explained that she was at mummery practice at the cathedral. I watched my mother’s face carefully. She managed to keep it straight, and Mr Carlton-Hayes appeared to be engrossed in the menu, though I did notice that his eyebrow twitched when I said the word ‘mummery’.

My father always gets overexcited in restaurants and tonight was no exception. He kept getting up and going to look at the fish in the aquarium and tapping on the glass.

My mother had to keep saying, ‘George, don’t do that.’ She sounded like a recording of Joyce Grenfell.

Mr Carlton-Hayes was an artist with the chopstick. Even Wayne complimented him. Mr C-H murmured that he had spent some time in Indo-China, but seemed reluctant to go into detail.

Even before the main course came, my mother was advising Wayne on how to do a makeover on the restaurant, saying that he should get rid of the old-fashioned dragon motif and clad the walls with animal-skin prints.

Over a Christmas Banquet Special at £12.99 a head, I was interrogated by my mother about my long-term aims in life. Did I intend to marry again? Was my dream still to be a full-time professional writer? Or did I see my future in selling antiquarian and second-hand books?

I said that I was happy in my job and hoped that I would be working for Mr Carlton-Hayes for many years to come.

He looked a bit sad and said, ‘Our little shop is losing rather a lot of money each week. It’s been kept afloat in
recent years by income from investments, but the stock exchange has not been kind to me recently.’

I said, ‘Mr Carlton-Hayes, perhaps we ought to call in a business consultant.’

He said, ‘But don’t they cost a fearful amount of money?’

My father said, ‘You have to spend brass to make brass.’

He sounded like a cruel mill owner who was about to shackle a small child mill worker to a spinning jenny.

Using the paper tablecloth, I wrote out a simple business plan for the shop. There were four bullet points:

• Open a section selling a selection of new titles

• Start a readers’ club

• Buy a coffee machine

• Introduce chairs

Had sex with Marigold in coach bed, as ordered by Mr Michael Flowers.

Somebody moved into one of the apartments this morning. When I went to get the papers there was a removal van parked in the car park. The swans were on the opposite bank, menacing a fisherman.