Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (28 page)

I was sure that Marigold would be able to detect at once that Daisy had been in my apartment, but her mind has been taken over by an alien force called Wedding Plans.

All she could talk about was the minutiae of the arrangements. She asked me to look through a catering brochure with her. We ended up quarrelling about the shape of the vol-au-vents to be served at the reception. She prefers the heart-shaped ones at seventy-nine pence each plus VAT, whereas my preference is for the traditional round ones at fifty-nine pence.

The vol-au-vent row led to which of us had the most monstrous mother and only stopped when Marigold screamed, ‘You couldn’t find my clitoris if you were led there by Sir Ranulph Fiennes!’

After she’d slammed out, I consulted
The Joy of Sex
and discovered that I’d probably been paying too much attention to relatively unimportant bits of her genitalia while ignoring the clitoris even though it had been staring me in the face for the last few months.

After she’d gone, I felt inspired and wrote another letter.

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

Chez Flowers

The Old Battery Factory

Beeby on the Wold

Rat Wharf

Leicestershire
LE
19

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

Dear Marigold

Can I be honest with you? I have recently discovered that I am gay. The signs have been there for some time (perhaps this
explains why I did not stumble across your clitoris). I almost bought a chandelier recently. I have taken to wearing rubber gloves while doing my housework and I have noticed myself using waspish humour as a method of communication.

I have not yet taken the plunge sexually, but it can only be a matter of time before I meet a man with whom I can share a civil union.

The rings cost me rather a lot of money. Perhaps you could ask Worthington’s if they will take them back. If so, please use the money to buy whatever you need for the baby.
I hope we can remain friends.

Yours,

Adrian

At midnight, Daisy rang from a restaurant to ask if I had written the letter. I told her that I had.

She said, ‘So when will she get it?’

I said, prevaricating, ‘I haven’t posted it yet. It’s raining.’

She shouted, a little drunkenly, ‘I would walk through a fucking monsoon for you!’

I promised her that I would post it on my way to work.

I dropped John Henry’s swan/broken arm letter into my own solicitor David Barwell’s office before work. Later that morning, Angela rang to say that Mr Barwell would not act on the letter until my account was paid in full. I still owe him £150 plus VAT. I used my MasterCard and paid up.

For the rest of the day I tried to decide which of the two end-engagement letters to send to Marigold. Which was the least cruel: the ‘not worthy’ or the ‘I’m gay’ one?

After work I hovered over the post box at the end of the High Street. I even played eenie, meanie, miney, moe. But when I got home the letters were still in my pocket.

I drove out to the Piggeries and sat for a while with Animal and my parents. There is something very comforting about a bonfire.

When I got back to Rat Wharf I wrote another letter:

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

Chez Flowers

The Old Battery Factory

Beeby on the Wold

Rat Wharf

Leicestershire
LE
19

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

My dearest Marigold

Can I be honest with you, darling? I can no longer live a lie. For some time I have been dressing in female clothes and calling myself Brenda. I love the feel of silk, lace and winceyette on my rough male flesh.

I will entirely understand if, in the circumstances, you run from me like a startled faun, but when you do, try to remember me with compassion. None of us can help our genetic make-up.

Yours ever,

Brenda

PS What is the name of that divine blue eyeshadow you wore on Boxing Day? I must have it!

I have just looked it up. I used the expression ‘run from me like a startled faun’ in my 1981 diary, when I was writing to Pandora. I knew I had heard it somewhere before.

I switched my phone off so there was no, and could not be any, call from Daisy.

My mother rang me at work today to ask me if she should stop dyeing her hair red. She said, ‘Do you think I should go for the older woman grey-blonde highlight look?’

I said, ‘Isn’t this a question you should be asking your hairdresser? I’m a bookseller, Mum.’

She said, ‘I’m worried about you. I thought you looked terrible last night. You’re thin, you can’t be eating properly and you’ve got rings round your eyes. I know you’re not sleeping. You’re not happy, are you?’

I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes to take over at the till and went into the back room with my mobile.

My mother said again, ‘You’re not happy, are you, love?’

For some reason tears came into my eyes and I couldn’t get my breath. I think it must have been the kindness, perhaps the motherliness, in her voice that set me off. It’s a tone I haven’t heard often enough in my life.

When Mr Carlton-Hayes had finished serving a customer he came through to the back room to find me. He said, ‘My dear,’ and handed me a clean white handkerchief that smelt of distilled fresh air. I blew my nose and tried to hand it back to him, but he said, ‘No, keep it, my dear.
Leslie always sends me out with two clean handkerchiefs in the morning.’

I said he was lucky to have somebody to care for him so well.

He said, ‘Not lucky, blessed.’

I tried to apologize for my uncharacteristic behaviour.

He said, ‘I’m not awfully good at the heart-to-heart stuff, I’m afraid. Leslie says it’s the fault of being sent away to public school. But if you find it helpful to what I believe is called “unload”, I would be very happy to listen.’

I could tell that he was deeply uncomfortable and was relieved when a mad-woman bag lady came in shouting that Jane Austen was inside her head, telling her what to do.

There were twelve text messages on my phone by the time I got home to Rat Wharf. They were all from Daisy. They did not make pleasant reading.

I switched my phone off and sat down again with a pad and pen.

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

Chez Flowers

The Old Battery Factory

Beeby on the Wold

Rat Wharf

Leicestershire
LE
19

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

Dear Marigold

Can I be honest with you?

The man you know as Adrian Mole is an impostor. I have been on the run since I was falsely accused of violating a dolphin off the Cornish coast in 1989.

The police are closing in on me so I must go underground.

Farewell, dearest,

Malcolm Roach

(aka Adrian Mole)

I didn’t think she’d believe this so I wrote another.

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

Chez Flowers

The Old Battery Factory

Beeby on the Wold

Rat Wharf

Leicestershire
LE
19

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

Dearest Marigold

This is a letter I hoped I would never have to write.

For some years I have been suffering from a rare medical condition which produces a murderous rage, which in turn makes me prone to sudden fits of violence. I have been secretly seeking a cure, but alas I have been told by a specialist in my condition that there is no hope for me.

The specialist has advised me not to marry. I quote: ‘No woman is safe with you, Mr Mole. You must reconcile yourself to living alone.’

Naturally, I am gutted by this news and I beg you to give me time and space in which to grieve for what could have been.

God, how will I live without you, you achingly beautiful, fascinating woman?

Love, as ever,

A.

Out of all the letters I have written I think the letter immediately above will cause Marigold the least pain. Although, thinking about it, will Marigold worry that the baby will inherit the murder gene?

We were busy in the shop this morning. There has been a rush on books about weaponry and warfare.

Michael Flowers rang. He wants to see me on an ‘urgent’ matter relating to the future of our country.

I left a message at Country Organics, to say that I did not have a free window.

Flowers rang again and accused me of ignoring his call. I explained that I had left a message at the shop saying that I did not have a free window.

He said, nastily, ‘Since you did not leave your name and the line was bad, I assumed it was a cold call from a double-glazing salesman.’

He trapped me into meeting him at the Good Earth vegetarian café at one o’clock. He was already there eating a bowl of thick mush when I arrived at dead on one, but he looked at his watch and said impatiently, ‘Glad you decided to turn up.’

He always puts me on the back foot. I started to say that I was exactly on time, when he said, ‘Look, now you’re finally here can I explain the purpose of this meeting?’

Once again I tried to insist that I had not been late.

But he said, ‘Adrian, I’m a very busy man. Can we
please
get on?’

He started by saying that our fair country, its traditions, its heritage, was being subsumed by Europe, and that our race was being forced to kneel to the bloated bureaucrats in Brussels. He then ranted on about fish quotas, loss of sovereignty and England’s humiliating failure to score any points in the Eurovision Song Contest. He predicted that England would be swept away on a tide of cappuccino and straight bananas.

I wondered why Flowers had called me to a meeting to hear his views about Europe.

He lowered his voice and looked around the café as if the mild-mannered vegetarians nibbling their greens were al Qa’eda operatives. ‘I’m starting a Leicestershire branch of the United Kingdom Independence Party,’ he said, ‘and I wondered if I could rely on your support?’

I said that I knew very little about the UKIP, and was there any literature?

He drew a Union-Jack bedecked pile of slithery leaflets out of his satchel and gave me one.

I put it in my pocket and said I would read it later.

Flowers barked, ‘All you need to know is that UKIP is the only party with the guts to stand up against a bunch of Gauloise-smoking appeasers.’

I said that I quite liked being a European.

Flowers said, ‘You like it now, Adrian. But will you like it when they ban our national anthem?’

I thought, ‘Yes I would. I hate “God Save the Queen”.’ But I said nothing.

He stood up and said, ‘I’m asking my supporters for an initial contribution of £500.’

After he’d gone, leaving me with his bill, I read through the leaflet. Apparently one of UKIP’s luminaries was Jonathan Aitken; another was Geoff Boycott.

When the shop was empty of customers and we were having our tea at afternoon break, I gave the disengagement letters to Mr Carlton-Hayes to read and asked him for his advice.

To my surprise he seemed to find them quite amusing. When he’d finished reading them, he said, ‘None of them are quite suitable, my dear. If I were you I would write something like:

My dear Marigold

You are a lovely woman, and I’m frightfully sorry about this, but I now realize that I do not love you enough to want to marry you. In these circumstances it would be terribly silly of us to get married.

If you
are
having our baby, I will of course support you and the child.

I’m most awfully sorry to be such a frightful cad, but I feel honour bound to tell you the horrid truth.

Please do not contact me.

Yours truly

Adrian

He tapped the letter out, using one finger on his old Remington typewriter. I thanked him, but I will not send it.

*

I showed the UKIP leaflets to Mr Carlton-Hayes and confessed to him that I was afraid of Michael Flowers.

‘You have every right to be afraid of him, my dear,’ he said. ‘He’s an English fascist. They don’t goosestep down the High Street because they know we would laugh at them, but they are wearing jackboots nonetheless.’

Marigold met me at the shop and we went for a meal at the Imperial Dragon. Wayne was very cool to me, and when I asked him what was wrong, he said, ‘Why didn’t you invite me to your party?’

I said it was only a small gathering.

He said, ‘That geek, Brain-box Henderson, was there.’

Marigold said, ‘Bruce Henderson was my guest, and he is not a geek.’

Wayne said, ‘You’re wrong there, Marigold. He won “Geek of the year” at school.’

I didn’t enjoy the meal at all and only managed to eat a king-size prawn and a mouthful of rice. Apparently Netta has started to hand-stitch and embroider Marigold’s white bridal gown. The hem of the dress will be embroidered with rowan leaves. The mint-green bridesmaids’ dresses, satin with puffed sleeves and asymmetrical hems, have been cut out, although ‘Daisy is refusing to cooperate: she won’t send Mummy her measurements, she’s such a bitch. She always spoils everything. We were going to Glastonbury once, in the minibus, when for no reason at all she kicked out at Daddy and ran away. Me and Poppy and Mummy and Daddy had a lovely time, despite the mud, so more fool her, I say.’

*

Wayne Wong has installed a karaoke machine, and a black bloke got up and tried to sing ‘Lady in Red’ to his girlfriend, who was, surprise, surprise, wearing a red dress.

Marigold sighed deeply and said, ‘I wish you were romantic.’

This was unfair, because at that very moment I was thinking that Daisy’s hair was like the smoke of an erupting volcano.

After a mind-numbingly boring discussion about bridesmaids’ shoes, I paid the bill and took Marigold home to Beeby on the Wold.

She asked me to come in and reminded me that she would be away for the next five days, as she was an exhibitor at the Doll’s House Society of Great Britain’s bi-annual show, at the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham, and would I join her for a night at the hotel she was staying in.