Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (29 page)

I reminded her about my M6 phobia, and said that, regretfully, it would not be possible. I excused myself by saying that I could feel a migraine coming on and I needed to take my medication.

She offered me a tincture of bark, but I declined.

We kissed goodbye at the front door. As I was kissing her I wondered if it would be for the last time. I fervently hoped so.

I tried to ring Daisy, but her phone was switched off. I left the following message:

Daisy

It’s me, Adrian. (long pause) I don’t know what to say – I haven’t told Marigold yet. I need your help. I’ve drafted five letters, but none of them hit the right note. Please, don’t give up on me, I think about you constantly. I adore you, Daze. Goodnight, sweetheart.

Text from Daisy: ‘Check your email.’

After the usual difficulty and a five-minute call to the helpline, I opened my email.

Kipling,
Draft of letter attached.

I opened the attachment: It read:

Dear Marigold

It is not your fault that you have grown up to be a manipulative, hysterical hypochondriac. You have been hopelessly indulged by your parents.

You have taken advantage of my kind gentle nature and have drained me emotionally and financially.

But hey, I’ll recover. Keep the poxy ring.

Thanks for the good times, not.

Adrian

PS I think it must be obvious from the above that I will not be marrying you on 6th May 2003.

I was shocked at the harsh tone of Daisy’s letter; she is obviously not a woman to cross. Am I jumping out of the frying pan and into the wok?

I needed to be with the two people who would, despite our differences, give me unconditional love, so I drove to the Piggeries.

The countryside looked fresh and green. I tried to work out why my life had become so complicated where women were concerned. I parked the car in the lane and stood for a moment watching a lamb in the field opposite. It looked as though it was drunk with joy, dancing and kicking its heels. I envied it its joyful celebration of being alive. Then I remembered that in a short while it would be dead and packaged and displayed on a meat counter somewhere. I turned away and trudged across the field.

My parents had spotted my car and were waving, with every appearance of delight. My mother came to meet me, threw down her cigarette and gave me a tight embrace. She said, ‘You’re a bag of bones, when did you last eat?’

I told her, truthfully, that in the last twenty-four hours I had eaten a prawn and a mouthful of rice. She led me to the open fire and said, ‘I’m going to cook you a full English breakfast, with fried bread.’

My stomach was indifferent, but my heart was nourished. She took off her woollen gloves and began to fry bacon, sausages, tomatoes and fried bread over the open fire in a blackened frying pan.

The foundations had been laid for both pigsties, and Animal was laying blue bricks for the dampcourse.

While I waited for the food I gave my parents the Marigold disengagement letters to read.

My father’s advice was, ‘Send her the dangerous-nutter one, son.’

My mother said, ‘They’re all ridiculous. Why don’t you tell her the truth, before Netta has made the bloody bridesmaids’ dresses?’

My full English breakfast looked and smelled delicious, but I couldn’t eat it all and shared it out between Animal, my father and Ivan the dog while my mother was in the camper van fetching a fresh pack of cigarettes and a notepad and pen. She then sat by the fire and drafted what she called ‘an engagement curtailment letter’.

Dear Marigold

Ever since I was a little boy I have preferred to live in the world of fiction. I have found the real world to be a harsh place. I avoid confrontation and am easily manipulated by people who have a strong sense of themselves.

I am very sorry, but I cannot marry you. I do not love you. The truth is, I love your sister, Daisy. And I think she loves me.

I read the letter twice, and then said, ‘How long have you known about Daisy?’

My mother said, ‘Since your engagement party. Is it true?’

I said, ‘Yes.’

My father said, ‘You’re a witch, Pauline.’

My mother said, ‘I’ve got eyes in my head, George. I saw Adrian and Daisy looking at each other. I’m surprised they didn’t burst into flames.’

It was a wonderful relief to be able to talk about Daisy.

My father said, ‘She’s a cracker.’

And my mother advised me to snap her up quickly, before she goes off the boil.

I went home to Rat Wharf and wrote what I was determined would be the letter I would definitely send to Marigold.

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

The Ring Road View Hotel

The Old Battery Factory

Balsall Common

Rat Wharf

Warwickshire
CV
7

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

Sunday March 16th

Dear Marigold

I hope you are well. I am quite well, apart from a constant feeling of dread that I can’t seem to shake off.

I have some grave news, I’m afraid. (At this point it might be wise to seek the company of one of your fellow doll’s house enthusiasts.)

Marigold, I can’t marry you on May 6th, or on any other date.

You are a beautiful, intelligent woman, and your skill at making miniature furniture is breathtaking. I am personally devastated by my inability to love such a prize as you, but the sad truth is that I am unworthy of you. I have many psychological flaws that prevent me from making any woman happy. As my ex-stepmother pointed out once, my women
seem to spend most of their time in tears.

Believe me, you have had a lucky escape, Marigold.

I will of course support you financially and practically when the baby is born and will have him/her on alternate Sundays from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. (If wet, 10 a.m. until 2 p.m.)

Please do not contact me. I am already in pain and to hear your voice would cause me considerable agony.

Yours, Adrian

St Patrick’s Day

Called in at local post office before work. Told postmaster essential letter reaches Ring Road View Hotel tomorrow morning without fail.

He said first class was unreliable. Must pay £6.95 for Special Delivery, guaranteed before 9 a.m. next day. ‘Must be an important letter,’ he said.

I told him contents of letter explosive.

He said, laughing but nervous, ‘Hope not real explosives.’

I told him I was talking metaphorically.

He said, ‘Better not to use words like “explosive” when country is on Orange Alert and there are tanks at Heathrow.’

I texted Daisy:

FF, Letter sent to M.W is off. Love K

She texted back:

K.

UR Fab.

ILY.

FF

My mother rang me at the shop in a panic. She said, ‘I know you’re at work, but I need you to come to the Piggeries. Your Dad’s hurt his back, trying to lift a hod of bricks.’ Then, sounding surprised, she said, ‘He’s asking for you, Adrian.’

I explained what had happened to Mr Carlton-Hayes, who said, ‘Another family crisis. You’re rivalling
The Forsyte Saga
. But of course you must go.’

When I got there, my father was lying on an improvised stretcher made out of a roofing sheet. His face was grey with pain.

My mother said, ‘I told him to let Animal do the heavy work, but he had to prove he’s not past it, didn’t he? And now he’s broken his back.’ She started to cry. ‘He’ll never walk again. He’ll be in a wheelchair and I’ll never be able to push him across this field.’

Animal grunted something to my mother and she grunted back. They communicate like primates. However, I understood when he started filling the kettle from the water carrier that he was asking if he should make some tea.

When I tried to lift my father’s head so that he could drink from the cup, he screamed so loudly that birds
flapped from the trees in alarm and I said to my mother, ‘Call an ambulance’ and handed her my mobile phone. There was the usual confusion about the address, but after half an hour we heard the siren and I crossed the field to meet it.

When I explained the circumstances and pointed out the Piggeries in the distance, the paramedics didn’t look too pleased. The shorter one of the two asked, ‘How much does your dad weigh?’

I said, ‘About eleven stone.’

They looked even less pleased. As we crossed the boggy field, they muttered between themselves about health and safety.

I followed the ambulance as it made its way to the Royal Hospital. Then I waited in the A&E department for somebody in a white coat with a medical qualification to give my father a large dose of opiates and put him out of his misery. I stayed until my mother begged me to go home, saying that my constant commentary about the inefficiency and chaos in the casualty ward was driving her mad and making things worse.

Shortly after I got home, she rang to say that my father had been taken up to the David Gower ward. She said, ‘He’s still in pain, they can’t find the key to the drug cabinet and they’re short-staffed at the hospital pharmacy. So I’ve given him a few of my Tramadol to help him sleep.’

I told her that she couldn’t possibly stay at the Piggeries on her own.

She said, ‘I’m not on my own; I’ve got Animal with me.’

I said that she couldn’t stay with Animal because he was, without wishing to be rude, an animal.

She said, ‘
Au contraire
, he’s one of nature’s gentlemen.’

George Bush has just issued an ultimatum: Saddam Hussein must leave Iraq within forty-eight hours or face invasion by a coalition of British and American troops.

Robin Cook has resigned from the government. Although you are a highly principled politician and a devotee of the racetrack, Mr Cook, posterity will find that you have backed the wrong horse here.

By eleven o’clock this morning there had been no word from Marigold. I rang the post office to find out if my registered letter had been safely delivered. A Customer Liaison Officer at the post office told me that there was no way of checking until the postman had returned from his round.

At 12.10 precisely I was on my knees cataloguing Fish of the British Isles. I was feeling mildly apprehensive, waiting for the telephone call from Marigold, when two dark shadows fell upon me – Netta and Michael Flowers.

Mr Carlton-Hayes hovered nearby. I got to my feet still clutching
Fish of the North Sea
. Flowers was literally chewing his beard. Netta held a faxed copy of my disengagement letter, which she thrust into my face.

She said, ‘You’ve broken my little girl’s heart.’

Flowers roared, ‘You are a despicable piece of working-class shit. My wife was stitching those exquisite bridesmaids’ dresses until three o’clock this morning.’ He came towards me and raised his fists.

I instinctively protected myself with
Fish of the North Sea
. The edge of the book caught him in his right eye, and he reeled around, barging into the shelves, knocking books to the floor and bellowing that I had blinded him.

Mr Carlton-Hayes did his best to pull Netta away from me. A young female customer hurriedly left the shop. It was an ugly scene.

Flowers eventually stumbled out of the shop with Netta, saying that he would call the police and have me prosecuted for grievous bodily harm.

Netta said, screwing up her piggy face, ‘We will be suing you for breach of promise.’

After they’d gone, we put the closed sign on the door and tidied the shop and I apologized to Mr Carlton-Hayes for bringing my personal life into the shop again.

He said, ‘Don’t fret, my dear. I landed Flowers a few good punches during the mêlée.’

After work I went to the Royal Hospital. When I asked about George Mole, the nurse at the desk told me that he was ‘still uncomfortable’.

I asked, ‘Is that hospital code for “still in agony”?’

She said, ‘He’s been ringing his bell all day. He seems to think he’s in a hotel and he’s calling down for room service. It’s the drugs.’

*

My father is in a bay with three other patients. When I got to his bedside, my mother got up and said, ‘Thank God you’ve come, I’m dying for a fag.’

She was dressed for the building site and, not for the first time in my life, I felt ashamed of her appearance. Her big reinforced toe-capped boots looked incongruous in the hospital ward.

My father was lying flat on his back staring somewhat woozily at the ceiling. I asked him how he was.

He said, dreamily, ‘I think the drugs are kicking in. I haven’t felt as good as this since the sixties.’

When my father closed his eyes, my mother and I went outside to the main entrance and stood in the plastic smokers’ shelter where I told her that I was now formally disengaged from Marigold.

She said, ‘Thank God for that,’ then told me that my father would have to have an operation to remove two damaged discs.

I asked her if it would affect his mobility. She said, laughing in the face of trouble, ‘I don’t think so. Your dad’s always been a bit spineless.’

I phoned Daisy; her voicemail message said that she was unavailable.

At 3 a.m. I was awakened by furtive scurrying sounds. I went to investigate and saw three brown shapes emerge from a floor cupboard I had left open. One of the brown shapes ran over my naked foot.

Further investigation revealed a half-eaten packet of
Walkers Beef and Onion crisps. I’m sharing my loft apartment with rats.

Phoned Environmental Health at Leicester City Council and left a message for the rat-catcher asking him/her to come to Rat Wharf ASAP and to bring extermination kit.

A meeting with Barwell, my solicitor, to discuss the swan-shit-on-the-stairs litigation.

Barwell told me that he’d heard at a Rotary Club dinner that Gary Milksop’s solicitor had consulted a barrister, Alan Ruck-Bridges. ‘He’s a Rottweiler, Mr Mole. He got a judge to award a million in damages and costs to a woman who got her big toe stuck in a faulty bath tap.’