Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years

by Sue Townsend

  Bernard said, ‘I don’t know why the silly fuckers wear a wig. You can always tell.’

  I rose to my feet and said, ‘I’d better get home. Can I call a cab?’

  Leslie said, ‘I’ll give you a lift. I’ve got to buy a packet of Paxo for tomorrow.’

  I wished Mr Carlton-Hayes a very merry Christmas.

  He said, ‘We’ll talk after the festivities, my dear.’

  I meant to shake his hand but instead I bent down and kissed him.

  Leslie’s car stank of the pine tree he had hanging from his rear-view mirror. We dropped Hitesh off at his parents’ semi-detached house in Evington and watched him walk unsteadily to the front door. As we drove out towards the countryside, I remembered that I had not yet rung Daisy about Bernard. I could hardly ring her in Bernard’s presence so it was not until Bernard walked into our kitchen that Daisy knew we had a Christmas house guest.

  Midnight

  It is officially Christmas Day. Daisy greeted Bernard very frostily, but when my parents came round and a few bottles had been opened Daisy relaxed and, after ordering him to wash his hands, allowed Bernard to stuff the turkey. After we had laid out a saucer of milk and a half-eaten carrot for the reindeers and a nibbled mince pie and a glass of whisky for Santa in the fireplace, my parents went home and I made up a sleeping-bag bed on the sofa for our guest. Bernard had not brought pyjamas, a toothbrush or a change of clothes or underwear with him, so I went next door to borrow a few items from my father who is the same size as Bernard. My mother was still up. Her hair was in giant rollers and she was wearing a green face mask, made of seaweed and cucumber, she said. She told me that she thought Bernard was a ‘riot’ and that he would liven up Christmas. She tiptoed into my father’s room and gathered together some toiletries and pyjamas.

  When I got home, Bernard was asleep on the sofa with Wilde’s The Happy Prince on his chest.

  Gracie’s main present was a mini trampoline. When we opened the box from Toys ‘R’ Us we discovered that it contained eighty separate components and that it lacked the special tool with which to build the soddin’ thing and which was vital to the trampoline’s successful self-assembly. So the boast on the outside of the box that ‘Within minutes your child will be having healthy, happy, bouncy fun!’ was a lie. At one thirty in the morning, when we were practically weeping with tiredness and realized that we had connected the springs upside down, Daisy gave me a look of pure hatred and said, ‘A proper man would have realized that the springs were on upside down,’ and stomped off to bed. It was 3 a.m. by the time I had successfully assembled the bloody bastard soddin’ thing.

  Tuesday 25th December

  Christmas Day

  Daisy and I leapt out of bed at 6.05 a.m., woken by a loud crash and a shout of pain from Bernard Hopkins. As we struggled into our dressing gowns, Daisy said, ‘Six bloody o’clock! I can’t face Christmas at this god-forsaken hour!’

  When we went into the living room, we found Bernard trying to fit together the pendant light which had fallen from the ceiling. The light bulb had shattered and tiny shards of glass were scattered over the dark blue canvas of the trampoline (reminding me, Diary, of Van Gogh’s Starry Night). Bernard’s left leg had slipped between the canvas and the springs. He was holding a red velvet cushion in front of his genitals – otherwise, he was naked.

  ‘Sorry, old cock,’ he said. ‘I got up for a jimmy riddle and couldn’t resist a jump on the bouncy contraption. Must have misjudged the hellish ceiling height, hit my bonce on that craperoony Habitat light fitting.’

  Daisy went to fetch the vacuum cleaner while I extricated Bernard from the springs. Once he was free he threw the cushion away and I was forced to glimpse his private parts. God, will mine look like that when I am an old man?

  After I had checked his feet for broken glass, he climbed back inside his sleeping bag and was instantly asleep. Not long after all the glass had been scrupulously sucked up Gracie came bursting in and Christmas Day had officially begun.

  Daisy loved her handbag and immediately transferred all the junk she carries around with her from her old bag to the new.

  Disappointingly she had bought me a boxed set of The Office DVDs. Apparently, I had once mentioned that I sympathised with the anti-hero, David Brent. On this flimsy evidence Daisy assumed that I would be delighted to be given hours’ worth of the stuff. She was wrong.

  My mother bought me a CD, The Best of Katherine Jenkins. She had written on the gift tag: ‘I know you like opera.’ Diary, this is true. I do like operatic arias. But I like my opera sung by neurotic tortured women, who sound as though they are about to throw themselves off the leaning Tower of Pisa (perhaps). Ms Jenkins is pink and pretty and has a bosom like two marshmallows. I prefer my singers to be swarthy and have rather more aggressive breasts.

  The turkey was too big to fit into the oven. I went out to the shed and searched for the lump hammer. When I found it, I used it to batter the turkey and break its breastbone. Then I went for treatment. My mother was wearing the gift I had bought her and said, ‘I have never had such an expensive piece of jewellery. Your father always went to Ratners.’

  Sally was down in the mouth. Anthony has not given her a Christmas present. Instead he has donated £100 in her name to the WPSOC (Wolves Preservation Society Of Canada). She is spending Boxing Day with her parents in Wolverhampton.

  When we returned home, Daisy told me that I was banned from the kitchen. She said, ‘The dinner is under control and I don’t want anybody in here until it is time to serve up.’

  When I went out to the wheelie bin to dump the Christmas wrapping paper and packaging, I glimpsed a corner of a box that said ‘Aunt Bessie’s roast potatoes’. On delving in further I found the following:

  Aunt Bessie’s stuffing balls

  Aunt Bessie’s mashed potatoes

  Aunt Bessie’s chipolatas and bacon wraps

  Aunt Bessie’s bread sauce

  Aunt Bessie’s buttered parsnips

  Aunt Bessie’s Brussels sprouts

  Aunt Bessie’s julienne carrots

  Aunt Bessie’s Christmas pudding

  Aunt Bessie’s custard.

  Such deception! What else is she hiding from me?

  I will not give her away but I am deeply disappointed in her. Christmas dinner is not the same unless the cook has sweated and panicked and slaved over a hot stove. My mother’s only contribution to the meal was to provide the Mole Christmas gravy, which she concocts using a secret recipe passed down through the generations by senior Mole women.

  When our guests gushed that the dinner was delicious, and my mother hugged Daisy and said it was the best Christmas dinner she had ever tasted, I looked Daisy in the eye – expecting to see her glance away – but she brazenly stared back at me and accepted the compliments. I wonder how she disguised the ping of the microwave? Was that why she had the radio on at full volume?

  When the dinner had been cleared away, the Mole men washed up, as is the custom. Later, we played Leicester Monopoly. My father made a serious misjudgement regarding his property on the Clock Tower and lost all his money buying the Grand Hotel in Granby Street. Bernard kept getting the ‘go to Leicester jail’ card and my mother hogged all the free parking. Daisy won, but she almost certainly cheated. I did not play. I do not believe in competitive games. I was quite glad when my mother and father went home. There was not enough room in our living room to accommodate a wheelchair and a trampoline. Fell into bed at 9.30 p.m., exhausted. Lay awake wondering how to get rid of Bernard. He’s homeless, jobless and penniless.

  Wednesday 26th December

  Boxing Day

  Treatment.

  Had an Estonian radiotherapist called Stefan. He told me, in perfect English, that he sends home half of his wages to his mother and his large extended family.

  I said, ‘Families are a nightmare, aren’t they?’

  Stefan said, ‘I would die for my family. I have not seen my mother’s face for two years.’
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br />   Ate cold turkey and baked potatoes. My father went a bit mad when he realized that Bernard was wearing his clothes. He whined, ‘I’ve lost my independence, I’m not long for this world and now my wife is giving my bleedin’ clothes away. Can’t you wait until I’m dead, Pauline?’

  Bernard patted my father on his back and said, ‘I’d take them off, George old chap, but my own clothes are in the wash.’

  My mother said, ‘You’re a selfish sod, George. You’ve got a wardrobe full of stuff you never wear. Surely you don’t begrudge Bernard a change of clothes?’

  My father shouted, ‘I do begrudge him. He had the biggest baked potato and he got to sit next to Gracie! I sit next to Gracie.’

  My mother shouted back, ‘You’re showing yourself up, George. Bernard’s potato was not bigger than yours.’

  Daisy jumped to her feet and shrilled, ‘For Christ’s sake! Do I have to take a bloody tape measure to the potatoes now?’

  But my father could not stop himself. He yelled, ‘And where was the red cabbage? You know I love the stuff. It’s a Boxing Day staple.’

  Diary, I could not believe that my father was ruining Boxing Day with quibbling complaints about red cabbage and the size of baked potatoes. A horrible silence fell and all that could be heard was the scraping of cutlery on plates and the sound of mastication. Then there was a banging on our door. I got up with a sigh to see who it was.

  It was Brett.

  I looked behind him for his car but it wasn’t there. I asked him how he had journeyed to the Piggeries.

  He said, ‘My car ran out of petrol at Leicester Forest East Services and I couldn’t afford to fill it up. I’ve lost everything, Adrian.’

  In his haste to get to his second son my father jammed his wheelchair in the kitchen doorway. Brett dropped the plastic Harrods bag that he was holding and rushed to my father. He knelt down at the side of the wheelchair and threw his arms around my father’s neck.

  After a while my father said, ‘You’ll have to let me go, son. You’re choking me.’

  Brett sobbed, ‘I’ll never let you go again, Dad. I’m going to stay by your side and devote the rest of my life to looking after you.’

  My mother looked alarmed at this proclamation and said to Daisy, ‘I look after George.’

  I managed to free the wheelchair and push my father back into the kitchen. Brett was wearing one of his expensive pinstriped suits but his white shirt had a dirty collar and he was unshaven. He sat down at the kitchen table, burrowed his face in his hands and sobbed.

  Bernard went behind him and said, ‘Pull yourself together, lad. I’m also on my uppers but I’m managing to keep myself together.’

  Brett lifted his head and said, ‘You stupid old fart. You’ve obviously had nothing to lose in the first place. I’ve lost three prime apartments, a Lamborghini and a fucking hedge fund!’

  Bernard poured himself a neat vodka and sat down.

  I said, ‘Bernard is a guest in my house, Brett. Apologise.’

  Gracie broke the brief silence by saying, ‘I had to apologise for saying Mummy was fat.’

  My father said, ‘You’ve got a bed in our house for as long as you need it, son.’

  I was extremely annoyed. I had intended to ask my parents if Bernard could lodge in their spare room. Now it was to be occupied by my bankrupt half-brother.

  Daisy said, ‘You can’t have lost everything, Brett. Not in such a short time.’

  Brett (who still hadn’t apologised, I noticed) said, ‘The properties were mortgaged, the car was leased, and the hedge fund collapsed. The fucking banks turned me away. I lived on my credit cards for a while but the bastards closed me down.’

  Gracie said, ‘You mustn’t swear. If you do, your tongue will fall out.’

  All the smokers lit cigarettes. Only Gracie and I did not. I was, of course, a little sorry for Brett but a tiny seed inside me was delighted at his downfall.

  Daisy said, ‘Brett, you’ve got a first from Oxford. You’ll soon find another job.’

  Brett said, ‘The attendant in the petrol station at Leicester Forest East had a degree in astrophysics so save your platitudes, Mrs Mole.’

  Rage swept over me. I said, ‘How dare you call my wife platitudinous!’

  Brett said, ‘Do you know what the worst thing is about my crash?’

  None of us knew.

  He said, ‘It’s having to live in the fucking East Midlands amongst provincial doltheads with tight-arsed sensibilities who teach their children that swearing will cause their tongues to fall out.’

  My mother shouted, ‘I’m not provincial! I went to London three times last year!’

  Brett said wearily, ‘Any chance of some food?’

  It was a stupid question. Every surface was crammed with food.

  Since nobody else made an effort to assemble a plate of food for him, I got to my feet and carved some slices of turkey and then added to the plate a shrivelled baked potato and pickles. I was about to add salad when Brett said, ‘No salad, I never eat salad!’

  Gracie said, ‘You have to eat salad. It’s the law.’

  Thank God, it wasn’t long before my parents took Brett next door. When they’d gone, Bernard said, ‘What a tosser!’

  We spent the evening watching Gracie’s DVD of The Sound of Music. Unfortunately, she insisted on singing and dancing during the musical numbers. Bernard was enchanted but Daisy and I have seen her performance many hundreds of times. By the time we went to bed we had half-eaten a family-sized tin of Roses chocolates.

  Daisy has started undressing and putting on her pyjamas in the bathroom. I used to love to watch my wife undress and at least twice a week it was a prelude to our marital relations.

  Had to get up many times in the night to go to the loo. By the time morning came I was exhausted and had to drag myself out of bed to go for my treatment.

  Thursday 27th December

  As if things weren’t bad enough! Michael Flowers invited himself to lunch today. It was me who took the phone call.

  Daisy said, ‘You’re so slow witted lately, Adrian. Why didn’t you tell him a lie and put him off? Or you could have given the phone to me. I’m a brilliant liar, almost a professional.’

  I was scandalised. I said, ‘That’s nothing to brag about, Daisy, truth is the greatest virtue. Without truth we are nothing but farmyard animals.’

  Daisy turned on me and said, with a smile, ‘So what’s the truth about you and Pandora fucking Braithwaite, eh, truth boy?’

  This was so unexpected that I was flummoxed for a while. Eventually I stammered, ‘We are just good friends.’

  Daisy said, ‘That’s not what you wrote in your Boxing Day text to her.’

  She went to her green bag on the table and took out her notebook. She rifled through the pages and then pointed to:

  Very disappointed not 2cU at Xmas.

  I said, ‘She was my first love, Daisy. One never properly gets over one’s first.’

  Daisy said, ‘Oh, one can. My first love was a dodgem car attendant at the fair. He had lank black hair and spider tattoos across both sets of knuckles. I got over him the day the fair left our village.’

  Friday 28th December

  Nine of us sat down to lunch yesterday, plus one child. God knows how – there are only four chairs at the kitchen table. We had to use two garden chairs, the plastic stool from the bathroom, a milk crate from the shed and bring Gracie’s old highchair down from the attic. We were all at different heights. A couple of us could barely see over the table. We ate Daisy’s traditional curried turkey, basmati rice and the delicious chapattis that Parvez’s wife has taught Daisy how to cook. To cater for her father, Daisy made a vegetarian curry using all the squashy vegetables at the bottom of the fridge.

  NOTE TO SELF. Why does our fridge do the opposite to every other fridge I have known? I.e. it does not keep the food fresh.

  Flowers turned up with Daisy’s sister Marigold and Brain-box Henderson, her husband, who present
ed everybody but Brett and Bernard with a Star Trek mug. Marigold said to Brett, ‘We didn’t know you’d be here. We thought you’d be in the Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados like you are every Christmas.’

  I said, ‘Brett has had a change of fortune.’

  Bernard said, ‘I don’t mind not having a mug. I have boycotted American goods since the McCarthy trials.’

  Brett, sitting on the milk crate, looked up at us all and said, ‘Isn’t anybody going to open the wine?’

  Michael Flowers had brought four bottles of his quince and plum wine. I did not drink the filthy stuff but everybody else seemed to enjoy it, or at least endure it. Before the food was served, Flowers handed out Christmas crackers he had made himself. To my eye they were pathetic, made of handmade paper with bits of bark in it, and none of them had a satisfactory snap. The small presents inside were tiny biscuits covered in unrecognisable seeds. There were no corny jokes either. Instead there were strips of paper with quotations from Nelson Mandela, Kant and Nigel Farage of UKIP. It was thoughtful of Flowers to have made the party hats. But there was something dispiriting about hats made out of the financial pages of the Independent. My mother’s hat read: ‘NORTHERN ROCK: BROWN STEPS IN.’

  My father’s newsprint was upside down but I managed to make out what it said: ‘AVERAGE BRITON IN DEBT FOR £12,700 PLUS MORTGAGE.’

  I took my own hat off and read: ‘UNEMPLOYMENT TWO AND A HALF MILLION.’

  My mother said, looking at Daisy’s paper hat, ‘What is a sub-prime mortgage?’

  Brett looked up at my mother and said, ‘It’s a mortgage given to morons who can’t afford to pay it.’

  ‘We can’t afford to pay ours,’ said my mother.