Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  Michael Flowers said, ‘Personally, I’m glad that capitalism is on the slide. It means we can withdraw from Europe and live a much simpler life. I saw this coming and turned my investments into cash,’ he dropped his voice, ‘which I don’t mind telling you I keep under my mattress. Anybody with money in a British bank is a fool and deserves to lose it.’

  Brett wriggled on his milk crate and said, ‘You’re talking out of your arse, you stupid bearded tosspot.’

  My father, who hates Michael Flowers almost as much as I do, said, ‘Now then, Brett, “tosspot” is going a bit too far.’

  Daisy had overdone the chillis in the curry and before long our eyes and noses were streaming, but at least it shut everybody up – apart from Gracie, who had declined the curry and opted for spaghetti hoops and a mince pie. She took advantage of our silence to sing some of the more monotonous songs she had learnt at school. Each time one of us stopped smiling and looking at her she banged on the table with her fork and spoon and shouted, ‘Pay attention!’ – an expression she must have picked up from her teacher.

  Diary, I am glad that Christmas is now officially over.

  Saturday 29th December

  The bookshop closes today.

  Didn’t have radiotherapy. Sally sent me for an ultrasound and blood tests. When I returned to the radiotherapy department, I asked Sally if she had enjoyed her Christmas in Wolverhampton.

  She said that she had left her parents’ house on Christmas Day night because she could not bear the way her father said ‘lovely jubbly’ after every mouthful of food. I asked her when my radiotherapy would continue. She said, ‘It depends what your scan and PSA results are.’

  Went to the shop. Mr Carlton-Hayes and Leslie were already there. They were both wearing white gloves. Leslie was taking out the antiquarian books from the glass-fronted cabinet and handing them to Mr Carlton-Hayes in his wheelchair. Mr C-H was dusting them with a dry shaving brush and wrapping them in tissue before placing them inside a fireproofed cardboard box. I went into the back room and made some coffee. I could not bear to see the bookshop being dismantled of its stock. Daisy had urged me to talk to Mr Carlton-Hayes about my redundancy pay but I could not bring myself to do so.

  Bernard turned up at 10 a.m. and soon got stuck into sorting the wheat from the chaff. I admired his single-mindedness. I would have dithered over which books to keep and which books to give away. Bernard said, ‘It’s a doddle, old cock. Anything with a gun, a cat or a swastika on the front is chaff, as is a large-breasted girl with a castle in the background.’

  My work rate was very slow. I kept finding books that I had been meaning to read, as did Mr Carlton-Hayes. Leslie had to speak sharply to him several times when he noticed that he had become engrossed in a book. At four o’clock a market trader came to collect the chaff. Mr Carlton-Hayes let the lot go for £275. By five o’clock I was exhausted and had to lie down on the sofa. At five thirty Leslie shook me awake and said that he was taking Mr Carlton-Hayes home. It was too late to mention my redundancy pay. When they had gone, I rang my mother and asked her for a lift. As I was speaking, I noticed that my voice had a slight echo from the empty shelves.

  My mother parked illegally outside the shop. When she came in, she said, ‘It looks bigger with most of the books gone.’ She put her arm around my shoulders and said, ‘You don’t look well.’

  I admitted that I was feeling quite poorly. She took the keys from me, locked up and turned the lights off. We looked back through the shop window at the almost-empty shelves. I said, ‘They’re turning it into a Tesco’s.’

  She said encouragingly, ‘If you play your cards right you could get a managerial job. You’d make a good Tesco’s manager.’

  I did not have the strength or inclination to argue with her. The stress of meeting Tesco’s daily targets would surely kill me. Why didn’t she understand that?

  My own mother does not know me at all.

  Visits to loo: thirteen.

  Sunday 30th December

  I normally feel guilty if I’m in bed past eight thirty in the morning but today I didn’t care. At 2 p.m. I had a lightly boiled egg and some bread and butter soldiers, then I got up and watched Antiques Roadshow in my pyjamas.

  My mother came round to complain that Brett has been harassing them for money. He says that all he needs is ‘a few K’ so that he can trade. He has already blackmailed them into installing a Sky dish so that he can follow the money markets.

  My mother said, ‘He keeps whining that your father wasn’t “there for him” when he was growing up. He says that you were always his favourite.’

  ‘Me?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ my mother sighed, ‘he said that George was always boasting about your achievements. Your father said, “You’re wrong there, Brett, you could fit Adrian’s achievements on the back of a small matchbox.” I defended you. I informed him that you’d achieved a lot in your life – you’ve been married twice and fathered three children, and have had countless letters from the BBC.’

  I said, ‘Rejection letters.’

  My mother said, ‘It’s still a letter.’

  Monday 31st December

  I lost count of how many times I had to get up in the night to urinate. Each time I dragged myself out of bed and stood in front of the lavatory I prayed that it wouldn’t hurt, but each time it seemed to get more painful, a horrible niggling stinging pain. What a way to start the New Year – and we are meant to go to Fairfax Hall to see it in. It is almost a certainty that when Big Ben strikes twelve I will be in one of Fairfax-Lycett’s many lavatories.

  I wore my best navy suit, white shirt and the tie with the elephant design. Daisy was wearing a black dress with a plunging neckline that I had not seen before. It looked expensive but Daisy said, ‘This old thing? I got it on eBay. It’s vintage Versace. I got it for virtually nothing.’

  Diary, can this be true?

  I rang Dougie Horsefield and booked him for eight o’clock. He said, ‘I’ll have to charge you triple the fare. It’s New Year’s Eve, you know.’

  Diary, I am sick of people telling me things that I already know.

  I said, ‘Dougie, do you honestly believe that I don’t know that it is New Year’s Eve? Do you sincerely think that this significant date has passed me by?’

  When he found out that we were going to Fairfax Hall, he moaned, ‘It’s only a bleedin’ mile. Can’t you walk it? It’s hardly worth me turning my engine on.’

  When I put the phone down, I said to Daisy, ‘I’ve a good mind to cancel him and ask my mother for a lift.’

  She said, ‘Your mother’s been drinking all day, and you’re not insured to drive her car – and nor am I, she made sure of that.’

  Dougie turned up at 8.35 and he had Tony and Wendy Wellbeck sitting in the back. I was annoyed that we had to share the car and make conversation. I like to have a period of silence before I enter a social situation. The Wellbecks looked as though they had dressed themselves from the ‘occasion wear’ section of TK Maxx. She was in an orange sequined top, he in an acrylic white dinner jacket and bow tie. Daisy had failed to tell me that the dress code was ‘black tie’ so I started the evening at a considerable disadvantage. Horsefield charged us £6 a head!

  When I remonstrated with him, Tony Wellbeck said, ‘It is New Year’s Eve, Mr Mole.’

  I paid up and we got out of the car.

  Horsefield said, ‘Enjoy your party. Think about me driving through the night with a load of drunks spewing up in the back.’

  The exterior of the hall was lit with flaming sconces. They cast dancing light on the ivy-clad walls.

  As we climbed the steps towards the imposing front entrance, I said to Daisy, ‘I hope they’re insured, if they’re not careful that ivy will catch fire and they’ll have a serious conflagration on their hands.’

  Hugo Fairfax-Lycett was waiting in the cavernous entrance hall to greet his guests. A huge log was burning in the black marble fireplace.

  He kiss
ed Daisy on both cheeks and said, ‘Mrs Mole, you look absolutely stunning.’

  I didn’t like the way he said ‘Mrs Mole’. It was as if he and Daisy were sharing a private joke. A waitress in a black and white uniform offered us glasses of pink champagne from a silver tray. A glance around the hall confirmed that I was the only male present not wearing a dinner jacket.

  Fairfax-Lycett said, looking at my suit, ‘Daisy mentioned you were a bit of a non-conformist. I must say I admire a chap who is not afraid to show that he is anti-establishment. I’m afraid I am an entirely establishment figure.’

  Daisy laughed and said, ‘Hugo, you have been known to cut loose.’

  Daisy was attracting many admiring glances. I have to admit, Diary, that my wife looked magnificent. I knew she felt triumphant that, by wearing Spanx magic knickers, she had been able to squeeze into her size 14 eBay dress. After a few more minutes of banter with Fairfax-Lycett, Daisy took me on a tour of the house, throwing doors open and switching on lights as though she was the chatelaine. She showed me the office she shares on the first floor with Fairfax-Lycett. Their desks were very close together. She sat in her black office chair and swung round. She had a photograph on her desk of my parents, me, Gracie and herself. It had been taken in the garden of The Bear the summer before last. I was wearing baggy shorts and the brown sandals that Daisy has since thrown away in the rubbish. The others were laughing but I had my face in a grimace and my eyes were closed against the sun.

  I said, ‘So what is it you do in here all day?’

  She said, ‘I project manage the renovation and restoration of the hall. I plan events, I act as Hugo’s PA, I pay the staff, and at the moment I am trying to source secure fencing for the safari park and buy a pair of giraffes.’

  I asked her how much giraffes cost.

  She said, ‘In the States a young giraffe can be had for twenty-five thousand dollars, but keep it to yourself. Hugo doesn’t want the villagers to know his plans yet. He doesn’t want them getting up a petition – not until we’ve been granted planning permission.’

  I said, ‘He’ll never get planning permission for a safari park. They forced the church to stop ringing the bells because of the noise. They won’t stand for the row of lions roaring, elephants trumpeting and giraffes… making whatever noise giraffes make. And there was Pamper Yourself, they had to pull down the shed at the back where they had the tanning machine.’

  When we got downstairs, Daisy took on the role of hostess, ushering people into the dining room for the buffet. I got stuck with the Wellbecks, who told me in minuscule detail about their last holiday in Wales. Eventually I managed to extricate myself and went next door to the drawing room to listen to the music of the string quartet and watch the dancers as they tried to dance to Handel’s Where’er You Walk.

  At ten o’clock carloads of Fairfax-Lycett’s friends arrived from London. I was surprised to see that Daisy knew some of them. She was soon in the middle of a group and they appeared to be hanging on her every word. Having nothing to contribute to the conversation I sidled out and went into the library, where I spent a pleasant hour looking through the books.

  Then the disco started with the opening chords of ‘Brown Sugar’. This was followed by a loud cheer, and on opening the library door I saw people coming from all parts of the house to cram into the large drawing room to dance to the Rolling Stones.

  A memory of my father dancing at my first wedding came to mind and brought a tear to my eye. He danced so violently to ‘Brown Sugar’ that he dislocated his back and had to be taken home strapped to a door. When I next saw Daisy, she was in the middle of the dance floor with Fairfax-Lycett dancing to ‘I Will Survive’. However, such was the collective vocal force of the women singing along with Gloria Gaynor that the males soon left the dance floor – apart from a few obviously gay men – and stood around drinking and watching. The DJ (Craig Puddleton from the garage) shouted into the microphone, ‘C’mon, girls! Let the bastards have it!’

  Then – to my astonishment, because I knew there had been no rehearsal – the women made eye contact with the men and shouted, ‘I DON’T WANT YOU ANY MORE!’

  After the song ended, there was a lot of female solidarity going on, hugging and kissing each other. Even Wendy Wellbeck raised a fist to her husband. A few minutes later, when I was coming out of the downstairs cloakroom, I heard a car screeching to a halt on the gravel. I went to the entrance and saw Pandora throwing her keys to a waiter and heard her say, ‘Park it for me somewhere, would you, darling?’ She walked in wearing a tight red dress with diamanté straps. Her hair was at least three times its usual size. She looked very beautiful indeed.

  I said, ‘What have you done to your hair?’

  She said, ‘It’s called hairdressing, Adrian. What are you doing here? Hobnobbing with the gentry?’

  I said, ‘Daisy is Fairfax-Lycett’s personal assistant.’

  Pandora looked around at the other guests and drawled, ‘Are you wearing that suit as a sort of protest?’

  We went and stood in the doorway of the drawing room.

  She looked across at Daisy and said, ‘Are her breasts meant to be on the outside of her dress?’ Then she turned her attention back to me and asked, ‘So how goes the big C?’

  Before I could answer, a small fat man with an aggrieved face came up to Pandora and said, ‘They’ve still not mended that pothole in Cossington Lane. You said you would write to the Council.’

  Pandora purred, ‘Those dreadful council people. I will bring it to the attention of the Minister for Roadworks and Potholes as soon as parliament reconvenes.’

  A woman in a green sequined top gushed, ‘I saw you on Question Time, Miss Braithwaite. You gave that Norman Tebbit a run for his money.’

  Pandora gushed back, ‘Oh, Norman is a big pussycat.’

  When the woman had gone, Pandora said, ‘I haven’t been on Question Time for over a year. She’s confusing me with somebody else.’

  I said, ‘How could anybody confuse you? There is nobody else remotely like you in the whole world.’

  Craig Puddleton bellowed, ‘Make sure you’ve got a drink. It’s nearly midnight.’

  I looked at my watch. It was 11.55 p.m. I excused myself to Pandora and hurried to the downstairs lavatory. Finding a queue I then ran upstairs to the lavatory next to Daisy’s office. However, the door was locked and so I ran down endless corridors until I could hardly hear the disco music from downstairs. By now my need was urgent and I grew increasingly desperate to find a lavatory. I began opening doors and switching lights on, but none of the bedrooms were en suite. I ran up a further flight of stairs and eventually came to a series of smaller rooms, obviously servants’ quarters. In one of these I found a washbasin and, Diary, though I am loath to confess it, I relieved myself in the said receptacle. I had almost finished when I heard the first strike of the church bell. It took another three strikes before I was finished. I ran out of the room and down the stairs, tugging my zip up as I went. I had reached the top of the last flight of stairs when I heard the twelfth bong and the cheers that followed. As I was crossing the hall to go into the drawing room to find Daisy, one of the waiters said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but your shirt is poking out of your flies.’

  By the time I had jiggled my zip and released my shirt and tucked myself in, I was too late to join the circle for ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

  Later, when I began to tell Daisy what had happened, she said, ‘Don’t tell me any more. I hate lavatorial jokes.’

  At 12.30 my father rang me on my mobile and asked me to return home. He said, ‘Your mother is out cold, Brett is wandering about outside in his shirtsleeves, pissed as a newt, the bloody church bells woke Gracie up, and she is asking me for cheese on toast.’ He whined, ‘She knows I can’t reach the grill, you’ll have to come home.’

  I explained that Dougie Horsefield was not due to pick us up until 2.30 a.m, and told him to order Gracie back to bed.

  He said, ‘You know I’m scared
of Gracie.’

  I said, ‘Gracie is a little girl. Pull yourself together.’

  He said, ‘That vein in my neck is throbbing. I think I’m about to have another stroke.’

  I disconnected the call and immediately rang Dougie Horsefield.

  He said, ‘Hello,’ and then I heard him yell to one of his passengers, ‘Puke on my upholstery and you’ll pay a twenty-quid penalty.’ When he said, ‘Ugh! You dirty bastard!’ I switched my phone off, told Daisy I was leaving and left.

  As I was crunching down the gravel drive, shivering in a bitter wind, Pandora ran after me, shouting, ‘Where are you going?’

  I explained my domestic problem. She said, to my amazement, that she would walk home with me because she couldn’t stand being harangued by her constituents.

  She said, ‘They’re bad enough when I see them in my constituency office, but when they’re half pissed they’re impossible.’

  I said, ‘You’ll freeze to death in that dress.’

  She said, ‘Then we’ll have to run to keep warm, won’t we?’

  She took my hand and what with the exhilaration of her company and the way she urged me on, we started to run. How she did it in high heels and how I did it in my state of health, I don’t know.

  It didn’t take long. As we turned from the lane and jogged up the drive to the Piggeries, it started to rain and we came across Brett. He was trying to find the front door of his ‘office’, and seemed to be under the impression that he was in Canary Wharf. We dragged him through the house and put him to bed. Thank God, Gracie had gone back to sleep. I placed her in her princess bed, then came back and helped my father retire for the night. He took his teeth out and asked me to clean them, but I refused.

  *

  When we went next door, Pandora ordered me to put some dry clothes on. While I was changing into my pyjamas and dressing gown she cooked bacon and eggs and made a pot of coffee.

  When we were eating, she said, ‘You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Aidy. You have to learn how to be selfish, like me.’