Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (35 page)

While I waited for Marigold to come to the phone I heard seagulls, laughter and the tinkle of expensive china. Eventually the receptionist said, ‘She is ’ere.’

Marigold’s frail voice trickled down the phone. I asked her how it was that she was fit enough to go on a strenuous trip to the rim of a volcano but was not able to get on a plane and fly back to England.

Marigold said, ‘I dragged myself to the top of Vesuvius because of the health-giving properties of breathing volcanic fumes. Mummy thinks the baby is depleting my mineral reserves.’

I told Marigold that Brain-box Henderson was at the hotel with the cash to pay for their extended holiday.

Marigold said, ‘Bruce is here?’

She did not sound displeased.

I then heard Brain-box’s high-pitched laugh and Marigold squealed, ‘Bruce, I can’t believe you’re here.’

Then the phone went dead.

Another letter from the City Council.

Neighbourhood Conflict Co-ordinator

Leicester City Council

New Walk

Leicester
LE1

May 1st 2003

Dear Mr Mole

Just to keep you informed, I have written to Mr Swan, c/o The Swans’ Nest, Rat Wharf, Leicester, to inform him that a
complaint has been lodged against him at the Neighbourhood Conflict Unit.

Meanwhile, Mr Mole, I suggest you keep a record of Mr Swan’s antisocial behaviour.

Yours sincerely

Trixie Meadows

Neighbourhood Conflict Co-ordinator

I phoned immediately to put the record straight regarding ‘Mr Swan’, but a computer told me that Trixie Meadows was not at her work station.

I am reading
Lolita
by Vladimir Nabokov. His main character is called Humbert Humbert, which shows a lack of imagination on Nabokov’s part. Surely he could have thought up a different surname.

Bank Holiday

Went to Sainsbury’s. Felt a sense of despair as I stood in front of the Mr Kipling shelves. I know I will never live with the woman I love. I must try to reconcile myself to being unhappy; it ought to be easy. After all, I am not an American who expects to be happy as a constitutional right. I filled my shopping basket with a selection of Mr Kipling’s finest confections.

In the short queue at the check-out a tanned woman in a track suit whispered to her partner, ‘What an appalling diet. People like him are a drain on the National Health Service.’

I heard her because every sense and organ in my body is on red alert. My nerve endings are so sensitive that mere existence is painful. Perhaps I am coming down with the flu.

Credit card bills were waiting for me when I got home from work; I was too depressed to open them. I put them in the kitchen-gadget drawer. The one I never use.

When I got home from work I found a note slipped under my door. It said: Please call PC Aaron Drinkwater.

I rang the number on the note and was put through to PC Drinkwater’s voicemail. A lugubrious voice said, ‘This office is only manned between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays and from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. on Mondays and Tuesdays. The office is closed at the weekend and on bank holidays. If you need to speak to me, please leave a short message with your name and number, and I’ll do my best to get back to you, although due to operational duties this may sometimes be subject to delay.’

I have left seven messages on PC Drinkwater’s voicemail. The last one was slightly abusive. I accused him of shirking his duty to the community and said, ‘I expect you’re sitting with your feet on your desk, reading the paper and having a laugh at my expense.’

I now regret my loss of temper, and am waiting for the sound of a truncheon hammering on my door.

Brain-box rang: there was pure happiness in his voice. He said that he was interacting wonderfully with Marigold and her mother and that the dynamic between the three of them was wholly positive. Marigold was looking enchantingly beautiful, and last night they had danced on the terrace to ‘Love is a Many Splendored Thing’, sung by Antonio, one of ‘their’ waiters.

Went to the Piggeries in the afternoon. The windows were being installed in number-one pigsty, by Malcolm and Stan, from a firm called Keencraft. Animal was fitting the front door.

*

My mother was attempting to lay bricks in pigsty number two. She said, ‘It’s so frustrating, Adrian. Every time I lay a brick the mortar squeezes out. It’s like biting into a vanilla slice, but without the pleasure.’

I pointed out that she was using too much mortar.

She said irritably, ‘All right, clever clogs. Show me how it should be done.’

After a few attempts, I admitted to her that bricklaying was harder than it looks.

My father was sitting on the steps of the camper van looking miserable. I asked him why he was so depressed.

He said, ‘A bloke from the sustainable-energy unit came out in the week to check us out for a wind farm, and what day did he choose, Adrian? A day when there was not a bleedin’ breath of wind. Not a breeze. Not a stir in the air. It was as still as a dead cat’s dick. Any other day, it’s blowing a bleedin’ gale. But oh, no, he has to call the day that the wind round here packed its bags and went to bleedin’ Ibiza.’

The writers’ group meeting was held at Rat Wharf. I’m sick of looking for a quiet pub in the city centre where it is possible to discuss literary matters. City-centre landlords seem to have got rid of all the furniture and gone in for what is now called vertical drinking. The pubs have been taken over by drunken young people who stand around sucking beer from a bottle through black drinking straws.

Ken reiterated that he was very dissatisfied with the way the group was being run. He laughed sardonically and said, ‘It’s not even a group, it’s just you and me, now.’

I listened to his latest polemic about the Iraq war.

‘Donald Rumsfeld,

There are things you say you know you know

There are things you say you know you don’t know

What you don’t know is that you’ll never know

How much you don’t know.’

After he had gone, I thought back to the glory days of the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group, when the members would sit enraptured for hours, listening to my novel,
Lo, the Flat Hills of My Homeland
.

We had started out with sixteen members, but these rapidly dwindled, and now there was just me and Ken.

Bernard Hopkins and Mr Carlton-Hayes had a heated discussion about the Iraqi war today while they were cataloguing the crime-fiction books from the Mortimer collection. I heard Bernard Hopkins say, ‘They found a mass grave today, Hughie. Fifteen thousand Shiites packed together like commuters on a Thameslink train, except the poor sods are dead.’ His voice broke with emotion, or drink. It’s always hard to tell with Hopkins.

Mr Carlton-Hayes raised his voice slightly and
said, ‘Bernard, my dear, I have never disputed that Saddam Hussein is a thoroughly unpleasant chap, but I still consider that we invaded a sovereign country illegally.’

I thought about Glenn and hoped that by now he had been allocated his own body armour.

Brain-box Henderson called into the shop today. Love, his Next wardrobe and the Italian sun have transformed him. He went to Capri a geeky computer boff and arrived back in Leicester a tanned Lothario. His half-bald head looked like a shiny conker and the clumps and tufts that used to give him the appearance of a mad professor had gone. When I complimented him, he flushed and said, ‘An Italian barber.’

I asked him how things stood between him and Marigold.

He stammered, ‘She’s an amazing girl. She made a tiny sunbed out of a matchbox, a few dead matches and a scrap of cloth. We talked for hours, Adrian. One night I didn’t go to bed until one o’clock in the morning.’

I asked him what had kept him up so daringly late.

He said, ‘We were talking about you. Marigold is very bitter. She says she can’t understand how she fell in love with you in the first place. She said you prefer characters in books to people in real life.’

I said, ‘So what is your precise relationship with Marigold now?’

He said, ‘I want to marry her.’

I asked him if he had told Marigold this.

He said, ‘Yes, after a firework display over the Bay of Naples.’ His face went a bit gormless as he remembered the scene.

Somewhat impatiently, diary, I asked him how Marigold had responded.

He said, ‘She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either.’

Using my binoculars, I ascertained that Gielgud’s wife has laid seven eggs. My worst fears have been realized. When the eggs are hatched, the canal will be overrun with swans.

Listened to
I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue
in the bath. I have heard this amusing programme many times, but I still do not understand the rules of Mornington Crescent. Strange, since I must be one of the most intelligent men in the East Midlands.

I wrote to Radio Four.

I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue

Unit 4

Production Office

The Old Battery Factory

Radio Four

Rat Wharf

The BBC

Grand Union Canal

Broadcasting House

Leicester
LE1

London
W1A

May 18th 2003

Dear Sir or Madam

I write as a long-time listener to your amusing programme
I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue
.

I must have missed the broadcast when Mr Humphrey Lyttleton explained the rules of Mornington Crescent to the panelists.

I wonder if you would furnish me with them.

Yours faithfully

A. A. Mole

I decided to write again to the City Council Neighbourhood Conflict Officer, Trixie Meadows.

Leicester City Council

Unit 4

New Walk

The Old Battery Factory

Leicester
LE1

Rat Wharf

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE1

May 19th 2003

Dear Trixie Meadows

There is no Mr Swan. The swan in question cannot be dignified by the prefix ‘Mr’. He is a mute, a creature not a
man. He cannot be talked to or reasoned with, because he is in fact a wild
animal
.

He is dangerous and completely unreasonable. He is constantly defecating on the towpath, the car park and occasionally in the entrance of the Old Battery Factory, where I live. He is making my and my neighbours’ lives a misery. Unless the authorities move swiftly to alleviate this grave situation, I fear that a violent act will ensue.

Yours,

A. A. Mole

PC Aaron Drinkwater battered on my door early this morning, waking me from a deep sleep. Throughout the ensuing interview I was at a great disadvantage, as I needed to urinate urgently. I was inhibited by the glass-bricked bathroom.

PC Drinkwater gave me a formal caution and told me that the Crown Prosecution Service had been sent a transcript of my conversation with a 999 operative, who claimed that I had been abusive and had wasted police time on February 3rd 2003.

I explained about the postbag, but he cut me off impatiently and said, ‘We’ve also had a complaint that you’ve been throwing rubbish into the canal.’

I denied this vehemently. He then drew a small plastic bag from his trouser pocket. It contained a few scraps of the letter I had torn up and thrown over my balcony
months ago. Bearing in mind the advances made in forensic science, DNA and nanotechnology, but mainly because one of the scraps of paper bore my name, I admitted the offence. The policeman leaned against my kitchen counter and gave me a mini-lecture on the environment and ended by saying ‘one of those beautiful swans could have choked to death’.

So, I do not have a natural ally in PC Drinkwater.

Letter from Glenn.

Dear Dad

I am sorry to bother you, but I have got a bit of a problem, which I hope you can help me with. Is there a book in your shop that tells people how to stop being scared? I am scared every time I go on patrol in Basra. Sometimes it is so bad that I am shaking. I don’t think anybody has noticed yet, so I’m not in trouble or anything. It’s just that I am worried that if trouble starts I will let the rest of the lads down.

Dad, I feel like running away when the crowds start throwing stones and petrol bombs.

If there is a book, it could teach me not to be so scared of having my balls shot off, like one of the Yanks did last week.

Also, Dad, when we are at the checkpoints, the people can’t tell what we are shouting at them, and we can’t tell what they
are saying to us. So everybody gets mad with each other. So if there is a book, could you please send it to me.

Loads of love

From your son, Glenn

PS Don’t tell Mum I am scared. Tell her I am having a good laugh and getting a suntan.

I showed Mr Carlton-Hayes the letter I had received from Glenn and confessed that I was worried sick about his inability to communicate with the Iraqi people. I said, ‘Glenn has problems communicating in English; his inability to understand and speak Arabic could kill him.’

Bernard Hopkins said, ‘Don’t worry, cocker, the bloody towel-heads understand the barrel of a gun.’

Mr Carlton-Hayes sent him into the back room to catalogue a crate of Penguin Classic paperbacks bought at auction.

Mr Carlton-Hayes said that during the Second World War he had been given flashcards with German phrases on one side and English on the other.

Knowing he had trained as an Egyptologist and was an Arabic speaker, I asked him if he could do the same for Glenn.