Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction

  I wondered why Flowers had called me to a meeting to hear his views about Europe.

  He lowered his voice and looked around the café as if the mild-mannered vegetarians nibbling their greens were al Qa’eda operatives. ‘I’m starting a Leicestershire branch of the United Kingdom Independence Party,’ he said, ‘and I wondered if I could rely on your support?’

  I said that I knew very little about the UKIP, and was there any literature?

  He drew a Union-Jack bedecked pile of slithery leaflets out of his satchel and gave me one.

  I put it in my pocket and said I would read it later.

  Flowers barked, ‘All you need to know is that UKIP is the only party with the guts to stand up against a bunch of Gauloise-smoking appeasers.’

  I said that I quite liked being a European.

  Flowers said, ‘You like it now, Adrian. But will you like it when they ban our national anthem?’

  I thought, ‘Yes I would. I hate “God Save the Queen”.’ But I said nothing.

  He stood up and said, ‘I’m asking my supporters for an initial contribution of £500.’

  After he’d gone, leaving me with his bill, I read through the leaflet. Apparently one of UKIP’s luminaries was Jonathan Aitken; another was Geoff Boycott.

  When the shop was empty of customers and we were having our tea at afternoon break, I gave the disengagement letters to Mr Carlton-Hayes to read and asked him for his advice.

  To my surprise he seemed to find them quite amusing. When he’d finished reading them, he said, ‘None of them are quite suitable, my dear. If I were you I would write something like:

  My dear Marigold

  You are a lovely woman, and I’m frightfully sorry about this, but I now realize that I do not love you enough to want to marry you. In these circumstances it would be terribly silly of us to get married.

  If you are having our baby, I will of course support you and the child.

  I’m most awfully sorry to be such a frightful cad, but I feel honour bound to tell you the horrid truth.

  Please do not contact me.

  Yours truly

  Adrian

  He tapped the letter out, using one finger on his old Remington typewriter. I thanked him, but I will not send it.

  *

  I showed the UKIP leaflets to Mr Carlton-Hayes and confessed to him that I was afraid of Michael Flowers.

  ‘You have every right to be afraid of him, my dear,’ he said. ‘He’s an English fascist. They don’t goosestep down the High Street because they know we would laugh at them, but they are wearing jackboots nonetheless.’

  Marigold met me at the shop and we went for a meal at the Imperial Dragon. Wayne was very cool to me, and when I asked him what was wrong, he said, ‘Why didn’t you invite me to your party?’

  I said it was only a small gathering.

  He said, ‘That geek, Brain-box Henderson, was there.’

  Marigold said, ‘Bruce Henderson was my guest, and he is not a geek.’

  Wayne said, ‘You’re wrong there, Marigold. He won “Geek of the year” at school.’

  I didn’t enjoy the meal at all and only managed to eat a king-size prawn and a mouthful of rice. Apparently Netta has started to hand-stitch and embroider Marigold’s white bridal gown. The hem of the dress will be embroidered with rowan leaves. The mint-green bridesmaids’ dresses, satin with puffed sleeves and asymmetrical hems, have been cut out, although ‘Daisy is refusing to cooperate: she won’t send Mummy her measurements, she’s such a bitch. She always spoils everything. We were going to Glastonbury once, in the minibus, when for no reason at all she kicked out at Daddy and ran away. Me and Poppy and Mummy and Daddy had a lovely time, despite the mud, so more fool her, I say.’

  *

  Wayne Wong has installed a karaoke machine, and a black bloke got up and tried to sing ‘Lady in Red’ to his girlfriend, who was, surprise, surprise, wearing a red dress.

  Marigold sighed deeply and said, ‘I wish you were romantic.’

  This was unfair, because at that very moment I was thinking that Daisy’s hair was like the smoke of an erupting volcano.

  After a mind-numbingly boring discussion about bridesmaids’ shoes, I paid the bill and took Marigold home to Beeby on the Wold.

  She asked me to come in and reminded me that she would be away for the next five days, as she was an exhibitor at the Doll’s House Society of Great Britain’s bi-annual show, at the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham, and would I join her for a night at the hotel she was staying in.

  I reminded her about my M6 phobia, and said that, regretfully, it would not be possible. I excused myself by saying that I could feel a migraine coming on and I needed to take my medication.

  She offered me a tincture of bark, but I declined.

  We kissed goodbye at the front door. As I was kissing her I wondered if it would be for the last time. I fervently hoped so.

  I tried to ring Daisy, but her phone was switched off. I left the following message:

  Daisy

  It’s me, Adrian. (long pause) I don’t know what to say – I haven’t told Marigold yet. I need your help. I’ve drafted five letters, but none of them hit the right note. Please, don’t give up on me, I think about you constantly. I adore you, Daze. Goodnight, sweetheart.

  Sunday March 16th

  Text from Daisy: ‘Check your email.’

  After the usual difficulty and a five-minute call to the helpline, I opened my email.

  Kipling,

  Draft of letter attached.

  I opened the attachment: It read:

  Dear Marigold

  It is not your fault that you have grown up to be a manipulative, hysterical hypochondriac. You have been hopelessly indulged by your parents.

  You have taken advantage of my kind gentle nature and have drained me emotionally and financially.

  But hey, I’ll recover. Keep the poxy ring.

  Thanks for the good times, not.

  Adrian

  PS I think it must be obvious from the above that I will not be marrying you on 6th May 2003.

  I was shocked at the harsh tone of Daisy’s letter; she is obviously not a woman to cross. Am I jumping out of the frying pan and into the wok?

  I needed to be with the two people who would, despite our differences, give me unconditional love, so I drove to the Piggeries.

  The countryside looked fresh and green. I tried to work out why my life had become so complicated where women were concerned. I parked the car in the lane and stood for a moment watching a lamb in the field opposite. It looked as though it was drunk with joy, dancing and kicking its heels. I envied it its joyful celebration of being alive. Then I remembered that in a short while it would be dead and packaged and displayed on a meat counter somewhere. I turned away and trudged across the field.

  My parents had spotted my car and were waving, with every appearance of delight. My mother came to meet me, threw down her cigarette and gave me a tight embrace. She said, ‘You’re a bag of bones, when did you last eat?’

  I told her, truthfully, that in the last twenty-four hours I had eaten a prawn and a mouthful of rice. She led me to the open fire and said, ‘I’m going to cook you a full English breakfast, with fried bread.’

  My stomach was indifferent, but my heart was nourished. She took off her woollen gloves and began to fry bacon, sausages, tomatoes and fried bread over the open fire in a blackened frying pan.

  The foundations had been laid for both pigsties, and Animal was laying blue bricks for the dampcourse.

  While I waited for the food I gave my parents the Marigold disengagement letters to read.

  My father’s advice was, ‘Send her the dangerous-nutter one, son.’

  My mother said, ‘They’re all ridiculous. Why don’t you tell her the truth, before Netta has made the bloody bridesmaids’ dresses?’

  My full English breakfast looked and smelled delicious, but I couldn’t eat it all and shared it out between Animal, my
father and Ivan the dog while my mother was in the camper van fetching a fresh pack of cigarettes and a notepad and pen. She then sat by the fire and drafted what she called ‘an engagement curtailment letter’.

  Dear Marigold

  Ever since I was a little boy I have preferred to live in the world of fiction. I have found the real world to be a harsh place. I avoid confrontation and am easily manipulated by people who have a strong sense of themselves.

  I am very sorry, but I cannot marry you. I do not love you. The truth is, I love your sister, Daisy. And I think she loves me.

  I read the letter twice, and then said, ‘How long have you known about Daisy?’

  My mother said, ‘Since your engagement party. Is it true?’

  I said, ‘Yes.’

  My father said, ‘You’re a witch, Pauline.’

  My mother said, ‘I’ve got eyes in my head, George. I saw Adrian and Daisy looking at each other. I’m surprised they didn’t burst into flames.’

  It was a wonderful relief to be able to talk about Daisy.

  My father said, ‘She’s a cracker.’

  And my mother advised me to snap her up quickly, before she goes off the boil.

  I went home to Rat Wharf and wrote what I was determined would be the letter I would definitely send to Marigold.

  Ms Marigold Flowers

  Unit 4

  The Ring Road View Hotel

  The Old Battery Factory

  Balsall Common

  Rat Wharf

  Warwickshire CV7

  Grand Union Canal

  Leicester LE1

  Sunday March 16th

  Dear Marigold

  I hope you are well. I am quite well, apart from a constant feeling of dread that I can’t seem to shake off.

  I have some grave news, I’m afraid. (At this point it might be wise to seek the company of one of your fellow doll’s house enthusiasts.)

  Marigold, I can’t marry you on May 6th, or on any other date.

  You are a beautiful, intelligent woman, and your skill at making miniature furniture is breathtaking. I am personally devastated by my inability to love such a prize as you, but the sad truth is that I am unworthy of you. I have many psychological flaws that prevent me from making any woman happy. As my ex-stepmother pointed out once, my women seem to spend most of their time in tears.

  Believe me, you have had a lucky escape, Marigold.

  I will of course support you financially and practically when the baby is born and will have him/her on alternate Sundays from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. (If wet, 10 a.m. until 2 p.m.)

  Please do not contact me. I am already in pain and to hear your voice would cause me considerable agony.

  Yours, Adrian

  Monday March 17th

  St Patrick’s Day

  Called in at local post office before work. Told postmaster essential letter reaches Ring Road View Hotel tomorrow morning without fail.

  He said first class was unreliable. Must pay £6.95 for Special Delivery, guaranteed before 9 a.m. next day. ‘Must be an important letter,’ he said.

  I told him contents of letter explosive.

  He said, laughing but nervous, ‘Hope not real explosives.’

  I told him I was talking metaphorically.

  He said, ‘Better not to use words like “explosive” when country is on Orange Alert and there are tanks at Heathrow.’

  I texted Daisy:

  FF, Letter sent to M.W is off. Love K

  She texted back:

  K.

  UR Fab.

  ILY.

  FF

  My mother rang me at the shop in a panic. She said, ‘I know you’re at work, but I need you to come to the Piggeries. Your Dad’s hurt his back, trying to lift a hod of bricks.’ Then, sounding surprised, she said, ‘He’s asking for you, Adrian.’

  I explained what had happened to Mr Carlton-Hayes, who said, ‘Another family crisis. You’re rivalling The Forsyte Saga. But of course you must go.’

  When I got there, my father was lying on an improvised stretcher made out of a roofing sheet. His face was grey with pain.

  My mother said, ‘I told him to let Animal do the heavy work, but he had to prove he’s not past it, didn’t he? And now he’s broken his back.’ She started to cry. ‘He’ll never walk again. He’ll be in a wheelchair and I’ll never be able to push him across this field.’

  Animal grunted something to my mother and she grunted back. They communicate like primates. However, I understood when he started filling the kettle from the water carrier that he was asking if he should make some tea.

  When I tried to lift my father’s head so that he could drink from the cup, he screamed so loudly that birds flapped from the trees in alarm and I said to my mother, ‘Call an ambulance’ and handed her my mobile phone. There was the usual confusion about the address, but after half an hour we heard the siren and I crossed the field to meet it.

  When I explained the circumstances and pointed out the Piggeries in the distance, the paramedics didn’t look too pleased. The shorter one of the two asked, ‘How much does your dad weigh?’

  I said, ‘About eleven stone.’

  They looked even less pleased. As we crossed the boggy field, they muttered between themselves about health and safety.

  I followed the ambulance as it made its way to the Royal Hospital. Then I waited in the A&E department for somebody in a white coat with a medical qualification to give my father a large dose of opiates and put him out of his misery. I stayed until my mother begged me to go home, saying that my constant commentary about the inefficiency and chaos in the casualty ward was driving her mad and making things worse.

  Shortly after I got home, she rang to say that my father had been taken up to the David Gower ward. She said, ‘He’s still in pain, they can’t find the key to the drug cabinet and they’re short-staffed at the hospital pharmacy. So I’ve given him a few of my Tramadol to help him sleep.’

  I told her that she couldn’t possibly stay at the Piggeries on her own.

  She said, ‘I’m not on my own; I’ve got Animal with me.’

  I said that she couldn’t stay with Animal because he was, without wishing to be rude, an animal.

  She said, ‘Au contraire, he’s one of nature’s gentlemen.’

  George Bush has just issued an ultimatum: Saddam Hussein must leave Iraq within forty-eight hours or face invasion by a coalition of British and American troops.

  Robin Cook has resigned from the government. Although you are a highly principled politician and a devotee of the racetrack, Mr Cook, posterity will find that you have backed the wrong horse here.

  Tuesday March 18th

  By eleven o’clock this morning there had been no word from Marigold. I rang the post office to find out if my registered letter had been safely delivered. A Customer Liaison Officer at the post office told me that there was no way of checking until the postman had returned from his round.

  At 12.10 precisely I was on my knees cataloguing Fish of the British Isles. I was feeling mildly apprehensive, waiting for the telephone call from Marigold, when two dark shadows fell upon me – Netta and Michael Flowers.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes hovered nearby. I got to my feet still clutching Fish of the North Sea. Flowers was literally chewing his beard. Netta held a faxed copy of my disengagement letter, which she thrust into my face.

  She said, ‘You’ve broken my little girl’s heart.’

  Flowers roared, ‘You are a despicable piece of working-class shit. My wife was stitching those exquisite bridesmaids’ dresses until three o’clock this morning.’ He came towards me and raised his fists.

  I instinctively protected myself with Fish of the North Sea. The edge of the book caught him in his right eye, and he reeled around, barging into the shelves, knocking books to the floor and bellowing that I had blinded him.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes did his best to pull Netta away from me. A young female customer hurriedly left the shop. It was an ugly scene.

/>   Flowers eventually stumbled out of the shop with Netta, saying that he would call the police and have me prosecuted for grievous bodily harm.

  Netta said, screwing up her piggy face, ‘We will be suing you for breach of promise.’

  After they’d gone, we put the closed sign on the door and tidied the shop and I apologized to Mr Carlton-Hayes for bringing my personal life into the shop again.

  He said, ‘Don’t fret, my dear. I landed Flowers a few good punches during the mêlée.’

  After work I went to the Royal Hospital. When I asked about George Mole, the nurse at the desk told me that he was ‘still uncomfortable’.

  I asked, ‘Is that hospital code for “still in agony”?’

  She said, ‘He’s been ringing his bell all day. He seems to think he’s in a hotel and he’s calling down for room service. It’s the drugs.’

  *

  My father is in a bay with three other patients. When I got to his bedside, my mother got up and said, ‘Thank God you’ve come, I’m dying for a fag.’

  She was dressed for the building site and, not for the first time in my life, I felt ashamed of her appearance. Her big reinforced toe-capped boots looked incongruous in the hospital ward.

  My father was lying flat on his back staring somewhat woozily at the ceiling. I asked him how he was.

  He said, dreamily, ‘I think the drugs are kicking in. I haven’t felt as good as this since the sixties.’

  When my father closed his eyes, my mother and I went outside to the main entrance and stood in the plastic smokers’ shelter where I told her that I was now formally disengaged from Marigold.

  She said, ‘Thank God for that,’ then told me that my father would have to have an operation to remove two damaged discs.

  I asked her if it would affect his mobility. She said, laughing in the face of trouble, ‘I don’t think so. Your dad’s always been a bit spineless.’

  I phoned Daisy; her voicemail message said that she was unavailable.

  At 3 a.m. I was awakened by furtive scurrying sounds. I went to investigate and saw three brown shapes emerge from a floor cupboard I had left open. One of the brown shapes ran over my naked foot.