Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years Page 10

  ‘But you didn’t, did you? You’re the cleverest man I know,’ I said.

  ‘Well, for a time I quite forgot my Greek and Latin, but happily both came back.’ He put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Why don’t you go home, my dear? You’ve had a dreadful shock.’

  I said that I would rather stay in the back room and collect my thoughts. The bell rang and he went out into the shop. I heard a woman asking if he had a book about casting spells. She told him that her next-door neighbour wouldn’t cut her side of the privet hedge that was a boundary to their gardens, and that she wanted to cast a spell on her.

  Why are at least half the people who frequent our bookshop mad?

  Thursday 27th September

  I never want to live through a night like that again. Daisy took the news very badly. After sobbing for a few minutes, she flew into a rage, shouting, ‘Why you? You’ve never hurt anybody or anything, and the next time somebody tells me that God exists I swear I’ll stuff my bloody fist down their throat. If He or She exists, why does He or She allow violent thicko bastards to walk the streets in perfect health?’

  My mother heard the shouting and came round. She wept, ‘Why is God punishing you and not me? If I could have your tumour for you, I would. I’ve had my life, such as it was. I’ve not got anything to live for, apart from my family and the two weeks your father goes into respite care.’ She added, lighting a cigarette, ‘This will kill your father, we can’t tell him.’

  I said, ‘We’re already keeping The Jeremy Kyle Show from him. He can’t be protected from the tragedies of life for ever.’

  Gracie woke up and came into the living room She looked so adorable in her Disney princess pyjamas that I picked her up and held her until she said, ‘Daddy, you’re squeezing me too tight. Put me down.’

  Later on, when everybody had calmed down a bit, we went round to tell my father. His reaction on hearing the word ‘tumour’ was to thump the sides of his wheelchair and shout at the ceiling, ‘Call yourself merciful, God? You murdered your own son, and now you’re murdering mine!’

  My mother opened the bottle of champagne she keeps in the fridge for celebrations, saying, as she handed me a glass, ‘Let’s celebrate the first day of Adrian’s recovery.’

  I had not had anything to eat that day so the champagne went to my head and for a few minutes I was full of optimism, but it soon wore off. When we returned home, I was putting Gracie back to bed and I felt fear grip me around my heart. Would I see my little girl grow up?

  Friday 28th September

  Can’t write anything.

  Saturday 29th September

  I received an appointment in the post to see Mr Rafferty at his clinic on Tuesday morning.

  Sunday 30th September

  Me, Daisy, Gracie and my parents went to The Bear for lunch.

  Mrs Golightly was in the pub with her hangdog husband. She shouted, ‘Mrs Lewis-Masters enjoyed your visit the other day.’

  Daisy raised her eyebrows and said, ‘What visit?’

  I told her about old Mrs Lewis-Masters and she said, ‘Aidy, don’t get involved with another pensioner. You’ve got to think about yourself now.’

  As usual, the food was horrible.

  When I complained to Mrs Urquhart that my Yorkshire pudding had shattered and that my Brussels sprouts were waterlogged, she said, ‘Nobody asked you to come here.’ Which was quite a reasonable statement because obviously nobody had.

  I said, ‘I thought you would welcome my comments on your food.’

  She said, ‘You want to try cooking and serving sixty or so Sunday lunches in a tiny kitchen with no ventilation.’

  My mother took my arm and said, ‘Adrian, you mustn’t get upset. It’s not good for your prostrate.’

  Is this how my life is to be from now on? Is my prostate going to take centre stage?

  In the afternoon I went for a walk by myself. The autumn trees were spectacularly beautiful. In the little spinney behind the Piggeries I sat down on the trunk of a fallen silver birch tree and phoned Pandora. Judging by the noises off, she was in a busy restaurant.

  I asked her where she was.

  ‘I’m in Wagamama. Halfway through a bowl of noodles,’ she said.

  I told her that I had some bad news.

  ‘Is it my mother?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Are you getting a divorce?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a tumour.’

  ‘What kind of a tumour?’ she said, her voice quavering.

  ‘Prostate,’ I said.

  I heard her shout imperiously, ‘For fuck’s sake be quiet!’ The restaurant fell silent and she said, ‘Who’s looking after you?’

  I told her that Mr Tomlinson-Burk was, and that I was due to see Mr Rafferty on Tuesday.

  She said, ‘You can’t put your life in the hands of provincial doctors. I have contacts in Harley Street. I’ll make some enquiries and ring you back tomorrow.’

  We talked for a few moments about inconsequential things and then she said, ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

  I said, ‘Yes, and you know I still love you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and then she rang off.

  A small part of me was glad that Pandora was back in my life and that, for once, she was going to ring me.

  Dear Diary, I will not die until I have seen all seven modern Wonders of the World. They are: the Great Wall of China, Petra in Jordan, the Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil, Machu Picchu in Peru, some ruin in Mexico I’ve never heard of, the Colosseum in Rome and the Taj Mahal in India. I am almost forty years of age and I have never seen a single one. I broke into a sweat when I realized that I could die any day without seeing a single Wonder! I hereby vow, Diary, that I will make it my life’s purpose to knock off all seven.

  Monday 1st October

  Nigel took my prostate news very badly. ‘And they say there’s a fucking God,’ he said. ‘Well, if there is, he’s a total bastard who sent me blind and lets little kids die like flies in Africa.’

  Barbara Boyer, from our old school – Neil Armstrong Comprehensive – was there, celebrating her birthday. She is as beautiful as ever, which is a miracle considering that she has been married five times and is the mother of seven children. She told me that her third husband, Barry, is still in remission from ‘prostrate’ cancer, eleven years on, and that he lives a very active life, snorkelling in the Maldives and hot-air ballooning. She added, ‘And he’s sixty-one. They do call it the old man’s disease.’

  ‘So I could live until I’m fifty-one,’ I said. And for some reason we all laughed.

  Lance processed in, flourishing a birthday cake, blazing with forty candles. It’s a wonder they haven’t burned their house down by now. They both smoke and are constantly missing the ashtray.

  Later on, Parvez came round and gave Barbara a birthday card and a box of After Eights. Then Wayne Wong arrived with an orchid in a pot and, having been told my news, said, ‘My uncle had prostate cancer.’

  I asked how he was.

  Wayne hesitated for a second and then said, with his eyes downcast, ‘He died five years ago.’

  As I was about to leave, Pandora rang and gave me the names of two Harley Street doctors. When they heard that Pandora was on the phone, everybody insisted on speaking to her. Barbara asked Pan if she was seeing anybody. Apparently, Pandora answered that she was having a secret affair with a shadow cabinet minister. When the call was terminated, we speculated on who the shadow minister might be. None of us could think of a single Conservative minister’s name apart from David Cameron. For a few moments I forgot about the tumour inside me, and had a laugh and drank some wine and ate birthday cake with my friends.

  It was not until I was on the way home that I realized I had not been invited to Barbara’s birthday party and, if I had not called on Nigel, I would have known nothing about it.

  Why didn’t they invite me, Diary? Is it because Daisy once told Bar
bara that anybody marrying more than twice was a glutton for punishment and deserved everything they got?

  Why do so many people mispronounce ‘prostate’? I am sick of correcting them.

  Tuesday 2nd October

  Mr Rafferty did not look like a doctor either. He had a Belfast accent and reminded me of the Reverend Ian Paisley. He wore chinos, Timberland boots and a Ralph Lauren sweater. He went into detail about the various possible treatments for my tumour: radiotherapy, external-beam radiotherapy, Brach therapy, internal radiotherapy, surgery, high-intensity focused ultrasound and photodynamic therapy.

  I told him that I didn’t like the sound of the internal radiotherapy, where they insert radioactive pellets through a tube in the penis.

  He said, ‘No, it fair makes the eyes water, doesn’t it? But it’s an extremely effective method of zapping the tumour.’ He told me he was going to send me off for a transrectal ultrasound examination and that he would see me later, when he had reviewed the resulting video, which he invited me to watch too.

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘with the knowledge gained, we can make an effective treatment plan.’

  I was reluctant to remove my boxer shorts in the company of a young nurse and the ultrasound operator, but they were very matter of fact and told me that they do dozens of such examinations every day. When the probe was inserted, the young nurse squeezed my hand and said, ‘That’s the worst over.’

  When the probe had been withdrawn, I got dressed and went back to Mr Rafferty’s waiting room. I had read fifty pages of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair before Mr Rafferty called me in to see the video. He pointed at something on the screen and said, ‘You see here that there are changes in the capsule of the prostate, and it may have been breeched. I will arrange for you to have an MRI scan in the next few days, then perhaps the dog will be able to see the rabbit, eh, Mr Mole?’

  Wednesday 3rd October

  I am sick of thinking and talking about my prostate. Pandora rang to ask if I had contacted the Harley Street doctors yet.

  I told her that I had been too busy and that, anyway, I didn’t have the money for private medicine.

  She said, ‘Take out a loan, then.’

  I pointed out to her that I was still paying back tax on the salary I had earned in 1997 and was waiting to hear from Gordon Brown. ‘Perhaps he’s too busy taking tea with Margaret Thatcher,’ I said. I could not keep the bitterness from my voice.

  She said, ‘I will gladly lend you the money, Moley. I don’t want you to die.’

  I sometimes wish that Pandora would temper her language. She prides herself on calling a spade a spade, but I am with Gwendolen from Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest who, when the Reverend Chasuble says, ‘I call a spade a spade,’ replies, ‘I’m glad to say that I have never seen a spade.’

  I asked Pandora if she knew when Mr Brown was going to announce a snap election.

  ‘Snap is not a word I would associate with Gordon. He can’t decide between tea or bloody coffee when asked,’ she said, ‘but I’d love to see you in the flesh, Aidy, perhaps when I’m electioneering? Though I must admit, it’s some time since my constituents saw me in Ashby de la Zouche.’

  Diary, am I not worth a special visit, whether or not there is an election to be fought?

  Thursday 4th October

  I have just read that the government has passed a law whereby 652 agencies of the state will be able to find out who I have phoned and who has phoned me. It is the end of privacy. The government claims, in the sacred names of terrorism and criminal activity, that these measures are vital to our security. But how secure am I going to feel when I phone Parvez and we talk about my finances? Is some government snooper going to be listening and assume that I am laundering money or smuggling Kalashnikovs into Leicester?

  Parvez now wears Muslim dress and goes to Friday prayers at a radical mosque in Leicester. Only last week he said to me, ‘Moley, don’t ask me out for a drink no more, and don’t invite me to the ex-pigsty you live in. I ain’t comfortable knowing that pigs lived there before you. I’m strictly halal now.’

  I said, ‘I hope you’re not going to try and make your wife wear a veil?’

  He said, ‘Fat chance. My wife has joined the Townswomen’s Guild and is making potpourri baskets for the Christmas Fayre.’

  Friday 5th October

  Wrote another letter to Gordon Brown.

  Dear Mr Brown

  I wonder if you’ve had time to glance at my letter of 3rd June 2007.

  I realise that you are busy trying to decide whether or not the country should go to the polls, but just five minutes of your time would put my mind at rest.

  Also, do you think it fair that persons such as myself, who live in converted pigsties, should pay the full council tax? After all, we are helping to preserve England’s farming heritage and surely deserve to be recompensed for our commitment to the days of yore.

  Yours sincerely,

  Adrian A. Mole

  PS: By the way, I quite often phone my friend and accountant, Parvez. He is an ardent Muslim and attends a mosque led by a loquacious imam. However, Parvez poses no threat to the state. Perhaps you would apprise the security forces of this fact.

  A.A.M.

  Saturday 6th October

  Daisy phoned me at work to tell me she had opened a letter addressed to me and that an appointment has been made for me to attend the hospital for an MRI scan on Tuesday morning at 11.15.

  She said, ‘I’m going with you this time, Aidy, and nothing you say will stop me.’

  I made a window display out of Katie Price’s (aka Jordan’s) new book A Whole New World, her ghosted autobiography. Mr Carlton-Hayes had ordered twenty-five hardback copies in the mistaken belief that Price’s book was something to do with Jordan’s role in the Middle East.

  All twenty-five copies had been sold by lunchtime. Mr Carlton-Hayes was very relieved and said, ‘Perhaps I’ll leave the ordering to you in future, my dear.’

  I am getting increasingly worried about him. Yesterday he forgot who had written Scoop, one of his favourite books. He kept saying, ‘Don’t tell me, Adrian. I know it’s written by a woman.’

  I gave him a clue and said, ‘No, it’s written by a man with a woman’s name.’

  Halfway through the afternoon he shouted, ‘Evelyn Waugh!’

  The more doddery and forgetful he becomes, the more I have to do in the shop. I told him three times that I had to go to the hospital on Tuesday morning, but as we were closing the shop he asked me again when my appointment was.

  I know he is worried about me. Sometimes I think he regards me as the son he never had.

  Sunday 7th October

  Spent most of the day working on Plague!. Wrote a scene for Mrs Lewis-Masters’ housekeeper, Mrs Golightly.

  Plague victim is slumped on the Village Green. Enter a fat jolly woman. She crosses to the plague victim.

  FAT JOLLY WOMAN: Thou lookest under the weather.

  PLAGUE VICTIM: ’Tis true, I have got munificent sores cast about my body.

  FAT JOLLY WOMAN: Have you the pox?

  PLAGUE VICTIM: No, for I have never lain with a woman, a man nor one of God’s beasts of the field. I was keeping my corporal body pure so that I may enter the gates of Heaven.

  FAT JOLLY WOMAN: I fear that I will go straight to Hell and be tortured evermore by the flames and the Devil’s pitchfork, for I have lain with many in this village, maids and men.

  PLAGUE VICTIM: I feel death at my shoulder. He hath his hands about my heart.

  A carrion crow enters stage right and circles overhead.

  FAT JOLLY WOMAN: I will hasten to the abbey and fetch Brother Andrew. He doth have potions and plants that may cure you of this evil scourge.

  The carrion crow lands at the plague victim’s feet and pecks at his boots. The fat jolly woman exits stage left.

  I am pleased with this scene. I think I have captured the atmosphere and the language very well. I strongly ident
ify with Plague Victim. Next week I will have to start casting, which I am dreading. The Mangold Parva Players are notoriously quarrelsome if they are not allocated the best parts.

  Monday 8th October

  My father told me that when he had an MRI scan he terminated the session after five minutes and demanded to be let out. He said that the doctors were extremely annoyed and told him that there were hundreds of people on the waiting list. My father said, ‘It’s not my fault I suffer from claustrophobia. I was locked in the cupboard under the stairs in 1953. My mother and her sister went to see Gone with the Wind and forgot about me.’

  I asked my father why he had been locked in the understairs cupboard.

  He said, ‘It was a trivial thing. I fed two of her goldfish to the cat.’

  I told him that cruelty to animals was an early sign of psychopathic behaviour.

  He said, ‘Those goldfish didn’t suffer, the cat bit their heads off quick and clean.’

  Tuesday 9th October

  MRI Day

  Daisy was making a disproportionate fuss last night about what she should wear to the hospital today. She went through her wardrobe, trying on her favourite clothes, before throwing them into a heap in the corner of our bedroom and saying plaintively, ‘Nothing fits.’

  I tried to calm her down by saying, ‘You always look nice in black,’ but she said she couldn’t possibly wear black, that it was far too ‘funereal’ and she wanted to feel optimistic about the results of the scan.

  Diary, I could not help thinking, as I picked her discarded clothes up from the floor and rehung them in the wardrobe, that it would have been easier to go by myself.