Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years Page 6

  I trimmed my beard this morning. Mrs Hedge screamed when I came out of the bathroom. When she recovered, she said, ‘Christ, you look like the Yorkshire Ripper.’

  I had a terrible session with Leonora. I went into her room with the self-esteem of an anorexic aphid and came out feeling worse.

  My low self-esteem on entering Leonora’s room was due to an acrimonious phone conversation I’d had with my mother earlier. She had rung the office to ask me if I would like to go to a party given by Barry Kent to celebrate the success of Dork’s Diary. The venue is the North East Leicester Working Men’s Club, and half of Leicester has been invited.

  I said to my mother, ‘I would sooner wash a corpse.’

  My mother accused me of petty jealousy, and then had a tantrum and recited my faults: arrogance, overweening pride, snobbery, pretension, phoney intellectualism, wimpishness, etc., etc.

  I recited this to Leonora who said, ‘I suggest that you take on board what your mother is saying. I also suggest that you go to the party.’ She said that she had bought five copies of Dork’s Diary: for her husband, Fergus; for her best friend, Susan Strachan; for her therapist, Simon; for her supervisor, Alison; and for herself. I was totally gobsmacked. When Leonora said that it was time to go, I refused to leave my chair.

  I said, ‘I can’t bear the thought of you enjoying Barry Kent’s work.’

  Leonora said, ‘Tough, give me thirty pounds and leave.’

  I said, ‘No, I am totally sexually obsessed by you. I think about you constantly. I have revealed my innermost feelings to you.’

  Leonora said, ‘Yours is a standard reaction. You’ll get over it.’

  I said, ‘Leonora, I feel betrayed. I refuse to be treated like an example from a text book.’

  Leonora stood up and tossed her magnificent head and said, ‘Ours is a professional relationship, Mr Mole. It could never be anything else. Come and see me next Thursday.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Take your thirty pieces of silver.’

  I flung a Market Harborough Building Society cheque made out for thirty pounds onto the desk and left, slamming the door.

  If my father had allowed me to abandon that dummy in my own time, I’m convinced I would now be enjoying perfect mental health.

  Saturday April 6th

  Am I the only person in Britain who has an open mind re the David Icke sensation? Bianca described him as a ‘barmpot’ this morning – but as I pointed out to her, Jesus himself was reviled in his day. The press were against him and the money-lenders slagged him off to all and sundry. Also, Jesus was a bit of an eccentric as regards clothes. He would not have won a ‘Best Dressed Palestinian of the Year Award’. But, had track suits been around in Christ’s day, he would almost certainly have opted for the comfort and washability of such garments.

  Sunday April 7th

  Dork’s Diary is now at number eight. Glanced through my Illustrated Bible Stories tonight and was startled to find on page 33 (Raising Lazarus) that Jesus is wearing turquoise robes!!!

  Monday April 8th

  Brown is back, but he is wearing a noisy surgical corset, which is quite useful (the noise, not the corset), because Megan is seeing Bill Blane (Badger Dept) on the side. I like Bill. He and I discussed David Icke at the Autovent today. Bill agrees with me that Sirus could have been overlooked by the astronomers. It could well have been hidden behind another, bigger planet.

  The emir of Kuwait has promised to hold parliamentary elections next year. He has announced that women will be allowed to vote. Good for you, Sir!

  Tuesday April 9th

  John Major has been cross-examined by the press about his ‘O’ levels. I hope this won’t remind Brown about my own, non-existent, Biology ‘A’ level. Why, oh why, couldn’t I have been born an American? College students there are given multiple choice type exams. All the dumbos have to do is put a tick against what they think is the right answer.

  Example:

  Question:

  Who discovered America?

  Was it:

  a) Columbus?

  b) Mickey Mouse?

  c) Rambo?

  Wednesday April 10th

  Bill Blane has asked me to go for a drink after work tomorrow. This could be the start of a new friendship.

  Thursday April 11th

  Bill wanted to talk about Megan. In fact, he talked about her all night. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways, apart from saying, ‘Same again?’ when it was my turn to buy a round. I drank far too much (three pints) and in my muddled state started walking back to Pandora’s flat before realizing my mistake and turning my steps towards the Hedge household.

  Friday April 12th

  Worked on Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland tonight. Started Chapter Eleven:

  As he skirted the top of the hill, he looked east and saw the city of Leicester glowing in the dying embers of the setting sun. The tower blocks reflected the scarlet rays and bounced them against the factory chimneys and the Royal Infirmary multi-storey car park. He sighed with the glorious anticipation of knowing that he would soon be tramping the reconstituted concrete streets of his home town. He could have entered the city by a more discreet route – turned off the motorway at Junction 23 – but he preferred this, the route of the sheep drovers, and anyway, he hadn’t got a car.

  He had been away too long, he thought. He had grown tired of the world and its attractions. Leicester was where his heart was. He strode down the hill, his eyes were wet. The wind, perhaps? Or the pain of absence? He would never know. The sun slipped away behind the grand edifice of the Alliance and Leicester Building Society headquarters and he felt the stealthy black fingers of night collect around him. Soon it was dark. Still he descended. Down. Down.

  Not many people know that Leicester lies in a basin, he ruminated. No wonder it is the bronchitis centre of the world, he thought. Before long, he had descended the hill and he was on flat ground.

  I think this is probably the best writing I have ever done. It is magnificent. I hope I can maintain this standard throughout the novel.

  Saturday April 13th

  Notes on Lo!:

  a) Should I give my hero a name? Or should I continue to call him ‘he’, ‘him’, etc.?

  b) Should the narrative be stronger? At the moment, not much happens. He leaves Leicester, then comes back to Leicester. Should the reader know what he does in between?

  c) Should he have sex, or go shopping? Most modern novels are full of references to one or the other – the reading public obviously relishes such activities.

  Descriptions (to be slotted in somewhere):

  The tree bent in the wind, like a pensioner at Land’s End.

  The fried egg spluttered in the frying pan like an old man having a tubercular coughing fit in a 1930s National Health Service hospital.

  Her breasts were as full as hot air balloons. Her face was infused with anger, her eyes flashed like a manic lighthouse whose wick needed cleaning.

  The tea was welcome. He sipped it gratefully, like an African elephant which has previously found its waterhole to be dry, but then remembered, and walked to, another.

  From now on, I shall write down these thoughts and ideas as they come to me. They are far too good to waste. Publication looks to be within my grasp.

  Sunday April 14th

  Woke at 8.30, had breakfast: cornflakes, toast, brown sauce, two cups of tea. Collected Sunday Times and Observer. Bianca not there. Dork’s Diary has gone to number seven. Changed into blazer. Walked round Outer Ring Road, came back. Brushed and hung up blazer. Lay on bed. Slept. Woke up, put on blazer, went out, had pizza in Pizza Hut. Came back, lay on bed, slept. Woke, had bath, changed into pyjamas and dressing gown. Cut toenails, trimmed beard, inspected skin. Tidied tapes into alphabetical order, Abba to Warsaw Concerto. Went downstairs. Mrs Hedge in kitchen, in tears at kitchen table. ‘I’ve got nobody to confide in,’ she cried. Made crab paste sandwiches. Went to bed. Wrote up journal.

  I can’t go on like t
his; I’d have more of a social life in prison.

  Monday April 15th

  Went to see DOE doctor, Dr Abrahams. I told him I was depressed. He told me he was depressed. I told him that my life was meaningless, that my ambitions remained unrealized. He told me that his dream was to become the Queen’s gynaecologist by the age of 44. I asked him how old he was. He told me that he was 45. Poor old git. He gave me a prescription for my depression. I asked the chemist if there were any side effects.

  She said, ‘Well, there’s lack of concentration. Your physical movement may be reduced. You’ll notice an increase in heart rate. There’ll possibly be sweating and tremors, constipation and perhaps difficulty in urinating. Bit depressing, really, isn’t it?’

  I agreed with her and tore the prescription into pieces.

  Wednesday April 17th

  Rocky gave me a lift to work this morning in his limo. We discussed Pandora, how arrogant she is, etc. Rocky said, ‘But, y’know, Aid, I’ll always love the girl, she’s, y’know, kinda like unique.’

  I congratulated Rocky on his use of the word ‘unique’.

  Rocky told me that Carly Pick, his girl friend, is teaching him new words.

  I said, ‘So, she’s extending your vocabulary, is she?’ But he looked at me blankly, from which I inferred that she hadn’t been at it for long.

  When the car drew up outside the DOE, I was pleased to see that Brown was looking out of his office window. He ducked out of sight, but he couldn’t have failed to see me exiting from the limousine. It won’t hurt Brown to know that I mingle with the rich and powerful.

  Robert Maxwell has saved the Mirror. He is a saint!

  Thursday April 18th

  The Newport Pagnell newts seem to have settled down, thank God. The road plans are finalized and construction is due to start next month.

  Mrs Brown came to the office today. She had lost her handbag in the Ashmolean Museum. Brown was entirely unsympathetic. Before he closed his office door, I heard him say, ‘That’s the second time this year, you stupid cow.’ He would not have spoken to Megan like that. Mrs Brown is very pretty. It’s just that her clothes are horrible. It’s as though there is a lunatic living in her wardrobe who orders her what to wear every morning. She can get away with looking ridiculous in Oxford. People probably assume that she is just another barmy professor, but she would be a laughing stock in Leicester.

  Saturday April 20th

  Mrs Hedge crying again this morning. I must away from this Vale of Tears. I need cheerful people around me.

  Bianca handed me a card this morning. It said, in mad handwriting:

  ROOM TO LET

  Academic household willing to let room free to tolerant person of either gender, in return for light household duties/babysitting/cat-sitting. Would suit working person with most evenings free. Please ring Dr Palmer.

  I rang immediately from the phone box outside the newsagent’s. A bloke answered.

  DR PALMER: Christian Palmer speaking.

  ME: Dr Palmer, my name is Adrian Mole. I’ve just seen your postcard in the newsagent’s.

  DR P: When can you start?

  ME: Start what?

  DR P: Looking after the bloody kids.

  ME: But you don’t know me.

  DR P: You sound okay and you’ve already proved you can use a telephone. So you can’t be a total simpleton. Have you got all your faculties: four limbs, eyesight?

  ME: Yes.

  DR P: Ever been done for molesting kiddie-winkies?

  ME: NO.

  DR P: Got any particularly nasty personal habits?

  ME: NO.

  DR P: Good. So when can you start? I’m on my own here. My wife’s in the States.

  The telephone receiver was dropped. Suddenly I heard Palmer shout, ‘Tamsin, put the top back on that bottle of bleach! Now!’

  He came back on the phone and gave me his address in Banbury Road.

  I went into the newsagent’s and asked Bianca what newspapers and magazines Palmer read. This is a sure sign of character. It was a baffling list:

  Newspapers: the Observer, the Daily Telegraph, the Sun, the Washington Post, the Oxford Mail, the Independent, the Sunday Times, Today

  Magazines: Time Out, Private Eye, Just Seventeen, Vogue, Brides, Forum, Computer Weekly, Woman’s Own, Paris Match, Gardening Today, Hello!, the Spectator, the Literary Review, Socialist Outpost, the Beano, Angler’s Weekly, Canoeist, Viz, Interiors, Goal!

  I stopped her and said, ‘Palmer’s newspaper bill must be enormous. How does he pay it?’

  ‘Infrequently,’ she replied.

  Sunday April 21st

  Dr Palmer is tall and thin and wears his hair like Elvis Presley did during his silver-cloaks-in-Los-Angeles phase. His first words to me were, ‘On your way to a fancy dress party?’ He laughed and fingered the lapels of my blazer.

  I mumbled something neutral and he asked, ‘Is that beard real?’

  I assured him that I had grown it myself and he said, ‘How old are you?’

  I answered, ‘Twenty-four,’ and he laughed a strange laugh, like a dog’s bark, and said,’ Twenty-four: so why the hell do you want to walk round looking like bloody Jack Hawkins?’

  ‘Who’s Jack Hawkins?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s a film star,’ he replied. ‘Everybody’s heard of Jack Hawkins.’ He looked annoyed for some reason. Then he said, ‘Well, unless you’re twenty-four, that is.’

  We were still standing on the doorstep of his decrepit house. A line of dirty, unrinsed milk bottles stood on the step. A little kid of unknown sex ran up the hall and tugged at Palmer’s trousers. ‘I’ve done a great big one! Come and look, Daddy!’ it said.

  We all three went into a gigantic room which seemed to be a kitchen, living-room and study combined. In the middle of the floor stood a potty in the shape of an elephant. Dr Palmer looked in the potty and exclaimed, ‘Tamsin, that is a truly wonderful piece of shit.’

  I averted my eyes as he carried the potty out of the room. Then I heard him shouting, ‘Alpha! Griffith! Come and see what Tamsin’s done!’ There was a thundering on the stairs. I looked into the hall and saw two other androgynous children looking into the potty, saying, ‘Wow!’ and ‘Mega shit!’

  I adjusted my blazer in the mirror over the large fireplace and thought that the Dr Palmer household was unsuited to one of my temperament. I do not like to hear little children swear and I prefer them to be dressed in proper clothes and to have hairstyles which give a clue to their sexual orientation. However, when Dr Palmer came back from emptying the potty, I was pleased to see that he was drying his hands, which indicated to me that he knew the fundamentals of hygiene. I agreed to inspect the free room. We climbed the stairs, followed by Tamsin, Griffith and Alpha, who spoke to each other in a language I was not familiar with.

  ‘Is it Welsh they’re speaking?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Palmer laughed. ‘It’s Oombagoomba. It’s their own language. They’re wearing their Oombagoomba clothes.’

  I looked at the rags and bits of cloth and shawls, etc. with which the kids were festooned and was relieved to find out that it was not their usual mode of dress. I too used to have my own made-up language (Ikbak), until my father beat it out of me during a long car journey to Skegness.

  The ‘free room’ turned out to be the whole of the attic floor. It had a kitchen at one end, and a private bathroom at the other. There was a proper desk. I could imagine reading the proofs of Lo! at that desk.

  ‘You can do what you like up here,’ said Palmer, ‘apart from serial killing.’

  ‘Are you a teacher?’ I ventured.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m leading a research project on popular culture. We are trying to establish why people go out to pubs, discos, bingo sessions, to the cinema, that sort of thing.’

  ‘It’s to enjoy themselves, isn’t it?’ I said.

  Palmer laughed again. ‘Yeah, but I’ve got to stretch that very simplistic answer into a three-year study and a seven-h
undred page book.’

  As we went down the stairs, I mentioned to Dr Palmer that as well as being an excellent tenant, I am also a novelist and a poet.

  He groaned and said, ‘So long as you never ask me to look at your manuscripts, we’ll stay the best of friends.’

  He made me a cup of coffee after grinding up some beans and he told me a bit about his wife, Cassandra, who is in Los Angeles directing a film about mutilation. She sounds horrific, although he claims to miss her. I am too tired and confused to write more. Dr Palmer has told me he must know by Wednesday if I want the room. He’s got to go out on Friday to a darts competition.

  Monday April 22nd

  Should I go, or should I stay?

  Can I stand babysitting for three children, four nights a week?

  I could save £75 a week. In a year, that is…? As usual, when faced with mental, or even physical, arithmetic, my brain has just left my body and walked out of the room.

  Thank God for calculators. Nine hundred pounds! It’s not as if I would be sacrificing my social life. I haven’t got one and, with a bit of luck, Mrs Palmer will stay in America, or fall over Niagara Falls, or something.