Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  I asked where she had parked the car.

  ‘In the disabled space outside the shop,’ she said.

  When I protested that the space should be kept free for invalids, she said, ‘I felt like an invalid this morning. Me and your father downed a couple of bottles of White Lightning each last night.’

  Later, as Dougie Horsefield was driving us home in his taxi, I said, ‘Bernard, what is White Lightning?’

  Bernard said, ‘If you should see a homeless gentleman who stinks of urine and has an open wound above the bridge of his nose you can be sure that White Lightning is his park bench drink of choice.’

  Dougie laughed and said, ‘Your mum and dad are on a slippery slope, Adrian.’

  I went straight to bed as soon as I got home. Bernard brought me some ice for my mouth and offered to heat up a can of chicken noodle soup.

  Got up at ten to watch the BBC news with Bernard. The new Terminal Five at Heathrow opened yesterday. The TV showed chaos, traffic gridlocked around the perimeter, planes cancelled, computerized baggage handling not handling any baggage, passengers near to rioting, staff hiding in offices.

  Bernard sighed, ‘Nothing’s been the same since our chaps stopped using Brylcreem.’

  Saturday 29th March

  Glenn rang me early this morning in great distress. He had heard from my mother that Daisy and I had separated and she was now living with Hugo Fairfax-Lycett.

  He said, ‘I tell you what, Dad, this world what we live in is a horrible place. When I get home, I’m going to give that Fairfax-Lycett bloke some big beats.’

  I said, ‘Violence never solved anything.’

  He said, ‘Tell me about it. I’m in fucking Afghanistan.’

  I asked him exactly where he was.

  He said, ‘I’m shelterin’ behind the wall of a compound.’

  ‘From the sun?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Dad,’ he said with a flat voice, ‘not from the sun.’

  Michael Flowers came to visit me this afternoon.

  He said, ‘I’m on my way to Fairfax Hall for tea but I thought I’d drop in and see you first.’ He talked for a full hour about UKIP and its leader, Nigel Farage, saying, ‘I am hoping to stand as a candidate at the next election.’

  He blames the European Union for the failure of his Orgobeet business. He said, ‘It was European red tape that did for me. A man should be able to sell his produce without being stifled by ludicrous health and safety legislation.’

  I said, ‘But are you quite sure, Michael, that Orgobeet is safe to drink after being stored for months in your garage without refrigeration?’

  He shouted, ‘Beetroot is a natural food and the juice contains organic chemicals that keep it fresh for ever!’ He said that he was hoping to persuade Fairfax-Lycett to allow him to have a stand at the medieval jousting tournament that Fairfax Hall was hosting in August. He added, ‘I’ve commissioned a crafts person to manufacture some rough-hewn goblets.’

  Just before he went, he said, ‘Awkward business this Daisy and Hugo thing.’

  Bernard said, ‘It’s bloody heartbreaking.’

  Michael said irritably, ‘She must have left for a reason,’ and then glared at me as though I was a wife beater.

  I said, in a pleasant tone, ‘By the way, Conchita wrote and invited Daisy to visit. Apparently, Arthur, her second husband, is supplying the chief of police in Mexico City with his pork.’

  I later watched five minutes of Sexcetera but its content left me cold. Will I ever have a sex life again?

  To My Organ

  Oh staunchèd rod of old,

  Why art thou now so limp and cold?

  Has desire fled from thee?

  Or art thou anxious to be free

  Of love’s quick flame so

  Quickly quenched?

  Will you lift your head again?

  And if ‘yes’ please, rod, tell me when.

  A. A. Mole

  Tuesday 1st April

  Woken at 7 a.m. by a foreigner on the line telling me that he had met me in Moscow many years ago. He said, ‘You invite me to stay with you in England, yes? So I am bringing my wife and children to live in your house. Please collect me from Heathrow Airport.’

  I said, ‘Nigel, you have deprived me of sleep for a not-at-all-funny April Fool’s joke.’

  Nigel said, ‘Keep your hair on, Moley. You’re such a party-pooper.’

  Bernard and I were at breakfast this morning when my mother came in, laughed and said to us, ‘How’s the odd couple?’

  I looked down at the table. Bernard’s half was littered with toast crumbs and blobs of marmalade, he had slopped his coffee on to the tablecloth, and his boiled egg was a mess of yolk and egg shell. My half of the table was pristine. There was nothing spilt on the cloth and the top of my boiled egg had been surgically removed. It was not me who had dunked a knife into the marmalade jar, removed it and returned it to the butter dish.

  When Bernard had gone to perform what he calls ‘his ablutions’, my mother said, ‘How long is Bernard staying with you? He only came for Christmas.’

  I said, ‘He won’t leave until I’m well again.’

  She said, ‘Christ! He could be here for ever.’

  Wednesday 2nd April

  I am FORTY TODAY.

  What have I done with my life? I have lost two wives, one house and one canal-side apartment, a head of hair and my health.

  The gains have been few: two sons, one daughter, some first editions and a body of literary works that nobody will publish or produce.

  My presents were the usual rubbish, apart from a Smythson A4 moleskin notebook, which came in the post from Pandora. Nigel and Lance thought it amusing to have a blow-up rubber doll wearing a French maid’s uniform delivered by Parcelforce, together with a card saying: ‘Rubber up the right way and she’ll blow your mind!’

  I had told my mother that, due to my depression, I did not want any kind of celebration or party. She agreed, although she looked disappointed. I spent the day quietly with Bernard, both of us reading and occasionally putting down our books to make a cup of tea.

  At about six o’clock my mother came in. She had a febrile edgy look about her. She said, ‘Your dad wants to take you to The Bear for a birthday drink.’

  I told her that, although I appreciated my father’s offer, I would prefer to stay at home.

  She said, ‘No, you can’t stay at home on your fortieth. It’s not natural, is it, Bernard?’

  Bernard said, ‘I spent my fortieth in a brothel in Marseille, caught the clap from a comely wench called Lulu.’

  ‘See,’ said my mother approvingly, ‘Bernard knows how to enjoy himself!’

  After half an hour of badgering I reluctantly agreed to be driven to The Bear and to change into ‘that lovely Next suit you never wear’.

  The Bear was in darkness when I walked in ahead of my parents, my brother and Bernard. Then the lights were turned on and there was a roar of ‘Happy Birthday!’ and I realized that I was the unlucky recipient of a surprise party.

  My mother screamed above the din, ‘I’ve been planning this for weeks.’

  I slapped a fixed grin on my face and looked around at a room full of familiar faces. Nigel and Lance were sitting at the bar. Wayne Wong came out of the kitchen with a platter of Chinese titbits. Marigold and Brain-box Henderson were talking to Michael Flowers. Gracie ran up and hugged my legs. Mr Carlton-Hayes and Leslie were at a table together, with three old men who I knew by sight. (Tom Urquhart told me later that they were regulars who had refused to budge ‘just because it’s a private party’.) The Wellbecks were standing under a plastic banner which said ‘Happy Fortieth’.

  I looked around for Daisy but she wasn’t there. However, at about half past eight Pandora swept in wearing a long buttery cream sheepskin coat and dark brown suede knee-high boots. It was the first time she’d seen my bald head but she didn’t flinch.

  She said, ‘The motorway was horrendous. Full of idiots in their litt
le family runabouts. There should be a lane for serious people like me.’

  I said, ‘Isn’t that the fast lane?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not fast enough.’

  A fawning Tom Urquhart brought her a glass of champagne. She swigged it back as though it was lemonade. Urquhart attempted to talk to her about the brewery, which was threatening to close The Bear.

  He said, ‘There’s twenty pubs a day going under,’ but she cut him off, saying, ‘I’m here in a private capacity, Tom. Would you be a darling and fetch me another glass of fizz?’ As he scuttled back to the bar, she fixed me with a glittering eye and said, ‘I want a progress report on this bloody prostate of yours.’

  I told her that the tumour appeared to be shrinking and that the oncologist had said there were ‘grounds for optimism’.

  She didn’t look impressed. ‘Alistair Darling said much the same thing about the economy before the pound took a dive.’ Tom Urquhart handed her another glass of champagne and she said, ‘And bring me up to date on this ridiculous Daisy/Hugo thing.’

  I told her that they were still together and the last time I’d seen Daisy she was in the post office in the village wearing Dior.

  ‘Dior!’ she laughed. ‘Not in the country. How vulgar is that?’

  All through our conversation people had been circling, hoping for a chance to talk to Pandora. I was under no illusion that it was me they wanted to spend time with. At about nine the lights went out and my mother appeared from the far end of the bar carrying a large cake in the shape of an open book and decorated with icing and forty candles. After I had made a silent wish (for Daisy to come back), I blew the candles out. There were a few ragged attempts to sing ‘for he’s a jolly good fellow’, then my mother clapped her hands together and shouted for quiet. My heart sank. She was going to make a speech. She started by bursting into tears and fanning her hands in front of her eyes – something she has learnt from The X Factor. I have never seen anybody do this in real life. Several women rushed to her side and offered tissues and comforting pats, etc.

  My father shouted, ‘Buck up, Pauline!’ and eventually she managed to compose herself.

  She started off conventionally enough. ‘Thank you all for coming and for keeping it a secret from Adrian.’ But then it went downhill. ‘I can hardly believe it was forty years ago when I gave birth to him. My God! I’ve never had pain like it! It was thirty-six hours of excruciating agony, and I had nobody to hold my hand or rub my back. To this day I don’t know where George was.’

  Disapproving female eyes were turned on my father.

  He protested, ‘I was on a fishing trip. It was well before mobile phones.’

  ‘You could have kept in touch,’ said my mother. ‘Your mam had a phone.’

  No doubt to stop this exchange from deteriorating further, Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘May I say a few words?’

  My mother nodded, clearly reluctant to give him the floor.

  Mr C-H wheeled himself until he was facing the small crowd. He said, smiling, ‘I’ll try not to be a bore. I’d just like to say that Adrian is possibly the kindest person it has been my privilege to meet. You know, work in a bookshop can be very taxing – we seem to attract a somewhat unusual clientele. Adrian was always patient with our customers. He has suffered many blows recently and has coped quite magnificently, with hardly an ounce of self-pity. Happy birthday, Adrian!’

  After the applause had died down, my mother took centre stage again. ‘So after thirty-six hours struggling – the size of his head amazed the midwives – he was born. After a few months of him screaming day and night we realized we’d got the wrong size of teat on his bottle,’ she laughed. ‘It was no wonder he couldn’t get anything out and was losing weight!’ She chuckled again at the memory. ‘Well, then we started to enjoy him. At six months he was sitting up on his own.’

  Pandora muttered, ‘Christ! Is she going to take us through your forty years month by fucking month?’

  My mother broke down several times throughout her speech, but still she went on and on and on. People looked at their watches. Some of the lucky ones standing near the door slipped out unobtrusively. Eventually, urged on by Pandora, I interrupted my mother while she was mid-anecdote about the time I was fourteen and she took me to A&E with a model plane stuck to my nose.

  I got up and made a short speech thanking my mother, Wayne Wong and the woman who had made the cake. Later, because she was tired, Gracie knocked a can of Vimto all over Pandora’s creamy sheepskin. Pandora was unperturbed and laughed it off, saying, ‘It doesn’t matter in the least, I can claim it back on expenses.’

  ‘Parliamentary expenses?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’s within the rules, we’re paid like fucking paupers. The expenses supplement our measly salaries.’

  I asked her if the Smythson notebook she’d bought me would be claimed on expenses.

  She said, ‘Of course, it’ll go down as office stationery. But if your scruples won’t allow you to accept it I’ll gladly take it back.’

  I thought about the luxurious moleskin cover and the heavy satin-like pages. I visualised myself writing something extraordinary in it: a groundbreaking book. Could the Smythson notebook and I together revive the English novel?

  ‘I’ll keep it,’ I said.

  My mother persuaded Tom Urquhart to play some music through the pub’s loudspeakers. He chose Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers!

  Bernard Hopkins and Mrs Lewis-Masters were the first to take to the floor. I was astounded at the nimbleness of their footwork. Nigel and Lance were up next, which baffled a few of the unsophisticated Mangold Parvians.

  When Pandora asked me to dance, I said, ‘You know I can’t dance, Pandora.’

  She pulled me to my feet and said, ‘Nonsense! One just takes to the floor and simulates sexual intercourse, but one holds back from actual penetration.’

  I allowed her to take me in her arms and we shuffled around the small area in front of the bar. My mother danced by with Brett, who laughed and said to Pandora, ‘This is what passes for a big night out in the provinces.’

  Thursday 3rd April

  SOMETHING AMAZING!

  At ten thirty last night I told Pandora that I was exhausted and would have to go home.

  She said, ‘I can’t face the drive back, can I stay with you?’

  I told her that Bernard was in the spare room, but that she was welcome to sleep on the sofa.

  She stroked my bald head and said, ‘I don’t do sofas, I’ll share your lonely marital bed, shall I?’

  I nodded, unable to speak, because I had forgotten to breathe.

  When we got home, there was a birthday card on the mat. It was from Daisy. A man was leaning over a stone bridge smoking a pipe and staring down at a river. I recognised the card – it had been on a shelf at the post office for at least four years. Why did Daisy choose that card? She knows I hate smoking, am nervous of bridges and afraid of deep water.

  Before we got into bed, Pandora said, ‘By the way, Aidy, I’m trying sexual abstinence for a year.’ She went on to tell me that the last time she’d had sex had been behind the Speaker’s chair with a Tory frontbencher.

  ‘Not while the Commons was sitting?’ I gasped.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I was so disgusted with myself – I mean, a Tory!’

  I put my pyjamas on and we climbed into bed. I was relieved that there was to be no sex. My spirit was willing, but for my reproductive organs it would have been a bridge too far.

  Bernard brought me a cup of tea in bed this morning. He did not seem surprised to see Pandora there.

  He said, ‘Best thing to do, cocker. If you fall off a horse, you get right back on and ride it hard until its bloody hooves fall off.’

  Pandora said, ‘Are you calling me an old nag, Mr Hopkins?’

  Bernard tugged on his moustache and said, ‘Madam, you are a thoroughbred, a filly sired from the crème de
la crème of bloodstock merchants.’

  Before she left, Pandora kissed my head and said, ‘I had a great night’s sleep, Aidy. Perhaps I’ll come again.’

  Bernard and I watched from the front window as she swayed down the drive in her boots and the stained sheepskin, on her way to retrieve her car from outside The Bear.

  Bernard sighed. ‘Beauty and brains, and thighs you could crack a nut with,’ he said.

  Overheard at the party:

  Bernard to Nigel: ‘I had a brief spell as a homosexual, but I had to give it up.’

  ‘George Mole is not deaf, Wendy. He’s choosing not to hear you.’

  Friday 4th April

  Treatment.

  Sick many times.

  Saturday 5th April

  Slept until noon. Gracie gone to Longleat Safari Park with Daisy and HFL.

  Sunday 6th April

  Got up, had shower, shaved, ate one Weetabix – or should that be Weetabi?

  Watched the Olympic torch being relayed around London flanked by ten Chinese security guards and two Metropolitan policemen. It was carried by celebrities that Bernard and I had never heard of.

  In Downing Street Mr Brown came out to look at the flame. However, he did not touch it.

  Bernard said, ‘By touching it, cocker, he would have condoned the occupation of Tibet and given his blessing to the slaughter in Tiananmen Square.’

  I am very worried about the Olympics. I cite Wembley Stadium and Terminal Five, which is still not working. Will the world be laughing at us in 2012?

  In the afternoon I felt well enough to walk to the wood nearest our house. Bernard came with me. The ground was dotted with bright yellow flowers showing through the dead leaves.

  Bernard said, ‘Celandines! They make you feel that all is not lost, don’t they, kiddo?’