Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  Nevertheless, I felt proud of my wife, in her purple kaftan, as we walked into the room where the MRI machine was purring. A doctor told Daisy that she could sit in the waiting room. When she said, ‘I would like to stay with my husband,’ they told her that she wouldn’t be able to hold my hand and she wouldn’t be able to see me once I was inside the cylinder.

  On the advice of my father I kept my eyes completely shut throughout the procedure. The machine clicked and whirred and occasionally a doctor would ask me to breathe in, hold it and then breathe out. For some reason I found it difficult to follow these simple instructions and kept breathing out when I was meant to be breathing in. I was very relieved when the hard surface on which I was lying slid me out into the room again. I had to be helped to my feet because my legs were wobbly. I dressed in a cubicle with Daisy’s help. She even tied my shoelaces. Is this my future? Will I be reliant on my wife for my personal care?

  Before we left the hospital we went to the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service café for a cup of tea and a toasted teacake. As I looked around at the other people in the café, I wondered how many of them had an invisible illness, like me.

  We walked to the bookshop together. Mr Carlton-Hayes said that not a single customer had been in that morning. I didn’t want to tell him that he had forgotten to put the open sign on the door.

  Only seconds after Daisy had left to go shopping, Dr Pearce appeared on the pavement outside and peered through the window. When she came inside, she was looking for a High School Musical book. Her youngest daughter has fallen under its malign spell. She told me that High School Musical – The Show was coming to the De Montfort Hall in Leicester and that she had obtained four tickets for the matinée next Saturday. She said that Robin had been meant to go but had decided to stay another week in Norway, and given that the tickets were so expensive…

  She said, ‘I’m sure your little daughter – Gracie, isn’t it? – would love to go.’

  Thinking on my feet, I said, ‘Next Saturday, I’m afraid I’m working in the shop.’

  Mr Carlton-Hayes, who was hovering near by, said, ‘No, you must go, my dear. I’ll cover for you.’

  Dr Pearce rummaged in her copious handbag and a single disposable nappy fell out and on to the floor. She picked it up and rammed it into her bag before handing me two tickets.

  Diary, like an idiot I took them.

  Wednesday 10th October

  Pandora rang when I was in the shower. Daisy answered and apparently told Pandora that we expected the results of the MRI examination at the end of the week. Pandora said that her constituents had demanded to see her in her surgery next Saturday afternoon and asked if we would ‘give her supper’ on Saturday night.

  As I was getting dressed, Daisy said, ‘What can I possibly cook for somebody who is godmother to Gordon Ramsey’s youngest child?’

  I told her that her shepherd’s pie always went down well.

  To be honest, Diary, I shared her apprehension. She is perfectly capable of starting a meal off, but she falls apart when it comes to serving it up and bringing it to the table. I have seen her in tears over a simple mushroom omelette.

  I intended to ring Dr Pearce and cancel High School Musical but events overtook me. My mother came round and said that she had been surfing the internet and found somebody in America who claims that they can cure prostate cancer. All I have to do is send five hundred dollars to an address in Waco, Texas and I will receive my own personal crystal to wear in a bag around my groin. According to my mother, the crystal will neutralise the antibodies that are attacking my ‘prostrate’.

  I told her that I did not have five hundred dollars to spare and that I was putting my faith in medical science and the National Health Service.

  My mother said, ‘We must explore every avenue, Aidy. Don’t close your mind to alternative health. I’ve got your father on seaweed extracts and it’s perked him up no end.’ As I was seeing her out, she whispered, ‘A producer from The Jeremy Kyle Show rang me this morning. They want me, Rosie and Lucas on the show in a couple of weeks.’

  I begged her to reconsider and said that if she was so desperate to be on television, why didn’t she apply for The Weakest Link? She told me that Rosie and her horrible boyfriend, Trevor ‘Mad Dog’ Jackson, were coming to stay for the weekend. I warned my mother that she should lock up any valuables and make sure that her purse and credit cards were hidden away. I reminded her that the last time Mad Dog came to stay he stole her gold locket, which contained a curl of my baby hair, and exchanged it for a wrap of cocaine.

  She said, ‘Poor Mad Dog, he was so distraught that he’d stolen from me. Put yourself in his place, Aidy. Imagine that you’re an addict and have no money, what would you do?’

  I said, ‘It might surprise you, Mother, but I am unable to imagine myself in the hideous shoes of Mad Dog. The man is a total waste of space.’

  My mother said, ‘Perhaps we ought to tell Jeremy Kyle about Mad Dog… he might be able to get him into rehab, find him work, put him on an anger management course, sort out his alcohol problems, do something about his kleptomania.’

  I said, witheringly, ‘And why not ask Jeremy to end world poverty and stop global warming while he’s about it?’

  Thursday 11th October

  No word about my MRI results. I woke in the night and couldn’t get my breath. This time next year, will I be lying six feet under in Mangold Parva graveyard? Which is, unfortunately, sited opposite Gracie’s Nursery School classroom.

  Friday 12th October

  Mrs Leech rang from the surgery earlier this morning to say that my MRI results were in and that Dr Wolfowicz wanted to see me. I could not tell from her voice whether the news was good or bad.

  I walked Gracie to school. She took great delight in kicking her way through the dead leaves at the side of the lane. I threw a branch at the horse chestnut tree at the boundary of the village and brought down half a dozen conkers. When I opened the outside prickly skin of one and showed Gracie the shining brown conker inside, she clapped her hands together in pleasure and said, ‘Is it magic, Dad?’

  I told her that the chestnut trees of England were dying of a tree disease and that when she grew up it was possible there would be no horse chestnuts left to throw a stick at.

  She said, ‘There’ll be other kinds of trees left, Dad.’

  After taking her into school, I tried not to look at the graveyard opposite but could not help noticing a fresh mound of earth covered in rotting flowers.

  Dr Wolfowicz’s waiting room was full. I was on nodding terms with most of the people in there but I did not feel like talking. When it was my turn to go into the surgery, I was reluctant to get to my feet. Was my tumour confined to my prostate, or had it spread to other more vital parts of my body?

  Dr Wolfowicz said, ‘Please sit down, Mr Mole. I have your MRI results.’ He smoothed the creases of a letter with his massive hand. ‘And I am going to say to you that the news is not good. I’m afraid that your tumour is more advanced than we had hoped. We need to start treating your tumour immediately, my friend. Is there anything you’d like to ask?’

  I brought out the list I had scribbled down at breakfast.

  How long have I got to live?

  Will I have to declare my tumour when I renew my personal insurance on 1st November?

  If I lose my hair due to chemotherapy will the National Health Service supply a wig?

  Did Dr Wolfowicz know any patients who had totally recovered from prostate cancer?

  Was it a painful death?

  Would I continue to lose sexual function?

  Would I be able to work whilst I was undergoing treatment?

  If not, could I claim sickness benefit?

  If the pain got too bad towards the end would he advise me to go to Switzerland and end my life in a clinic whilst listening to Mahler?

  Dr Wolfowicz gave a deep sigh and said, ‘I have a leaflet somewhere that should answer all of your questions, apart from
number nine, that is. I’m afraid I cannot condone euthanasia. And yes, I know many young and youngish men who have been in remission from prostate cancer for many years. As for question number one, none of us know when we’re going to die. We live with death from the moment we are born.’

  I asked him if his Roman Catholicism gave him comfort.

  He said, ‘No, but my faith in human courage certainly does.’

  When I left Dr Wolfowicz’s surgery, I was pleased to see that Daisy was outside waiting for me but I did not know how to arrange my face. As we walked through the village, it started to rain and the leaves in the lane were soggy and gave off the smell of decay. I held her hand and told her exactly what Dr Wolfowicz had told me. We were passing the graveyard at the time. She threw her arms around me and big fat tears rolled down her face and on to mine.

  When she could speak, she said, ‘I can’t bear it, Aidy. It’s my fault. I’ve been so vile to you. But I can’t imagine a world without you in it.’

  From the school we could hear the ragged sound of small children singing, We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land.

  My parents were waiting at their living-room window and watched as Daisy and I walked up the drive. As we approached the Piggeries, they opened their front door and my mother pushed my father down the ramp towards us. My mother has never been able to wait for anything, even bad news, so we stood in a light drizzle around my father’s wheelchair while I told my parents that I had an advanced tumour of the prostate and would be needing immediate treatment.

  My mother went into a long emotional monologue about the day I was born and how happy she had been. My father reached up and took my hand and shook it, which, from him, was a gesture of paternal love.

  When the drizzle turned into a downpour, we went inside and my mother searched for the cafetière and the Fair Trade ground coffee she had bought after seeing a programme about poverty in Kenya. We talked about how my bad news would affect all our lives. Daisy offered to get a job, my mother offered to take Gracie after school and my father offered to cash in his insurance policy to help us out with money.

  I tried to cycle into work at lunchtime but the rain and weakness in my legs made me turn around before I reached the dual carriageway.

  Dougie Horsefield took me to work in his Ford Mondeo taxi. During the journey he told me that there had been a lot of talk about my community play, Plague!. He said, ‘Nobody wants to wear filthy rags and have boils all over them. Can’t you write summat where all the women look sexy and all the men look handsome and we can have a laugh?’

  I said, from the back seat, ‘Dougie, life in the Middle Ages was grim. There were no antibiotics, soft toilet paper or Nurofen. Most people were dead before they were thirty-five. They didn’t do much frolicking on the Village Green.’

  He said, ‘Well, all I’m saying is there’s a gang of us who would rather do Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.’

  I pointed out that in that case they would have to pay a performance fee to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, whereas I was providing my services as writer, producer and director for free.

  He charged me £12.50 for the fare and didn’t seem grateful when I gave him £13.

  2 a.m.

  Just realised I have not rung Dr Pearce to cancel High School Musical. What is wrong with me? I don’t find the woman remotely attractive.

  Saturday 13th October

  Mr Carlton-Hayes has taken the news about my illness very badly. He held both my hands and struggled to find the appropriate words. Later that morning he gave me a copy of P. G. Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle from the cabinet and told me that I must take as much time off work as I need. He said that he would ask Leslie to help out if necessary.

  As arranged, Daisy brought Gracie to the shop at noon. Gracie was dressed in her High School Musical cheerleader costume and she enthralled Mr Carlton-Hayes by singing ‘Breaking Free’ and doing one of her cheerleading routines on the floor of the bookshop. It was truly a clash of two cultures.

  After instructing me not to buy any more High School Musical tat, Daisy went to register with Executive Careers in Horsefair Street.

  As Gracie and I trudged up the London Road, a sense of fatalism propelled me towards De Montfort Hall. Diary, why do I have no strong will of my own? I am easily bent, like a twig in a gale. I felt sure that my wife would not understand me in regard to Dr Pearce’s kind gesture with the tickets.

  Dr Pearce was waiting outside the hall with her daughter. She was wearing denim jeans, trainers and an orange cagoule with matching lipstick. Her little girl, who was costumed as Sharpay, held out her hand and said, ‘Hello, I am Ophelia. Who is your favourite character in High School Musical ?’ She sighed impatiently as she waited for my answer.

  I found her quite intimidating. She wears heavy black-framed spectacles and has short black hair, which gives her an uncanny resemblance to Louis Theroux.

  Entering the auditorium was painful on the ears. The audience was mostly female, the majority of them were under eleven years old and all of them were on the verge of hysteria. Men and boys were thin on the ground. Dr Pearce and I sat together and halfway through the energetic but baffling performance she leaned in close to me and surreptitiously took my hand. I wanted to remove it but couldn’t work out how to do so without causing offence, so we sat holding hands until the lights came up and it was time to leave.

  Once we had filed out of the theatre and bought a High School Musical mug and a Sharpay pencil case, I was ready to say goodbye to Dr Pearce and Ophelia. I had arranged for Dougie Horsefield to pick us up outside the venue because the last bus to Mangold Parva leaves Leicester at 5.15 p.m. on Saturday afternoons. To my horror I saw that he had Daisy in the back of the cab. Had she seen me saying goodbye to Dr Pearce and Ophelia?

  As soon as we were in the taxi, Gracie said, ‘Daddy was holding a lady’s hand.’

  Dougie Horsefield tried to conceal a snort of laughter.

  Daisy asked, ‘Who was she?’

  I replied, ‘A complete stranger, she was overcome with the heat and the noise and I simply felt her pulse.’

  Daisy said, ‘Why? You’re not in the bloody St John Ambulance brigade.’

  She was unnaturally quiet for the rest of the way home. Thankfully Gracie hardly drew breath as she told Dougie and her mother the convoluted plot of High School Musical – The Show.

  As we prepared the shepherd’s pie for Pandora, Daisy said very little apart from ‘pass the mince’, ‘don’t chop the carrots too thickly’, etc. All I could think about was my narrow escape. I have to make it clear to Dr Pearce that I wish to return to our former relationship, i.e. bookseller and customer.

  Sunday 14th October

  Pandora was what she called ‘fashionably late’. Eventually I put the shepherd’s pie in the bottom oven to keep warm but it was certainly past its best by 9.07 p.m. when she finally arrived.

  Earlier in the evening we’d had the usual clothing crisis. I told Daisy that she looked wonderful in the purple kaftan and she put it on, albeit reluctantly. But I must admit, Diary, that when Pandora strolled in, swathed in pale grey cashmere, Daisy looked a tiny bit vulgar in comparison. The atmosphere was as cool as the bottle of the 2005 Cuvée des Vignerons Beaujolais I had inadvertently put in the fridge.

  Pandora wanted me to tell her the ‘story’ of my prostate. Halfway through she said, ‘I need a fucking fag for this, I’ve left them in the bloody car.’ Daisy pushed a packet of Silk Cut towards Pandora. It was the first companionable gesture the two women had shared all evening.

  When I had finished, ending up with Dr Wolfowicz’s philosophy that we are all dying from the moment we are born, Pandora started to sob, laying her head on the table and almost knocking over her wine. I waited for Daisy to comfort her but when she made no move to do this I got up, went to Pandora and stood by her side. She wrapped her arms around my waist and soaked my shirt with her tears. I must admit, Diary, I was close to tears mysel
f but when I looked at Daisy I saw, with a chill in my heart, that she was dry-eyed and wore what a neutral observer would have called an expression of icy indifference.

  Pandora stayed until two o’clock in the morning, long after Daisy had gone to bed. She talked about the old days, when we were both 13¾ and fell in love.

  She said, ‘I was totally obsessed with you. I could not think of anything else at all. I only lived for the next moment when I would glimpse your nerdy face. You were the first person to see my nipples.’

  ‘No,’ I corrected her, ‘you only showed me your left nipple.’

  I tried to get her to share some Westminster gossip. I particularly wanted to hear about Gordon Brown’s state of mind. Did she think he was dangerously unstable, as some of the newspapers were saying?

  She said, ‘You have to be a bit mad, it’s a bloody awful job. Do you think it’s insane of me to want to be the first Labour woman prime minister one day?’

  I said, ‘I thought you must be sick of politics – you’re hardly ever in your constituency.’

  Pandora’s eyes glittered and she said, ‘But Westminster is intoxicating. One is loath to leave it for the dreary provinces.’

  I bridled at this and said, ‘It’s the dreary provinces that made this country rich. Dr Johnson came from Lichfield, Shakespeare from Stratford-on-Avon. And the scientist who discovered DNA fingerprinting, Dr Alec Jeffreys, is a Leicester man!’

  Diary, I was glad when she left. The day’s events had exhausted me and the cheese from the shepherd’s pie kept me awake for quite some time.

  Went to The Bear for Sunday lunch. I am sick of their Sunday roasts so opted for the Thai Special. It tasted like the black soap my mother used to wash my hair with on Sunday evenings in a vain attempt to stop me from catching nits. Still, what can you expect from a chef called Lee who has only got a diploma in Cooking With A Microwave, from an FE college.