Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (30 page)

He advised me to settle out of court before my costs escalated. I agreed to think about it, but it is a sad day for British justice. The Old Bailey statue must be hanging its head in shame.

On the way out, Barwell’s secretary handed me a bill for immediate payment. The subtext was that unless I paid up, I would be kept prisoner in her outer office. Barwell now employs a security guard to keep his growing list of disreputable clients in order and to confiscate their cans of lager.

I wrote a cheque for £250 and handed it over. I said, ‘Do you happen to know the penalty for killing a swan?’

She said, coldly, ‘No, but it should be hanging or life imprisonment.’

As I left Barwell’s premises, Daisy rang. I was overjoyed to hear her voice. She said that her mother had phoned her and that Marigold had been devastated by the news and that her father had been in eye casualty at the Royal Hospital for most of Tuesday.

I asked Daisy if our relationship was still on. She said, ‘I wish it weren’t, Aidy, but I’m afraid I’m crazy about you.’

I said I would get on a train after work and come to Baldwin Street.

She said, ‘I’m not there, darling, I’m in Paris doing the PR for a designer hotel.’

We talked briefly about the war, which is due to start tomorrow.

Daisy said, ‘The French are incredulous that America and Britain are preparing to bomb Baghdad.’ She asked me if I was worried about Glenn.

I said, ‘Yes, of course.’

But the truth is, diary, the boy has been halfway down my list of worries lately.

Marigold rang, to tell me that she was in hospital with a suspected miscarriage. She said, ‘I read your letter and I felt my womb lurch.’ She had admitted herself to an accident and emergency department. She begged me not to tell her parents.

She sobbed, ‘I couldn’t bear it if I lost our baby, could you, Adrian?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll come immediately. Where are you?’

The phone cut off before she could answer. I dialled
1471 but was told by a robot that the number had been withheld. I waited for her to ring back, images of Marigold miscarrying the baby filling my head as I paced the floor.

After half an hour I started to ring round the hospitals in Coventry and Birmingham – but nobody by the name of Marigold Flowers or even Marigold Mole had been admitted. I rang the Ring Road View Hotel and asked if they knew which hospital Marigold had been admitted to. The receptionist did not speak very good English and could not help me.

I took my clothes off and got into bed, but I hardly slept. Gielgud sounded as through he was playing a discordant trumpet all night and the rats passed by my futon several times.

The war with Iraq started today.

I heard on the radio that the American military has just promised that the war will begin with the unrestrained bombing of Baghdad; a massive ‘Shock and Awe’ assault will make the world quiver in its boots with respect.

Marigold rang early this morning to tell me that the doctors were discharging her. The baby was safe ‘for now’, but she must have complete rest and take things very easy. She asked me to pick her up from Birmingham City Hospital, maternity unit. She said, ‘You won’t forsake me, will you, darling?’

It wasn’t until I got on to the M69 that I remembered that ‘Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling’ was the theme tune from
High Noon
. For the rest of the journey I couldn’t get the song out of my head.

I drove along the M6 boxed in by two huge juggernauts. I didn’t trust myself to enter the fast lane, as I didn’t feel that I was in full control of my emotions, or the car.

I rang Mr Carlton-Hayes at the shop and told him that I wouldn’t be into work today and briefly told him why. He knows about my M6 phobia and told me to take deep breaths if I felt a panic attack coming on.

I had expected to go to the ward to pick Marigold up and help her with her luggage, etc. But to my surprise the poor girl was standing outside the main entrance to the maternity unit, alone and in a biting wind, wearing her beige anorak, on which she had pinned her NEC exhibitor’s pass. Her luggage was at her feet.

I was disgusted at the hospital’s lack of care, diary. It was only two days after her suspected miscarriage. I wanted to go in and lodge a formal complaint, but Marigold became agitated and said, ‘I just want to leave this place, Adrian. I’ve been through a horrid ordeal.’

I told her that I would be making a formal complaint when we got back to Leicester, but she said, ‘I’d rather forget all about it. Promise me you won’t write.’

I brought the car round and she sat in the front seat with her hands clasped around her belly, protecting our child. It was enough to make the gods weep. When we reached the motorway, she said, ‘I don’t think I can be
conscious while you’re driving on the M6.’ She pulled the lever and reclined the seat, took her spectacles off and handed them to me and went to sleep.

She looks quite pretty when her face is at rest.

My mobile rang. It was Daisy, from Paris. I said, loudly, that I didn’t want double glazing and disconnected the phone.

She woke as we reached the end of the motorway and started talking about the wedding. I steeled myself, and said, ‘Marigold, we are not getting married.’ I don’t know how I managed to avoid causing a serious pile-up on the slip road. It is not easy to drive when somebody is pummelling your head, arms and shoulders with her tiny fists.

When we arrived at Beeby on the Wold I took Marigold into the house. Netta and Roger Middleton were in the drawing room sitting in front of the ostentatiously small television set watching ‘Shock and Awe’ being carried out over Baghdad.

After a lot more shouting and angry recriminations I left, saying that I would come back tomorrow. Roger Middleton saw me to the door. I asked if he had moved in permanently.

He said, ‘You’ve buggered up the grand plan. Netta and Michael were going to sell the house once Marigold was married. Now it’s just one big cock-up.’

I said that I was sorry. I seem to do nothing but apologize lately.

*

When I got to Rat Wharf I risked Mia Fox’s wrath by switching on my home entertainment centre. The sound of the bombardment reverberated around the apartment. The wine glasses tinkled on the shelf. I felt the shock waves of the bombs underneath my feet. The screen was filled with huge orange explosions contrasting with the black Baghdad sky. I was very shocked and totally awed. I had to remind myself that this was not a Hollywood blockbuster – that it was happening in real time, to real people. I thought about the little Iraqi kids, who must be terrified. What would their mums and dads be saying to them? I wondered if Mr Blair was watching with his family and speculated on what he would be saying to his own children about the bombs falling on Baghdad.

I rang Daisy. She sounded drunk and rambled on about double glazing. Then she said, ‘I’m in my hotel room watching Baghdad burn. Do you still think Tony Blair is the bee’s knees?’

I told her I would ring tomorrow when she was sober.

On the little radio in the shop I heard the news that eight British and four American servicemen had been killed today when a helicopter crashed over Kuwait.

A few moments later, Sharon rang me and said, ‘If owt happened to our Glenn they’d tell the next of kin straight away, wouldn’t they?’

I assured her that if Glenn was hurt the British army would let his next of kin know immediately.

I got involved in a row between Netta, Michael and Roger Middleton tonight, after work. It seems that none of them wants to take responsibility for looking after Marigold during her pregnancy and after the baby is born. All three are blaming me for ruining their lives. I almost weakened and said that Marigold could come and live with me in Rat Wharf but, thank God, I didn’t.

I went upstairs to see Marigold. I tiptoed in so as not to disturb her. She was sitting up in bed eating a bar of organic chocolate and reading
Hello!
magazine. She was half-watching Shock and Awe on her portable television.

When I told her that I felt sorry for the little kids in Baghdad, she said, ‘Don’t weaken, Adrian. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. They will be grateful to us when they are walking to the polling stations to cast their votes.’

I asked her how she was.

She said, ‘I’m feeling dreadful, but Mummy suffered with each pregnancy.’

I asked her if she had seen her own GP yet.

She said, ‘There’s no need.’

Netta came in and said, ‘Pregnancy isn’t an illness, it’s a perfectly natural function. It’s you men who have medicalized it.’

It was obvious that Marigold had not told her parents about her suspected miscarriage.

I stayed another hour but left shortly after Marigold
had an imaginary conversation with the baby inside her womb. I didn’t so much mind her talking to the baby; it was when the baby ‘talked’ back.

Daisy sent me an email.

Sorry, but I can’t get over this war thing. I am outraged at Britain’s involvement in the whole filthy business. I joined a huge protest march yesterday and it was wonderful to be amongst so many people who felt like me. Have you changed your mind since the bombing started? Please say yes, because I do love you. Ring me tomorrow at Baldwin Street.

At ten o’clock tonight Mr Blair addressed the nation. In a voice heavy with a sense of history he appealed to the British people ‘to be united in sending our armed forces our thoughts and prayers’. To the people watching in Iraq, he said, ‘Our enemy is not you but your barbarous rulers.’

I was very moved by Mr Blair’s sincerity. The country should rally round and support him in his hour of need.

I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes if I could leave the shop early and meet the rat-catcher at my apartment.

He said, ‘Your home sounds marvellously Dickensian, my dear.’

I said that, on the contrary, my apartment had been shortlisted for a Best Use of Former Industrial Space
Award, and that the last thing I had expected had been to find it overrun by rats.

Mr Carlton-Hayes twitched an eyebrow and said, ‘You didn’t get a clue from the address?’

I tried to be polite to the bloke who turned up by calling him a Rodent Operative, but he said, in a surprisingly posh accent, ‘I’m not into verbal obfuscation; I call myself a rat-catcher.’

When I asked if he wanted coffee, he enquired about the blend. I told him it was a Guatemalan ‘Fair Trade’ medium roast, and he gave a tiny smile that could have been approval but seemed more like amusement that I had been crass enough to choose that particular brand.

He found rat droppings under the kitchen units and behind the panel in the bath, and traces of rat urine around the futon. I urged him to exterminate the creatures and remove all trace of them. He said that he would lay some traps and come back in ten days.

While he was setting the traps we somehow got on to the subject of women, and I told him about my catastrophic relationship with Marigold. He commiserated with me and told me that he had once been one of the most successful chartered accountants in the East Midlands, until a client called Sonia had ruined his health and reputation and forced him into rat-catching.

I phoned Daisy. She answered immediately and said, ‘Have you changed your mind about the war?’

I said no, and that I still supported Mr Blair.

She snarled, ‘Have you not seen a photograph of
that eight-year-old kid, Ali? The one who’s had both arms and both legs blown off by your fucking bombs?’

I said, ‘Yes, but...’

She said, ‘Don’t ring, don’t text, don’t fax, don’t call round, don’t contact me again. I asked you to choose between me and Tony Blair, and you chose him. Goodbye.’

My father has had his operation. He was back on the ward complaining that the nurses won’t push his bed into the lift, take him down six floors and push him to the main entrance so that he can have a cigarette.

I took him a bunch of grapes today. Tomorrow I will take him a bunch of nicotine patches.

Wrote to Geoff Hoon.

Mr Hoon MP

Unit 4

Ministry of Defence

The Old Battery Factory

The War Office

Rat Wharf

Whitehall

Grand Union Canal

London
SW
1

Leicester
LE
1

March 24th 2003

Dear Mr Hoon

Forgive me for writing to you at what must be a very busy time. I am the father of Private Glenn Bott-Mole, of the
Leicestershire Fox Regiment, which is presently stationed in Kuwait.

Glenn is a very immature seventeen-year-old and his clumsiness is a family legend. He celebrates his eighteenth birthday on April 18th this year and thus becomes eligible to be sent to the battlefront in Iraq.

I fear that Glenn will prove to be a hazard to himself and his fellow soldiers in such a life-and-death situation and I respectfully request that you contact his senior officers and advise them of the boy’s unsuitability for battlefield duties.

May I add that I am fully supportive of the government’s stand against barbarism.

Mr Hoon, you are widely unpopular at the moment, but I feel sure that the public will warm to you again when the Iraqi people take to the streets in their millions to cheer the arrival of the coalition troops and the liberation of their country.

Yours sincerely

A. A. Mole

Michael Flowers sent a work-experience boy from his shop to my shop with a note this morning.

Adrian

Netta and I are deeply disappointed in you. Your neglect of and apparent indifference to Marigold lately is tantamount to cruelty.

She is having a difficult pregnancy, caused, I am sure, by
your callous refusal to marry her and thus legitimize the baby.

We are sufficiently concerned about our daughter’s health to have booked a recuperative holiday for her on the island of Capri at a charming hotel we have stayed at many times. Netta will accompany her and I am writing to ask you to contribute towards their lodging and travel expenses.