Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (25 page)

I’m still with Mr Blair 100 per cent. I predict one day Mr Blair will receive a sainthood from the Pope.

I hope Mrs Blair’s close relationship with her life-coach guru, Carole Caplin, will not jeopardize Mr Blair’s place in history.

Marigold came into the shop soon after we opened this morning. I was in the back, setting up the coffee machine, when I heard her voice asking Mr Carlton-Hayes if he knew of a book on wedding etiquette.

He said, ‘I’m a little surprised that you should want to consult such a book. Somehow I can’t see your father in a top hat and tails.’

Marigold said, ‘Daddy loves the traditions of old England. His friend is going to lend us a horse and cart to take me to the church. And, after we’re married, to take Adrian and me to the reception in the village hall.’

By the time I came out of the back room, Mr Carlton-Hayes knew more about the wedding than I did.

God knows I’m not a religious man, and I’m far from being a Seventh Day Adventist, but I do think that shops should be closed all day on Sundays.

I was made to go ring shopping today with Marigold. An observer might have thought that she was a frail, weak creature, somebody like the unnamed cardigan-wearing heroine of
Rebecca
, but they would be wrong. Marigold has the indomitable will and steely determination of the housekeeper, the mesmeric Mrs Danvers.

I was led to a tiny shop in an alley off the marketplace. Above the door it said ‘Henry Worthington, maker of fine jewellery, established 1874’. We had to ring the bell to be admitted. A snooty youth in a tweed suit, with an ID badge which said ‘Max Tusker, Assistant Manager’, let us in, saying, ‘You may have to wait a while. Everybody’s buying gold because of the war.’

We sat on little velvet chairs and waited. There was a small crowd at the counter. Among them was a gangster
type with his moll. He was trying on a weighty-looking gold necklace.

I whispered, ‘How vulgar,’ to Marigold.

Unfortunately my whisper coincided with a lull in the murmur of general conversation in the shop. The gangster turned around and glared at me and said, ‘Vulgar? I don’t fink so. I’m spending 15K on this bit of bling.’

I looked away and studied a silver christening beaker in a glass case next to me.

Eventually it was our turn and we were attended by Max Tusker, who seemed to have already decided that I was a cheapskate. When he asked me superciliously, ‘What price range are we looking at, sir,’ the alien from the Starship Enterprise said, ‘Oh, I’ll leave that up to my fiancée.’

Marigold sneered openly at any ring under £1,000 – including those priced at £999.99. She borrowed Max Tusker’s jeweller’s glass and examined each carat of every diamond ring she was shown. She wanted to know the provenance, history and quality of each gem. The only questions she didn’t ask were the financial ones.

She eventually set her heart on a platinum diamond and sapphire ring of extraordinary brilliance, costing £1,399. Because Tusker had treated me with almost open contempt, I affected nonchalance on being informed of the price. When asked how ‘Sir’ would like to pay, I said casually, ‘Oh, I’ll just write a cheque.’

Marigold requested that the ring be engraved on the inside ‘To my beloved Marigold, my love for you is as deep as the sea, Adrian’. Tusker quoted us £2 a letter. He
asked if we wanted to choose wedding rings before the price of gold went through the roof.

I refused to wear a wedding ring when I was married to Jo Jo. I did not see that little band of gold as a symbol of everlasting love but as a golden circular trap. However, faced with Max Tusker’s pushy salesmanship and Marigold’s eagerness, I agreed to cast my eye over a tray of wedding rings. There were far too many. After a while they all looked the same. I should have been born in the old Soviet Union, where choice was not a problem. Marigold chose a ring for me. When it was on the appropriate finger I felt my life blood ebb away. I visualized myself in the future. Unless I did something very soon, I would be handcuffed, shackled and gagged.

I was already in a slough of despair, so when told that the three rings came to a total of £3,517 I nodded mutely and wrote out a cheque.

Later, in Starbucks, as I sipped my mocha, I composed a letter in my head:

Dear Account Manager

I wrote a cheque for £3,517 on Sunday February 23rd made out to Henry Worthington, Jewellers, while the balance of my mind was disturbed. I am taking antibiotics for a serious viral illness.

Please cancel this cheque.

Yours, etc.

I wrote ‘Daisy’ in the froth of my coffee. When Marigold asked, ‘What have you written, darling?’ I used
a teaspoon to scoop a little of the chocolate and cream into my mouth.

Marigold collected the ring from Worthington’s this afternoon and brought it round to show me at the shop. She was upset because the engraver had made a mistake and had written inside the ring ‘To my beloved Marigold, my love for you is as deep as the sea, A. Drain’.

Mr Carlton-Hayes and I laughed out loud. Marigold started to cry and accused Max Tusker of deliberate sabotage. She asked me to accompany her to Worthington’s to complain.

Tusker would not accept any personal responsibility. He blamed the mistake on my handwriting, and the engraver, who was slightly dyslexic. The ring is being re-engraved for no charge. Marigold is going to collect it on Wednesday afternoon, after she has been to buy maternity support-tights from Mothercare.

Skipped through
Jane Eyre
in preparation for readers’ club tomorrow night. In between listened to Iraq news on radio. Mr Blair spoke like a true war leader. He said, in answer to a request from Hans Blix for more time to find the Weapons of Mass Destruction, ‘This is not a
road to peace but folly and weakness that will only mean the conflict is more bloody.’

Mr Blair looks at the camera lens with such a knowing expression, as if to say, I am privy to top-secret information, I know more than I can say. That is why the British people must trust Mr Blair.

Mr Carlton-Hayes brought his little Roberts radio into the shop today. He wanted to listen to Prime Minister’s Question Time, and also to the 2 p.m. parliamentary debate, after which the Commons was to vote on whether or not this country goes to war with Iraq.

I told Mr Carlton-Hayes about my long platonic relationship with Pandora Braithwaite, who was now a junior minister in the Department of the Environment.

Mr Carlton-Hayessaid, ‘Ms Braithwaite has announced that she will be voting against the government, together with the usual suspects. But, my dear, there are a few Tory rebels. Ken Clarke, John Gummer and Douglas Hogg have announced that they will be walking through the ‘No’ lobby in defiance of their leader, Iain Duncan Smith.’

I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes from where he came by this insider knowledge.

He said, ‘I shave to the
Today Programme
on Radio Four. Pandora Braithwaite was on yesterday morning, talking about her close friends Parvez and his wife, Fatima. She was enormously sympathetic to the world of Islam.’

I could have told Mr Carlton-Hayes the truth – that, to my certain knowledge, Pandora had only seen her old school friend Parvez twice in the past twenty-two years. But why destroy an old man’s illusions that everything he heard on the
Today Programme
must be true?

The ring is still at the jeweller’s. The dyslexic engraver has been sacked and is, according to Tusker, taking Worthington’s to a tribunal. Marigold said she was feeling ‘queasy’ and asked if she could spend the rest of the afternoon in the shop sitting by the fire. I could hardly refuse, although she was an annoying distraction because of her frequent sighs and hardly audible moans. She stayed on for the readers’ club.

The first few minutes of the meeting were taken up with an argument about Iraq between Mohammed and Marigold. Marigold’s main point was that Saddam ought to be thrown out because he murdered and gassed his own people.

Mohammed said quietly, ‘But Mr Blair is not proposing to change the regime in Iraq, Marigold. He is proposing that we should invade Iraq because Saddam has violated the United Nations resolution 1441 and to stop him using Weapons of Mass Destruction against his enemies.’

Lorraine Harris said, ‘It’s about the oil, innit? We haven’t got none left. America’s is running out. There might be a revolution in Saudi Arabia an’ Iraq’s got loads. It’s done an’ dusted.’

Darren Birdsall said, ‘I reckon that George Bush is sort of like Mr Rochester and that Jane Eyre is a bit like Tony Blair.’

‘So who’s Saddam?’ said Mr Carlton-Hayes.

‘Saddam is the mad wife in the attic,’ said Darren.

I had only skipped through the novel, so could not contest this unlikely analysis of
Jane Eyre
. But throughout the meeting I kept seeing Tony Blair in a long frock and a poke bonnet, making a deep curtsy to gruff Mr Rochester.

Melanie Oates, who still prefaced nearly every contribution with ‘I’m only a housewife but…’, said that she did not understand why Mr Rochester had gone blind at the end of the book.

Lorraine shook her head violently, making her short dreadlocks flail from side to side in her excitement to answer the question. ‘That Charlotte Brontë knew what she was doing. Jane Eyre was a plain girl, yeah? An’ no hero is gonna full in love with a dog, right? So Charlotte Brontë made that geezer Rochester blind, right? So that way he can marry a mirror-buster. Am I right or am I wrong?’

Darren said admiringly, ‘I reckon you’re right, Lorraine.’

Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘Lorraine, you’ve given me an insight into the part that beauty, or lack of it, plays in the book.’

Darren said, ‘Do you reckon the fire in the attic was a metaphor for the kind of argie-bargie that had gone on in Mr Rochester’s past life?’

An interesting discussion followed, but was immediately
curtailed when Marigold started talking about the cost of fire insurance.

Mohammed spoke with some passion about the harsh teaching methods at Lowood School. He said it reminded him of being taught the Koran at the mosque in the evenings when he was a little boy. ‘But I am grateful now,’ he said quietly.

Our next book is
Madame Bovary.

At 10 o’clock Mr Carlton-Hayes switched the little radio on and we heard that the government had, with the backing of the Conservative Party, won the debate.

Mr Carlton-Hayes said quietly, ‘So, we are going to war.’ He sat down in an armchair next to the dying embers in the fireplace.

Marigold asked me to take her for a drink in the wine bar across the road. We didn’t stay long; the place was full of drunken teenagers. When one of them lurched into our table, knocking over Marigold’s mineral water and my red wine, we left.

Lay awake, thinking about how I feel about the coming war. I have always been an admirer of Ken Clarke and Roy Hattersley. If these two stout patriots are against the war, am I in the wrong camp?

Another worry: if Saddam’s Weapons of Mass Destruction can reach Cyprus, they can certainly hit Kuwait, where Glenn is stationed.

I wanted to ring Daisy and tell her how worried I was about Glenn, but she is refusing to take my calls.

Mr Carlton-Hayes has been quiet all day. I overheard him talking to old Mr Polanski from the delicatessen this afternoon. He said, ‘I have been a Labour man all my life, Andrezj, and I did not think I would live to see a Labour prime minister taking the country to war.’

Mr Polanski said sadly, ‘We are old men, Hughie. We know about war.’

Iraq has agreed to destroy all of their small stock of AL Samoud 2 missiles. Perhaps this gesture will avoid war. I hope so. Glenn is eighteen on April 18th. It is possible, though highly unlikely, that he could be fighting in Iraq in forty-nine days’ time.

A statement from Barclaycard. I owe them almost £12,000. The minimum payment is £220 per month. So in effect I will be working for Barclaycard one day a week until the debt is paid some time in 2012!

Marigold brought her mother round to Rat Wharf this morning to show her where ‘I’ll be living after I’m married’.

Netta walked around like a Health and Safety Inspector. I was struck yet again by her porcine features. She was much, much prettier than a pig, but the wide nostrils, large earlobes and piggy eyes surely spoke of some ancient farmyard collision of human and beast. I shuddered when I remembered Orwell’s pigs, strutting round the farmhouse on their back legs. She pronounced that my apartment was a feng shui disaster. She said, ‘All your wealth is being lost down your lavatory, and the misalignment of your futon is sapping your sexual energy.’

Marigold said to me, ‘Perhaps that’s why you seem to have gone off sex.’

Netta turned to Marigold. ‘A handful of sunflower seeds on his quinoa porridge should bring him back up to the mark.’

I slid the glass doors open and we went outside.

Netta said, ‘This place is entirely unsuitable for a young baby,’ and pointed out that the balcony was particularly dangerous. ‘A toddler’s head could easily get trapped in the rails.’

Marigold was wearing orthopaedic shoes, similar to those worn by her mother. Together with the mini backpacks they were both wearing, they looked like German tourists about to embark on a walking holiday.

Netta had brought with her two sachets of raspberry fruit tea. While they were brewing she said, ‘Michael and
I thought it would be jolly to have a little drinks do next Sunday evening to celebrate the engagement and to discuss the wedding arrangements. So if you’d like to invite your best man, a couple of ushers, one bridesmaid and your parents of course.’

I said, ‘Isn’t it a bit early to be arranging the wedding?’

Netta said, ‘Adrian, dresses have to be made, suits have to be hired, a marquee has to be ordered, the church notified, bellringers booked, the village hall cleaned and disinfected, a cake commissioned and somebody has to cross the Channel to buy champagne.’