by Sue Townsend
Jake ran his fingers down the length of her back. Her skin felt like the finest silk, even to his fingers, roughened by years of immersion in washing-up water. She sighed and squirmed into the flannelette sheet. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said, her voice cracking like a whip. ‘Don’t ever stop, Jake…’
Tuesday December 24th
Christmas Eve
I braved the maddening crowds today and went out to buy Bianca’s Christmas present. After tramping the streets for two hours, I ended up in Knickerbox and bought her a purple suspender belt, scarlet knickers, and a black lace bra. When the saleswoman asked me about size, I confessed I didn’t know. I said, ‘She’s not Rubenesque, but she’s not Naomi Campbell.’
The woman rolled her eyes and said, ‘Okay, she’s medium, yeah?’
I said, ‘She looks a bit like Paula Yates, but with black hair.’
The woman sighed and said, ‘Paula Yates breastfeeding or not breastfeeding?’
I said, ‘Not breastfeeding,’ and she snatched some stuff off the racks and gift-wrapped it for me.
I agonized in Burger King over whether or not to buy her parents presents. At four-thirty, I decided that, yes, I would ingratiate myself with them and bought her mother some peach-based pot-pourri. I phoned Bianca at ‘Savages’ and asked what I should get for her father. She said her father was fond of poetry, so I went and bought him a book of poems by John Hegley, called Can I Come Down Now Dad? which has a picture of Jesus on the cross on its cover. I also managed to track down a copy of The Railway Heritage of Britain by Gordon Biddle and O. S. Nock for Bianca.
Thursday December 26th
Boxing Day
Richmond
Bianca’s mother is allergic to peaches; and her father, the Reverend Dartington, thought that the John Hegley book was in extremely bad taste. Also, I hate Bianca’s brother and sister. How my sweet, darling Bianca could have come from such a vile family is a mystery to me. We slept in separate beds in separate rooms. We had to go to a wooden hut of a church on Christmas Day and listen to her father rant on about the commercialization of Christmas. Bianca and I were the only people to buy presents. Everyone else had given money to the Sudanese Drought Fund. Bianca bought me a Swatch watch and the Chronicle of the Twentieth Century, which will be an invaluable work of reference to me. I was very pleased. She was pleased with the Biddle and Nock.
Her brother, Derek, and her sister, Mary, obviously disapprove of our love affair. They are both unmarried and still live at home. Derek is thirty-five and Mary is twenty-seven. Mrs Dartington was forty-eight when Bianca was born.
There was no turkey, no drink and no celebration. It made me long for my own family’s vulgarity.
This afternoon, we had to go for a walk alongside the river. Little kids were out in force, wobbling on new bikes and pushing prams with new-looking dolls inside. Derek has now taken a shine to me. He thought I was a fellow trainspotter; I quickly put him right. Bianca and I managed a quick embrace in the kitchen tonight before being interrupted by Mary, who came in looking for her constipation chocolate.
Mrs Dartington had a convenient ‘turn’ just before dinner and took to her bed. Bianca and I cooked the meal. We had salad, corned beef and baked potatoes. I cannot wait to get back to our room. I need Bianca. I need onions. I need garlic. I need Soho. I need Savage. I need air. I need freedom from the Dartingtons.
There are four beige car coats hanging up in the downstairs cloakroom.
Friday December 27th
The Reverend Dartington drove us back to Soho in martyred silence. Every time he stopped at a red light or pedestrian crossing, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently.
Two days with her family have had a deleterious effect on Bianca: she seems to have shrunk physically and regressed mentally. As soon as she got back into the room she burst into tears and shouted, ‘Why didn’t they tell me they were giving their Christmas presents to the Sudanese?’
I said, ‘Because they wanted to claim the moral high ground and make you feel foolish. It’s obviously a punishment because you are living in sin, in Soho, with a lowly washer-upper.’
An hour later, Bianca had sprung back in size and mental capacity. We made love for one hour, ten minutes. Our longest yet. It is quite useful having a stopwatch facility on my new Swatch.
Sunday December 29th
We went to Camden Lock today to buy Bianca a pair of boots. The whole area was thronging with young people who were both buying and selling. I said to Bianca, ‘Isn’t it nice to see the young out and about and enjoying themselves?’
She looked at me in a funny way and said, ‘But you are young. You’re only twenty-four, though sometimes I find it hard to believe.’
She was right, of course. I am young, officially, but I have never felt young. My mother said I was thirty-five on the day I fought my way out of her womb.
The cystitis is back. Bianca has reluctantly put the satin knickers back in her underwear drawer and gone back to the cotton gussets.
I am reading a play, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. Poor Blanche Dubois!
Winter
Wednesday January 1st 1992
‘Savages’ was closed last night, so we went to Trafalgar Square at 11.30 p.m. to see the New Year in. The crowd was like a drunken field of corn rippling and swaying in a storm. For over two hours I lost myself and went with the flow. It was frightening, but also exhilarating to find myself in a line doing the conga up St Martin’s Lane. Unfortunately, the person in front of me had extremely fat buttocks. It was not an attractive sight.
When Big Ben struck twelve, I found myself kissing and being kissed by strangers, including foreigners. I tried to get to Bianca, but she was surrounded by a party of extrovert Australian persons who were all over seven foot tall. But finally, at 12.03 a.m. on the 1st of January, we kissed and pledged our troth. I can’t believe I’ve got such a wonderful woman. Why does she love me? I live in fear that one day she will wake up and ask herself the same question.
We went to Tower Bridge today. It left me cold, but Bianca was enraptured by the structural design of the thing. I practically had to drag her away.
Thursday January 2nd
Got up at 3.30 a.m. and joined the queue outside Next in Oxford Street. The sale started at 9.00 a.m. I got into conversation with a man who had his eye on a double-breasted navy suit, marked down from £225 to £90. He is getting married to a parachute packer, called Melanie, next Saturday.
In my new black leather jacket, white T-shirt and blue jeans, I look like every other young man in London, New York and Tokyo. Or Leicester, come to think of it. For Leicester is at the very epicentre of the Next empire.
Bianca wanted to visit Battersea Power Station today and asked me to go with her, but I pointed out to her that Lo! was about to develop in a revolutionary direction and that I needed to work on Chapter Twenty-two.
She left the flat without saying a word, but her back looked very angry.
Jake pulled the collar of his Next black leather jacket up against the cruel wind that blew across the Thames. He stared down into the ebbing water. It was time he did something with his life other than help with famine relief in Sudan. He knew what it was. It was something he had fought against – God knows how he had fought! But the compulsion was overwhelming now. He had to do it. He had to write a novel…
Wednesday January 8th
President Bush vomited into the lap of the Japanese Ambassador at an official banquet in Tokyo tonight. We watched it on the portable television in the kitchen at ‘Savages’. Mrs Bush shoved her husband under the table, then left the room. She didn’t look too pleased. The television news showed the whole incident in slow motion. It was sickening. The Japanese people looked horrified. They are sticklers for protocol.
Savage has fired little Carlos for smoking a joint in the yard at the back of the restaurant. Savage then drank half a bottle of brandy, three bottles of Sol, stole various drinks from customers’ table
s and ended up fighting with the palm tree at the bar after accusing it of having an affair with his wife. Alcohol is certainly a dangerous drug in the wrong hands.
Wednesday January 15th
Jake sat in front of his state of the art Amstrad and pressed the glittery knobs. The title of his novel appeared on the screen.
SPARG FROM KRONK
Chapter One: Sparg Returns
Sparg stood on the hilltop and looked down on Kronk, the settlement of his birth. He grunted to his woman, Barf, and she grunted back wordlessly, for the words had not yet been found.
They ran down the hill. Sparg’s mother, Krun, watched her son and his woman come towards the fire. She grunted to Sparg’s father, Lunt, and he came to the door of the hut. His eyes narrowed. He hated Sparg.
Krun threw more roots into the fire: she had not expected guests for dinner. It was typical of her son, she thought, to arrive unexpectedly and with a woman with a swollen belly. She hoped there would be enough roots to go round.
She was glad the words had not been found. She hated making small talk.
Sparg was here, in front of her. She sniffed his armpit, as was the custom when a Kronkite returned from a long journey. Barf hung back and watched the greeting ceremony. Her mouth salivated. The smell of the burning roots inflamed her hunger.
Because the words had not been found no news could be exchanged between mother and son.
Jake fell back from his computer terminal with a contented sigh. It was good, he thought, damned good. The time was right for another prehistoric novel without dialogue.
Tuesday January 21st
A letter from Bert Baxter. Almost illegible.
Dear Lad,
It seems a long time since I saw you. When are you coming to Leicester? I’ve got a few jobs that need doing. Sorry about the writing. I’ve got the shakes.
Yours,
Bertram Baxter
PS. Bring your toenail scissors.
Had a serious row with Bianca tonight. She accused me of:
a) Never wanting to go out
b) Excessive reading
c) Excessive writing
d) Contempt for Britain’s industrial heritage
e) Farting in bed
Monday January 27th
At last reconciled, we went to the National Film Theatre tonight and saw a film about a Japanese woman who cuts her lover’s penis off. During the rest of the film, I sat with my legs tightly crossed and at intervals looked nervously across at Bianca, who was staring up at the screen and smiling.
My hair is almost long enough for a pony tail. The Face tells me that pony tails are becoming passé. But it may be my last chance to try one. So I am going for it. Savage has been boasting that he has had his for five years.
Bianca has bought a secondhand electric typewriter and is typing Lo! She has already presented me with seventy-eight beautifully laid-out pages. It is amazing how much a novel is improved by being typed. I should have taken Mr John Tydeman’s advice years ago.
Wednesday January 29th
UK heterosexual Aids cases rose by fifty per cent last year. I gave this information to Bianca as we walked to ‘Savages’ early this evening. She went very quiet.
I had to wait ages outside the bathroom tonight to clean my teeth. Eventually Norman came out and apologized for the new scorch marks on the frame of the mirror. He has been told not to practise in there.
When I got back to our room, I found Bianca reading a pamphlet written by the Terrence Higgins Trust.
I said flippantly, ‘Who’s Terrence Higgins when he’s at home?’
‘He’s dead,’ she said, softly. The pamphlet was about Aids.
Bianca broke down and confessed that in 1990 she had had an affair with a man called Brian Boxer, who in turn confessed to her that in 1979 he’d had an affair with a bisexual woman called Diane Tripp. I shall ring the Terrence Higgins Trust Helpline in the morning and ask for help.
Saturday February 1st
The first twenty-two chapters of Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland are now a pile of 197 pages of neat typescript. I keep picking it up and walking round the room with it in my arms. I can’t afford to get it photocopied, not at ten pence a page. Who do I know in London who has access to a photocopier?
Flat 6
Brenda’s Patisserie
Old Compton Street
London
Dear John,
I have taken your advice and revised Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland. I have also employed the services of a professional typist and you will be pleased to see that my manuscript now consists of twenty-two chapters in typewritten form. I consider that, when completed, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland will be eminently suitable for being read aloud on the radio, possibly as part of your Classic Serials series.
As you can see, I have enclosed my MS and entrust it into your care. However, I still need to make several minor changes. Would it be too much trouble for you to photocopy the hundred and ninety-seven pages and send a copy to me at the above address?
Thanking you in advance,
Yours as ever,
Adrian Mole
Tuesday February 4th
I walked to Broadcasting House this morning. As I struggled to push the big metal doors open, a gaggle of autograph hunters rushed towards me. I reached inside my jacket for my felt tip, but before I could extract it, I saw them surrounding Alan Freeman, the aged DJ. I pushed through them and entered the hallowed reception area of the British Broadcasting Corporation, watched by the stern-looking security staff. I walked up to the reception desk and joined the short queue.
In the space of four minutes, I saw famous people galore: Delia Smith, Robert Robinson, Ian Hislop, Bob Geldof, Annie Lennox, Roy Hattersley, etc., etc. Most of them were being seen off the premises by young women called Caroline.
Eventually the blonde receptionist said, ‘Can I help you?’ And I said, ‘Yes. Could you please make sure that Mr John Tydeman receives this parcel? It is most urgent.’
She scribbled something on the jiffy bag which contained my letter and the manuscript of Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland and threw it into a wire basket.
I thanked her, turned to go and bumped into Victor Meldrew, who plays the grumpy bloke in One Foot in the Gravel! I apologized and he said, ‘How kind.’ He is much taller than he looks on television. When I got back to the room I told Bianca that I had been chatting to Victor Meldrew. I think she was quite impressed.
Wednesday February 5th
We both woke early this morning, but we didn’t make love as usual. We had a shower and got dressed in silence. We went downstairs and had croissants and cappuccino in Brenda’s Patisserie and listened to the gossip about the demise of the British film industry. Then, at 10.45 a.m., we paid our bill and walked to the clinic in Neal Street. (We forked out one pound, forty pence to the various beggars who met us on the way.)
We were counselled separately by a very empathetic woman called Judith. She pointed out that, should our tests prove positive, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that we would develop full-blown Aids. After seeing Judith, we went for a drink in a pub in Carnaby Street to discuss our options:
a) Have the test and know the worst
b) Not have the test and suspect the worst
We decided to sleep on it.
Thursday February 6th
We have both decided to have the test and have pledged to care for each other until the day we die. Whatever the outcome.
Saturday February 8th
Mr Britten, the greengrocer who supplies ‘Savages’ with fruit and vegetables, came into the kitchen today and told us that he is going out of business next week. He said that Savage owes him seven hundred pounds in unpaid bills. I was outraged, but Mr Britten said defeatedly that Savage is only one of his many bad debtors. He said, ‘If the Bank’d give me another two weeks I’d be all right, but the bastards won’t.’
I made him a cup of tea and listened to him ranting on about interest charge
s and Norman Lamont. I think he felt slightly better by the time he left to make his next delivery.
I rang my mother to tell her about my conversation with Victor Meldrew and found that she has also been seeing a counsellor. A debt counsellor. I have been wondering for some time now how she has been paying her mortgage. Now I know. She hasn’t. She has received a legal notice from the Building Society, informing her that the house where I spent my childhood is to be repossessed on March 16th. She begged me not to tell the other members of the family. She is hoping that something will turn up to avert disaster.
I didn’t tell her that I have got one thousand, one hundred and eleven pounds in the Market Harborough Building Society. But I did say that Bianca and I would come to Leicester tomorrow. She sounded pathetically grateful.
Sunday February 9th
When we got to St Pancras Station, Bianca told me to look up.
‘You are looking at one of the largest unsupported arch structures in the whole world,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’