Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 17

If Adrian Mole does not wish to reside at Rampart Terrace under the above conditions then the house is to be sold by my solicitor, Mr Holden, and the proceeds to be donated to the Socialist Labour Party of Great Britain.

Archie Tait I looked up when I'd finished reading and said, 'How old is the cat, Mr Holden?'

He smiled and said, 'I've never had the pleasure of meeting the creature, Mr Mole.'

I get the keys on the 27th. My mother burst into tears of joy at the news. We drove to Rampart Terrace but it was too dark to see very much.

Sat.u.r.day January 24th Liam helped me to get Andrew into his travelling basket. The cat certainly put up a fight. I had white and ginger hair all over my navy chinos. I took him to morning surgery at the Pet Centre where the New Dog is registered. The vet examined the struggling, spitting animal.

'How long will he live?' I asked.

'Don't worry, Mr Mole,' said the vet jocularly. 'He'll live to a good old age.'

Andrew is lying on my bed as I write. He's been banned from downstairs since he jumped on Ivan's back and drew blood.

Sunday January 25th I took the family to see the outside of Archie's house this morning. My mother peered through the letterbox and said it needed a lot doing to it. Rosie pointed out that there was no sign of central heating.

Ivan crossed the road, looked up at the roof and said that there were 'a quant.i.ty of tiles missing' and that, in his opinion, the chimney-stack 'looked unstable', and that the guttering could 'go at any time'. William said he liked the colour of the front door (red). His was the only positive statement.

Later I took Glenn and William. Glenn disappeared down the side pa.s.sage and climbed over the gate, which he then unbolted. We went into the back yard and found a paved patio and trees growing in tubs, a tiny lawn and a picnic bench with a cup and saucer on it. There was a bird table near the kitchen window. Glenn said, 'It's all right, in't it, Dad?'

There was a shed at the bottom of the yard. Glenn pushed the door open and said, 'Ere, William, this'd make a great den.' They played inside the shed until it grew too cold. Later, I dropped Glenn off at Geoffrey Howe Road. 'Mam will have me dinner ready,' he said.

I've only just realized that Glenn can't read properly. Inside the shed was a bag that clearly said 'John Innes Potting Compost'. When William asked Glenn what was inside the bag, Glenn was at a loss.

'I can't read words like that,' he said.

I didn't say anything to him at the time, but I will take the matter up with Miss Trellis on Monday. The boy is intelligent and has received compulsory schooling for seven years. In the car he asked me if I thought he should get an earring. I said, 'No, I absolutely forbid it.' He looked quite pleased.

I wish sometimes I wasn't a parent, even when I am alone I carry him and William with me, across my shoulders and inside my heart.

Monday January 26th Miss Trellis is a mousy little creature in a beige cardigan. She lacks many things: personality, humour, style, charm. I informed her of my recent entry into Glenn's life and told her I would be keeping a close eye on his future behaviour.

On the way out I made an appointment to see Roger Patience, the headmaster.

Glenn was waiting outside in the school car park.

'How'd you get on, Dad?' he said.

I said, 'All right.' I advised him to practise farting quietly. I a.s.sured him that it was possible.

He said that he would 'give it a go, Dad'.

On the way home I took him into the library where I used to work and enrolled him as a member. He was amazed to learn that the library service was free. He said, 'How do they know you're not gonna nick the books, Dad?' He took four out. All picture books about football.

Tuesday January 27th I was given the key to Archie's house today. It doesn't seem right somehow. Archie was present in every room. His bed unmade, a pair of socks on the floor. A sinkful of was.h.i.+ng-up. A plate, a bowl, a cup, a saucer. A knife, a fork, a dessertspoon, a teaspoon, an eggcup. I opened all the windows, then examined the bookshelves. What treasure! What joys ahead of me! Somebody called Eric Blair had inscribed Orwell's Homage to Catalonia: 'To Archie, Best wishes, Eric Blair'. I didn't tell anyone else that I have the key.

Wednesday January 28th Roger Patience is a deeply neurotic person. He is under the delusion that Chris Woodhead, the Chief Inspector of Schools, is out to get him.

Patience is more obsessed with tables than a Premier League football manager. I asked him why his school is near the bottom of the league. He blamed 'the catchment area, the riff-raff from the estates'. He blamed the teachers. 'They won't stay.' He blamed the caretaker. 'He undermines my authority.' He blamed 'Glenn Bott', whom he said was a 'borderline remedial'.

Apparently the last time the school was inspected Glenn was selected at random by an inspector to name three successful British manufacturing industries.

He couldn't name one.

I asked Roger Patience to arrange for Glenn to have extra help with his reading and writing. 'I believe it's called teaching,' I said, sarcastically.

While I was there the school secretary rang through and said, 'Roger, Ofsted on the line.'

Patience took a bottle of Prozac out of his desk drawer, opened it with difficulty (a childproof cap) and slipped a capsule under his tongue before saying, 'Patience here.' After he had completed a grovelling phone call he called through and instructed his secretary to ask if 'Ms Flood is free'.

While we waited for Ms Flood, we spent five awkward minutes of conversation about my sister Rosie and her foul mouth. 'I think she has undiagnosed Tourette's syndrome,' I said.

There was a knock at the door and Eleanor Flood was ushered in. She is pale and thin, with thick black hair. She was dressed in a black polo-neck sweater and a black trouser-suit. She carried a large black-leather shoulder-bag. Her eyes are grey. The sight of her fragile wrists almost brought tears to my eyes.

When she spoke her voice was soft. 'I'm very sorry, Mr Patience, but my remedial reading cla.s.s is already full to overflowing,' she said, after Patience had asked her if she could 'squeeze Bott in'. 'And, anyway,' she said, turning her eyes on me, 'Glenn needs one-to-one tuition for at least a couple of hours a week.'

Patience snorted at the impossibility of providing this service in school.

'I do give private tuition, in the evening,' she said.

Patience said, 'Ms Flood, I can't have you importuning Mr Mole during school-time.'

I explained to Ms Flood that I did not agree with private education. However, given the parlous state of Glenn's reading skills, perhaps I ought to take a more pragmatic view. She charges PS9 per hour. She is going to ring me to tell me when she can start. I thought about her wrists all the way home.

Thursday January 29th President Clinton has denied in the strongest possible terms that he ever had s.e.x with a White House intern called Monica Lewinsky. Looking into the camera and stabbing his finger for emphasis, he said, with burning honesty, 'I did not have s.e.xual relations with that woman.' He then added, with his charming Southern manners, 'Miss Lewinsky'. I, for one, believe him totally.

My mother and Ivan seem to know all about the Lewinsky affair. When I said that I had never heard of the young woman before today, they looked at me incredulously. Ivan said, 'I once had a secretary at the dairy who'd never heard of Van Gogh. She thought Van Morrison had painted Sunflowers.'

My mother said, 'You seem to filter out anything remotely detrimental to President Clinton.'

I said I admired the man.

She said, 'He's a s.e.x addict.'

I pointed out that his wife, Hillary, was an attractive woman. Why would he need to look elsewhere for s.e.xual gratification?

They looked at each other; 'I think we've got a Mary Archer 'fragrant' situation here,' said Ivan.

My mother said, 'Adrian, you'll be thirty-one in a couple of months. I know you've had s.e.x at least twice, but you don't seem to know the first thing about l.u.s.t.'

I went upstairs to watch Newsnight on my portable. Pandora's on now quite often.

Friday January 30th I have watched President Clinton's 'Lewinsky statement' endless times. The man is not lying. The truth cries out from his eyes, his nostrils and his lips.

Sat.u.r.day January 31st Troubled by dreams about Monica Lewinsky in which she lives in Eleanor Flood's house, and we begin a l.u.s.tful relations.h.i.+p after a game of Cluedo.

p.e.n.i.s function--10/10 Drugs--2 Nurofen Monday February 2nd After reading some fan mail that came in from Pie Crust today, I'm convinced that the big Victorian mental hospitals should be reopened. A woman from Dorset is collecting the 'toenail clippings of the famous' for a charity auction. She enclosed a tiny self-seal plastic bag with Adrian Mole written on it, and asked me to post it back to her in the SAE she'd also enclosed. Rosie clipped the New Dog's claws and put them into the little bag. The New Dog looked happy for a change after its pedicure, so some good came of it. I am moving out of this house next Sunday. Nigel is providing his van. He has forgiven me for outing him since he found out that one of his uncles had a s.e.x change in 1979--information that his family had kept from him.

Wednesday February 4th I am not moving out a minute too soon! I came perilously close to a row with my mother today. She is very cool towards Glenn. When I said, 'You've hardly spoken to Glenn since Christmas Day when you told him to take his elbows off the table,' she shouted, 'One of his elbows was in the Brussels sprouts dish, for Chrissake!'

Ivan, of course, defended my mother and in a sudden rush of rage I accused him of being a cuckoo in the nest of Wisteria Walk.

'It's you who's the cuckoo,' yelled my mother. 'Sunday can't come too soon for me!'

I said she hadn't given Glenn a chance. She screamed, 'I've never known a boy to fart so often. It's like being on the edge of a sulphurous volcano? I explained about the beans, but she didn't want to know.

Sunday can't come too soon for me either.

Sat.u.r.day February 7th Rampart Terrace, Leicesters.h.i.+re Glenn told me he wished I would marry his mother. We were putting empty Walker's crisps boxes into the back of Nigel's van at the time. I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the idea, then I looked at his face and was glad that I hadn't. I said that Sharon and I would never marry.

'Why not, Dad?' he said.

Out of the thousand and one reasons I could have given the lad, I chose one that I knew he would understand. 'I'm in lurve with somebody else, son,' I said, trying to sound like Grant Mitch.e.l.l from East-Enders (his hero).

'Right, Dad,' said Glenn, and we spoke no more of it.

Sunday February 8th It only took one van journey to move my possessions to Archie's house. When the last box had been lugged out of the van and dumped on the front-room floor, Nigel said, 'The rolling stone gathers no moss, eh, Moley?'

It was freezing in the house. I had to keep going outside to get warm. I found some firelighters and some chopped-up sticks in the kitchen and I lit a fire in the little grate. Nigel drove round to the BP garage, bought some compressed sawdust logs and a bag of smokeless fuel, and the fire (and the heat) were soon roaring up the chimney.

Archie had not been a meticulous housekeeper. The floors are covered in Andrew's hair. Nigel advised me to buy a Dyson vacuum cleaner and a cat comb. We went upstairs to examine what was to be my bedroom. Nigel shuddered at the sight of Archie's unmade bed with its grey sheets and light green candlewick bedspread. 'Did he die in bed?' he asked, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. I admitted I didn't know. Nigel said, 'I won't let you sleep in that bed tonight, Moley. It's like something out of Les Miserables!

We went to Bed City, where we took off our shoes and lay side by side on every king-sized bed in the shop.

'Have you tested the Queen's, sir?' asked a smarmy salesman of Nigel, who was wearing a diamond stud in one ear.

We chose a four-drawer divan that had the approval of the British Bed Council. I also treated myself to four new foam-filled pillows and a 15-tog duvet.

When we got home Andrew was hogging the fire. He watched with his usual indifference as we lugged the old bed out and the new bed in. He has shown absolutely no signs of grief. William is still at Wisteria Walk: my mother is refusing to let her first grandchild go until I've done something about the damp and cold at Rampart Terrace. So I will spend my first night here alone.

My address is now 33 Rampart Terrace, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicesters.h.i.+re.

Ms Flood rang on the mobile and said that she had 'a window in her schedule' and could start Glenn's tutorials on Friday 13th at 7.30.

Monday February 9th I still can't decide between having an upstairs study in the spare bedroom or making it into a room for Glenn. My indecision is creating a bottleneck of unpacked boxes in the living room, hall and kitchen. The kid has never had a room of his own--he shares with his two younger brothers, Kent and Bradford. On the other hand, I long to sit at a desk under an Anglepoise and write and think. Wasn't it Leonard Woolf who said, 'Every man should have PS100 a year and a room of his own?' I've been neglecting my intellectual life lately. I haven't seen t.i.tanic yet, for instance.

Tuesday February 10th Sharon Bott has gone into hospital because her blood pressure is sky high. I thought she was just fat, but I find, in fact, she is eight months pregnant. Glenn told me that her bloke, Douggie, 'has done a runner, Dad'. Her younger kids have been farmed out and Glenn has opted to come here. He could have gone to his Bott grandmother, but he said, 'She's mean with the spuds, Dad.' Sharon phoned me from her hospital bed to say how grateful she was. I asked her how long she was likely to be in hospital. She said, 'Until the baby's born. It could be a month if I go full term.' She sounded hopeful.

This clashes with the publication and promotion of Offally Good!--The Book! I asked her if Douggie was likely to come back. She broke down and said, 'No, he's took all me money out the tea caddy and moved to Cardiff with the girl from the video shop.'

This is not how I expected my life to pan out! I am too young to be bringing up two boys! and anyway I only ever wanted one child, a daughter. She was to be called liberty and pandora braithwaite was to have been her mother!

Goodbye, upstairs study! Goodbye, writing! Goodbye, thinking! Goodbye, freedom! h.e.l.lo, was.h.i.+ng-machine! h.e.l.lo, Dyson! h.e.l.lo, stove! How can I possibly be responsible for the upkeep of two children! I can't do it! I haven't been taught! I don't know how to be a father! I can't play football! I've never read a Terry Pratchett Discworld book! I can't control a Black and Decker drill!

What I want is to live with Pandora, to work in the day at something interesting (novel-writing preferably) and then to have c.o.c.ktails in the bath with her at seven before we go out to eat at eight. This is what I want! Why can't I have it?

Wednesday February 11th Calmer today. Called a helpline--Single Fathers. The bloke on the end of the line said my reaction was quite common. 'We're still cavemen,' he said. 'We want to be out there, killing things. We don't want to be in the cave, tidying up and looking after the kids.'

Thursday February 12th My money and I are slowly but surely parting company. Accepted an estimate of PS1,405 to install central heating. Another of PS795 to mend roof and supply new guttering. Went to Bed City and bought another bed, for Glenn. William still fits his plywood racing-car bed, thank G.o.d.

Made a payment into Sharon's bank of PS1,000. The bank clerk asked if I was all right (my hands were trembling, my cheeks were wet with tears, as I pa.s.sed the banknotes over). I said I had an allergy to pot plants; the bank is full of them.

Took Glenn to see his mother in the maternity hospital. Her moronic relations were crowded round her bed. n.o.body greeted us. Apparently the Botts don't go in for greetings or introductions. Sharon gave Glenn two pound coins for his pocket money and said she hoped he was 'being good'. I said he was 'behaving impeccably'. Several of the Botts sn.i.g.g.e.red at this. I took the boy away as soon as was decent. I called in at Wisteria Walk on the way back and told my mother that she must release her tenacious hold on William. I said that there was a fan heater in his bedroom, should he need it.

She went upstairs to pack his things with the air of a woman on her way to the gallows.

William loves his room, which overlooks the back yard. He especially likes the racing-car posters that Glenn drew with felt-tip pens from the Everything's A Pound shop, and which now adorn his walls.

Friday February 13th Rampart Terrace My mother made a point of keeping her Puffa jacket on throughout her visit here this afternoon. She said, after looking around, 'Those fan heaters are a waste of s.p.a.ce. It's as cold as a polar bear's b.u.m in here.' William said he liked wearing his anorak in bed. I wanted to smite him. She was critical of my food supplies, and said pointedly, 'I bet that big lummox costs a fortune to feed.'

I said, 'Are you referring to Andrew, or to Glenn?'

She claimed she was talking about the cat. I asked her why she was in such a bad mood.

She said, 'I miss my baby,' and pulled William to her. He struggled free and she left soon afterwards.

Glenn and William and I cleaned the kitchen in honour of Ms Flood's visit. At 7.15 Glenn took off his baseball cap, combed his hair and sat at the kitchen table, waiting.

She arrived at exactly 7.30. She was wearing a long black leather coat and tiny black suede boots, which could have been fas.h.i.+oned by a fairy cobbler under a toadstool somewhere. I helped her off with her coat. She has no b.r.e.a.s.t.s to speak of, though her nipples were surprisingly discernible behind her dark grev sweater. The end of her nose was slightly pink from the cold outside. It was the only touch of colour about her.

I hovered about in the kitchen for a while, watching as she unpacked books and writing materials from her capacious black handbag. Then she sat down at the table next to Glenn, who said, 'Are you goin' or what, Dad?'

I took William upstairs to bed and told him a story about a quiet dark-haired princess who falls in love with a dinosaur. The boy completely accepted this unlikely scenario. After he'd gone to sleep, I took advantage of the peace to do a little of my own writing. I think the Archers/Royal Family idea has legs.

Pandora was grilled on the question of beef-on-the-bone by Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight last night. She kept to the Party line: 'Must protect the public, blah, blah, blah!' Though in the last conversation I'd had with her she said, 'It's all quite absurd. Statistically the average Briton is more likely to die from falling off a f--step-ladder.'

She did show the woman behind the politician once during her interview. After Mr Paxman had said, 'Oh, come off it, Ms Braithwaite', 'she said, dropping her voice, 'Jeremy, you're so very forceful,' then laughed her husky laugh and appeared to poke her tongue out at him.

It was almost the most erotic thing I've seen or heard since Barbara Windsor lost her bra in Carry On Camping.

The newspapers are full of it this morning. Brutus in the Express alleged that Paxman ran straight from the studio into a cold shower and stayed there for twenty minutes.

Sat.u.r.day February 14th Valentine's Day 10 a.m. Not a single card in the first post. Not one. Is this all I've got to show for nearly thirty-one years on this earth? An empty mantelpiece on Valentine's Day?

However, William and Glenn made me a card this afternoon. William used the Lakeland pencils. It was nice enough, a big heart with stick arms and legs, with a bubble coming out of its 'mouth' saying, 'To Dad, your grate'.

At 9 a.m. or thereabouts a Valentine card was dropped through the letterbox. I immediately opened the door and looked up and down the street, but there was no one to be seen. The card was everything a Valentine should be: a big red padded heart. Inside there was a single letter E. I don't know anybody whose name begins with an E. Who can it be, dear Diary?

Sunday February 15th Les Banks, the builder I have engaged to do the work on Archie's house, phoned today to say that he can't start tomorrow as promised. His mother-in-law died suddenly last night.

Monday February 16th A person called n.o.bby called round to ask if he could 'leave the ladders round the back'. He claimed to work for Les Banks. I asked for some ID. He said, 'Phone Les on his mobile.'

I did so. Les confirmed that n.o.bby was one of his labourers and said that the work at Rampart Terrace could start on Wednesday 'once the funeral is out of the way'. He didn't sound grief-stricken. In fact, he sounded as though he was outdoors somewhere, on a roof, with Radio One playing.

3 a.m. Aren't the Banks family burying the dead woman with indecent haste?

Tuesday February 17th Glenn said to me today, 'Do you think Glenn will play Michael, Dad?' I had no idea what he was talking about. I thought the boy had started to refer to himself in the third person, as Thatcher used to do. A sure sign of madness, or megalomania.