Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction

by Sue Townsend

Friday June 13th

  At 4 a.m. the fridge woke me up to tell me that I had run out of milk.

  I picked Daisy up from East Midlands Airport tonight. She had flown in from Dublin, where she has been promoting stag and hen weekends for a travel company.

  We went late-night shopping at Asda and bought mangoes, champagne, bread, cheese and Flash bathroom cleaner.

  Saturday June 14th

  Daisy and I discussed this morning how to tell Marigold that we know about the phantom baby.

  We agreed that we would have to go to Beeby on the Wold and give her an opportunity to tell the truth. However, as we were dressing, my phone rang and Brain-box said, ‘Adrian, I’ve got some bad news for you. I’m afraid that Marigold lost the baby while we were away.’

  He sounded very sad; I hadn’t the heart to tell him the truth. Instead I said, ‘I’m sure you will give her lots of babies in the years to come, Brain-box.’

  Later Daisy and I went to the Flower Corner and sent Marigold a bouquet. Daisy said to the woman, ‘No triangular flat arrangements, please.’

  On the card I wrote:

  Dear Marigold, It was not to be. How sad. Love Adrian

  Sunday June 15th

  Father’s Day

  It is certainly Father’s Day for Gielgud today; seven cygnets passed my balcony this morning.

  I said to Daisy, ‘They looked as ugly as sin.’

  She said, ‘I was ugly when I was a kid. It didn’t help that Netta insisted on knitting our school uniforms, including the fucking motto, “Can’t pay, won’t pay.” I was always being thrown off the bus.’

  I asked her what kind of school it was.

  She said it was a private school run by anarchists.

  *

  I’m taking her to the Piggeries this afternoon to meet my parents in her new role as my lover.

  Glenn texted from Iraq to say:

  Happy Fathers Day, No cards in shops, no shops

  There was nothing from William.

  I let Daisy take the wheel of my car, and she drove us to the Piggeries. She is a fast but careful driver. She said, ‘I used to hate the countryside and used to feel nervous unless I had a pavement under my feet. But I quite like this.’

  By ‘this’, she meant the gentle slopes of southern Leicestershire and the tunnels of trees that we passed through.

  When we got out of the car, I saw my mother and Animal stop their work on the pigsties and my father emerge from the camper van and look towards us. Ivan ran straight to Daisy and jumped up, smearing mud all over her combats. But she didn’t seem to mind.

  Daisy struggled a bit in her heels, then kicked off her shoes and broke into a run to embrace my mother.

  My mother took Daisy to see the renovated pigsties and I gave my father his Father’s Day present, Golfing for Cats by Alan Coren. I thought it might appeal to him. The front cover is illustrated by a cat, a golf club and a swastika.

  I said, ‘It’s full of very funny pieces. It’ll make you laugh.’

  He said, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Adrian, I don’t need to read another book. Once you’ve read Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, every book ever published is redundant.’

  His voice choked up, as it always does when talking about Jonathan. ‘That seagull pushed himself to the limit, Adrian. And it killed him.’

  We cut the little Mr Kipling Father’s Day cake we bought on the way. I invited Animal to come and join us, but my mother said, ‘He’s a bit fragile today, Adrian. He doesn’t know who his dad is.’

  When we were about to leave, my mother muttered to me, ‘She’s a star, Adrian. Try and hang on to her. Talk to her, tell her she’s beautiful and buy her flowers.’

  Monday June 16th

  Took Daisy to catch the London train. She is organizing a charity dinner for the RNIB.

  Glenn phoned!

  He sounded unlike himself. I asked him what the banging noises in the background were.

  He said, flatly, ‘Fireworks, Dad.’ He asked me if I’d ever seen a dead body. I said that I hadn’t. He said, ‘I have.’

  There was a longish silence. I wanted to say many things to him: that I loved him and was sorry I’d let him down when he was a little kid. Instead, I told him that I’d sent him and Robbie more books via the BFPO, and that they should reach him soon.

  He said, ‘To tell you the truth, Dad, we ain’t got a lot of time for reading, but I wondered if you’d do me a favour? Can you go to the Army Surplus and buy me and Robbie two pairs of Altama American Combat Boots instead? You’ll be able to recognize them – the soles look like blocks of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. I’m size nine and Robbie’s size ten. Only, when we walk across armoured vehicles, the British boots melt in the heat and fall apart.’

  I said that I would attempt to buy them tomorrow.

  He said Robbie’s learned one of the poems off by heart. I asked him which one.

  He said, ‘I’ll put him on.’ Then I heard Glenn shouting, ‘Robbie, Robbie, come and say that poem to my dad.’

  But Robbie shouted, ‘No, No.’

  Glenn came back on the phone and said, ‘He’s too shy.’

  Before he rang off he thanked me for the flashcards and said they should be really useful. He said he would write to Mr Carlton-Hayes when he had the chance.

  Tuesday June 17th

  Bought boots, with Visa card, at a total cost of £125. I stuffed them full of non-meltable kiddie sweets from Woolworths’ pick-’n’-mix.

  I haven’t told Daisy that I’m heavily in debt. She thinks nothing of spending £500 on a handbag.

  Tuesday June 17th

  The AA have come to my rescue on many occasions: there was the time I ran out of petrol on Bodmin Moor, the chaos caused when I locked the keys in the car in Old Compton Street and held up the Gay Pride march, and the numerous call-outs I have made because I had allowed my spark plugs to get damp. But the AA has surpassed itself today: they have written and offered me their special AA Visa card. ‘Apply and take advantage of our 0% interest on balance transfers for six months.’

  This offer is like finding a clearing in a jungle; my plan is to pay £1,000 off each of my credit cards using the AA’s money. This will solve my short-term financial problems; I do not have a long-term plan.

  William rang me on my mobile from Nigeria. I was conscious of every minute that passed as he rambled on about what sounded like an unremarkable game of football. At the end of the conversation, he said, ‘The reason I am ringing you, Dad, is because I want to swap my Christian name.’

  I asked him what he wanted to be called.

  He said, ‘Wole. It’s more African.’

  I said, ‘That’s your stepfather’s name. Won’t it be confusing?’

  He said, ‘No. We don’t look the same. He’s taller than me.’

  I said it was OK by me and put the phone down.

  William will soon tire of his new name, Wole Mole.

  Wednesday June 18th

  More Crime and Punishment tonight.

  Nigel’s guide dog, Graham, is getting above himself.

  I was washing up the few plates and glasses for Nigel, when I felt Graham’s nose against my leg. I looked down and saw that the dog had got a tea towel in its mouth. I found this annoying, because I had intended to let the crockery and glassware dry on the draining board. Because of the dog’s interference, I had to dry the pots and put them away.

  Thursday June 19th

  Our new computer is finally installed. Its grey slitheriness looks out of place on Mr Carlton-Hayes’s cherrywood desk.

  Brain-box Henderson gave us all an hour’s lesson on how to operate the Sage stock control and invoicing system and the ABE book-search facility.

  After ten minutes, Bernard Hopkins wandered off and took a book from the shelves and sat down to read.

  When the hour was up I was none the wiser as to how the computer’s systems worked, because Henderson spouted a lot of incomprehensible gobbledegook. But Mr Carlton-Hayes asked
him intelligent questions and seemed to understand his answers.

  When Henderson had gone, Mr Carlton-Hayes called Bernard Hopkins over to the computer and said, ‘Look, Bernard, every published book in the world is at our fingertips.’

  The three of us watched in wonder as the world’s literature scrolled across the screen. I felt a mixture of pride at mankind’s achievement and regret that a slower and more gentle time had passed.

  Friday June 20th

  Mr Carlton-Hayes showed me a letter he had received at the shop this morning.

  Dear Mr Carlton-Hayes

  Thank you very much for sending the poetry book and for helping my dad write those cards. They have come in useful.

  Best wishes,

  Glenn Bott-Mole

  Dear Mr Carlton-Hayes

  This is Robbie muscling in on Glenn’s letter. I have thoroughly enjoyed, if that’s the word, the volume of Siegfried Sassoon’s war poetry. He knew what he was on about, that’s for sure.

  I have learned ‘Survivors’ off by heart.

  Thanking you once again.

  Robbie

  PS By the way, I am Glenn’s best friend.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘I shall send the lad Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man.’

  If only he had been referring to Glenn.

  Saturday June 21st

  Mr Carlton-Hayes asked me when I was going to take my annual two weeks’ holiday. I told him that I couldn’t afford to go away.

  Hopkins said, ‘I don’t believe in holidays. Why go somewhere else for a drink?’

  My AA Visa card arrived in the post this morning. I saluted it.

  Sunday June 22nd

  After a lot of thought, I have decided to give Tim Henman some advice on how to win the men’s singles title. I have sent him an email c/o The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club.

  Dear Tim Henman

  I hope you will not take offence at what I have to say, but as a keen student of human nature I think I may be able to help you realize your ambition to win Wimbledon.

  a) Do not let your parents attend any matches. In fact, if they try to get on to the Centre Court, have them thrown out by security staff. If my parents were watching me doing my work, I would also go to pieces.

  b) Wife, Lucy, ditto.

  c) Try to attract more glamorous fans. Your present followers are the type of women that trainspotters marry.

  d) Ask Vinnie Jones to show you a more threatening clenched-fist, forearm-lifting gesture.

  e) Forbid your fans from shouting out, ‘Come on, Tim!’ It makes you sound as though you are coming fourth in the egg and spoon race at junior school.

  I think you will find that if you implement my suggestions, you will win the nation’s heart and almost certainly be made BBC sports personality of the year.

  Yours,

  A. A. Mole

  My father was readmitted to the Royal Hospital this afternoon, after telling my mother that he was dying. The wound in his back is infected again. I went to see him, and took a pillow with me, just in case.

  Monday June 23rd

  Daisy rang from her hotel room in Bristol. She said that the author she is on tour with drank too much wine before their reading in Waterstone’s and ended up haranguing the audience during the question and answer session because a young man asked, ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’

  The author had shouted, ‘From the Tesco’s Ideas Counter, pillock!’

  I asked who the author was.

  She said, ‘Marshall Snelgrove. You won’t have heard of him, he writes sci-fi. His galaxy is set in a kangaroo’s pouch.’

  I asked her what she was wearing.

  She said, ‘Your favourite, nothing.’

  Tuesday June 24th

  Pandora rang to ask about Glenn. I told her he was in Basra and was scared and unhappy. She said, ‘I’m furious with you for letting him go to that obscene war.’

  She asked me if I thought Glenn would talk to her, in confidence, for an article she was writing for the Observer. I said, ‘There is no such thing as “in confidence” any more.’ And refused on Glenn’s behalf.

  She said, ‘OK. My autobiography, Out of the Box, is published in a couple of weeks. Will your shop host the regional launch?’

  I said I would talk to Mr Carlton-Hayes tomorrow and ring her back.

  Wednesday June 25th

  Readers’ club.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes started by saying, ‘I ought to open this meeting by admitting that I am not an advocate of organized religion but, having said that, I was profoundly moved by the Koran. And as a bookseller, I am always terribly excited by the notion that a book can be central to the lives of a billion people throughout the world.’

  He then invited Mohammed to say what the Koran meant to him.

  Mohammed said quietly, ‘The Koran as I interpret it helps me to live my life. I follow its rules, I take comfort from its teachings, and I use it for guidance when I am uncertain and need to hear God’s word.’

  Darren interrupted and said, ‘I was proper surprised to read about Adam, Abraham, Moses and Jesus. It weren’t all that different from the Bible.’

  Lorraine said, ‘Yeah, and Pharaoh, who’s a right evil bastard.’

  Melanie Oates said, ‘What I liked about it was the language. I was reading it in a deckchair in the garden, and it was like I was hypnotized. A bit scary really – I should have been watching the children in the paddling pool.’

  Mohammed said, excitedly, ‘Melanie, you have hit the spot. The Koran helps us to meditate, it should be read sitting cross-legged on the floor, then its power is revealed.’

  I said, ‘The carpet is a bit dirty, but if nobody minds?’

  I heard Mr Carlton-Hayes’s knees crack as he sat down and crossed his legs in front of him. The rest of us joined him, forming a circle, and Mohammed began to chant. As he read, his body swayed in a slight oval pattern, and took on a rhythm of sixty beats per minute.

  ‘In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful,

  All praise is due to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.

  The Beneficent, the Merciful,

  Master of the Day of Judgement.

  Thee do we serve and Thee do we beseech for help.

  Keep us on the right path.

  The path of those upon whom Thou has bestowed favours. Not of those upon whom Thy wrath is brought down, nor of those who go astray.’

  Melanie said, ‘It’s very rhythmic. Do you think Flaubert ever read the Koran?’

  Mr Carlton-Hayes said, ‘Almost certainly. It is one of the greatest books in the civilized world.’

  We stayed sitting on the floor, and Mohammed explained that his personal interpretation was not shared by anybody else, including his sons. ‘Each Muslim interprets the Koran in their own way,’ he said.

  Melanie sighed and said, ‘I’m a bit disappointed to hear that. I was hoping to find some definite rules on how to live my life.’

  At the end of the meeting we spontaneously applauded Mohammed, and I think he was quietly pleased.

  Thursday June 26th

  I went to see my father after work. My mother was already at his bedside, dressed in her builder’s overalls and steel-toe-capped boots. I was there when his consultant came to give him the results of the blood and urine tests they had done earlier in the week.

  The consultant was pink and podgy and called Mr Fortune. He said to my father, ‘George, it’s as we feared, you’ve got a super bug.’

  My father said, ‘Super.’

  I don’t think he fully realizes the seriousness of his condition. He obviously thinks that a super bug is a more superior type of bug.

  Mr Fortune said to me and my mother, ‘MRSA is a bit of a bugger to treat. He’s on a very powerful antibiotic mix already, and we don’t have much more up our sleeve.’

  My mother said, ‘I’m relying on you to get him back on his feet, Mr Fortune. He’s needed back at the pigsty.’

  Mr Fortune looked my m
other up and down and I felt an explanation was needed.

  I said, ‘My mother is converting a pigsty into a dream home.’

  Mr Fortune said, ‘Splendid. I live in a converted cowshed myself.’

  As I walked to my car, I passed Animal. He was teaching Ivan to sit up and beg.

  Friday June 27th

  Went to the bank today and withdrew £2,000 in cash courtesy of the AA card. Then paid it back over the counter. £1,000 went to Visa and the other £1,000 to MasterCard.

  The bank clerk, a middle-aged woman with nine chins, said, ‘Pardon my presumption, but you are paying over the odds for your cash. Would you like to see our accounts manager?’

  I said, ‘The AA loan is interest free.’

  She said, wobbling her chins, ‘Not for cash it isn’t.’

  So my attempt to give myself a breathing space has failed. I am in an iron lung of debt.

  Daisy came for the weekend. I picked her up from the station. She brought two large suitcases with her, full of shoes and clothes.

  Saturday June 28th

  Had a mango session last night so had to clean the bathroom floor before I went to work. I left Daisy in bed reading an article in the Independent about Ali, the little boy who had both arms and both legs blown off by an American bomb. Apparently he was here having major surgery. I wanted to say something, but we have agreed not to talk about Iraq, Weapons of Mass Destruction or Marigold.

  When I came back from work, Daisy had filled the remaining wardrobe space with her stuff. She has got twenty-seven pairs of shoes. Some of them she can’t walk in at all and has never worn.

  She had moved my furniture around and tidied my bookshelves. She had obviously been out shopping: there were white flowers on the worktop and the fridge was full of the food we both like. Our underwear was conjoined in the washing machine.