Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (23 page)

She put Karan in a car seat in front of the television to
watch British soldiers in Kuwait changing into chemical-warfare suits. When they put the masks on, Karan began to cry.

She took a letter out of her handbag and gave it to me to read:

Dear Mum

I was wondering if you had thought any more about you and Dad getting back together. I know Dad comes across bad sometimes and that he is always moaning about things he can’t do nothing about, but he is all right deep down.

I know you think he is a snob, but it’s just that he likes things tidy and clean. Don’t worry about Pandora. Dad will never get her. She is out of his league. Me and Robbie are both in love with Britney Spears, but we know we will never go out with her either.

I know you and Dad slept together after my passing-out parade. I nearly passed out again when Ryan told me. It shows there is a chance, Mum. Why don’t you ask Dad to come round and cook him a dinner or something?

I know Dad is lonely because of all those books he reads. It’s worth a try, Mum. Give all the kids a kiss and tell them I will send them all a real Cyprus sponge each.

Love from your son, Glenn

PS It’s Robbie’s birthday on February 27th. Can you send him a card? He has not got a family because he was sent into care due to his mum knocking about with Chinese sailors and his dad knocking her about when he found out.

I folded the letter and gave it back to her, unable to speak. I managed to croak a few words of farewell at the
door and I think I managed to hide my emotions quite successfully, though later Sharon rang me and asked me if I felt ‘OK now’.

She reminded me that I had left Glenn’s parcel behind and Robbie’s birthday card.

Posted two birthday cards to Robbie and Sharon’s parcel to Glenn.

Darren came into the shop after his work to plaster around the fireplace. He gave me the mobile number of a bloke called Animal. ‘He can’t do a four-piece jigsaw,’ he said, ‘but he picks up a sledgehammer like it’s a bag of feathers.’

The L&R writers’ group met at Rat Wharf. In attendance were Gary Milksop, the two serious girls, Ken and Glenda Blunt and myself. There were complaints because I charged them fifty pence each for a cup of coffee. I pointed out that Blue Danube cost £3.20 a bag.

Milksop has written a poem about blindness. He wants me to pass it on to Nigel.

‘Hello darkness my old friend

I am happy to see nothing

I am saved from the banality of seeing

I have an inner eye

I see into men’s souls.’

One of the serious girls said, ‘It’s absolutely brilliant, Gary. It’s incredibly profound.’

Ken Blunt said, ‘You’ve copied the first line from a song by Simon and Garfunkel.’

Glenda said, ‘Dustin Hoffman sang it in that lovely film
The Graduate
.’

She went on to talk about Dustin Hoffman’s film career. I tried to control the discussion and bring it back to poetry. I talked about my own attempts at writing an opus entitled
The Restless Tadpole
, but Glenda constantly interrupted as she remembered various Hoffman performances.

The meeting eventually lost focus and broke up in confusion, with several people talking at once.

Ken said, when Glenda was in the bathroom, ‘Don’t worry, Adrian, I shan’t be bringing the wife again.’

I read Milksop’s poem down the phone to Nigel. He laughed for quite a long time before saying, ‘Yeah, I keep forgetting that I can “see” more than sighted people. Aren’t I a lucky boy?’

I was just locking the shop door and asking Mr Carlton-Hayes if I could take Saturday off, when Michael Flowers rang on my mobile.

I mimed to Mr Carlton-Hayes that it was his nemesis on the phone, and he pulled a face and mouthed, ‘Oh dear.’

Flowers barked, ‘I need to speak to you tonight. I’ll expect you at Beeby at 7.’

I said, ‘What do you need to speak to me about?’

Flowers said, ‘It’s a matter of great importance. I do not wish to talk about it on the telephone.’

This phrase has always puzzled me. What else is the telephone for? I told Flowers that I would be there at 7, though I resented this change of plan. I had been looking forward to a quiet night in, preparing my clothes for the weekend in London.

Poppy answered the door to me.

I said, ‘What’s up?’

She said, ‘I don’t know.’

I asked Poppy where Daisy was.

‘She’s touring European capitals with Jamie Oliver, promoting his new book,’ she said.

I felt a sharp stab of jealousy. I had always been jealous of Oliver’s success. Not only is he good-looking, but he can cook and has a beautiful wife.

I said, ‘If he lays a finger on Daisy, I will rip his head off.’

Poppy looked astonished and said, ‘His wife is with him, and why should you care anyway?’ She led me into the sitting room.

Marigold was lying in a foetal position on the sofa. Netta was massaging her feet. Michael Flowers stood in front of the fireplace with his legs apart, tugging at his beard. Nobody invited me to sit down.

Flowers said to Marigold, ‘Do you want to tell him, darling, or shall I?’

Netta said to Michael, ‘You can see the state the poor child’s in. You must tell him, Michael.’

I looked at Poppy, who shrugged and continued chewing her hair.

Flowers said, ‘A hundred years ago I would have had you horsewhipped.’

I asked him why.

He said slowly and menacingly, while advancing on me, ‘Because you promised to marry my daughter, you seduced her, you impregnated her and now I learn tonight that you have deserted her.’

Retreating slightly, because he was bearing down on me, I said to Marigold, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

She said, in a martyred voice, ‘You no longer love me. Why should you care?’

Before I could say anything else, Flowers roared, ‘How could you not love this adorable girl and her unborn child?’

Netta said, ‘Marigold is emotionally fragile. She takes rejection very badly.’

Poppy said, ‘The last time she was chucked she went off her head.’

I said that I would appreciate some time alone with Marigold. When they had left the room, I asked her how far gone she was.

‘How far gone?’ she repeated, as though the expression was foreign to her.

‘You know what I mean, Marigold,’ I said. ‘How far gone is a natural question to ask in the context of an announcement that you are pregnant.’

‘Oh, context,’ she said dismissively.

‘How pregnant are you?’ I said, taking another tack.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m no good at maths. I must have conceived on New Year’s Day.’

I did a quick calculation in my head. September. I smelt the decay of autumn. I saw the mist and the phrase ‘mellow fruitfulness’ came into my head. I saw myself pushing a baby buggy down a path covered in dead leaves.

I asked, ‘Have you had a pregnancy test?’

She shouted, ‘Yes! And it was positive! And don’t ask me to get rid of it.’ She started to get hysterical and screamed, ‘I will not have an abortion.’

Michael and Netta Flowers burst in. Marigold threw herself into Netta’s arms and Netta said, ‘Tell us what you want to happen, darling. What would make you happy?’

Marigold sobbed, ‘I want to keep my little baby. I want to marry Adrian and I want to live happily ever after.’

Five minutes later I left the house, having promised to marry Marigold on the first Saturday in May. Stepping over the threshold of Chez Flowers was like being beamed up into the Starship Enterprise. I entered as Adrian Mole, but emerged as a spineless manifestation of Michael Flowers’s will.

On the way home I switched on Classic FM. An opera called
Nixon in China
was playing. The atonal wailing and caterwauling perfectly matched my mood.

Why, diary, am I, a sentient being, leaving the earth and everything I love to embark on an unknown journey to cold outer space with a woman I do not love, have never found sexually attractive and who sucks the oxygen out of my body, leaving me gasping with boredom?

I was woken to the sound of
The Nutcracker Suite
vibrating through my floorboards. It sounds like Professor Green has updated his stereo. I lay on my futon, reluctant to face the world. For a few brief minutes I gave myself up to the music. If Marigold had a daughter, would the child go to ballet lessons? I imagined a little girl with Marigold’s slightly protuberant teeth and my glasses in a tutu, dancing on pointed toes.

I’ve always liked the name Grace. Grace Pauline sounds OK. Grace Pauline Mole.

The law has let me down.

Dear Mr Mole

Thank you for your letter of February 4th where you enquired as to the possibility of serving an injunction on a flock of swans whom you assert are causing you distress.

I have asked my legal partner, Phoebe Wetherfield, to pursue the matter on your behalf. Ms Wetherfield specializes in civil law. I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment with her (for you) so you can discuss your problem in more depth.

Please note, Mr Mole, I do not give free advice. I charge a fee commensurate with the time taken as set by my professional body and approved by the Law Society.

I attach my invoice with the work outlined up to today’s date.

£190 for a casual enquiry! I shall report him to the Law Society. He has taken advantage of me when the balance of my mind was out of kilter.

In a rage I went out on to the balcony, ripped up Barwell’s letter and threw it into the canal.

Mia Fox’s voice shouted, ‘You disgusting litter lout, don’t you care about the environment?’

Gielgud came from behind the reeds, where he’s been skulking, and pecked at the scraps of soggy Conqueror. I hope they choke him.

Worries

Baby

Marriage

Daisy

Money

Glenn

William

Swans

Weapons of Mass Destruction

Mia Fox came down today to complain about the noise my little portable radio makes! She said that she did not want to listen to
The Archers
when she was practising her meditation.

I said that I did not realize that the sound seepage was so severe, and pointed out that, out of courtesy to her, I no longer turned on my home entertainment centre when
she was at home. She said that she could still hear my telephone conversations and knew when my washing machine was about to go into spin mode.

I said, ‘We have been duped, Ms Fox. These apartments are meant to have cutting-edge sound insulation.’

I haven’t told anybody about Grace Mole. I want to tell Daisy in person first.

Put suit in express cleaner’s. Told woman stain near crotch was Bisto paste when eggcup slipped. She obviously didn’t believe me.

Went to the Flower Corner and ordered one red rose to be sent to Daisy’s office. Woman said, ‘Do you think one rose romantic?’

I answered, ‘Yes.’

She said, ‘Wrong. Two dozen red roses, two dozen times more romantic.’

I said, ‘Go ahead and send two dozen.’

I was just about to go to bed when Netta rang to remind me that it was Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I lied and said that I had already ordered Marigold’s Valentine’s Day token.

Valentine’s Day

Went to the Flower Corner and asked woman to send one red rose to Marigold. Rose cost £5, delivery charge
was £3.50. Wrote on card, ‘To Marigold from Adrian’.

The florist said, ‘No love, or best wishes, or fondly yours?’

I explained the situation to her. She was remarkably patient, considering it was one of her busiest days of the year. She suggested I write, ‘To Marigold from...?’

The woman is a born diplomat. She should be working at the United Nations.

Mr Carlton-Hayes asked me how many Valentine’s cards I got today. I told him I had received two – the usual one from my mother and one from Marigold.

I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes if he celebrated Valentine’s Day.

He said, ‘Of course. Leslie brought me a glass of pink champagne with my coffee this morning, and I gave Leslie a rather pretty antique wine stopper, and tonight we’re dining at Alberto’s in Market Bosworth.’

The shop was busy today. We sold out of our entire stock of love poetry and most of the Shakespeare sonnets.

Marigold rang as we were closing and asked me to meet her at Country Organics. When I got there she told me that she had booked a table at Healthy Options, the new restaurant in Chalk Street.

There was a candle burning on the table between us and the owner, an obese man called Warren, smarmed around, giving the ‘lovely ladies’ a single red rose in a cellophane sleeve.

Marigold said, quite ungraciously I thought, ‘That makes two roses I’ve had today.’

The Valentine’s Day menu stated that ‘all our food is cooked with tender loving care and is as fresh as a field of newly mown grass’.

However, when the kitchen door swung open I saw a youth in chef’s whites taking a bowl of steaming pasta out of a microwave. Shortly afterwards, a large lorry drew up in front of the restaurant and a delivery man brazenly trolleyed boxes of pre-prepared, chilled ready-meals through to the kitchen.

Marigold had chosen to wear a burgundy blouse printed with green leaves. ‘I found it in Marks & Spencer’s,’ she said. ‘They are rowan leaves, I think.’

I nodded and felt the urge for strong drink. I asked Marigold if she would join me in a bottle of Shiraz. She quickly covered her glass with one hand, as though I had asked her to share a bottle of Domestos, and said, ‘I can’t drink again until the baby is born.’

I told her that, according to family legend, my own mother drank three cans of Guinness a night and smoked thirty cigarettes a day when she was pregnant with me.

I ordered the steak and ale pie, with purée of leek and cranberries. Marigold nibbled at a disconsolate-looking Caesar salad.