Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  Mr Carlton-Hayes put his hand around my shoulder and said, ‘Should the diagnosis be the very worst, remember that you are otherwise healthy and have youth on your side. Many men make a complete recovery with the various forms of treatment.’

  I said, ‘I can’t have chemotherapy, I would look terrible with a bald head.’

  A customer came in asking for Krafft-Ebing’s book on sexual deviants. It took both of us twenty minutes to find it, and then we didn’t resume our conversation because it was time to go home.

  My parents have successfully withdrawn their life savings but will not say where they have deposited the money. I hope they haven’t stuffed it into a fake tin of beans, burglars are wise to this trick. Hitesh told me that the burglar that broke into his parent’s house opened every tin in their food cupboard and left the tin opener behind. I asked Hitesh if his parents lost any money.

  He said, ‘No, they keep all our cash inside a five-kilo bag of basmati rice.’

  Thursday 20th September

  An old man in a tracksuit, wearing trainers the size of tanks and with a scraggy grey ponytail came into the shop this morning and asked me to value a first edition paperback of Harold Robbins’s The Carpetbaggers. I told him that it was of no value at all and pointed out that the pages were curled, the cover was torn and it looked as though somebody had been using slices of bacon as a bookmark.

  Tracksuit man bridled at this and said, ‘So it ain’t worth nothink?’

  ‘No,’ I confirmed.

  ‘I’ll kill that lyin’ bastard,’ he said. He then told me that he had accepted the ‘first edition’ in exchange for helping his son-in-law dig his garden.

  I sympathised with the old man and told him to go home and read The Carpetbaggers, saying, ‘At least you will get something out of your transaction.’

  He said, ‘I can’t read. I was away from school with TB and I din’t catch up.’

  I told him that it was never too late to learn and said that he could attend adult education classes.

  He said, ‘No, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’

  I said, ‘On the contrary, have you never seen Dog Borstal ? They teach the most recalcitrant old dogs how to behave themselves and to compete on a dog assault course.’

  Then my mother breezed into the shop, halfway through a shoe-buying expedition. She said, ‘The Carpetbaggers. What a brilliant book that is.’

  The old man said, ‘You can ’ave it, girl.’ He slumped out of the shop with his shoulders down.

  My mother turned to me and said, ‘We’ve got to talk about Jeremy Kyle. The researcher has been on to me again. She said that Lucas is going on the show anyway, whether I agree to go on or not.’

  I said, ‘Let him go on, he’ll look stupid on his own.’ She looked down at The Carpetbaggers and turned a few pages, then said, ‘He won’t be on his own. Rosie is going with him.’

  I said, ‘Doesn’t she realise that this will kill Dad? Rosie has always been his favourite child.’

  ‘At least your father has got two children to choose from. Lucas hasn’t got any children apart from…’

  ‘Apart from Rosie,’ I said, completing her sentence. I asked her outright if she wanted to go on the show.

  She turned The Carpetbaggers over and appeared to be reading the back cover. ‘I ought to go on and support Rosie,’ she said.

  ‘And what about Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t you take him to work with you on the day the programme is going to be transmitted?’

  I pointed out to her that The Jeremy Kyle Show is on three times a day – 9.30 a.m., 1.30 p.m. and again in the early hours at 1 a.m.

  She said, ‘I’ll put a hammer through the screen so that he can’t watch it.’

  I said, ‘But, Mum, somebody is bound to tell him.’

  ‘Why?’ she said. ‘He never talks to anybody outside the family lately.’

  I could see that nothing I said would stop her. Mr Carlton-Hayes came in from doing an evaluation of somebody’s dead father’s book collection. He was delighted to see my mother. He kissed her three times in the continental style and told her that she was looking ‘splendid’.

  She laughed like a girl and said, ‘Why don’t you take me for a cup of coffee? Adrian can look after the shop.’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear,’ he said, and they left me to cope with the sudden rush of students looking for second-hand course books. One of them, who was doing American studies, saw The Carpetbaggers on the counter and asked how much it was.

  ‘It’s free,’ I said, and gave it to him.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes returned half an hour later and said, ‘Your mother has explained her dilemma to me, Adrian. Your sister’s paternity has the makings of a Greek tragedy.’

  I said, ‘Personally, I think it is more of a French farce.’

  When I got home, Daisy told me that Mrs Leech had rung from the surgery to say that Dr Wolfowicz wanted to see me urgently. I phoned immediately, but the surgery was closed.

  Friday 21st September

  Last night Daisy put her arms around me in bed and said, ‘I hope everything will be all right tomorrow, Aidy.’ It is ages since she called me Aidy. Perhaps she is worried about me. I left a message on Mr Carlton-Hayes’s phone to say that I wouldn’t be in this morning.

  As I walked down the lane towards the village and Dr Wolfowicz’s surgery, a golden sun shone through the branches of the trees and somebody was burning leaves somewhere. I realized that I was as apprehensive about facing Mrs Leech as I was about my diagnosis. However, she gave me a charming smile, sat me down in the waiting room and even handed me a pile of fairly recent magazines. Her ministrations filled me with alarm. Had she seen my results? Or had she been rebuked by Dr Wolfowicz for shouting at his patients? The longer I waited, the more nervous I became. Was Dr Wolfowicz sitting in his surgery trying to work out how to break the bad news?

  When I was finally called in, he said immediately, ‘Mr Mole, I have had your results back and I am going to refer you to a consultant urologist for further examination.’

  It felt as though my blood had turned to water. I looked him straight in the eye but he avoided looking back at me and turned to his computer screen.

  ‘I have written to Mr Tomlinson-Burk at the Royal Hospital, he’s one of the best urologists in the East Midlands.’

  I said, ‘Yes, but how is he rated in the British Isles?’

  Dr Wolfowicz said, ‘He is good, very good. You will be in good hands.’

  ‘And how soon will I be in good hands?’ I asked.

  ‘I have written to him and asked him to see you in his Wednesday clinic next week.’

  I made a mental note to take my suit into the cleaner’s. Something, perhaps Mr Tomlinson-Burk’s name, told me that casual clothes would not be suitable apparel.

  I stopped at the post office on my way home and bought another notebook. Mrs Lewis-Masters was at the counter drawing her pension. She gave me a nod of recognition.

  Wendy Wellbeck said, ‘That’s the third notebook in a month, Mr Mole. Are you writing another War and Peace?’

  Mrs Lewis-Masters said, ‘So you are a writer?’

  I told her that I had managed to publish two books.

  ‘Would I have read them?’ she asked.

  ‘Not unless you were interested in offal,’ I said.

  ‘Offal,’ she repeated. ‘Actually I once lived exclusively on offal. Camel’s brains were considered to be a delicacy when my husband and I were travelling in North Africa. As honoured guests we were served only the best part of that prized animal.’

  We left the shop together and for some reason I found myself telling her about my prostate trouble. She stopped walking and said, ‘The men of the desert called it the Old Man’s Curse. Their cure was to take camel dung and use it as a poultice around their genitals.’

  ‘And did it work?’ I asked, as we resumed walking.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, ‘but it seem
ed to relieve the symptoms somewhat.’

  When we reached her house, I asked her its age.

  ‘Georgian,’ she said and asked me if I would like to join her for coffee.

  I was curious to see inside so I said that I would be delighted.

  When we entered the hall, there was a fat woman in an apron polishing the floor on her hands and knees. Mrs Lewis-Masters said, ‘Mr Mole, this is Mrs Golightly, my housekeeper.’

  Mrs Golightly hauled herself to her feet and said, ‘Yes, I’ve seen Mr Mole in The Bear. I put my name down for the community play. ’Ave you finished it yet, Mr Mole?’

  I lied and said I had a few revisions to make but that otherwise it was completed.

  Mrs Golightly giggled and said, ‘I ’ope you’ve written me a good part.’

  I forced a laugh, and she left to make the coffee.

  Mrs Lewis-Masters showed me into a reception room at the front of the house. It was like entering a museum of anthropology. There were animal heads on the walls and crudely fashioned African statues scattered around. There was a large tiger-skin rug, with the beast’s head attached, in front of the marble fireplace where a log fire smouldered. After inviting me to sit down on a sofa draped with a zebra skin, Mrs Lewis-Masters poked at the fire until sparks flew up the chimney. When Mrs Golightly brought the coffee pot in on a tray together with cups and saucers and a plate of shortcake biscuits, she put it down on an elephant’s leg footstool and said, ‘So what’s the play about, Mr Mole?’ I told her that it was called Plague! and was about the Black Death and how it had impacted on Mangold Parva.

  Her face fell and she said, ‘Shame. I ’ave been compared to ’Attie Jacques. And my ’usband reckons I’m funnier than ’er.’

  Mrs Lewis-Masters said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Golightly, you can go now.’

  Mrs Golightly stomped out of the room and slammed the door.

  Mrs Lewis-Masters said, ‘Like all fat people, Mrs Golightly is ultrasensitive. She claims she’s fat because of her glands, but I put it down to her living almost entirely on Swiss rolls. I wanted to bring my African servants with me when my husband and I repatriated back to England, but the authorities would not let them in. Mrs Golightly is a poor substitute.’

  I admired the heads on the wall and the animal skins, and she said that either she or her husband had killed them all, adding, ‘I hope you’re not one of those dreadful politically correct people who thinks that killing a wild animal is bad form.’

  I made a neutral noise in my throat.

  She said, ‘I happen to think that anybody who eats the flesh of an animal cannot claim moral superiority over those of us who kill for sport.’

  I asked her if she was still killing animals.

  She said that she could no longer handle a rifle because she had cataracts and a tremor in her trigger finger.

  I asked her what she had been doing in North Africa.

  She said, ‘My late husband and I imported camel accessories. The Sudanese value their camels and like to dress them up for festivals.’

  I had a mental image of camels wearing shoes and matching handbags. She took an album out of a leather trunk and showed me photographs of her and a distinguished-looking white man surrounded by dark-skinned robed Africans and some very attractive camels wearing garlands and bells and tassels.

  Mrs Lewis-Masters pointed a trembling finger at a particularly gorgeous camel and said, ‘He was my favourite. He carried me hundreds of miles across the desert. His name was Duncan.’

  When Mrs Golightly saw me to the front door, she whispered, ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to listen to ’er. I’ve ’eard them camel stories over and over again. Will you come back?’

  Why does this always happen to me? Why do pensioners crave my company? I can’t get involved with another one.

  Saturday 22nd September

  Yesterday, when I told Daisy that I have been referred to a consultant urologist, she burst into tears and said, ‘I’ve been looking up the prostate on the net. I’m sure you’ll be OK, Aidy. You’re youngish and strongish, and if it’s the worst… well, I’m sure you’ll make a quick recovery.’

  I would like to have made love to my wife last night but my prostate, like a jealous lover, got in the way. Daisy said it didn’t matter, but it does.

  Sunday 23rd September

  I have kept my illness from my parents, fearing hysteria from my mother and indifference from my father, who is consumed by his own poor health. I went round this morning to break the news to them, but they were listening to The Archers omnibus so I said I would call back later.

  I busied myself clearing out the flowerpots on the patio at the back of the house, picking the last tomatoes. Daisy came out with a cup of coffee for me and we sat in the weak sunshine for a while.

  I said to Daisy, ‘We ought to do something with all this land.’

  She laughed and said, ‘Such as what, Bob Flowerdew?’

  I got quite carried away, went inside for a pencil and paper, and made a rough sketch of my ideal garden. I diverted the stream and made a central water feature. I planted an avenue of horse chestnuts (for the conkers, I told Daisy). I constructed a revolving summer house and built a pergola and covered it in old-fashioned sweet-smelling roses and honeysuckle. Gracie came out to join us dressed in her Leicester City football strip. As she contentedly kicked a ball against the side of the house, for a few brief moments I felt happy to be alive.

  In the afternoon I told my parents about my appointment with the consultant urologist.

  My mother wept and said, ‘As if I haven’t got enough on my plate.’

  My father said, ‘At least you’re not in a wheelchair like me, son.’

  Monday 24th September

  Nothing much happened today. I am dreading Wednesday.

  Tuesday 25th September

  When I went to get my suit out of the cleaner’s, the woman showed me up in front of the queue by saying, ‘You’ve ruined one of our machines because you left a packet of Starburst in your suit jacket.’

  I pointed out to her that it was incumbent on the employees of the dry-cleaner’s to check the clothes before they went into the machines.

  She said, ‘I think you’ll find, if you read your ticket, that it is incumbent on you to remove anything that might cause harm to our machines. We’ve had to fly an engineer over from Germany to repair the damage.’

  I said that if she had bought British machines she would have been spared the expense of an aeroplane ticket.

  She said that the German machines were cheaper than the British ones and were state of the art.

  I said, ‘You can’t blame me for the demise of British manufacturing business,’ and asked if I could have my suit.

  She said, ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure than for you to take your suit off the premises.’ She took it from a rack behind her and even through the plastic wrapper I could see multicoloured stains on the jacket and trousers.

  We got into a heated argument which only came to an end when a brutish-looking man in the queue slammed his ticket down on the counter and shouted, ‘Gimme my suit! I’ve gotta be in court in ’alf an hour.’

  After she had served the brute, she said, ‘You are banned from using this dry-cleaner’s ever again.’

  This is typical of my life: other men get barred from pubs and wine bars, I get barred from a dry-cleaner’s.

  Wednesday 26th September

  Mr Tomlinson-Burk was not at all the patrician-looking man I had expected him to be. He looked like the type of man who jumps on the back of the dodgems at a fairground. He was swarthy and had the hands of somebody who worked in the building trade. I hoped that he wouldn’t give me a rectal examination. For one thing, I didn’t think that they made disposable gloves big enough to encompass his sausage-like fingers, but he was very kind and efficient. The rectal examination didn’t hurt (perhaps he used his little finger – I was not in a position to know).

  He said, ‘Your blood tests show an
increased level of benign prostatic hyperplasia or BPH, which indicates a problem.’

  ‘A problem,’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  I looked at his hair, which was thick and black and wavy. The word ‘cancer’ hung in the air, but neither of us spoke it.

  He said, ‘Your rectal examination shows that your prostate is very enlarged. I think it would be sensible to start treatment as soon as possible. I’m going to refer you to my colleague, Mr Rafferty.’

  I asked him what Mr Rafferty was a specialist in.

  He said, ‘He’s an oncologist.’

  ‘Is oncology a euphemism for cancer?’ I asked, although I didn’t especially want to hear the answer.

  ‘Oncology is the study and treatment of tumours,’ he said.

  ‘So I have a tumour?’ I checked.

  ‘You certainly have a tumour,’ he said. ‘What we don’t know is how advanced it is. With luck we’ll have caught it early.’

  I wished at that moment that I had allowed somebody to accompany me to my appointment. Daisy, my mother and Mr Carlton-Hayes had all offered. Even my father had mumbled that he would hire a wheelchair-friendly taxi to take us to the hospital. Now I wished that there was somebody in the waiting room.

  On my walk back to the bookshop I felt like a ghost of myself. I was wearing my own underwear, socks, shoes and second-best suit, but I felt hollow. I had promised to ring Daisy as soon as I left the hospital, but I couldn’t speak, my mouth was dry and I couldn’t find the words. So Mr Carlton-Hayes was the first person I told.

  He made me a cup of tea and added two full teaspoons of sugar, then sat me down in the back room. He told me that when he was a young man he had been taken seriously ill with a brain tumour. He said, ‘Fortunately, I was in Switzerland at the time, preparing to climb the Matterhorn. The doctors feared that I would lose some mental capacity.’