by Sue Townsend
I glanced over at Rosie. She didn’t look too bothered.
Out of the darkness Fairfax-Lycett appeared, holding aloft a burning taper. He had removed his Barbour and the fool was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck. I noted that he had also fallen prey to the ridiculous fashion of not fastening his cuffs à la Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. A member of the cricket club hurled a Guy Fawkes on to the top of the bonfire and Fairfax-Lycett plunged the taper into the kindling at the bottom. A ragged cheer went up from the small crowd. I looked across at my father, who was sitting in his wheelchair waving a sparkler with Gracie, and I could have wept. Little did he know that his world was about to be shattered as a result of my mother’s wish to validate her life by appearing on television.
As soon as Fairfax-Lycett starting carving the hog, I saw Daisy go over and join the small queue. When it was her turn to be served, he took for ever and I could tell that Tony and Wendy Wellbeck, who were behind her, were getting impatient. At one point, Daisy laughed out loud at something he said. When he passed her the pork-filled rolls, she offered him a £10 note but he waved it away. I watched carefully to see what would happen when he served the Wellbecks. He took their money.
The next time I saw Fairfax-Lycett, he had taken charge of the fireworks and was letting them off in a most irresponsible manner. There was little coordination. Expensive and cheap fireworks were intermingled during the display. Consequently there was no proper climax. When we were leaving, my father’s wheelchair got stuck in the mud. In my weakened state I could not free it. To my chagrin, Fairfax-Lycett took over and with one huge shove propelled my father and the wheelchair across the grass, while my mother and Daisy simpered their thanks.
My father muttered, ‘That toff in the shirt could have had me in the bonfire.’
We congregated in my mother’s kitchen and she put some potatoes in the oven. While my father was in the toilet I urged the women not to mention The Jeremy Kyle Show or anything pertaining to it.
I said, ‘Don’t spoil Dad’s Bonfire Night.’
They settled down around the kitchen table drinking a bottle of Asda’s Chardonnay and eating curry-flavoured Twiglets. Because my mother wanted to listen to ‘Whispering’ Bob Harris’s country and western show on Radio Two, it was some time before we heard my father shouting from the toilet that he was finished. After I had put him back in his wheelchair, I went home and climbed into bed without washing or cleaning my teeth, exhausted.
Tuesday 6th November
When I got to the shop, Hitesh told me that Bernard had been gone for two hours on a ‘book-buying expedition’. I was alarmed at this, the shop is not short of secondhand books. The shelves are groaning with their weight and the back room is full of them. There is barely room for Bernard’s blow-up single mattress. What we desperately need is somebody to buy our books, otherwise the shop will be certain to go out of business.
I dreaded going home and hung around the shop, tidying the books and even dismantling and cleaning the coffee machine.
When Bernard came back, I asked him what he had bought.
He said, ‘Nothing, cocker. They were disgusting.’
‘Pornography?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, ‘worse. Danielle Steel.’
I told him that I was delaying going home because my mother intended to tell my father that she was going on The Jeremy Kyle Show for a DNA test because she was not sure that Rosie was his.
Bernard said admiringly, ‘Your mother would put Madame Bovary to shame.’
Wednesday 7th November
7.30 a.m.
Emotionally drained.
At 8 p.m. last night I went next door, to find my mother and Rosie sitting on kitchen chairs facing my father in his wheelchair.
My father was wittering, ‘Why is the telly turned off? What’s up?’ He looked like a trapped animal and kept glancing from his wife, to his daughter, to me and back again. ‘What have I done?’ he pleaded. He lit a cigarette and dropped the spent match in the integral ashtray on the arm of his wheelchair.
There was a long silence.
I was furious with my mother and sister. They should have planned what they were going to say, and how to say it, but in the end it was left to me to remind him that Rosie’s paternity had never been definitely proved and that there was a strong possibility that Mr Lucas, our ex-next-door neighbour, might be Rosie’s biological father. And that he had recently been in touch with Rosie.
Since he had his last stroke, my father’s mental acuity has lost its edge. I had to repeat my disturbing news several times before he fully understood the importance of what I was saying.
It’s true that he looked unhappy – although I have seen him look unhappier when Leicester City lose at home.
My mother sobbed that she was sorry for hurting him, but went on to say, ‘You’re partly to blame, George. I was a red-blooded woman with sexual needs and you preferred to read your stupid cowboy books in bed. In fact, I remember one time when we were making love and I caught you reading Bill the Bronco Buster behind my head.’
I waited for my mother or sister to mention The Jeremy Kyle Show, but neither of them did. Once again, Diary, it was left to me to broach the subject. To my surprise my father looked quite pleased at the prospect of appearing on television. When I protested, saying, ‘Aren’t you worried about the invasion of your privacy?’ he said, ‘Adrian, nothing’s private now. Everybody knows everything about us. You’re living in the dark ages, son.’
My mother looked at me triumphantly and said, ‘I knew your dad would cooperate.’
Rosie said, ‘Nobody’s mentioned me, yet. Don’t you care if you’re not my real dad?’
I felt sorry for her, and I said to my father, ‘Haven’t you got something to say to Rosie, Dad?’
My father looked baffled, stroked his ragged moustache and said, ‘She knows I’m fond of her.’
‘Fond!’ shouted Rosie. ‘Fond! I hope Mr Lucas is my dad! He’s dead handsome and he’s got lovely handwriting.’
My father shouted back, ‘I should have beaten him to a pulp while I had still had my strength. I should never have trusted that Taff bastard! And your mother wasn’t the only woman he was knocking off!’
My mother said indignantly, ‘Yes, I was!’
Rosie slammed into the spare bedroom. My mother went into the kitchen and we heard the sound of ice tinkling in three glasses, then the glug of the vodka bottle and the slight hiss as the tonic was poured. She came back in carrying a tray. For once I didn’t refuse a drink. By the time my parents had refilled their glasses several times they were chatting quite amicably about what to wear on The Jeremy Kyle Show.
When I got home, Daisy asked me how my father had taken the news.
I said, ‘Quite well,’ and went to bed.
As I cleaned my teeth, I was alarmed to see there was a bit of blood in the washbasin.
7.30 p.m.
Sally said that my bleeding gums are probably a symptom of gum disease and not necessarily connected to my illness or treatment.
Went to see Mr Carlton-Hayes but he was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him. The nurse said that Leslie had gone to the canteen for a cup of coffee.
I asked her if the operation had gone well.
She said, ‘I’m not allowed to say due to patient confidentiality.’
I should have lied and said that I was his son.
Thursday 8th November
As if I hadn’t got enough on my plate, Dr Pearce phoned and said plaintively, ‘You haven’t rung.’
I agreed that I hadn’t.
She said, ‘Why?’
I said that I had been busy.
She asked if we could meet up somewhere.
In the silence that followed I mouthed, ‘No, no, no,’ to myself. However, I said, ‘Where?’
She replied, ‘Anywhere. At any time.’
I told her that I would be at the hospital in the morning and in the bookshop all afternoon, hoping that she would ta
ke the hint, but she continued to try and pin me down. She said that she was lecturing until two thirty and then she had to take the children to a dental appointment but would be free by six.
I said that I had to get home to my wife and child.
She said, ‘Why, are they ill?’
I lied and said, ‘Yes, they are both very ill with…’ The name of every illness fled from my brain.
Eventually Dr Pearce said, ‘You don’t want to see me again, do you?’
I blurted out that, should she come into the bookshop, I would be pleased to engage her in conversation.
She said, ‘But nothing more?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘nothing more.’
I switched my phone off. I hope she is not going to become a nuisance.
Friday 9th November
This morning had treatment as usual. Sally very subdued, I asked what was wrong. She said that Anthony had taken another girl to Lake Windermere.
Sally said, ‘It’s a horrible betrayal.’
I couldn’t work out whether Sally was upset because of the other girl, or jealous because he had taken her to a superior lake to the ones where he had taken her.
Robert Peston was on the Today programme reporting that some of the high street banks were in trouble. He took great pains to explain the complexities of the banking crisis in layman’s language, but I was still baffled. I started to panic, then remembered I had no money in any of the high street banks. I thanked God that I had put my insurance money into that fail-safe Icelandic account.
Received a text message from Pandora tonight. It said:
I am thinking of you, my dear brave boy. I am gld u r benefitin 4rm the targets set by the Government 4 the NHS Cancer Care initiative. Will u do sum media wid me nxt tym I am in lester? Luv as ever, pan xxx
Saturday 10th November
Treatment.
Sally has got hold of Anthony’s sailing logbook. Apparently, he has philandered his way across lakes, lochs, estuaries and coastal waters with a succession of female shipmates. She has put her wet weather gear and waterproof boots on eBay.
Called in to see Mr Carlton-Hayes. He looked about 110. He reacted badly to the anaesthetic and is being given frequent doses of oxygen. He is still wearing a hospital gown and is hooked up to tubes and drains, but he managed to convey through the transparent mask that the pain in his back was better. He asked me about the shop, and I lied and told him that business was brisk.
When I returned to the shop, I noticed with a sinking heart that Dr Pearce was loitering on the opposite pavement, ostensibly looking in Rackham’s Christmas window. Before I could take my coat off she had crossed the road and entered the shop. She has had her hair cut and highlighted and now looks a bit like Ann Widdecombe, which is an improvement.
I asked her what the special occasion was.
She said, ‘You.’
She claimed to be shopping for Christmas presents for her children so I tried to palm her off on Bernard, but he said, ‘No can do, lad. Kiddiewinkies and me don’t get along.’
Hitesh was on his break so I showed her some of the more expensive pop-up books. She eventually chose four, totalling £62.42.
After I had handed her card back to her, she said, ‘I apologise if I’ve made a fool of myself.’
I felt so sorry for her that I almost cracked, but instead I summoned my resolve and said, ‘Not at all. Have a good Christmas.’
I went home early and fell asleep on the bus.
Sunday 11th November
My mother has rung The Jeremy Kyle Show to say that she, her husband, her daughter and her ex-lover have agreed to appear on the show, which will be recorded on Tuesday 20th of this month. Rosie is spending her birthday with her possible new father, Lucas.
My mother has made her plans. She has booked a manicure at Top Tips, a hair appointment in the village and a stylist at Debenhams to help her choose a suitable outfit for the show. I pointed out to her that she was going to an unnecessary expense as the dress code for women over sixty on The Jeremy Kyle Show was a skimpy vest, sagging cleavage, pale pedal pushers and trainers with no socks. Hair is either lank or parted in the middle, or a tight pulled-back ponytail (otherwise known as a Croydon facelift). She said that she didn’t want the audience at home (about three and a half million people) to think that she was any old slapper.
Once again I begged her to change her mind and cancel her appearance.
She said, ‘It’s all right for you, you’ve been on telly. I might never get the chance again.’
Nobody wanted to cook so we went to The Bear for Sunday lunch. I protested that in my fragile state of health I need good nutritious food, not the muck they serve at The Bear. Diary, incredible as it may sound, nobody offered to stay at home and prepare me something delicate and light to tempt my fragile appetite.
Gracie begged me to come so, reluctantly, I put on my Next overcoat, scarf and the fur-lined aviator hat with the flaps that Nigel bought me last Christmas.
Daisy said that she didn’t want to be seen in public with me wearing the hat, but my mother said, ‘He has to keep his ears warm. When he was a kid, I used to sit up night after night pouring warm olive oil into his earholes. He used to scream the place down.’
Diary, this is news to me – my memory is quite different. I remember the torment of earache but I do not remember my mother ever being in the same room as me. All I can remember is my father banging on my bedroom wall and shouting, ‘Can’t you suffer in silence? Me and your mother need our sleep.’
When we walked into The Bear, the room went quiet. I was conscious of people looking at me quickly and then looking away. How much worse will it be after my family have appeared on The Jeremy Kyle Show? Once again we were too late for the beef and the lamb so had to settle for pork. However, I have to admit that my Sunday lunch was quite good. Lee, the chef, has been sacked for sexually harassing Mrs Urquhart (i.e. her husband found out about their affair). Mrs Urquhart has taken over in the kitchen. Whenever the kitchen door swung open I could see her savagely dishing the food on to the plates, her face beetroot and her hair in damp tendrils sticking to her neck. She looked quite attractive. Her gravy was superb.
While we ate I listened to Tom Urquhart complaining to Terry Pratt, ex-landlord of The Feathers in Little Snittingham, that The Bear was losing £500 a week. He said, ‘It’s bleddy Gordon Brown’s fault, he’s hand in hand with the supermarkets. You can buy a crate of Carlsberg for tuppence ha’penny in Tesco. Nobody’s going to trek to a pub and pay two pound twenty a pint and then be told they can’t have a fag, are they?’
When I went to the bar to order more drinks, Tom Urquhart said enigmatically, ‘Sorry to ’ear about your trouble, Mr Mole. My father-in-law had a prostrate. He heard about it on the Tuesday and he was dead by Friday night.’
‘I’d better book a trip away soon, then. I’ve always wanted to see the sun break over the Valley of the Kings before I die,’ I said sarcastically.
Urquhart said, ‘Me and Mrs Urquhart had a trip down the Nile a few year ago. I got the shits and ’ad to stay on the boat but Mrs Urquhart said she’d never seen anything like them pyramids, though she ’ad to physically attack some of the beggars who wouldn’t get off her back.’
When I got back to our table with the drinks, I asked my mother if she had put a notice about my illness on the village notice board. When she denied it, I said, ‘Perhaps you hired a small aeroplane to fly a banner over Leicestershire saying “Adrian Mole has got prostate trouble”.’
My father, ever the pedant said, ‘You wouldn’t get a small aeroplane to fly a banner that long. There’s far too many words.’
As we were finishing our drinks, I saw Hugo Fairfax-Lycett gesticulating to my mother through the window. He was miming smoking a cigarette. My mother took her drink outside, saying, ‘Won’t be long.’
After two minutes Daisy went to join her.
When I paid the bill, I saw that Urquhart had added extras such as light, he
at, staffing costs, use of cruet, milk, sugar, apple sauce. When I protested, he said, ‘Those are my hidden costs. I’m not running a charity.’
I paid up reluctantly and manoeuvred my father’s wheelchair outside. Daisy, my mother and Fairfax-Lycett were sitting under the patio heater laughing like maniacs.
When they saw us, they stopped laughing and Daisy said, ‘Adrian, good news. Hugo has offered me a job as his PA.’
Fairfax-Lycett rose to his feet, pushed his floppy hair back, held out a large brown hand and said, ‘Terribly sorry to hear about your prostate, Mole. Er, hope you don’t mind me stealing your wife three times a week?’
I said coldly, ‘What will my wife be doing for you three times a week?’
‘This, that and the other,’ he laughed.
My mother gushed, ‘She’ll be helping him to run the hall.’
‘We’re opening it to hoi polloi,’ said Fairfax-Lycett.
I said, ‘But, Daisy, you hate housework.’
Daisy snapped, ‘I’ll be Hugo’s personal assistant, marketing person and special events organiser.’
I had a sudden vision of Daisy and Fairfax-Lycett standing on the steps leading to the ornate front door of his palatial country house. A pony trotted by with Gracie on its back.
*
As we walked up the muddy lane on the way home, Daisy talked to my mother about the clothes she would need for her new job. She said, ‘Ideally, it will be a Vivienne Westwood suit with a cinched waist and a pencil skirt.’
