Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 10

Monday August 18th Talk about the House of Sorrows! Dostoevsky, you should be here, in Wisteria Walk, on this day.

Tuesday August 19th My mother rang from the Post House Motel, two miles away, to say that she and Ivan were returning tonight.

Wednesday August 20th There has been an unbelievable, terrible, scandalous reversal. My mother and Ivan are living here at Wisteria Walk, and my father and Tania are living there, at The Lawns. I am absolutely furious that I was not party to these arrangements. It was done behind my back. I said to my mother, 'How could you send Dad, a sick man, to live with that gorgon Tania Braithwaite?'

She said, 'Keep your nose out of our business.' William has already accepted Ivan into the family. Ivan bribed him with an educational pop-up book. My father mustn't find out. It will kill him.

Thursday August 21st Nigel fought his way through the press pack and visited today. It was brave of him: everybody who comes to the house ends up on regional television (Midlands Today). Tony Blair has sent a (private) letter of support to Pandora.

Dear Pandora, Cherie and I want to tell you how much we value your contribution to New Labour's success.

We are praying that your present personal and family difficulties will be resolved and that you will continue to serve your const.i.tuency of Ashby-de-la-Zouch for the duration of the present parliamentary term.

Yours, with love Tony I will never, ever get used to seeing Ivan Braithwaite's aggressively tufted toothbrush in our bathroom. Never, not in a million years.

My father's worn-down brush still stands next to it, in its customary place in the fish mug, together with his smoker's toothpaste.

Rosie can't understand why our father doesn't beat Ivan up 'so badly that the b.a.s.t.a.r.d ends up with a tube up his f--nose'.

Friday August 22nd A reporter, called Gracie Ball, rapped on the front door today and asked for an interview with 'Pauline and Ivan'. I chatted at the door with her for a while about writing in general. I mentioned that I had written a novel, Birdwatching. She said she would like to see it. When I came down, she had insinuated herself into the house and was talking to my mother and Ivan at the kitchen table. The ancient lovers were holding hands and confessing their shared guilt to Gracie.

Sat.u.r.day August 23rd I steeled myself, pushed through the reporters and drove round to The Lawns. There were three people waiting at the Braithwaites' rustic-style gates, smoking cigarettes. One of them, a girl, had a camera slung around her neck. As I got out of the car, the press shouted, 'Adrian! Adrian!' I ignored them and ran up the drive to the front door. I noticed that the shutters and blinds were closed. I knocked on the door, using the lion's-head bra.s.s knocker. My father shouted, 'b.u.g.g.e.r off,' from the hall.

I lifted the letterbox and shouted, 'It's me--Adrian!' I heard bolts being drawn and locks turning. The door opened only wide enough to let me in, then slammed shut. My father and Tania Braithwaite stood in the s.p.a.cious hallway, white-faced and haggard. Tania said, 'Do, please, come into the kitchen. I'll make coffee.' She was behaving as though the cataclysmic events of the last few days had never happened.

For once I was lost for words. What could I possibly say to them both? Less than a week ago they had thought themselves safely married; now their cuckold status was being broadcast to the nation. We sat down at the huge pine table in the kitchen. My father pulled a saucer full of f.a.g ends and ash towards him. He lit a cigarette. Tania flapped her hand in front of her face.

'I thought this was a strictly non-smoking household,' I said.

Tania sighed. 'Yes, normally it is...but in the circ.u.mstances...' Her voice trailed away.

My father said, 'What does your mother see in him, Adrian?'

Tania's eyes filled with tears. 'Ivan is, was, a wonderful man,' she said.

'He betrayed you, Tania,' said my father. He sounded like somebody out of a Frederick Forsyth Cold War novel. It was obvious to me that they were both in shock. Tania got up to pour boiling water into the cafetiere. I saw my father watching in admiration as she pushed down the plunger. He has always wanted to join the middle cla.s.ses.

The phone on the wall, near the Aga, rang. Tania answered it. It became obvious that Pandora was on the line. Tania said, 'I'm taking it one day at a time. George is being a tremendous help.' There was a pause, then Tania said, 'No, darling, there's nothing you can do. Adrian's here. I'm sure he'll go to Sains-bury's for us.' Tania looked at me pleadingly. What could I say but 'Yes'?

I asked my father how long he intended staying at Tania's house.

He said, 'I dunno, I've got nowhere else to go, have I?'

Tania said, 'I've got four empty bedrooms, Adrian. George is welcome to stay for as long as he likes. He understands better than anybody what I'm going through.'

'Because I'm going through the same torment,' he said.

They exchanged a glance, and I knew, I just knew, that despite their previous mutual antipathy it wouldn't be long before they discovered that they had other things in common.

Tania wrote a shopping list, which I transferred into my electronic organizer.

2 baguettes Tin anchovies Tin artichoke hearts Jar saffron strands (must be from S. America) Coriander (fresh) Sun-dried tomatoes Pesto Goat's cheese & feta Taramasalata Pitta bread Fromage frais Natural yoghurt (Greek) Pkt Always panty-liners Extra virgin olive oil (Italy) 260w lightbulbs XL gardening gloves 2 ripe avocados Filo pastry (frozen) Spinach Mange-touts When Tania went out of the room my father glanced at the list and grumbled, 'I'll bleeding starve to death.' He hates foreign food, apart from chicken korma.

He gave me a PS10 note and asked me to get him forty Rothman's, a white sliced loaf and a pack of pork dripping.

However, when I got to Sainsbury's I couldn't retrieve the list from my personal organizer and had to guess instead. I didn't hang around at Copse Close to watch the groceries being unpacked. I'd forgotten my father's Rothman's and I knew there'd be trouble.

Sunday August 24th I heard the bed creaking in my mother's room in the early hours of the morning. I banged on the party wall and the creaking stopped. I heard Rosie shout, 'Thank you, Aidy.'

Monday August 25th William kept asking for his grandad, so I took him round to The Lawns this morning. My father and Tania were in the garden, in deck-chairs. Apparently he'd just mown the lawn. He was wearing one of his short-sleeved Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts. There was a nicotine patch on his pasty left arm. He got up and played football with William, using Pandora's old netball. A pa.s.sing stranger might have observed the scene and felt a pang of jealousy that they were not part of this ideal family.

When I got home the second post had arrived. There was a letter from an Arthur Stoat, editor and managing director of Stoat Books Ltd, asking if I would be interested in writing a cookery book to be called Offally Good!--The Book!.

As I read his letter, Rosie and Ivan clashed at the fridge. He objected to her drinking straight from the milk bottle rather than using a gla.s.s. My intervention was not appreciated by either of them. I must remove William from this h.e.l.lhole.

Dear Arthur Stoat, Yes, I would be interested. Please furnish details. Forgive this terse reply, but my time is entirely taken up with family problems at present.

Yours, etc. A.A. Mole.

PS. Do you publish fiction? I have a MS called Birdwatch-ing available for publication.

Wednesday August 27th I found Rosie crying in the bathroom. She was holding Ivan's burgundy leather washbag over the toilet (the lid was up). I comforted her as best I could. She put the washbag back on to the cistern, where he keeps it. After a minute or two of silence I said, 'You look pink and pretty. What have you done to yourself?'

She said, 'I've washed my face. This is what I look like without make-up.'

'And your hair, it's sort of fluffy,' I said.

'Yeah, it's not gelled down,' she explained, frowning into the washbasin mirror. She lowered her voice and said, 'Ivan complimented me yesterday on my aggressive and provocative image.'

'So, you're changing it?' I checked.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I dunno what to go for,' she said. 'Any suggestions?'

'He was banging on about the 'iniquities of foxhunting' the other day,' I said. 'You could take to wearing the Quorn Hunt regalia, jodhpurs and a riding whip.'

'Yeah,' she laughed, 'that would f--provoke him, the b--.'

I took advantage of our mutual antipathy to Ivan the Terrible to say, 'Rosie, have you ever thought you might be suffering from Tourette's syndrome?'

'F--off,' she said. And flushed Ivan's exfoliating hand mitt down the loo.

Drink--half a bottle of vodka Drugs--6 Nurofen, 2 skunk weed Bowels--nil p.e.n.i.s--0/10 Thursday August 28th The plumber has only just unblocked the toilet. The mitt damage cost PS275.I met my mother on the stairs. She was in a defiant mood. She said, 'I love Ivan, and he adores me. So try, at least, to be courteous to him, will you?'

I said, 'Has he seen you without make-up yet?' She shouted, 'Yes, he has, and he wors.h.i.+ps every wrinkle, bag and line! He loves me to bits.'

Ivan came out of the lounge. He was halfway through the Guardian crossword (the difficult one--he does the quick one while he waits for the kettle to boil). He said, 'I'm enormously aware of the trauma you're all suffering. Perhaps when things have calmed down a little we can regroup and present ourselves for family therapy, eh?'

I would sooner eat live toads than sit in a circle with him while he drones on about our family's dysfunction.

Friday August 29th It is true. In times of crisis the Royal Family are a great comfort. It has certainly comforted me to think that they are even more dysfunctional than we are. Neurotic Diana is racketing around with a bloke whose family's money came from a.s.sociating with arms dealers. Charles is morbidly unhappy, crippled by his unnatural childhood and his Tampax-fixation. They should sc.r.a.p The Archers on the radio and do a soap opera based on the Royal Family. I may write it myself.

Sat.u.r.day August 30th Relations between Rosie and my mother have now broken down completely and she has gone to live at Aaron Michelwaite's house. My mother found out that Rosie has had a monkey tattooed on her belly. William cried himself to sleep last night (in my bed): he misses Rosie. She used to partner him when he played the boring board games he's so fond of. I am his new opponent, but I am a poor subst.i.tute. He gets fed up with me because I don't give a toss if I go up the ladders or down the snakes, and I can't be a.r.s.ed to learn the rules. Quite honestly, dear Diary, I can't see the point of learning any rules. n.o.body keeps to them any more.

William starts at Kidsplay Ltd nursery school on September 15th. It can't come too soon for me. I'm happy to pay someone to play with him.

Dear John Tydeman, It is some years since I wrote to you but you may remember me. I offered you several chances to broadcast my work when you worked at the BBC. Unfortunately you rejected me then and asked me not to bother you again. However, I approach you now under entirely different circ.u.mstances.

I have written a soap opera, which will replace The Archers. I think that all thinking people recognize The Archers in its present form has had its day. The nadir for me was listening to the bedsprings when two oldie Ambridge lovers prepared for intercourse...

My soap opera cleverly includes the Royal Family.

I enclose a few pages of the opening episode. I have followed the 'Writing for Radio' rules and included many sound effects. I know it is currently fas.h.i.+onable to record on location, but in this case permissions may not be granted.

Anyway, Mr Tydeman, cast your eye over the pages. If you are interested perhaps we could meet up at the new Oxygen bar H2O for a sniff of clean air.

Yours, A.A. Mole THE WINDSORS.

A soap opera based on the Royal Family. To replace The Archers.

SCENE 1. QUEEN'S LIVING ROOM.

Sound: Richard and Judy show in the background; Sun newspaper being read; a female corgi barks.

PRINCE PHILIP: It's appalling, what the papers are saying about Charles, our son!

(Sound: Concorde flies over.) QUEEN: I know who Charles is, Philip. Sound: A helicopter lands outside.) PHILIP: There was a time when you didn't. He spent so much time with his nanny that you pa.s.sed him in the corridor once and a.s.sumed he was a jockey because he was so small.

(Sound: Feet walking on priceless Persian carpet.) QUEEN: (breaking into violent sobs) Don't! Don't! I was a terrible mother. (Sound: A handbag is opened.) ANDREW: Hi there, aged parents! What's new?

QUEEN: Andrew, darling, was I a terrible mother?

(Sound: A royal nose is blown into a damask linen handkerchief.) ANDREW: Dunno. I can't remember you doing any mothering, Ma. You were sat all day stickin' stamps in a alb.u.m.

(Sound: A door slams.) CHARLES: It's an alb.u.m, Andrew. Not a alb.u.m. I find your grammatical errors to be quite simply er...unforgivable.

(Sound: Charles frowns; a door opens.) ANNE: Why have you called us here, Ma? I've got an appointment with the horse doctor at eleven-thirty.

(Sound: A door slams; a nervous cough.) EDWARD: Sorry I'm late, everybody.

QUEEN: h.e.l.lo...Er...edward: Edward. My name is Edward.

QUEEN: So it is...I've called you together for a most important reason. A most important reason indeed...

(Sound: Music plays, leaving listeners in suspense.) Copyright: Adrian Mole, August 1997 I feel in my bones that this could be a winner. Princess Diana would be the star eventually, of course. She is at present starring in her own soap opera, and the whole country wants to know what will happen to her next.

Sunday August 31st The soap opera of life has made a tragic mistake. You do not kill off your star halfway through a series. Now we will never know how the story ends.

Impressions on Diana's Tragic Death William and Harry being driven to Crathie church, where the priest politely made no mention of the raw fact that their beloved mother had been killed only ten hours earlier.

It was a tawdry way to die. Joy-riders perish in the same way, believing themselves to be invincible against speed and a turn in the road.

Self-control on the tarmac as the Prince moved along the line, shaking the hands of those who had brought the coffin home. The woman inside it had thought that Charles would cherish a video of herself and a much smaller man, Wayne Sleep, dancing together. She didn't know how much he would hate this video. I hope she never found out.

Her only school prize was for 'Best-kept Hamster Cage'.

She once phoned Oliver h.o.a.re, with whom she was obsessed, over twenty times in one hour. She hung up each time he answered. She was subsequently 'spoken to' by the police.

Autumn Monday September 1st This household has cried enough to fill several rivers, a ca.n.a.l and several lakes. My mother keeps saying, 'Those boys,' and dissolving into yet more tears. None of us have moved away from the television. I have even managed to watch Michael Cole, Mohammed Al-Fayed's spokesman, slither across the screen without leaving the room.

Rosie came back home and threw herself into my mother's arms. They cried together until I thought they would need medical rehydration.

Tuesday September 2nd Ivan Braithwaite, who is a republican, made a major faux pas today. He said, in front of my mother, 'I can't help feeling that this hysterical outpouring of grief is way over the top.'

She started to cry again and said, 'We're not just crying for her, we're crying for the sadness in our own lives. I'm crying for the hurt I've caused George.'

I said, to try and comfort her, 'Mum, don't worry about Dad. He and Tania are getting on amazingly well'

This made my mother cry even more. She asked Ivan if he would take her to Kensington Palace so that she could lay some flowers at the gates and then go to St James's Palace to pay her respects. Ivan said he was not prepared to queue up for eight hours to watch my mother sign her name in a book. My mother said, 'I'm doing more than sign my name. Adrian's going to write me a poem about Princess Di, aren't vou, Aidy?'

What could I say? The poor woman is grief-stricken. I agreed to write the poem and accompany her to the various shrines. Rosie preferred to watch the Diana-mourning on television. She said it was 'more real'.

Wednesday September 3rd We Sellotaped my poem on to the trunk of a tree in Kensington Gardens this morning.

Oh Diana!

Oh Diana! Was a song, of my mother's youth. Sung by Paul Anka, who was small and white of tooth.

The refrain, Oh Diana! Beats inside Mum's head. A blank, a blank, a doo-dah that her Diana is dead.

I told my mother that I needed more time to finish the poem properly, but she refused to wait. She was afraid that we would miss the s.p.a.ce on the tree. There was a queue of poets behind us. On the way back up the M1, my mother said, 'I'm going to make something of my life.' I advised her to drop Ivan Braith-waite. She said, 'No, Ivan's going to help me. He's already offered.'

Saw the crisp-eating boy walking past our house as I was pulling the curtains at 11 a.m. He is surely too young to be out on his own.

Thursday September 4th My mother is furious with the Queen for not flying the flag at half-mast over Buckingham Palace, and for not coming to London to see and comfort the huge crowds of mourners who continue to throng the parks and streets near the royal palaces. The press are being blamed for her death, and my mother is threatening to cancel h.e.l.lo!.

Over dinner tonight Ivan said, 'What Diana didn't understand was that you can't invite photographers to put you on the cover of Vogue one day, then scream press intrusion the next because you're on the front of the Sun. You can't be a little bit famous.'

He could win a Bore of the Solar System contest.

However, what he said about fame worried me. I took a sip of Tizer and said, 'Yes, I myself face the same problem. I am broadcasting to the nation on September 10th.'

My mother said, 'I shouldn't think you'll have a problem with fame, Adrian. n.o.body at all watches the Millennium Channel.'

I told her about the students.

She said, 'Students don't count.'

Friday September 5th Visited my father and Tania today. When I arrived Tania was demonstrating to my father several uses for sun-dried tomatoes. I saw my father stifle a yawn when Tania turned her back to grate some Parmesan.