Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (37 page)

I told him that it is now possible to train Shetland ponies as guide horses for the blind. Apparently, they have better memories than Labradors.

Graham got to his feet, looked at me, and growled.

Nigel said, ‘Good dog, Graham. Good dog.’

I told Nigel about Marigold’s phantom pregnancy and that I was now having a secret affair with Daisy, Marigold’s sister.

Nigel said, ‘Dostoevsky would have a job keeping up with you, Moley. Your life is stranger than fiction.’

I made Nigel promise that he wouldn’t tell anybody about Marigold’s phantom baby. I said, ‘I haven’t had a chance to confront her about it yet. Marigold’s away with Brain-box at an IT fair.’

Nigel rang a number on his mobile and said, ‘Pandora, have you heard the latest in Moley’s psycho-drama...’

I left in disgust.

Went round to Sharon’s after ascertaining that Ryan would be out. When I asked where he was, Sharon said, ‘He goes to a pole-dancing club called Honeyz every Sunday dinner.’

I said, ‘Don’t you mind, Sharon?’

She replied, ‘No, it saves me cooking.’

Karan was there, crawling on the sticky carpet. I asked her where the other children were.

She said, ‘They’re out with their dads. It’s access day.’

We talked about our boy, Glenn.

Sharon said, ‘I can’t bear to think of ’im out there, Aidy. ’E ’ates loud explosions. Remember ’im on Guy
Fawkes night? ’E used to cover ’is ears up when the bangers went off.’

I said, ‘We did have some good times. Not many, but a few.’

She said, ‘I often think about that time we were going out with each other, I’ve never had a better bloke than you. You never shouted at me, or slapped me about.’

I asked her if Ryan slapped her about.

She said, avoiding my eyes, ‘’E’s a bit heavy-handed with me sometimes, but ’e never touches the kids.’

Later, she cheered up a little and told me that she has been offered a job by the New Deal as an Obesity Co-ordinator. However, it is conditional – she has to lose three and half stone first.

I encouraged her to go on a diet, and said, ‘Glenn will be back in five months. Make him proud of you, Sharon. Lose weight, get a job and kick Ryan out.’

11.30 p.m.
Daisy back, with mangoes.

I had forgotten completely about the writers’ group. Ken Blunt turned up at seven-thirty. I introduced him to Daisy, who was wearing only a bath towel. The futon showed the evidence of our recent lovemaking, and Daisy’s Vivienne Westwood bra and knickers were lying in the middle of the floor. Given these circumstances, I
had no option but to confess to Ken that Daisy and I were having an affair.

Ken said, ‘I’ve got a woman in Nottingham I see now and then.’

I said, ‘I’m surprised, Ken, I thought you were happily married.’

‘That’s why I’m happily married,’ Ken said. ‘What Glenda don’t know won’t hurt her.’

The three of us sat out on the balcony. Daisy asked, ‘Do swans stick to the same partner?’

Due to my extensive knowledge of swans, I was able to tell her that swans stay together until one of them dies.

We drank two bottles of wine between us and talked about love. Ken grew a little maudlin and said that he had often thought about telling his wife about the woman in Nottingham. ‘I’m sure Glenda would understand.’ He was slurring his words slightly.

Daisy advised him to keep his mouth shut. When I asked her what she would do if she found out that I was cheating on her, she said, with a flash of her mother’s Mexican eyes, ‘I would cut your balls off.’

Ken and I shifted uncomfortably in our chairs.

All in all it was a very pleasant evening.

When Ken had gone, Daisy said, ‘It was lovely to have somebody here who knows about us. It makes it more real somehow.’

I asked her what she loved about me, and she said, ‘Your kind face, your gentle voice and the way your hair curls on the back of your neck.’

I was slightly disappointed; I had expected her to mention my intelligence, general knowledge and wit.

I’m not sure if Daisy is living with me or not. She seems to be living out of a flight attendant’s suitcase. She is in Newcastle today, promoting a new uplift bra against a background of the Millennium Bridge in full tilt.

Mr A. Mole

I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue

Unit 4

The BBC

The Old Battery Factory

Broadcasting House

Rat Wharf

London
W1A

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

June 7th 2003

Dear Mr Mole

Thank you for your kind comments about
I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue
. The rules of Mornington Crescent were formulated long before I came to work on the programme as a Production Assistant. I have been too embarrassed, and rather afraid to ask the chairman of the show, Mr Humphrey Lyttleton, who can be rather abrasive at times.

I do hope you understand my dilemma.

Yours sincerely

Jessica Victoria Stafford

I was late getting to work. Bernard Hopkins said loudly within Mr Carlton-Hayes’s hearing, ‘Late again, cocker?
No probs. I don’t mind in the least doing your work for you.’

I seethed all morning. I now strongly suspect that Bernard Hopkins is after my job.

The computerized Smeg fridge I ordered months ago has finally arrived from Italy. It is truly state of the art. It indicates when food needs replacing and is past its use-by date.

At 4 a.m. the fridge woke me up to tell me that I had run out of milk.

I picked Daisy up from East Midlands Airport tonight. She had flown in from Dublin, where she has been promoting stag and hen weekends for a travel company.

We went late-night shopping at Asda and bought mangoes, champagne, bread, cheese and Flash bathroom cleaner.

Daisy and I discussed this morning how to tell Marigold that we know about the phantom baby.

We agreed that we would have to go to Beeby on the Wold and give her an opportunity to tell the truth. However, as we were dressing, my phone rang and Brain-box said, ‘Adrian, I’ve got some bad news for you. I’m afraid that Marigold lost the baby while we were away.’

He sounded very sad; I hadn’t the heart to tell him the truth. Instead I said, ‘I’m sure you will give her lots of babies in the years to come, Brain-box.’

Later Daisy and I went to the Flower Corner and sent Marigold a bouquet. Daisy said to the woman, ‘No triangular flat arrangements, please.’

On the card I wrote:

Dear Marigold, It was not to be. How sad. Love Adrian

Father’s Day

It is certainly Father’s Day for Gielgud today; seven cygnets passed my balcony this morning.

I said to Daisy, ‘They looked as ugly as sin.’

She said, ‘I was ugly when I was a kid. It didn’t help that Netta insisted on knitting our school uniforms, including the fucking motto, “Can’t pay, won’t pay.” I was always being thrown off the bus.’

I asked her what kind of school it was.

She said it was a private school run by anarchists.

*

I’m taking her to the Piggeries this afternoon to meet my parents in her new role as my lover.

Glenn texted from Iraq to say:

Happy Fathers Day, No cards in shops, no shops

There was nothing from William.

I let Daisy take the wheel of my car, and she drove us to the Piggeries. She is a fast but careful driver. She said, ‘I used to hate the countryside and used to feel nervous unless I had a pavement under my feet. But I quite like this.’

By ‘this’, she meant the gentle slopes of southern Leicestershire and the tunnels of trees that we passed through.

When we got out of the car, I saw my mother and Animal stop their work on the pigsties and my father emerge from the camper van and look towards us. Ivan ran straight to Daisy and jumped up, smearing mud all over her combats. But she didn’t seem to mind.

Daisy struggled a bit in her heels, then kicked off her shoes and broke into a run to embrace my mother.

My mother took Daisy to see the renovated pigsties and I gave my father his Father’s Day present,
Golfing for Cats
by Alan Coren. I thought it might appeal to him. The front cover is illustrated by a cat, a golf club and a swastika.

I said, ‘It’s full of very funny pieces. It’ll make you laugh.’

He said, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Adrian, I don’t need to read another book. Once you’ve read
Jonathan Livingstone Seagull
, every book ever published is redundant.’

His voice choked up, as it always does when talking about Jonathan. ‘That seagull pushed himself to the limit, Adrian. And it killed him.’

We cut the little Mr Kipling Father’s Day cake we bought on the way. I invited Animal to come and join us, but my mother said, ‘He’s a bit fragile today, Adrian. He doesn’t know who his dad is.’

When we were about to leave, my mother muttered to me, ‘She’s a star, Adrian. Try and hang on to her. Talk to her, tell her she’s beautiful and buy her flowers.’

Took Daisy to catch the London train. She is organizing a charity dinner for the RNIB.

Glenn phoned!

He sounded unlike himself. I asked him what the banging noises in the background were.

He said, flatly, ‘Fireworks, Dad.’ He asked me if I’d ever seen a dead body. I said that I hadn’t. He said, ‘I have.’

There was a longish silence. I wanted to say many things to him: that I loved him and was sorry I’d let him down when he was a little kid. Instead, I told him that
I’d sent him and Robbie more books via the BFPO, and that they should reach him soon.

He said, ‘To tell you the truth, Dad, we ain’t got a lot of time for reading, but I wondered if you’d do me a favour? Can you go to the Army Surplus and buy me and Robbie two pairs of Altama American Combat Boots instead? You’ll be able to recognize them – the soles look like blocks of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. I’m size nine and Robbie’s size ten. Only, when we walk across armoured vehicles, the British boots melt in the heat and fall apart.’

I said that I would attempt to buy them tomorrow.

He said Robbie’s learned one of the poems off by heart. I asked him which one.

He said, ‘I’ll put him on.’ Then I heard Glenn shouting, ‘Robbie, Robbie, come and say that poem to my dad.’

But Robbie shouted, ‘No, No.’

Glenn came back on the phone and said, ‘He’s too shy.’

Before he rang off he thanked me for the flashcards and said they should be really useful. He said he would write to Mr Carlton-Hayes when he had the chance.

Bought boots, with Visa card, at a total cost of £125. I stuffed them full of non-meltable kiddie sweets from Woolworths’ pick-’n’-mix.

I haven’t told Daisy that I’m heavily in debt. She thinks nothing of spending £500 on a handbag.

The AA have come to my rescue on many occasions: there was the time I ran out of petrol on Bodmin Moor, the chaos caused when I locked the keys in the car in Old Compton Street and held up the Gay Pride march, and the numerous call-outs I have made because I had allowed my spark plugs to get damp. But the AA has surpassed itself today: they have written and offered me their special AA Visa card. ‘Apply and take advantage of our 0% interest on balance transfers for six months.’

This offer is like finding a clearing in a jungle; my plan is to pay £1,000 off each of my credit cards using the AA’s money. This will solve my short-term financial problems; I do not have a long-term plan.

William rang me on my mobile from Nigeria. I was conscious of every minute that passed as he rambled on about what sounded like an unremarkable game of football. At the end of the conversation, he said, ‘The reason I am ringing you, Dad, is because I want to swap my Christian name.’

I asked him what he wanted to be called.

He said, ‘Wole. It’s more African.’

I said, ‘That’s your stepfather’s name. Won’t it be confusing?’

He said, ‘No. We don’t look the same. He’s taller than me.’

I said it was OK by me and put the phone down.

William will soon tire of his new name, Wole Mole.

More
Crime and Punishment
tonight.

Nigel’s guide dog, Graham, is getting above himself.

I was washing up the few plates and glasses for Nigel, when I felt Graham’s nose against my leg. I looked down and saw that the dog had got a tea towel in its mouth. I found this annoying, because I had intended to let the crockery and glassware dry on the draining board. Because of the dog’s interference, I had to dry the pots and put them away.

Our new computer is finally installed. Its grey slitheriness looks out of place on Mr Carlton-Hayes’s cherrywood desk.

Brain-box Henderson gave us all an hour’s lesson on how to operate the Sage stock control and invoicing system and the ABE book-search facility.

After ten minutes, Bernard Hopkins wandered off and took a book from the shelves and sat down to read.

When the hour was up I was none the wiser as to how the computer’s systems worked, because Henderson spouted a lot of incomprehensible gobbledegook. But Mr Carlton-Hayes asked him intelligent questions and seemed to understand his answers.

When Henderson had gone, Mr Carlton-Hayes called Bernard Hopkins over to the computer and said, ‘Look,
Bernard, every published book in the world is at our fingertips.’

The three of us watched in wonder as the world’s literature scrolled across the screen. I felt a mixture of pride at mankind’s achievement and regret that a slower and more gentle time had passed.

Mr Carlton-Hayes showed me a letter he had received at the shop this morning.

Dear Mr Carlton-Hayes

Thank you very much for sending the poetry book and for helping my dad write those cards. They have come in useful.