I was glad when he handed me my blood and asked me to give it to the clinic receptionist, ready for collection. I didn’t like the thought of him tinkering with it after I’d gone.
When I got home my mother reported gleefully that Arthur Stoat had rung, demanding the name and telephone number of my ghost-writer. She said, ‘I don’t understand why you can’t write the bloody thing yourself. It’s only a few recipes. It wouldn’t take you more than a week if you got stuck in.’
I said, ‘You non-writers don’t understand. There’s the question of tone and tense and clarity. And which word to put in front of another, and when to use a semicolon and how to know when only a colon will do!’
The DNA results will be sent to me by registered letter on Friday. Barry Kent has paid for the express service.
Tuesday December 9th
I went to Toys ’R’ Us this afternoon in my thankless quest for a Teletubby. I asked a boy (who inexplicably wore a badge saying ‘Gary Heppenstall, Assistant Manager’) where the Teletubbies were to be found. He smirked and said, ‘In China, sir, where they make ’em.’ He said they’d had a few La-Las on Monday, but they’d gone within minutes. I asked him why they couldn’t manufacture the Teletubbies in this country. He smiled pityingly at me and said, ‘They’ll work all week for a bowl of rice in China, sir. We can’t compete.’
Trawled to town for Teletubbies. There are none to be had. I am now on the waiting list of seven shops and have my mobile everywhere with me at all times should a consignment arrive in the middle of the night. Nigel is also on the case.
2 p.m. Is there no end to the suffering of Paula Yates? The latest tragedy to befall her is that DNA testing has proved she is the daughter of the dead right-wing aviationist and sinister quizmaster Hughie Green. Personally, I curse the day DNA was discovered. Weren’t we all happier in our ignorance?
In the evening Ivan went round to The Lawns to start dismantling his hardware and software. He is going to set up a home office in an alcove in our dining room.
Tania is insisting on keeping the chalet as part of the divorce settlement. While he was out we decorated the house with paper chains and balloons, and I held the ladder while my mother climbed into the loft to retrieve the Christmas tree and the box of decorations. The fairy-lights fused after only half an hour but, as I said to my mother, ‘It is traditional in our culture.’
Wednesday December 10th
There’s been a big row about the Christmas tree. Ivan said, ‘I’ve got to be frank with you, Paulie, I think it’s far too early to put a tree up and I can’t bear that kitsch stuff you’ve thrown on it. The effect is nauseating.’
My mother rounded on him with a knife in her hand (she was peeling potatoes at the sink), and said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Sir Terence bleeding Conran?’
He said, ‘Pauline, please don’t swear, it demeans you.’
She said, ‘Then don’t criticize my baubles, Ivan.’
The tree row led to the who-will-be-where-and-with-whom-at-Christmas row. I took charge and asked each person what their ideal Christmas would be. My mother said, ‘Ideally, I want to watch William open his presents on Christmas morning and then go abroad, somewhere hot, with Ivan.’
Ivan said ideally he wanted to invite his ninety-two-year-old mother, who is in a residential home in Rutland, to spend Christmas week at Wisteria Walk. ‘It could be her last Christmas,’ he said.
Rosie said, ‘Ideally I want to stay in bed eating tortilla chips all day and watch my Christmas present: a new portable colour television.’
William said he didn’t care what he did, so long as he did it with a full set of Teletubbies.
I phoned my father to canvass his opinion. He said, ‘Ideally we’d like to watch William open his presents with us at The Lawns on Christmas morning and then spend the rest of the day quietly with Henry.’ He said that they had received a press release from Pandora which said that she would be visiting Leicester Royal Infirmary on Christmas Day and was planning to carve a turkey for the tragic youngsters on the children’s ward.
The Sugdens, my mother’s parents, said they would ideally like to drive up from Norfolk on Christmas morning and spend ‘a quiet two days at Wisteria Walk, eating and drinking in moderation’.
I said, ‘In an ideal world I would like to take William to a hotel with a log fire for the duration.’
Ivan, who had been inputting all the ‘ideal Christmases’ on his computer, looked up from the screen and said, ‘The computations are beyond it.’ However, he did find a week self-catering in Tenerife, which left on December 24th from Stansted at 3 p.m. My mother asked me if I was prepared to break with Mole tradition and let William open his presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning.
I said, ‘No.’
Thursday December 11th
My mother sent me round to The Lawns to cut some greenery for the holly wreath she is making as per the instructions in the Christmas supplement of Good Housekeeping. I asked Tania if I could borrow some gardening gloves and secateurs, but she said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t have a non-gardener just slashing at my conifers and evergreens willy-nilly.’
My father looked up sheepishly from the marble slab where he was cutting out gingerbread men, eventually to be varnished and hung on the tree that Tania had so sensibly reserved at a specialist nursery.
I said, ‘I’ll go elsewhere for my greenery, then.’
My father said, ‘Don’t go, son…’
But Tania said, ‘Don’t you see, George? This is just Pauline’s way of tormenting me.’
I left them to it and headed for Sainsbury’s car park, where I used my Swiss Army knife and filled two carrier-bags with their green prickly stuff.
While I was out my mother had made the skeleton of a wreath by twisting three coat-hangers together. We managed to fashion the green stuff and holly into a roundish shape and hung it all on the door with a red ribbon. Ivan said it had an ‘anarchic spirit’ to it. I could see my mother was unsure whether this was a compliment or not.
Friday December 12th
I was woken at dawn this morning by an urgent ringing on the doorbell. Thinking it to be the registered letter, I stumbled downstairs dressed only in my boxers, to find the milkman on the doorstep clutching a handkerchief to his left eye. Two broken bottles of milk lay on the doorstep. ‘I’ve been poked in the bleddy eye by a piece of f------ holly,’ he said.
As we watched, a piece of recalcitrant holly fell from the wreath and landed among the shards of glass in a little white lake. I had no choice but to give him a lift to Eye Casualty at the Royal Infirmary in Leicester. When I got home I found my mother anxiously reading the household-insurance policy. There was nothing in it about cover for third-party holly-wreath accidents. She has cancelled the milk ‘until further notice’ and removed the wreath from the front door.
I waited for the postman with a thumping heart and a dry mouth, praying that Barry Kent would be the one to stump up the maintenance, but the only thing that came was a Christmas letter from George ‘n’ Tania circulated to their ‘many friends and family members around the world’.
Dear Loved Ones,
1997 has been a turbulent year for us both. Most of you have been informed about the breakdown of Tania and Ivan’s marriage, due to his love affair with Pauline, George’s wife. For those of you who are finding out for the first time, phew! Sorry! Take a breather!
Let’s go back to the start of the year, shall we?
January saw Ivan and Tania in Norwich where they attended a get-together of the Redundant Dairy Workers Association. Ivan enjoyed seeing some of his old colleagues and catching up on the news.
In February Tania started a night-school course in Citroën car maintenance, after receiving a horrendous bill for a service from Honest Jack’s (Railway Arches) garage. Tragically, Bismarck, Ivan and Tania’s adorable marmalade cat, died of leukaemia. She remains sadly missed to this day.
In March Tania took on more respons
ibility at De Montfort University – she formed a gardening club, Doigts Verts, which meets fortnightly in the physics department from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. and already has a thriving membership. In the same month, George won a Spot the Ball competition in a local trade paper – £25 for placing a cross correctly! But not as easy as it looks!
April saw Ivan and Tania drifting apart somewhat, though they enjoyed a weekend visit to Stratford and had a lovely meal in the Dirty Duck.
May: Pandora, bless her, was elected the Member of Parliament for Ashby-de-la-Zouch. We’re so very proud of her. She has since been appointed a PPS to Julia Snodworthy at the Department of Agriculture. Pandora’s ex-husband, Julian, has also been making a name for himself, becoming a leading campaigner for a bill to lower the homosexual age of consent to sixteen.
In late May Ivan began a clandestine affair with Pauline Mole. Meanwhile, Tania was working hard to pay the mortgage, the household bills and also to repay the loan on the garden chalet from which Ivan was going to freelance as a dairy management consultant, but as it turned out hardly ever did. Tania was devastated by Ivan’s betrayals; she had meant every word of her wedding vows. However, in June she and George found that their relationship was more than friendship, and Tania is slowly accepting that it is possible to love again.
In September, Brett, George’s only son by Doreen Slater, a.k.a. ‘Stick Insect’, wrote to his father from Rugby School, where he has been awarded a scholarship. George was pleased and not a little proud! Brett has since had several meals with us, and is a charming, good-looking boy, with exquisite manners!
Dear Diary, this is news to me! Why are all these sons suddenly creeping out of the woodwork? I put it down to the millennium. Why didn’t my father tell me about Brett’s success? After all, he is my half-brother.
I read on…
Adrian, George’s elder son, has been away working in London’s Soho! He once met Ned Sherrin in the street!
Is that it? Is that the full sum of my considerable achievements this year, to have met Ned Sherrin in the street? In fact I more than ‘met’ Ned in the street. I engaged him in conversation just as he was about to step into a black cab.
We have embarked on an ambitious plan to landscape the garden at The Lawns. The lawns are to be replaced and gravel laid in their place. We hope ultimately to re-create the Emperor Hirohito’s palace gardens, though on a more modest scale! George will shortly be attending a course on Zen gardening at Dartington College, Devon, run by Isokio Myanoko, garden master to the Japanese Royal Family.
Lastly, but certainly not leastly, Henry, an adorable black Labrador puppy has arrived to share our lives. So, together with the Koi carp, Yin and Yang, we have become a family!
Happy Christmas,
Love to all,
Tania and George
I couldn’t wait for my mother to get out of the bath. When she read the letter she laughed until she cried. Even Ivan smiled at the thought of my father raking gravel in a meaningful way. Tania ‘n’ George’s round robin has been pinned up above the bread-bin. Every time I extracted a slice of organic white at breakfast I laughed quietly to myself.
Most of the World War II baby-boomer generation are to be pitied. My mother has often spoken about the overcrowded classrooms: ‘Three of us to a desk, four of us to a book.’ She claims that even the pavements were crowded when she was a girl, and that she had to queue to go on the swings in the park.
At 10.10 a.m. a post-office van drew up outside, then the doorbell rang and the New Dog began to bark. I took this to be an ominous portent. The New Dog never barks. (It cost me £26 at the vets in April to have its vocal cords checked.)
The New Dog obviously sensed, with its canine intelligence, that the letter the postman was holding out to me contained bad news. I scrawled my name on the postman’s clipboard and wished him a merry Christmas, then went upstairs to my bedroom. I locked the door and opened the letter.
Labtest Ltd
Unit 1, Branson Trading Estate
Filey-on-Sense
Essex
Dear Mr Mole,
Tests carried out on blood samples by this laboratory show conclusively that you are the father of Glenn Bott, who currently resides at 19 Geoffrey Howe Road, Thatcher Estate, Leicester.
Should you wish to query the test results, there will be a further charge of £150 plus vat. As requested, copies of this report have been sent to Barry Kent, Mrs Sharon Bott, and Mrs Bott’s solicitor, Ms Miranda Pankhurst of Justice for Children.
Yours sincerely,
Amanda Trott
(Director of Parental Attribution Tests)
I have now read the letter several times, including the enclosed lab report, which might as well be written in Welsh for all the sense it makes to me. I have hidden it under a pile of handkerchiefs, next to my rolled-up socks.
I am in shock.
Saturday December 13th
Spent the morning searching for a word or phrase to express my feelings. I tried to imagine what Tony Blair would do under the circumstances, and was certain that tears would not be very far away.
Glenn Bott
Seen from a distance
Tall, frowning, twelve.
Gangsta clothes
In an English market.
Half of Sharon, half of me.
Fully himself.
Sunday December 14th
I phoned Sharon this morning. Douggie answered. He said that Sharon was out Christmas shopping. He said, ‘She’d better be back soon. I’m stuck here with the bleddy kids, waiting to go out for a few bevvies.’
I said that I would ring later. He said, ‘Bad luck on the blood test, eh?’
I said icily that I was looking forward to making my son’s acquaintance. He laughed a smoker’s laugh and put the phone down.
Monday December 15th
The New Dog had a sudden burst of energy this morning and attacked the Christmas tree, almost destroying it. Ivan offered to repair the damage. It is now back up, but many of the old decorations seem to have disappeared. I searched the waste-bins and the wheelie-bin, but found no evidence, yet I know that the cardboard star I made for my mother twenty-two years ago is in the house somewhere.
As I was loading the washing-machine tonight, I found a note in the pocket of William’s anorak; it was dated Thursday December 3rd.
Dear Parent, Guardian/Primary Carer
Your son/daughter has been allocated a part in the Kidsplay Nativity enactment.
He/she will require a costume for the following character: goat.
The performance will begin at 4 p.m. sharp on Tuesday December 16th.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Parvez
Tomorrow!
I was outraged. William is to play a lowly goat! Mrs Parvez obviously still bears a grudge over the farm visit incident.
And how am I supposed to find a goat costume before tomorrow morning? And, anyway, what role does a goat play in the Nativity? I checked the Christmas cards hung by a string on the living-room wall, but didn’t see a single goat in any of the mangers.
My mother has refused to have anything to do with the goat costume, so I was forced to ask for Tania’s help.
Tuesday December 16th
William was easily the best performer in the Nativity play. He was the essence of goatiness. My mother whispered, ‘How is he getting his eyes to protrude like that?’
He looked magnificent in his goat outfit – though Ivan was furious to see that Tania had cut up his old grey car-coat for the body, four legs and goatee beard. He had a little trouble with the ‘horns’ made of painted carrots, but the cloven hooves that my father had fashioned from four empty Flora tubs were a triumph.
Pauline ’n’ Ivan and George ‘n’ Tania ignored each other and also the printed notices left on our seats.
Please do not take flash photographs.
Kidsplay will be selling official photographs @ £27.50 per pack in the new term.
NB. Please note, it is
not possible to split packs.
I thought the other children gave a distinctly lacklustre performance. Joseph looked particularly gormless.
During the children’s long and atonal rendition of ‘Away In A Manger’, my thoughts drifted to Glenn Bott; the type of child who was unlikely to be chosen to play anything ever in a Nativity play, not even a goat.
I phoned the Bott household when I got back home, but there was no reply.
Wednesday December 17th
A Christmas card from Pandora. It began ‘Dear Constituent,’ and was signed with a rubber stamp.
I drove to Sharon’s tonight and sat in the car rehearsing what I would say to the boy. Would I be expected to hug and kiss him, or merely shake his hand in a manly way?
As I sat there, a battered white van drew up at the kerb. Glenn and Douggie emerged. Douggie pointed at my car and laughed, and Glenn put his head down and went into the house, slamming the door behind him. I turned the engine on and drove away.
Thursday December 18th
Brick Eagleburger rang to say that he’d had an irate Arthur Stoat on the phone, demanding the manuscript of Offally Good! – The Book!.