Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction Page 3

  ‘But Adrian, dear,’ he said, ‘we tick along very nicely, don’t we? You and I earn a living wage, we cover our expenses, and we spend our days surrounded by our blessed books. Aren’t we content just as we are?’

  It was not a rhetorical question. He genuinely wanted to know. I mumbled something about how much I liked the job, but, diary, I long to modernize this place. We haven’t even got an electric till.

  At lunchtime I walked to the marketplace. Marigold was in Country Organics, prescribing lima beans to a miserable-looking woman with low-level depression. When the woman had gone, clutching her recycled paper bag, I said to Marigold, ‘I thought I’d deliver it in person.’

  She took the book out of the FedEx envelope and shouted, ‘Mummy, it’s arrived.’

  A tall woman with a face like a pretty pig joined us at the counter. I have never seen anybody so pink. Either she has a dermatological condition or she has had a recent accident with a sun lamp.

  I said, ‘How do you do, Mrs Flowers?’ and held out my hand.

  She said, ‘I won’t shake your hand if you don’t mind.’

  Marigold looked uncomfortable and said, ‘Mummy thinks that hand-shaking is an outmoded practice.’

  Mrs Flowers took the book and leafed through it, narrowing her squinty eyes even further. Marigold watched her anxiously, as if awaiting her verdict. I began to feel a little nervous myself. I always feel uncomfortable in the presence of women who are taller than me.

  I said, ‘I hadn’t realized the book was for you, Mrs Flowers.’

  She replied, ‘It isn’t for me, but Marigold is easily taken advantage of. How much are you going to charge her for this?’

  I said that the book cost $21.95 and that the cost of postage and packaging was a further $25.

  Mrs Flowers said, ‘How much is that in good English money?’

  I handed her the invoice.

  ‘£29.75! For a little book with only 168 pages?’

  I said, ‘But it’s been flown from America in three days, Mrs Flowers.’

  She threw the book on to the counter and said to Marigold, ‘If you want to squander your money, then go ahead, but it makes nonsense of me and Daddy scrimping and saving to try and keep the business going.’

  I said to Marigold, ‘Perhaps I ought to take it back.’

  And she said quietly, ‘Perhaps you should. I’m sorry.’

  When I got back to the shop, I told Mr Carlton-Hayes that Miniature Embroidery for the Georgian Doll’s House was unwanted by the customer.

  He said, ‘Never mind, Adrian. I’m sure there must be somebody else in Leicester who is interested in miniature Georgian-style embroidery.’

  Sunday October 13th

  Moon’s First Quarter

  An email from Rosie:

  Aidy, have you seen the news about the bombing in Bali? My friend Emma is on her way to Australia via Bali. Can you phone the emergency number for me please – I’ve got no credits on my mobile. Her name is Emma Lexton and she is twenty.

  I emailed her back:

  Information is only being given to next of kin. I am sending you £10 by first-class post. Don’t give it to Simon. Please ring Mum. She is worried about you.

  Monday October 14th

  No replies from the Right Honourable Tony Blair, Jordan or Beckham.

  Dear Mr Blair

  Perhaps my letter of September 29th has been mislaid or overlooked in the confusion of these turbulent times. I enclose a copy and would appreciate an early reply. My travel company, Latesun Ltd, are still refusing to return my deposit of £57.10.

  I remain, sir,

  Your most humble and obedient servant,

  A. A. Mole

  Only four of us turned up for the Leicestershire and Rutland Creative Writing Group meeting tonight. There was me, Gary Milksop, Gladys Fordingbridge and Ken Blunt. We met as usual in Gladys’s front room, hemmed in by cat ornaments and photographs of her vast family.

  I opened the proceedings by reading from my dramatic monologue, ‘Moby-Dick Speaks’, wherein we get the whale’s point of view on being harpooned.

  After a few moments Gladys interrupted me, saying, ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it. What’s going on? Is it supposed to be the fish talking or what?’

  Ken Blunt stubbed his cigarette out into a cat ashtray and said, ‘Gladys, a whale is not a fish, it’s a mammal.’

  I continued, but I could tell that I had lost my audience.

  At the end, Gary Milksop twittered, ‘I liked the bit about Captain Ahab looking like a man who had been born without a soul.’

  Gladys read her latest crappy cat poem – something about ‘I love my little kitty because she is so pretty…’ Naturally, because she is eighty-six, this received a round of applause.

  Milksop followed with the latest chapter of the Proustian novel he has been writing and rewriting for fifteen years. It took 2,000 words to describe his first memory of eating a HobNob.

  Milksop cries if he gets negative criticism.

  Ken Blunt said, ‘Well done, Gary. I like the bit about the HobNob melting into the tea.’

  I informed the group that I had not yet managed to arrange a guest speaker for our dinner on December 23rd, but that I had several irons in the fire.

  Ken said he hadn’t written anything for this week’s meeting because he had been doing double shifts at Walkers Crisps. They are introducing a new line.

  Gladys said, ‘What flavour will they be?’

  Ken said, ‘I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement.’

  She said, ‘It’s hardly Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, is it? It’s only a few bleeding crisps.’

  I changed the subject by telling them that I was moving into a loft apartment at the Old Battery Factory, Rat Wharf, soon, and that in future meetings could be held there.

  Gladys said, ‘My husband worked there once. He spilt acid down his front. It only just missed his manhood.’

  Gladys was not who I had in mind when I started the group.

  Tuesday October 15th

  Marigold came in at lunchtime and bought Miniature Embroidery for the Georgian Doll’s House but asked me not to tell her mother. She said that she would keep the book in the attic, where she kept most of her doll’s houses. She said that neither of her parents was capable of climbing the loft ladder.

  I said that I would love to see her doll’s house collection and was perfectly capable of climbing a loft ladder.

  She said that her parents were ‘funny’ about visitors.

  I said, ‘Do they never go out?’

  She said they went out on Fridays to the Madrigal Society.

  I said, ‘Well, what a coincidence. Friday is the only night of the week I am free.’ I smiled to show her that this was a little joke and to try and put her at her ease.

  I am not at all interested in doll’s houses. The last I remember seeing belonged to Rosie; it was a plastic, vulgar ranch-house-style thing, inhabited by Barbie and her boyfriend, Ken.

  I asked Marigold if she would like to meet up after work for a drink. She said that she wasn’t very good with alcohol.

  ‘Coffee then?’ I said.

  ‘Coffee?’ she said, as though I had suggested fresh pig’s blood.

  I said that I had heard that red wine was good for the circulatory system.

  She said, ‘OK, I’ll join you in a glass of red wine, but I can’t tonight. I’d need to give my parents notice.’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ I said.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but you will have to give me a lift home. We live in Beeby on the Wold and the last bus leaves Leicester at 6.30.’

  For some reason we had been almost whispering. Marigold gives the impression that she is a spy living in enemy territory. Her skin is exquisite. I longed to stroke her face.

  When I got home to Ashby de la Zouch my parents informed me that they had decided to sell up. Some fool has offered them £180,000 for their semi, including its hideous carpets and curtains. I pointe
d out that they would have to pay the same amount for a similar property.

  ‘Aha!’ said my father triumphantly. ‘We are not buying a similar property. We are going to buy a wreck and do it up.’

  I left them poring over the Leicester Mercury property guide, ringing the more dilapidated houses in the worst areas.

  Their tired old faces were suffused with enthusiasm. I hadn’t got the heart to pour cold water on to their mad plans.

  Neither of them would know what a joist was if it sprang up and hit them in the face.

  Wednesday October 16th

  I dressed carefully in natural organic-type colours this morning. Mr Carlton-Hayes complimented me on my aftershave. I told him that Pandora had bought it for me as a Christmas present four years ago and that I only wore it on very special occasions. Mr Carlton-Hayes told me that he had read in the Bookseller that Pandora had written a book called Out of the Box; it is due to be published in July 2003.

  I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes if he would order a few copies, pointing out that Pandora was a local MP and was constantly on Newsnight, smarming up to Jeremy Paxman.

  He asked me if Pandora’s book was likely to be ghostwritten. I said it was highly unlikely – Pandora was a control freak who had once gone berserk when I had changed the station on her car radio.

  I met Marigold, as arranged, in the Euro Wine Bar – it used to be Barclays Bank – and we sat where the paying-in queue used to form. I asked for the wine list. The waiter shouted over the salsa music that there was no wine list and that the choice was red or white, in sweet or dry.

  Marigold said she would have sweet red because her blood sugar was low. I ordered the dry white.

  Conversation was difficult because of the noise. There was a speaker directly over our heads. I looked around at the other customers. They were mostly young and seemed to be lip-reading. Perhaps they were on an outing from the Royal National Institute for Deaf People.

  After a while Marigold and I gave up trying to converse and she sat and looked at the dozens of miniature silver things on her charm bracelet.

  A hen party –a collection of females dressed as mini-skirted nurses wearing fishnet tights – came in and sat at the next table. One of them took out a clockwork penis, which went round in circles until it broke free and collided against Marigold’s leg. I paid our bill and we hurried out into the street.

  I asked Marigold if she liked Chinese food.

  She said, ‘If I’m careful with the monosodium glutamate.’

  As we passed the clock tower, I looked around at the crowds of young people gathered there, and realized that, at thirty-four and a half, I was probably the oldest person in the immediate vicinity. Even the policemen in the parked Transit van looked like kids.

  Thursday October 17th

  It took for ever to get to sleep last night. I lay awake in the dark, thinking about Marigold. She is a fragile, sensitive creature. She needs somebody to give her confidence in herself and free her from her overbearing parents.

  I took her to Wong’s and ordered Menu C, and we ate prawn crackers, wanton soup, crispy duck with pancakes, lemon honey chicken and sweet and sour pork balls with egg-fried rice.

  I asked the waiter, Wayne Wong, whom I have known since our school days, to remove the cutlery and bring us chopsticks, and I also asked Wayne to tell the chef to go easy on the monosodium glutamate.

  Marigold seemed to be impressed at my confident, cosmopolitan restaurant manner.

  Wayne had seated us at the best table in the house, next to the giant fish tank, where Koi carp costing 500 quid a throw were swimming about.

  Marigold said, ‘I find them a little intimidating.’

  I put my hand on hers and said, ‘Don’t worry. They can’t get out of the tank.’

  I asked her if she would like us to move table.

  She said, ‘No, it’s just that they’re so big. I prefer small things.’

  This is the first time since I became sexually mature that I have worried that a woman will find my genitalia too big. I can’t wait for our next meeting tomorrow.

  Friday October 18th

  Rosie sent a text which said:

  M’s safe in Woolgoolga.

  It wasn’t until I was halfway to Leicester that I realized what she was texting about.

  I told Mr Carlton-Hayes that I was going to Marigold’s house tonight to have a look at her doll’s house collection.

  He said in tones of astonishment, ‘You’re going to Michael Flowers’s house? Do be careful, my dear, he’s a dreadful man.’

  I asked him how their paths had crossed.

  He said, ‘Flowers used to be the vice-chairman of the Literary and Philosophical Society here in town. We had a vehement disagreement about Tolkien. I said that the opening paragraphs of The Fellowship of the Ring were enough to make a strong man retch. I’m afraid we came to blows in the car park of the Central Lending Library.’

  I said, ‘I hope you came off best.’

  He said almost dreamily, ‘I rather think I did.’

  I explained that Michael Flowers and his wife would be out at the time of my visit, at the Madrigal Society.

  When he had gone in the back I took a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring and read the opening paragraphs. I couldn’t see what the fuss had been about. It certainly wasn’t worth coming to blows over, though perhaps ‘eleventy’ was an invented word too far.

  I looked through at Mr Carlton-Hayes in his baggy cardigan. It was hard to imagine him brawling in a car park.

  Marigold made me park in Main Street, Beeby on the Wold. Then we cut through fields to the Gothic-looking house she has lived in all her life and entered by the back door. She said she didn’t want the neighbours to see me entering the house. I looked around. There were no neighbours.

  It was freezing cold in the dark interior. Apparently, Michael Flowers doesn’t believe in central heating. He believes in wearing layers of wool and keeping busy.

  Marigold was obviously very nervous.

  I said, ‘Perhaps this is not a good idea.’

  She said, ‘No, I’m a woman of thirty. Why shouldn’t I show my doll’s houses to a friend?’

  We passed through the gloomy hall. There was a stack of library books and cassettes on the hall table, waiting to be returned to the Central Lending Library. One of the cassettes was Rolf Harris in Concert.

  I said, ‘Rolf Harris and madrigals?’

  She said, ‘My father has eclectic tastes.’

  We crept up two flights of stairs like burglars. I went up the loft ladder first, because Marigold was wearing a skirt. Then Marigold went around switching the lights on in the doll’s houses. I was enchanted with the first few. The delicacy of the stitching on the soft furnishings was awe-inspiring, and when Marigold demonstrated the flushing toilet I was gobsmacked. I was impressed with the next batch, but quite frankly, diary, by the time I had inspected the eighteenth I was more than a little bored. However, I feigned interest.

  I was relieved when we were walking across the fields back to the car. I held her delicate hand. I wanted to ask her to marry me, but I fought the impulse.

  When we reached the village we sat in my car and talked about our families. We have both suffered. She said that her greatest fear was that she would never leave home and that she would be trapped in her parents’ house for ever. Her elder sisters, Poppy and Daisy, had fled years ago.

  At 10 o’clock she said that she had better go home and prepare a late supper for her parents. I stroked her face. Her skin felt as soft as a silk shirt I used to have. She is almost beautiful when she smiles. She has got good-quality teeth.

  When I got home I told my mother a little about Marigold.

  She said, ‘She sounds like a nightmare. Take my advice and keep well away from needy people. They suck you into their own miserable world.’

  She should know – she married my father.

  Saturday October 19th

  At lunchtime today I walked to Country Organ
ics to give Marigold a copy of What Not to Wear by Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine. I haven’t mentioned it before, diary, but Marigold has very little dress sense. Somehow she has not realized that pop socks should not be worn with a mid-calf skirt. Or that lime-green shoes are not a good idea.

  When she saw the title, her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She was obviously touched.

  There was a big bombastic man behind the counter wearing a hairy tree-patterned jumper, obviously hand-knitted by a friend, or an enemy. He was lecturing an elderly couple about GM crops in a booming voice. He said, ‘Let’s be honest, mark my words, there won’t be a single tree growing in this country in fifty years’ time. If GM crops are planted, we can say goodbye to our songbirds and butterflies. Do you want that?’

  The elderly couple shook their heads.

  His completely bald bonce glinted under the fluorescent lights. His yellow beard was crying out for a trim. It was Michael Flowers. I hated him on sight. I felt like shouting, ‘Yes, Flowers, I can’t wait until trees, songbirds and butterflies are a thing of the past.’ But of course I didn’t.

  Marigold must have sensed my mood. She did not introduce me to her father. I left the shop with a heavy heart.

  Sunday October 20th

  Because they are ‘between cars’, my parents asked me to give them a lift to Harrow Street, in the Grimshaw area of Leicester, to view what my father somewhat grandiloquently called a property. The photograph on the estate agent’s particulars showed a boarded-up terraced house with vegetation growing out of the chimney pot.

  I pointed out that Harrow Street was a police no-go area. But they said that after viewing the property they had promised to drop in for a cup of tea with Tania Braithwaite and Pandora, who was visiting her mother on the second anniversary of her father’s death. I still go weak at the knees whenever Pandora’s name is mentioned, so I was putty in their hands.