I said, ‘Daisy, Mr Blair is liberating Iraq from the tyrant, Michael Flowers.’
Daisy laughed and said, ‘I know my father is a megalomaniac, but he doesn’t rule Iraq.’
I apologized and said to her, ‘No, but it was an interesting Freudian slip. Do you think, Daisy, that you are against the war because you are subconsciously revolting against your father?’
Daisy said, ‘There’s nothing subconscious about it. I kicked my father in the balls once. It was when he was trying to force me into a minibus he was driving to Glastonbury. It was the first time I ran away to London. I hated festivals, the mud, the veggie burgers and having to listen to Dad and Netta in the next tent, grunting like farmyard animals. So no, I’m against the Iraq war because it’s illegal, immoral and stupid.’
We talked about Marigold endlessly. Daisy said, ‘Marigold always spoiled everything for me. On my eleventh birthday she sneezed all over my cake and blew out the candles. Netta didn’t even bother cutting it. Now it’s her who’s having your baby.’
I explained to Daisy that I had no memory of making love to Marigold on New Year’s Eve. I told her about the purple cocktail that some unknown person had handed to me and that the next thing I remember was waking up in bed with Marigold.
I asked Daisy if she felt guilty. She flicked her wet hair over her face and started to brush it. From behind this black curtain she said, ‘I don’t do guilt. It’s a totally negative emotion. It’s self-indulgent and corrosive.’
When the sky began to lighten I made coffee and, although it was cold, we put our coats on and sat out on the balcony talking quietly. Gielgud and his wife were grooming each other on the far bank.
Daisy asked, ‘Are you going to marry Marigold?’
I said, ‘It’s the baby, Daisy.’
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She got up and went inside and started to get dressed. She whirled round and said, ‘I’m going to ask you two questions. The first is, do you love her?’
I answered immediately, ‘No.’
The second is, ‘Do you love me?’
This time I answered, ‘Yes.’
She said, ‘So tell her the wedding is off before they hire the fucking marquee!’
I didn’t tell Daisy that I had already written a cheque to Celebration Marquees of Seagrave.
I asked Daisy for advice on how to tell Marigold.
She said, ‘I don’t care. Hire a billboard. Get the Red Arrows to write it in the sky. Announce it on the Trisha Show or write her a fucking letter. Now drive me to the station. I’ve got to be at Canary Wharf by 10.30. Chris Moyles is abseiling off the sixteenth floor to promote Radio One.’
On the station platform we clung together like long-separated identical twins, when I murmured, ‘I don’t know what you see in me.’
She said, ‘I’m not frightened of you and your voice is incredibly sexy.’
When the train pulled out, she got up from her seat and ran to the door, pulled the window down and shouted, ‘Write the fucking letter!’
Monday March 10th
Jack Straw wants Saddam Hussein to make a television broadcast admitting having Weapons of Mass Destruction. I hope Saddam complies. I could then get my deposit back and win a moral victory from Latesun Ltd. And Glenn will be safe.
I sat with a pad and pen in front of me for over an hour, trying to compose a letter breaking off my engagement to Marigold. All I managed to write was:
Dear Marigold
This is the most difficult letter I have ever had to write...
Then the members of the writers’ group started to turn up – Ken Blunt, followed by Gary Milksop and the two serious girls. The meeting was acrimonious. I inadvertently started a row when I said that I was glad to be able to stop thinking about the war for once and concentrate on writing.
Ken Blunt started shouting that it was a writer’s duty to write about war, and that he was not interested in the type of writing that goes on for three fucking pages, wanking on about the colour of a fucking autumn leaf.
Mia Fox banged on the ceiling and I asked Ken to keep the language down. Gary Milksop whined that he resented Ken’s personal attack and reminded Ken that he, Gary, had written a short story recently called ‘The Autumn Leaf’.
Ken said, ‘You should rewrite “The Autumn Leaf”, Gaz, and change the setting to Afghanistan or somewhere with a bit of edge to it.’
Gary said that he followed the advice of successful professional writers and always wrote about what he knew. And he knew autumn leaves.
One of the serious girls said, ‘And Gary has never been to Afghanistan, he is a literary writer. He’s Leicester’s Proust.’
Midnight
A text from Daisy:
Kipling, Have u told her yet. Love French Fancy.
Texted back:
Darling French Fancy, I am composing the letter. Love
Kipling.
Tuesday March 11th
Disaster. Gielgud broke Gary Milksop’s arm last night. At least, the swan was responsible for Gary slipping on the swan shit on the landing and falling down the stairs. He turned on the two weeping girls and said, ‘You’re both to blame! You know I can’t see in the dark.’ They drove him to A&E, where they waited with him for six and a half hours.
The next I heard of the incident was from Gary’s solicitor, John Henry of John Henry, Broadway and Co., who rang to find out my postcode.
Between serving customers in the shop I composed a letter.
Ms Marigold Flowers
Unit 4
Chez Flowers
The Old Battery Factory
Beeby on the Wold
Rat Wharf
Leicestershire LE19
Grand Union Canal
Leicester LE1
Dear Marigold
This will be a very difficult letter to write, but I can no longer live a lie. The truth is, Marigold, that I am not nearly good enough for you. You outclass me in looks, intelligence and in your marvellous ability to construct doll’s houses from waste materials. I am not worthy of your love, dearest. Try to forget that you ever knew me.
I will, of course, provide for the baby and be as good a father to him/her as I can in the circumstances.
I will arrange to collect the engagement ring at a future date when you have had time to come to terms with this news.
Yours, with thanks for the good times,
Adrian
I put it in an envelope, I affixed a stamp to the top right-hand corner, I wrote the address on the front, I took it to the post box, but I could not deliver the final coup de grâce.
I put the envelope back in my pocket and walked home to Rat Wharf, passing two post boxes on the way.
Midnight
Daisy texted:
Kipling, Have you sent the letter? French Fancy.
I texted back a one-word reply:
No.
Wednesday March 12th
I was woken at 6.30 this morning by a violent ringing on my intercom buzzer. It was another foreign person with a Special Delivery letter from Mr John Henry’s firm of solicitors.
Mr Henry has asked for an interim payment upfront of £5,000 to allow his client, Mr Gary Milksop, to employ a typist to enable him to continue working on the manuscript of his novel.
I tried to ring Gary before going to work, but all I got was his feeble voice on his answer phone saying, ‘Hello, I’m not here. I’ve had my arm broken by a swan and I’m staying with my mother until further notice. Please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able to manipulate the buttons on my phone with my left hand.’
Marigold met me after work and we walked together along the towpath to Rat Wharf. She looked quite pretty and talked excitedly about our coming wedding. I still had the letter in my pocket and thought how glad I was that Marigold did not have X-ray vision like Superman.
I was sure that Marigold would be able to detect at once that Daisy had been in my apartment, but her m
ind has been taken over by an alien force called Wedding Plans.
All she could talk about was the minutiae of the arrangements. She asked me to look through a catering brochure with her. We ended up quarrelling about the shape of the vol-au-vents to be served at the reception. She prefers the heart-shaped ones at seventy-nine pence each plus VAT, whereas my preference is for the traditional round ones at fifty-nine pence.
The vol-au-vent row led to which of us had the most monstrous mother and only stopped when Marigold screamed, ‘You couldn’t find my clitoris if you were led there by Sir Ranulph Fiennes!’
After she’d slammed out, I consulted The Joy of Sex and discovered that I’d probably been paying too much attention to relatively unimportant bits of her genitalia while ignoring the clitoris even though it had been staring me in the face for the last few months.
After she’d gone, I felt inspired and wrote another letter.
Ms Marigold Flowers
Unit 4
Chez Flowers
The Old Battery Factory
Beeby on the Wold
Rat Wharf
Leicestershire LE19
Grand Union Canal
Leicester LE1
Dear Marigold
Can I be honest with you? I have recently discovered that I am gay. The signs have been there for some time (perhaps this explains why I did not stumble across your clitoris). I almost bought a chandelier recently. I have taken to wearing rubber gloves while doing my housework and I have noticed myself using waspish humour as a method of communication.
I have not yet taken the plunge sexually, but it can only be a matter of time before I meet a man with whom I can share a civil union.
The rings cost me rather a lot of money. Perhaps you could ask Worthington’s if they will take them back. If so, please use the money to buy whatever you need for the baby.
I hope we can remain friends.
Yours,
Adrian
At midnight, Daisy rang from a restaurant to ask if I had written the letter. I told her that I had.
She said, ‘So when will she get it?’
I said, prevaricating, ‘I haven’t posted it yet. It’s raining.’
She shouted, a little drunkenly, ‘I would walk through a fucking monsoon for you!’
I promised her that I would post it on my way to work.
Thursday March 13th
I dropped John Henry’s swan/broken arm letter into my own solicitor David Barwell’s office before work. Later that morning, Angela rang to say that Mr Barwell would not act on the letter until my account was paid in full. I still owe him £150 plus VAT. I used my MasterCard and paid up.
For the rest of the day I tried to decide which of the two end-engagement letters to send to Marigold. Which was the least cruel: the ‘not worthy’ or the ‘I’m gay’ one?
After work I hovered over the post box at the end of the High Street. I even played eenie, meanie, miney, moe. But when I got home the letters were still in my pocket.
I drove out to the Piggeries and sat for a while with Animal and my parents. There is something very comforting about a bonfire.
When I got back to Rat Wharf I wrote another letter:
Ms Marigold Flowers
Unit 4
Chez Flowers
The Old Battery Factory
Beeby on the Wold
Rat Wharf
Leicestershire LE19
Grand Union Canal
Leicester LE1
My dearest Marigold
Can I be honest with you, darling? I can no longer live a lie. For some time I have been dressing in female clothes and calling myself Brenda. I love the feel of silk, lace and winceyette on my rough male flesh.
I will entirely understand if, in the circumstances, you run from me like a startled faun, but when you do, try to remember me with compassion. None of us can help our genetic make-up.
Yours ever,
Brenda
PS What is the name of that divine blue eyeshadow you wore on Boxing Day? I must have it!
I have just looked it up. I used the expression ‘run from me like a startled faun’ in my 1981 diary, when I was writing to Pandora. I knew I had heard it somewhere before.
I switched my phone off so there was no, and could not be any, call from Daisy.
Friday March 14th
My mother rang me at work today to ask me if she should stop dyeing her hair red. She said, ‘Do you think I should go for the older woman grey-blonde highlight look?’
I said, ‘Isn’t this a question you should be asking your hairdresser? I’m a bookseller, Mum.’
She said, ‘I’m worried about you. I thought you looked terrible last night. You’re thin, you can’t be eating properly and you’ve got rings round your eyes. I know you’re not sleeping. You’re not happy, are you?’
I asked Mr Carlton-Hayes to take over at the till and went into the back room with my mobile.
My mother said again, ‘You’re not happy, are you, love?’
For some reason tears came into my eyes and I couldn’t get my breath. I think it must have been the kindness, perhaps the motherliness, in her voice that set me off. It’s a tone I haven’t heard often enough in my life.
When Mr Carlton-Hayes had finished serving a customer he came through to the back room to find me. He said, ‘My dear,’ and handed me a clean white handkerchief that smelt of distilled fresh air. I blew my nose and tried to hand it back to him, but he said, ‘No, keep it, my dear. Leslie always sends me out with two clean handkerchiefs in the morning.’
I said he was lucky to have somebody to care for him so well.
He said, ‘Not lucky, blessed.’
I tried to apologize for my uncharacteristic behaviour.
He said, ‘I’m not awfully good at the heart-to-heart stuff, I’m afraid. Leslie says it’s the fault of being sent away to public school. But if you find it helpful to what I believe is called “unload”, I would be very happy to listen.’
I could tell that he was deeply uncomfortable and was relieved when a mad-woman bag lady came in shouting that Jane Austen was inside her head, telling her what to do.
There were twelve text messages on my phone by the time I got home to Rat Wharf. They were all from Daisy. They did not make pleasant reading.
I switched my phone off and sat down again with a pad and pen.
Ms Marigold Flowers
Unit 4
Chez Flowers
The Old Battery Factory
Beeby on the Wold
Rat Wharf
Leicestershire LE19
Grand Union Canal
Leicester LE1
Dear Marigold
Can I be honest with you?
The man you know as Adrian Mole is an impostor. I have been on the run since I was falsely accused of violating a dolphin off the Cornish coast in 1989.
The police are closing in on me so I must go underground.
Farewell, dearest,
Malcolm Roach
(aka Adrian Mole)
I didn’t think she’d believe this so I wrote another.
Ms Marigold Flowers
Unit 4
Chez Flowers
The Old Battery Factory
Beeby on the Wold
Rat Wharf
Leicestershire LE19
Grand Union Canal
Leicester LE1
Dearest Marigold
This is a letter I hoped I would never have to write.
For some years I have been suffering from a rare medical condition which produces a murderous rage, which in turn makes me prone to sudden fits of violence. I have been secretly seeking a cure, but alas I have been told by a specialist in my condition that there is no hope for me.
The specialist has advised me not to marry. I quote: ‘No woman is safe with you, Mr Mole. You must reconcile yourself to living alone.’
Naturally, I am gutted by this news and I beg you to give me time and space in which to grieve f
or what could have been.
God, how will I live without you, you achingly beautiful, fascinating woman?
Love, as ever,
A.
Out of all the letters I have written I think the letter immediately above will cause Marigold the least pain. Although, thinking about it, will Marigold worry that the baby will inherit the murder gene?
Saturday March 15th
We were busy in the shop this morning. There has been a rush on books about weaponry and warfare.
Michael Flowers rang. He wants to see me on an ‘urgent’ matter relating to the future of our country.
I left a message at Country Organics, to say that I did not have a free window.
Flowers rang again and accused me of ignoring his call. I explained that I had left a message at the shop saying that I did not have a free window.
He said, nastily, ‘Since you did not leave your name and the line was bad, I assumed it was a cold call from a double-glazing salesman.’
He trapped me into meeting him at the Good Earth vegetarian café at one o’clock. He was already there eating a bowl of thick mush when I arrived at dead on one, but he looked at his watch and said impatiently, ‘Glad you decided to turn up.’
He always puts me on the back foot. I started to say that I was exactly on time, when he said, ‘Look, now you’re finally here can I explain the purpose of this meeting?’
Once again I tried to insist that I had not been late.
But he said, ‘Adrian, I’m a very busy man. Can we please get on?’
He started by saying that our fair country, its traditions, its heritage, was being subsumed by Europe, and that our race was being forced to kneel to the bloated bureaucrats in Brussels. He then ranted on about fish quotas, loss of sovereignty and England’s humiliating failure to score any points in the Eurovision Song Contest. He predicted that England would be swept away on a tide of cappuccino and straight bananas.