Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  On the way to treatment I asked my mother if she thought I was a good writer. She didn’t answer for a long time, then a fox ran across the road in front of us and she slammed on the brakes. When we were driving again, I repeated my question, saying, ‘Am I a good writer, Mum?’

  She said, ‘I like some of your stuff.’

  I challenged her to name one piece.

  She said, ‘“The Tap”. I liked that.’ And she quoted, ‘The tap drips and keeps me awake in the morning, there will be a lake.’

  I said, ‘You like a banal poem I wrote when I was thirteen and three-quarters! What about my later canon?’

  Diary, I was very tempted to confess that I had read A Girl Called ‘Shit’ and advise her to discontinue the inevitably doomed project, but I kept shtum.

  *

  Later that morning I went to Mangold Parva Infants for the nativity play. Daisy was already there on the front row sitting next to my father in his wheelchair. He was holding his camcorder. I sat in between them. To my annoyance Daisy’s father, Michael Flowers, was also there with his horrible beard and hand-knitted sweater with the reindeer design. My mother sat down clutching a disposable camera. Mrs Bull stepped on to the raised platform and quietened the audience. She was wearing her usual ill-fitting green suit and had applied a dab of orange lipstick for the occasion. When her order was not instantly obeyed, she raised her voice and shouted, ‘Can I have your attention, please!’

  The audience, a cross section of the village, i.e. chavs and Barbour-wearing parents, fell silent.

  Mrs Bull said, ‘I have a few announcements to make before our festive play begins. I would have liked to call it a nativity play but, unfortunately, due to the sensitivities of the Muslim community I am not allowed to do so.’

  My father muttered, ‘It’s political correctness gone bleedin’ mad.’

  Michael Flowers said loudly, ‘It’s a bloody disgrace.’

  Everybody in the audience looked around the hall trying to spot a Muslim.

  Mrs Ludlow, who runs the pensioners’ group on Wednesday afternoons, was wearing a headscarf but she is a fervent member of the Church of England.

  Mrs Bull continued, ‘I’m afraid that those of you who have brought cameras and video machines with you will not be allowed to use them. This is to prevent our children from being exploited and posted on the internet for the purposes of adult titillation.’

  My mother said, ‘Nobody is going to be titillated by a load of kids wearing bed sheets and tea towels on their heads.’

  Mrs Bull glared at my mother and said, ‘And finally, toddlers and babies who shout or cry out will be asked to leave. Our children have been rehearsing this performance for many weeks and I am determined that they will be heard in silence.’

  A small boy walked on wearing a striped brushed-cotton sheet and a white and blue tea towel with ‘GLASSES’ written on it. What followed was a travesty. The children were obviously under-rehearsed and had no stagecraft. When Joseph fidgeted with his headdress, causing it to slip from his head and fall on to the floor, and then started to cry, from somewhere in the audience a woman shouted, in a cut-glass accent, ‘Don’t worry, Benedict darling, carry on without it.’

  It went downhill from there on. When the thirty snowflakes made their entrance, the cows, sheep, wise men and shepherds were pushed to the very brink of the platform, causing Mrs Bull and various teachers to link arms to prevent the children from falling into the audience. The recorded music was not coordinated with the action on stage.

  I whispered to my mother, ‘God save us from amateur productions.’

  After twenty tedious minutes, Gracie (the North Star) had still not made her entrance.

  I forgot that we were not speaking and whispered to Daisy, ‘Surely the North Star should have been there from the beginning, else it makes a nonsense of the wise men scenario. I mean, what are they supposed to follow?’

  Daisy whispered back, ‘It’s a bloody fiasco.’

  Eventually, towards the end, the North Star made her entrance to loud applause from the Mole family and from her Granddad Flowers. She announced to the audience that she had been on the toilet for a long, long time. This was met with laughter and applause, though I noticed Mrs Bull did not join in.

  My parents disobeyed instructions and videoed and photographed my little girl, who should have announced, ‘Morning came and the North Star faded in the sky,’ but instead waved to her family on the front row. By now Mary was absent-mindedly swinging Jesus (a Baby Annabelle doll) by one leg. One of the three wise men fell off the platform and lay at my father’s feet still clutching his box of frankincense.

  Michael Flowers got up and helped the boy back on to the platform, whereupon Mrs Bull shouted, ‘Please don’t manhandle the child!’

  My father-in-law said, ‘Madam, I do not follow Strasbourg’s dictates on how to pick up a child!’

  After a ragged rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ the audience filed out. I tried to apologise to Mrs Bull on behalf of the Mole family. I told her that my father-in-law was a man of extreme political views.

  Mrs Bull said, ‘I happen to share his views, Mr Mole, but this was not the occasion on which to express them.’

  *

  After waiting for the North Star to change into her normal clothes, we walked home. Michael Flowers insisted on pushing my father’s wheelchair. Was it my imagination or did he deliberately push my father through the deepest puddles? We were forced to invite him to share our evening meal. Flowers drank a bottle and a half of red wine and went into a long lament about his first wife, Daisy’s Mexican mother Conchita. He moaned that he had never stopped loving her and still hoped to win her back. He then proceeded to tell me that I was a damn fool to have been bullied by the doctors into having radiotherapy for my prostate cancer.

  He said, ‘Adrian, let’s face it, your poor diet and unhealthy lifestyle are to blame for your cancer. If you are serious about regaining your health you should revolutionise your diet. Daisy, tomorrow morning you must go out and stock up on blueberries and raw vegetable juices. He needs green tea and antioxidants. And it’s essential that you make up a poultice from a mash of passion fruit, lentils and papaya and apply this to Adrian’s genitals.’

  I said, ‘How am I supposed to keep a poultice on my genitals?’

  He said, ‘Use cling film but make sure you apply it to your testicular sack.’ He added, ‘I have noticed that you do not have a window open.’

  Daisy said, ‘Dad, it is December.’

  Flowers said, ‘We were not meant to live in overheated dwelling places. It’s not long since we came out of the caves.’

  After advising me to hang upside down for at least an hour and a half every day, he took his leave. We stood at the door to wave him off.

  When the lights of his Volkswagen camper van had disappeared down the lane, Daisy said, ‘Remind me to put cling film on the shopping list.’

  We laughed and went to bed and slept in the spoon position until I had to get up to go to the toilet.

  Wednesday 19th December

  Daisy was getting ready for work – she is arranging a New Year’s Eve party at Fairfax Hall. Tickets are £75 a head! She asked me if I wanted to go. I said I would.

  At treatment I asked Sally if there were any medical benefits from the poultice/cling film method. She said one of her patients fell under the influence of a person they found on the internet who advised them to stop chemotherapy and instead live entirely on a diet of seaweed and mackerel. She knew of another who spent their life savings on crystals, which were placed in every room.

  ‘And how are these patients?’ I asked.

  ‘Dead,’ she said.

  Thursday 20th December

  Four days to Christmas! I have done no Christmas shopping and I have not told Daisy that Bernard Hopkins is to be our house guest.

  My mother came round to use our phone. She threw her own against the wall and smashed it because BT sent her a bill for £2,376,215.
18. When she rang to query this extraordinary amount, a person at the BT call centre told her to hold. After my mother had listened to the whole of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the phone was cut off. My mother redialled and spoke to another call centre operative ‘in India’. According to her, ‘I could hear an elephant trumpeting and a Bollywood soundtrack playing.’ However, my mother is prone to exaggeration so I’m not sure I can trust this part of her narrative.

  Friday 21st December

  Treatment.

  Sally is very sad. Anthony has postponed the wedding indefinitely, saying the wolves must come first. Apparently, as soon as his skin grafts have taken he’s returning to Canada.

  Had an appointment with Dr Rubik this morning. She said that my latest blood tests showed that I am slowly responding to treatment. She said that my prognosis is ‘quite good’.

  Only quite good?

  Pandora rang while I was still talking to Dr Rubik. She said, ‘I would like to talk to her myself. Put her on, will you?’

  Dr Rubik took my phone and was soon deep in conversation with Pandora about me and my treatment. I felt like an interloper. At one point Dr Rubik turned her back on me.

  When she handed the phone back to me, Pandora said, ‘I might be in Leicester for Christmas. If I am, I’ll drop in and see you.’

  My heart soared.

  My mother picked me up from the hospital. The back seat of the Mazda was piled high with multipacks of Heinz baked beans, corned beef, dried milk and a jumbo bag of long-grain rice.

  I said, ‘That’s peculiar food to buy at Christmas.’

  My mother said, ‘That’s my hoarding food. The Christmas stuff is in the boot.’

  When I asked her why she was hoarding food, she said, ‘I don’t like the signs, Adrian. Houses are not selling and Gordon Brown is denying that there is a credit crunch.’

  Credit crunch! Where does she get these terms?

  I asked her what my father would like for Christmas.

  She said, ‘Six white handkerchiefs or six pairs of black socks or a Dolly Parton CD.’

  I know for a fact that my father has got two drawers entirely devoted to white handkerchiefs and black socks and he prides himself on having every song that Dolly Parton has recorded including those when she was a bare-footed hillbilly.

  Saturday 22nd December

  Woke in the night sweating. Had a dream that I was dead and lying in a coffin. Friends and relations were filing past me.

  My mother passed the coffin and said, ‘He was a terrible writer.’

  Pandora laid her head on my cold chest and wept, saying, ‘He was my only true love.’

  Nigel barged into the coffin and I fell out.

  Then I woke up. I told Daisy about my dream (I missed out the Pandora part).

  She said, ‘When we were first married, we made a promise that we would never talk about our dreams. I expect you to honour that agreement.’

  Three days to go. I must tell Daisy about Bernard Hopkins. Mr Carlton-Hayes rang this morning and invited me, Bernard and Hitesh round on Monday evening for Christmas drinks and a mince pie.

  At last! I have never been to Mr Carlton-Hayes’s house before or met Leslie. I hope he/she will be pouring the drinks.

  Gracie dictated a note to Santa Claus.

  A real dog

  A real cat

  A real fish

  A real bird

  A real pig

  A real cow

  A real horse

  A real baby

  We waited for Daisy to come before we burned Santa’s letter in the fireplace. Gracie fell asleep at 8.30 p.m. but Daisy didn’t arrive home until 11.05 p.m. She said there was some paperwork she had to finish. She brought a bag full of pine cones from Hugo Fairfax-Lycett’s estate.

  Sunday 23rd December

  Daisy’s mood is increasingly erratic. This morning, as I was enjoying a bowl of cornflakes, she said, ‘Do you have to open your mouth when you eat?’

  I replied, ‘Actually, I do. It’s the only way I know to get the food inside.’

  Five minutes later she hurled herself into my arms and said, ‘Do you think it’s possible for us to be happy?’

  An interesting choice of tense.

  Monday 24th December

  Christmas Eve

  Treatment.

  I gave Sally a festive box of After Eights. She gave them back to me, saying that in the code of practice hospital staff are not allowed to receive presents from patients.

  I tried to hand them back to her and said, ‘Put them in your bag, nobody will know.’

  She said, ‘I will know, Adrian.’

  Sometimes I can see why Anthony prefers the wolves to her.

  There was the usual Christmas Eve rush in the bookshop. At 5 p.m. people started running in and panic-buying. We sold out of Jamie Oliver and Nigella and one distraught woman hammered on the door at five thirty, after we had closed, and begged to be let in.

  When I took pity on her, she blurted out, ‘My sister’s coming down from Scotland, she rang me this morning. She’s leaving her bloody awful husband – again. She’s got five children ages one to seven. Why me? We don’t get on and she knows I can’t stand kids. Derek and I were going to have a quiet Christmas – a little smoked salmon, a couple of glasses of champagne and the EastEnders special.’

  I invited her to sit on the sofa and compose herself. I then chose five suitable books and had Hitesh gift-wrap them.

  The woman said, ‘This is very kind of you. I will give you my custom in the New Year.’

  Bernard said, ‘You’ll have a job, madam, this venerable old shop is closing. It’s the end of an era. Will Waterstones and Borders open their doors to you, madam, and gift-wrap your books? Will you receive such service from the pimply youths they employ?’

  When she’d gone, I rang for a taxi and was told by a surly man on the end of the line that the fare would be double because it was Christmas Eve.

  The taxi driver was wearing a Father Christmas hat.

  Bernard said, ‘Excuse me, chap, but aren’t you a follower of Islam?’

  The driver turned to Bernard, who was in the back seat, and said, ‘Yeah, but Christmas is for the kids, innit?’

  Hitesh said, ‘Christmas ain’t like what it used to be.’

  Bernard patted his arm and said, ‘Hitesh, old flower, Christmas is exactly the same, it’s you who have changed.’

  Mr Carlton-Hayes lives in a huge Edwardian house in Stoneygate. Many of the houses in the street have been turned into residential homes for the elderly or into probation hostels. A sprightly elderly man with an abundance of grey hair and wearing a white polo-neck jumper opened the door to us. He was wearing yellow washing-up gloves. He pulled one off and shook our hands, saying, ‘I’m Leslie, Mr Carlton-Hayes’s friend.’

  We stepped into the large hall. Books lined the walls.

  Mr Carlton-Hayes shouted, ‘Show them into the drawing room, my dear.’

  Leslie ushered us into a room which was hung with gaudy Christmas decorations. Mr Carlton-Hayes cut an incongruous figure sitting in his wheelchair wearing a quilted dressing gown and cravat. He was illuminated by an artificial silver Christmas tree behind him with flashing primary-coloured bulbs.

  He said, ‘Hello, my dears. Do please sit down.’ After we were seated, he said to Leslie, ‘Champagne, I think, my dear.’

  Bernard said, looking around at the paper chains, garlanded mantelpiece and bunches of balloons hanging from the ceiling, ‘It’s very cheerful in here, Mr C.’

  Mr Carlton-Hayes said cautiously, ‘Yes, it is rather jolly.’

  Bernard said, ‘I like a bit of vulgarity myself. I despise that minimalistic, arty-farty, tight-arsed, bare-floorboard, Habitat foolery.’

  Hitesh said, ‘My mum has a string of coloured lights nailed to the picture rail all year round.’

  ‘Quite right too!’ said Bernard.

  As a fan of Habitat and bare boards, I kept quiet. We made small talk between us. Leslie c
ame back with a bottle of Marks & Spencer’s champagne and four glasses. Thereafter the conversation grew more and more stilted until it eventually dried up and there was an uncomfortable silence.

  Nobody had mentioned the elephant in the room – the fact that Carlton-Hayes’s new, second-hand and antiquarian bookshop had gone out of business. Bernard saved us by recounting the anecdote about his most recent failed suicide attempt. He tried to make it sound amusing. Nobody laughed but at least it passed a few minutes. Leslie went out and came back with a tray of what he called ‘bonnes bouches’ which were tiny beef burgers and minuscule mince pies.

  There was so much I wanted to say to Mr Carlton-Hayes: how much I loved him, how I would miss him, how much I respected his knowledge of books, how much I admired his unfailing good manners. For something to do I gathered up the plates and glasses and took them into the kitchen, where I found Leslie slumped over the sink with his head in his hands.

  I asked him if he was all right and he turned a tear-stained face to me and choked, ‘This could be his last Christmas with me and yet he still will not properly introduce me to his friends. Why? Is he ashamed of me? I’ve always kept the house nice for him. He’s always had a good meal waiting for him when he comes home. I don’t know what will happen to me when he dies. I can’t start all over again, not at my age.’

  To my horror he removed his hair and wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. I stared down at the grey curly wig. It had certainly fooled me. He put it back on his head and checked his reflection in the shiny microwave door. He said to himself, ‘Right, shoulders back, Leslie,’ and returned to the drawing room.

  To give myself time I rinsed the glasses and plates and looked around the kitchen. There were more books on the shelves than kitchen equipment. Reluctantly I went back into the drawing room, where I found Hitesh – who was unused to champagne – telling a story about one of his college lecturers whose wig had been blown off in a high wind on the campus. I saw Leslie touch his hair and exchange a look with Mr Carlton-Hayes.