Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years

by Sue Townsend

  Wednesday November 13th

  A letter from Bianca.

  Dear Adrian,

  Thank you for your letter, which Lucy forwarded to me. As you can see from my address, I am living in London. I am renting a small room in Soho at the moment, but it is costing £110 per week, so I won’t be here long!

  I’ve got a job as a waitress in a restaurant called ‘Savages’. The owner is a bit strange, but the staff are very nice. It would be lovely to see you when you’re next in London. My day off is Monday. How is the novel going? Have you finished your revisions? I can’t wait to read it in full!

  Love,

  Bianca (Dartington)

  Thursday November 14th

  Dear Bianca,

  Many thanks for your letter of the 11th. I must confess that I was rather surprised to hear from you. I am hardly ever in London, but I may drop in and see you on my next visit. Isn’t Soho a dangerous place in which to live? Please take care as you walk the streets. Personally, I am ossifying in this provincial hell.

  Lo! is going very well. I have called my hero Jake Westmorland. What do you think?

  Please write back.

  Yours as ever,

  Adrian

  Friday November 15th

  The New York Stock Exchange collapsed today. I hope this won’t affect the interest rates of the Market Har-borough Building Society.

  Saturday November 16th

  No reply from B.

  Sunday November 17th

  Why isn’t there a Sunday delivery in this country? I expect it is because of objections from the established Church. Do the clergy imagine that God gives a toss if humans receive letters or not on a Sunday?

  Monday November 18th

  By second post. A postcard of Holborn Viaduct.

  Dear Adrian,

  No. Soho is not dangerous. I love Jake Westmorland. When are you coming to London?

  Lots of love,

  Bianca

  Tuesday November 19th

  I sent Bianca a postcard of the Clock Tower, Leicester.

  Dear Bianca,

  As it happens, I shall be in London next Monday. Would you like to have lunch? Please write or ring to confirm.

  Very warm wishes,

  Adrian

  PS. I have shaved my beard off. It was the television pictures of Terry Waite that decided me.

  Wednesday November 20th

  Grandma’s Christmas card arrived. The shops are full of Santa Clauses ringing bells and getting in the way of legitimate shoppers. My mother said that whilst on duty she saw an old lady shoplifting a Cadbury’s Selection Box. I asked her what action she’d taken. She said, ‘I turned and walked the other way.’

  There is a rush on for burglar alarms. Everybody wants them fitted before Christmas when they fill their homes with consumer durables and Nintendo games.

  Saturday November 23rd

  A postcard from Bianca, of the original Crystal Palace.

  Dear Adrian,

  I have got to work on Monday. The office party season has started, but come down anyway. I will get off early. I look forward to seeing you. Come to ‘Savages’, Dean Street, at 2.30 p.m.

  Love,

  Bianca

  Sunday November 24th

  Freddie Mercury has died of Aids. There was no time for me to mourn, but I put ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, which is one of my favourite records, on the record player.

  I laid my wardrobe on my bed (or rather, the contents of my wardrobe) and tried to decide what to wear for my trip to London. I do not wish to be marked out as a provincial day-tripper by sneering metropolitans. Decided on the black shirt, black trousers and Oxfam tweed jacket. My grey slip-on shoes will have to do. Set my alarm for 8.30 a.m. I catch the 12.30 p.m. train.

  Monday November 25th

  Soho

  I am in love with Bianca Dartington. Hopelessly, helplessly, mindlessly, gloriously, magnificently.

  Tuesday November 26th

  I am still here, in Soho, in Bianca’s room above Brenda’s Patisserie in Old Compton Street. I have hardly seen daylight since 3.30 p.m. on Monday.

  Wednesday November 27th

  Poem to Bianca Dartington:

  Gentle face,

  Night black hair,

  Natural grace,

  Love I swear.

  Marry me, be my wife,

  Make me happy, share my life.

  Thursday November 28th

  Phoned my mother and asked her to send my books to Old Compton Street. Informed her that I am now living in London, with Bianca. She asked for the address, but I wasn’t falling for that. I hung up.

  Friday November 29th

  God, I love her! I love her! I love her! Every minute she is away, working at ‘Savages’, is torture for me.

  Query: Why didn’t I know that the human body is capable of such exquisite pleasure?

  Answer: Because, Mole, you had not made love to Bianca Dartington – somebody who loves you body and soul – before.

  Saturday November 30th

  What did I ever see in Pandora Braithwaite? She is an opinionated, arrogant ball-breaker. An all-round nasty piece of work. Compared to Bianca, she is nothing, nothing. And as for Leonora De Witt, I can hardly remember her face.

  I never want to leave this room. I want to live the whole of my life within these four walls (with occasional trips to the bathroom, which we have to share with a fire-eater called Norman).

  The walls are painted lavender blue and Bianca has stuck stars and moons on the ceiling which glow in the dark. There is a poster of Sydney Harbour Bridge on the wall between the windows. There is a double bed with an Indian bedspread covered in cushions; a chest of drawers that Bianca has painted white; an old armchair covered in a large tablecloth. A wonky table, half painted in gold, and two pine chairs. Instead of a bedhead, we have got a blown-up photograph on the wall of Isambard Kingdom Brunei, Bianca’s hero.

  Every morning when I wake up, I can’t believe that the slim girl with the long legs who is lying next to me is mine! I always get out of bed first and put the kettle on the Baby Belling cooker. I then put two slices of toast under the grill and serve my love with her breakfast in bed. I won’t allow her to get out of bed until the gas fire has warmed the room. She catches cold easily.

  I want to please her more than I want to please myself.

  This morning, ‘Stand By Me’, sung by Ben E. King, was playing on Capital Radio.

  I said, ‘I love this song. My father used to play it.’

  Bianca said, ‘So do I.’

  We danced to it, me in my boxer shorts and Bianca in her pink knickers with the flowers on.

  ‘Stand By Me’ is now our song.

  Sunday December 1st

  Went to the National Gallery today. We walked around the Sainsbury Wing like Siamese twins, fused together. We cannot bear to be apart for even a moment. The renaissance pictures glowed like jewels and inflamed our passion. Our mutual genitalia are a bit sore and bruised, but it didn’t stop us making love as soon as we got back to the room. Norman next door banged on the wall and nearly put us off, but we managed to ignore him.

  Monday December 2nd

  I was putting my socks and shoes on this morning, when I noticed a strange expression on Bianca’s face.

  I said, ‘What is it, darling?’

  After a lot of cajoling, Bianca confessed that she adored everything about me except my grey slip-on shoes and white towelling socks. As a mark of my love for her, I opened the window and hurled my only pair of socks and shoes into Old Compton Street. I was unable to go out all day as a consequence. I was a barefoot prisoner of love.

  Late that afternoon, Bianca bought me three pairs of socks from Sock Shop, and one pair of dark brogues from Bally. They all fitted perfectly. The shoes are serious. I felt like a grown-up in them as I walked around the room. I then walked to the Nat West Bank in Wardour Street and removed £100 from the Rapid Cash machine. This is the most I have ever withdrawn in one go. I paid
Bianca for the shoes (£59.99), which is also the most I have ever paid for a pair of shoes. Incidentally, it is now late evening and the grey slip-ons are still in the gutter. I did see a tramp try them on, but he scowled and took them off immediately, though they looked a good fit.

  Wednesday December 4th

  I telephoned my mother today and asked her why she hadn’t sent my books on as I had asked.

  She screamed, ‘Mainly because you refused to give me your address, you stupid sod.’ She then went on to say that she had asked our postman, Courtney Elliot, for an estimate of the cost of sending the books by Parcel Post. Apparently, he ‘guestimated’ (her word, not mine) that it would cost about a hundred quid! She said that my father is driving to London on Friday to attend a conference on Home Security. She said she would ask him to drop the books, and the rest of my worldly goods, off. I agreed reluctantly and gave her the address.

  When Bianca had gone to work, I walked to Oxford Street and bought a dustpan and brush, a packet of yellow dusters, Mr Sheen, a floor cloth, some liquid Flash, a bottle of Windolene and a pair of white satin knickers from Knickerbox.

  Bianca was thrilled when she returned at 3.00 p.m. to find our room cleaned and sparkling. Almost as thrilled as I was at 1.00 a.m. when she put the satin knickers on.

  Friday December 6th

  My father was in a foul temper when he got here tonight. The conference was in Watford, so he had to go considerably out of his way (backwards) in order to deliver my stuff. When he eventually found Old Compton Street, it was 9.30 p.m.

  He parked outside on double yellow lines, with his hazard lights flashing. Together, we lugged the boxes of books and plastic bags of clothes four floors up to the room. When we’d finished, my father collapsed on the bed. His bald patch was glistening with sweat. I was glad that Bianca was at work. When he’d recovered, I went down to see him off. Mrs Bellingham had ordered him to be home at a reasonable time. He is obviously afraid of her. As we walked to the car, my father stopped, pointed to the gutter and shouted, ‘What the bleeding hell is that?’

  His Montego had been wheel-clamped. I thought he was going to break down and cry in the street, but instead he went berserk and kicked at the yellow clamp and shouted obscenities. It was highly amusing to the posing idiots who were drinking cappuccino in the cold wind on the opposite pavement.

  I offered to go with him to the outer reaches of London, to start the long, bureaucratic process of declamping the car, but my father snarled, ‘Oh, bugger off back upstairs to your cowing love nest.’ He hailed a black cab and jumped in. As it turned into Wardour Street, I could tell that it wouldn’t be long before my father was whining to the cab driver about his bad luck, his ungrateful son, his fearsome mistress and his feckless ex-wife.

  Saturday December 7th

  Spent a pleasant day cataloguing and then arranging my books on the bookshelves I constructed from three planks and nine old bricks I found in a skip in Greek Street. Cost? Nil. In the same skip, I found Moral Thinking by John Wilson. It was printed in 1970, before sex came into The Archers, however, so I suppose the morality may be out of date.

  Bianca came home at lunchtime and asked if I wanted a job as a part-time washer-up in ‘Savages’. It is cash in hand, off the books. I said, ‘Yes.’

  We went to see the Thames Barrier and talked about our future. We pledged that we would not let riches and fame divide us.

  I start washing up on Monday.

  Monday December 9th

  Peter Savage, the owner of ‘Savages’, is certainly aptly named. I have never known a man with such a bad temper. He is rude to everybody, staff and customers. The customers think he is amusingly eccentric. The staff hate him and spend their meal breaks fantasizing about killing him. He is a tall, fat man with a face like a beef tomato. He dresses like Bertie Wooster and talks like Bob Hoskins of Roger Rabbit fame. He wears a CND tiepin on his Garrick Club tie.

  Culturally, he is all over the place.

  Tuesday December 10th

  Savage was drunk at 10 a.m. At 12 noon he vomited into the yukka plant in the corner of the restaurant. At 1 p.m. his wife came, abused him verbally and then carried him out to her car, helped by Luigi, the head waiter.

  I am reading The Complete Plain Words by Sir Ernest Gowers. I am on page 143: Clichés. Far be it from me to say so, but I’m sure my writing style will improve by leaps and bounds.

  Bianca startled me this evening by suddenly shouting, ‘Please, Adrian, can’t you stop that perpetual sniffing. Use a handkerchief!’

  Wednesday December 11th

  I toil over greasy pots and pans for £3.90 an hour, and the customers fork out £17 for a monkfish and £18 for a bottle of wine! Savage is obviously not as stupid as he looks.

  Fogle, Fogle, Brimmington and Hayes, the advertising firm, held their Christmas party in ‘Savages’ at lunchtime. The restaurant was closed to ordinary customers. Bianca said that the managing director, Piers Fogle, told her that they were in a celebratory mood because they had just won a contract worth £500,000 on the strength of a slogan for an advertising campaign for condoms.

  ‘What the well-dressed man is wearing’ is to appear on billboards all over the country.

  Their bill came to over £700. They gave Bianca and the other waitresses £5 each. I, the serf in the kitchen, got nothing, of course. Luigi put two fingers up to Fogle’s back as he staggered out of the restaurant.

  Saturday December 14th

  We haven’t made love for over twenty-four hours. Bianca has got cystitis.

  Sunday December 15th

  Bought The Joy of Sex in the Charing Cross Road. Cystitis is called ‘The Honeymooners’ Illness’. It can be caused by vigorous, frequent sex. Poor Bianca is in the toilet every ten minutes. Why is there always a price to pay for pleasure?

  Monday December 16th

  Savage was in court this morning, charged with assaulting a customer last April. He was fined £500 and ordered to pay costs and damages totalling my wages for five years. He came back to the restaurant with Mrs Savage and his lawyer to celebrate the fact that he hadn’t been sent to prison, but after the champagne had been drunk and the tagliatelle consumed, Savage spotted a group of Channel Four executives on table eight and began to abuse them because they didn’t show enough tobogganing on their sports programmes.

  According to Bianca, Mrs Savage said, ‘Darling, do be quiet, you’re starting to get a little tedious.’

  Savage shouted, ‘Shut your mouth, you fat cow!’

  She shouted, ‘I’m a size ten, you callous bastard!’

  The lawyer tried to conciliate, but Savage tipped the table up and Luigi ended up throwing his boss out of his own restaurant.

  Personally, I would be happy to see Savage chained up in prison, on bread and water, with rats gnawing at his feet – and I’m a supporter of prison reform.

  Tuesday December 17th

  Experimented with making very gentle love. I was the passive partner.

  Later, we had our first argument. Where are we spending Christmas Day and Boxing Day? In our room? At her parents’? At my parents’? Or with Luigi, who has invited us to his house in Harrow? We didn’t shout at each other, but there was (and still is) a distinct lack of seasonal goodwill. Bianca turned her back on me in bed tonight.

  Thursday December 19th

  We woke up tangled together, as usual. Christmas wasn’t mentioned, but love, passion and marriage were. We are going to spend Christmas with her parents in Richmond. Her father is going to pick us up on Christmas Eve. It will save me having to buy presents for my family.

  Saturday December 21st

  Tonight, Savage promenaded around the restaurant with a miniature Christmas tree on his head, complete with twinkling lights. He kissed all the women and blew cigar smoke at all the men. Luigi led him into the kitchen and propped him up against the sink. Savage then proceeded to tell me that his mother had never loved him and that his father had run away with an alcoholic nurse when he was e
ight. (When Savage junior was eight.) He broke down and wept, but I was too busy to comfort him. The cook was screaming for side plates.

  Sunday December 22nd

  Bianca stayed in bed today, tired out, poor kid, which gave me a chance to work on chapter twenty-one of Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland.