Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (34 page)

I said, ‘No, but she’s having my baby.’

He said, ‘It wouldn’t bother me, you’re fairly intelligent and not bad-looking. I’d give your kid everything it needed, and I know I can make Marigold happy.’

I said that I would do everything in my power to help him win Marigold’s affection. Brain-box took my hand and shook it, then held it for an uncomfortably long time.

Brain-box dropped me off at the hospital on his way home. My father was thrilled to wake up and see me sitting next to his bed wearing the golfing sweater and holding his bag of clubs. He said that sixty over par was astounding for a novice. ‘I’m proud of you, son.’

Easter Monday (Bank Holiday UK)

Is the war in Iraq over? Jay Garner, the retired former US General, arrived in Baghdad to take up the post of Iraq’s post-war civil administrator. Thank God. This means Glenn will soon be home.

Sharon rang to say that she is using a pair of old sheets to make a banner to drape across the front of her house saying, ‘Welcome home, hero’. She asked me for some money so that she could buy the red, white and blue paint for the lettering. I could hardly refuse and said that I would drop off £20 on my way home from work tomorrow.

The pretty woman medical student came in and bought a copy of
Gray’s Anatomy
this morning. I apologized for Bernard Hopkins’s sexist remarks.

She said, ‘It didn’t matter, he’s obviously clinically mad.’

I explained that Bernard’s eccentricity was considered normal in the antiquarian and second-hand book trade.

I was buying mangoes at the market at lunchtime when I bumped into Michael Flowers. He told me that he had heard from Netta in Capri. The hotel was marvellous and Marigold had recovered her spirits. Mother and daughter had been undergoing various therapies.

The phone call I have been dreading. Glenn rang to say he was now stationed just outside Basra, in southern Iraq. He told me that he’d been frightened for his life earlier that day when an angry mob had surrounded him. He’d been out on patrol and he’d given a little kid a boiled sweet from his army rations. The kid was laughing and sucking the sweet one minute; the next he was choking to death because the sweet had got stuck in his windpipe.

Glenn remembered the time his brother, William, had a similar accident with a Nuttall’s Mintoe and I saved his life by holding him upside-down by the ankles, so he did the same to the Iraqi kid.

‘I had to shake him about a bit, Dad,’ said Glenn, ‘an’ it probably didn’t look too good from his family’s point of view. I tried to explain, but I can’t speak Iraqi and nobody seemed to understand what “boiled sweet” meant, so I weren’t too popular.’

So much for winning Iraqi ‘hearts and minds’.

Bernard Hopkins has sorted the crap from Mrs Mortimer’s collection and I have arranged to hold a book sale in aid of Canine Epilepsy Research. Pandora is coming to draw the raffle; she needs to placate the dog-lovers of her constituency after she made some wild and reckless statements about dog shit in public places. Mr Carlton-Hayes and Bernard Hopkins have kindly volunteered to help out on the day.

Tariq Aziz, the former Iraqi Deputy Prime Minister, surrendered to US forces in Baghdad, but eight British soldiers have been blown up in a grenade attack by what have been called ‘small pockets of resistance’. How is it possible that my son has gone to war? Since the day the boy came to live with me I have made myself responsible for his wellbeing. I made sure he ate a reasonable diet, that he wore his vest in the winter, that he took his hayfever pills when the Met Office warned of a high pollen count. I used to lie awake worrying when he started going to the town on Friday nights and didn’t come home on the last bus. Whenever he left the house I’d remind him to use pedestrian crossings and avoid eye contact with drunken strangers. And now the boy is in Iraq without my protection and there is nothing I can do.

I have cut a piece out of the
Guardian
and sent it to Mr Blair. It may help him to defend himself against his critics when they ask where the Weapons of Mass Destruction are. According to Dr Popper, the eminent philosopher, ‘No number of sightings of white swans can prove the theory that all swans are white. The sighting of just one black one may disprove it.’

I can imagine Mr Blair using this quote during one of his many television appearances. He is on the television almost as often as Michael Fish, the weather bloke.

I have ordered a state-of-the-art Smeg Home Refrigeration Unit on Brain-box Henderson’s advice. It is computerized and informs you when the food inside is about to reach its use-by date. I am sick of opening my ordinary fridge and finding that the food has gone off.

I had intended holding the charity book sale on the pavement outside the shop using several trestle tables and the hand-held microphone from Glenn’s old toy karaoke set. But the weather conspired against me and after I had chased the Canine Epilepsy Research posters down the High Street, where they had been blown by the wind, I admitted defeat and lugged the tables and books back inside the shop.

This change of venue proved to be very inconvenient; it seemed that every epileptic dog in the East Midlands had turned up with its owner, and several vicious fights took place, which Bernard Hopkins broke up. The
Midlands Today
camera crew did not materialize as promised.

But when Pandora arrived to make a passionate, hypocritical speech about the importance of dogs in British society and the government’s support of canine research, she had a documentary film crew with her. She is the subject of a television series called
The Public Life of Pandora Braithwaite
, which will be screened to coincide with the publication of her autobiography some time in July.

I congratulated her on how young she looked in her red leather Prada jacket, designer jeans and high-heeled boots. She whispered, ‘It’s the Botox, everybody in the Party’s having it.’

I asked if Mr Blair had undergone the non-surgical procedure.

She said, ‘Not yet, but haven’t you noticed how young and well Gordon is looking lately?’

The
Ashby Bugle
sent a reporter and a photographer, but they did not want to photograph me or write down anything I had to say; instead, they took a photograph of Pandora surrounded by epileptic dogs. As far as I was concerned it was a public-relations failure, although the sale made £369.71. Less £3.19, which was the cost of the bleach and disinfectant I had to buy to clean up after the dogs.

I asked Pandora if she wanted to go to Wong’s for a meal, but she said she had a meeting with the elders at the mosque and was going back to London immediately
afterwards, which was just as well because my mother rang to say that my father had been discharged and could I pick him up from the ward and take him back to the Piggeries.

I’m not a medical expert, but in my opinion my father was not ready to be discharged. He could hardly stand unaided. After waiting an hour for a porter to bring a wheelchair I lost my patience and borrowed a wheelchair from an obliging hospital visitor.

There was a strong wind blowing outside, so I took my coat off and wrapped it around my father and pushed him to the car. When he was seated inside and had lit a cigarette, I pushed the wheelchair back to the ward.

It is pathetic how institutionalized he has become. On the journey to the Piggeries he looked at his watch and said, ‘Five o’clock: the supper trolley will be coming round now.’

Ivan went crazy when he saw my father being helped across the field and came running towards us, barking with joy. My mother had made up a bed in the camper van with clean sheets and pillowcases, and my father climbed on to the ledge and went to sleep.

Nigel rang to say he had heard that I had been golfing with my ‘new best friend’, Geeky Henderson. He said, ‘What next, Moley? A Saga cruise? An allotment? Membership of the National Trust?’

I asked him if the Guide Dogs for the Blind had agreed
to let Graham stay permanently. He said that Graham had indicated that he was happy to stay.

I said, ‘Nigel, I know Graham is clever, but even he can’t talk.’

Nigel said, ‘That’s what you think,’ and put the phone down.

Marigold is too ill to travel and is being forced to stay for another two weeks in Capri.

The work-experience lad brought another note from Flowers.

Dear Adrian

Alas, poor Marigold has been taken ill, having overexerted herself while sightseeing.

She and her mother have been forced to stay on at the Hotel Splendid. I’m sure you are as concerned as I am, and agree that the poor girl must stay until she feels able to travel home to England.

I think £1,000 from you will cover this.

Peace

M. F.

I immediately rang Brain-box and gave him an update on the Marigold situation. He said he was only round the corner, setting up a laptop in the office of Fanny’s, the
lap-dancing club, and would meet me at the shop as soon as he had finished.

I have to admit that Brain-box is a marvel with technology. Within half an hour he had booked a flight to Naples, a ferry to Capri and himself into the Hotel Splendid. He said, ‘I have never done anything like this in my life before.’

I suggested to him that he should run across the road to Next and ask an assistant to rig him out with clothing suitable for Capri in April.

Brain-Box did as I suggested: he was Trilby to my Svengali.

When I told my mother about Marigold, she said, ‘When I was pregnant with you I worked an eight-hour day in a pie factory, dug an allotment at the weekend, did all the laundry by tramping on it in the bath, wallpapered a terrace house, ran a mobile hairdresser’s after work and went dancing on Fridays. I smoked thirty fags a day and drank a brandy and ginger before going to bed, every night.’

With hindsight it was probably a mistake to invite Bernard Hopkins to the readers’ club meeting where we were to discuss
William, the Outlaw
by Richmal Crompton. He was obviously drunk and occasionally offensive, although Mr Carlton-Hayes did not rebuke him once.

Lorraine started the discussion by saying, ‘This book cracked me up, man. That William, I tell you, he’s a proper nutter.’

Darren said, ‘Once I realized it weren’t a cowboy story, I really got into it. I used to belong to a gang, but when we broke into an old lady’s house to get our footballs back that she’d collected over the months, we ended up in court. I got probation, but the leader of the gang, Dougie Willis, was put away.’

Mr Carlton-Hayes chuckled. ‘Yes, it’s remarkable how lenient the authorities were with William’s propensity for arson, burglary and fraud.’

Mohammed said, ‘What I want to know is, why the author, Mrs Crompton, allowed William Brown to behave so badly? The boy grew up in a respectable, middle-class home, with good parents, a servant and a gardener and with all the advantages of his class. Mrs Crompton does not explain why William chose to be an outlaw of society.’

Lorraine said, ‘I blame that Mr Brown. He was always bigging it up with his briefcase and his trilby hat. He was always on his boy’s back. It’s no wonder William went a bit wild.’

Melanie said peevishly, ‘Pardon me for saying, Mr Carlton-Hayes, but I don’t see why you asked us to read a kiddies’ book. And another thing, all the books we’ve read so far have been old-fashioned. Don’t get me wrong, I like old-fashioned books. I adored that Jane Austen thing on the telly, but when are we going to read something modern?’

Mr Carlton-Hayes flushed a little. Melanie had inadvertently
touched a nerve: the most recent novel he had read was
Couples
, published in 1968, and Bernard Hopkins goes about saying that nobody has written anything decent since Nabokov, so it was up to me to come up with a contemporary novel. I suggested
White Teeth
by Zadie Smith.

I asked Bernard Hopkins if he had enjoyed the evening.

He said, ‘Not my cup of Darjeeling, cocker. I’ve been more intellectually challenged at a kiddies’ swimming gala.’

When I got home I found an email from Brain-box:

Have just arrived at Hotel Splendid. Marigold and her mother are out on a sightseeing trip to the rim of Vesuvius. They are calling in at Pompeii and are due back tomorrow. Wish me luck. Yours, Bruce.

I phoned International Directories, and after being put through to the Hotel Splendid in Grimsby and the Hotel Splendid in Barcelona, I was connected to the Hotel Splendid in Capri.

I asked to speak to Mr Henderson. An Italian bloke said in perfect English, ‘Mr Henderson is not in the hotel, sir. He has gone on a trip to see the Blue Grotto, sir.’

George Bush has just declared ‘an end to major military combat in Iraq’, so the war is officially over.

Glenn rang tonight. I asked him when he was coming
home. He said, ‘Not for six months. I’m on peace-keeping duties, Dad.’

I asked him what it was like out there, and he said, ‘Not good.’

I asked him if there was anything he wanted.

He said, ‘Some body-armour would be appreciated. Me and Robbie are sharing ours.’

I asked him if he was joking.

He said, ‘No,’ then added, ‘I’ve got to go, I’ll try and ring you later, Dad.’

I phoned the Hotel Splendid early this morning and asked to speak to the two English ladies, Marigold and her mother, Netta Flowers. The Italian on the reception desk said, ‘There are many English ladies staying in the hotel. What do they look like?’

I said, ‘They are both very badly dressed.’

He said, ‘All the English ladies are badly dressed, signor.’

I told him that Marigold had thin hair and wore glasses and Netta, her mother, looked a little like a tall, blonde, pinker, piggier Mussolini.

He said, ‘Yes, I know the ladies. They are having breakfast on the terrace.’