Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 12

I asked her if her school provided parenting cla.s.ses. She said, 'Yeah, like, they teach us how to, like, fill a single-parent benefit form in.'

I retired for the night. How can Rosie have a baby? She is a baby herself.

Tuesday September 30th I was driving William to his nursery when I heard a woman on a local radio station talking about teenage pregnancy. I turned the volume up in time to hear her say, '...and these dolls are extremely lifelike, they weigh eight and a half pounds. They are programmed to cry and they must be fed and changed regularly. The teenager either has to take it everywhere with them or find a babysitter.'

After I'd dropped William off I rang the radio station's helpline and obtained the fax number of the supplier of the faux babies. I'm hiring one for two weeks. The rubber kid should be here by ten o'clock tomorrow if Parcel Force keeps its promise.

Rosie said today that if she decides to have the baby she wants me to lend her the money to have the tattoo lasered off her belly. She said, 'By the time I get to the labour ward my little monkey will have stretched to look like King Kong.'

Wednesday October 1st Everybody wanted to know what was in the parcel. I was forced to lie and said I'd started my Christmas shopping. My mother rolled her eyes and exchanged an amused glance with Ivan. I saw her lips form the word 'a.n.a.l'.

When William was at Kidsplay Ltd, and Ivan and my mother were out training for their circ.u.mnavigation of the world, I called Rosie into my bedroom and we unpacked the baby doll. It was unsettlingly realistic--it looked like a prettier William Hague. It was wearing a yellow Babygro, and had a label around its neck, which said: h.e.l.lo, I'm five weeks old, I weigh eleven pounds and I need to be 'fed' every four hours around the clock. I have been programmed to cry at antisocial times. If I am roughly handled an ear-splitting alarm will be activated, which may disturb your neighbours.

Warning! Do not attempt to tamper with my solar-powered batteries. Do not bathe me. Do not ingest my eyeb.a.l.l.s.

Contents Doll Electronic bottle Transportation sling Bottle-cleansing solution Six diapers 1 comforter I unfastened the Babygro. The doll was of indeterminate s.e.x. Rosie was disappointed, she had been hoping for a girl.

It took me over an hour last night to persuade her to look after the doll for a fortnight. In the end I had to bribe her with the promise that I would pay for her to have hair extensions fitted at Toni and Guy.

Rosie redressed the doll and said, I'm gonna call her Ashby.'

She put Ashby in the sling and went to school. We have decided to tell our mother that Rosie is partic.i.p.ating in a research project. We haven't bothered with a cover story for the school. They have been preparing for an Ofsted inspection and so are unlikely to notice.

My mother and Ivan didn't get home until after dark. It had taken them most of the day to get to Coalville and back, a distance of seven miles on mostly flat terrain. They were tres shocked to find Ashby lying face down on the draining-board, where Rosie had dumped her while she fed the New Dog. I had a quiet word with Rosie later. I stressed that unless she kept to the rules I was not going to fork out for the hair extensions. I watched the video of the third Offally Good! (Belgian f.a.ggots), with my family and Ivan. Unfortunately, Ashby bawled throughout. I was most annoyed, though not as annoyed as Rosie, who eventually left the room muttering, 'She's doin' my ead in.'

William behaved atrociously at bedtime. He flounced around his bedroom like Little Lord Fauntleroy. I was forced to shout at him. My mother poked her head round the bedroom door and said, 'Don't be too hard on him, he's bound to be jealous of the new baby.'

I heard Rosie get up twice in the night to see to Ashby.

Thursday October 2nd The household (and the neighbourhood) were woken at 6.15 this morning by what sounded like the klaxon used for summoning the Lowestoft lifeboat crew. It was Ashby. Rosie denied that she had handled the doll roughly, but I knew otherwise. I had heard her snarling at Ashby through the plasterboard wall that separates her bedroom from mine. The klaxon noise only stopped when I took the baby in my arms, and walked her up and down the landing. William stood at the door of his bedroom watching us; his face was suffused with jealous rage.

Friday October 3rd Zippo rang. Pie Crust have been inundated with complaints from various Belgian gay organizations about this week's episode of Offally Good!.

I phoned Mr 20-per-cent-for-life and asked his voicemail for advice. He rang me back in person, but I was feeding Ashby so I had to ask him to call back. Unless you get the electronic bottle into her mouth at the precise angle, she refuses to 'feed'.

Brick advised me to go for what they call in the PR trade 'The Full Grovel'. He drafted the following press release.

Adrian Mole is sincerely sorry if he gave offence to any person of any nationality, colour, creed, or s.e.xual orientation. He would like to point out that his best friend, Nigel, is gay.

Belgian f.a.ggots are a traditional dish and the recipe is adapted from A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Cla.s.ses by Charles Elme Francatelli, Chief Cook to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

BELGIAN f.a.gGOTS.

These may be prepared with sheep's pluck (intestines) or even with bullock's liver, but a pig's pluck would be the personal preference of most top chefs.

Chop up the heart, liver, lights and kidneys; season well and divide into b.a.l.l.s the size of a small apple. Traditionally these should each be secured in shape with a piece of pig's caul, fastened with a wooden twig then baked for about half an hour in a brisk oven. If watching your cholesterol levels, pour half the grease from the f.a.ggots into the waste-bin before ensuing. If using a twig as a fastening device, check for splinters before inserting the f.a.ggot into the mouth. If you live in a flat and twigs are not easily available, wooden skewers can be purchased at most Greek supermarkets.

Friday October 10th Rosie asked me to babysit Ashby today. She wanted to go to the multiplex to see Leonardo DiCaprio in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I refused. None of the grandparents were available. They were having yet another of their interminable meetings about divorce, remarriage and finance. Rosie stayed at home and looked after her baby.

Nigel rang. He was furious at being 'outed' by me. He said his grandmother was terminally ill and that I had 'probably put the lid on her coffin'.

Sat.u.r.day October 11th I found Ashby in the back garden this morning. She was wet and cold and had a dent in her head. Rosie admitted throwing the baby out of the window last night. 'It's ruining my life,' she said. 'I'm gonna go mad if I don't get some sleep.'

The afternoon I was in the garden hosing the New Dog down (don't ask, just don't ask, Diary), when Rosie came out to join me. She had her arms wrapped round herself in the way women do when they venture outside. She watched the hosing operation for a while and said, 'I've decided not to have it.'

I turned off the hose and the New Dog shook itself dry before escaping through a hole in the fence. I said, 'I think we'd better tell Mum, then.'

We both looked down the garden to the kitchen window where my mother was to be seen washing up. Ivan was standing behind her with a tea towel and they were both laughing. Only that morning they had received official permission from the Mongolian government to cycle across part of the Gobi desert.

Rosie said, 'No, don't let's.'

She has been told by the NHS that she can have the operation on Wednesday 15th. The day before the cyclists are due to start their world tour.

Monday October 13th I couldn't bear to mention it before today, dear Diary, but Barry Kent's fifth novel, Blind, has been nominated for the 1997 Bookworm Prize. I pray with every fibre, every molecule, every strand of DNA in my body that Blind does not win. I forced myself to read Ivan's copy last night. It's about a working-cla.s.s boy, Ron Angel, who is blinded in the trenches of the First World War, and goes on to have a s.e.xual romance with his eye-surgeon, Cedric Palmer-Tomkinson.

Blind is the favourite at Ladbrokes. Melvyn Bragg called it 'haunting', Hanif Kureishi said it was 'cool', Kathy Lette that it was a 'hoot'. I quote Dr E.E. G. Head, writing in the Literary Review: 'Kent's book is a sustained metaphorical tour deforce.' I faxed Arthur Stoat a recipe for my book. I hope it will pacify him.

Tuesday October 14th The living-room floor is littered with lightweight camping equipment. Ivan has repacked his panniers five times. He has been ruthless with my mother and has forbidden her to take her hair-dryer or travelling iron.

I asked Ivan how they were getting to Dover.

He said, 'We're cycling, of course.'

My mother said, 'Couldn't we put the bikes in the guard's van and go by train?'

Ivan threw the tent poles on to the carpet and said, 'If you're having second thoughts, Pauline, now is the time to express them.'

My mother ran up to him and put her arms around his chest. She was wearing Lycra cycling shorts; her b.u.m looked like two balloons fighting in a black bin-bag.

I left them to it and went to find Rosie. She was upstairs in her room. Ashby was dressed in a pair of William's old Baby Gap dungarees, and Rosie was cleaning the doll's ears with a cotton bud. I said, 'Rosie, I've got to send Ashby back today--the hire time is up.'

She put Ashby into the box herself and watched while I Sellotaped it shut. Then she asked me to reopen the box so that she could say goodbye properly. When the postmistress, Mrs Porlock, put the parcel on the scales at the post office, Ashby's mechanism started to cry. It was very disconcerting. The colour drained from Mrs Porlock's face. She insisted on me unpacking the parcel. I said, 'Do you seriously think that I would consider sending a live baby via Parcel Force?'

Wednesday October 15th It's my fault that the whole family knows that Rosie had a termination today. Before we set out in the car I phoned the clinic for directions. Apparently, as soon as we left the house my mother's insatiable curiosity prompted her to dial 1471; when she pressed Redial a receptionist answered at the clinic in Leamington spa. My mother badgered the woman for information buy, to her fury, the receptionist refused to disclose any details 'pertaining to clients'.

My mobile was ringing constantly all the way to Leamington Spa. Rosie begged me not to answer and I respected her wishes.

I went inside with her and held her hand, but Rosie whispered, 'Aidy, you're showing me up.' I looked around and quailed at the rows of female faces, all waiting to be 'processed' and all staring at me with varying degrees of contempt. It wasn't a good place to be a man. I went outside, sat in the car and listened to Radio Four.

I then went for a walk in the grounds. There were some very expensive cars in the staff car park.

On the way back to Ashby-de-la-Zouch I pulled into the BP garage and bought Rosie a Magnum ice cream in an attempt to cheer her up.

We arrived home to a storm of accusations and recriminations. We opened the front door to hear my mother yelling, 'How can I set off on a world tour tomorrow when my little girl needs me?'

Ivan muttered, 'Pandora had a termination during her lunch break once. There was none of this b.l.o.o.d.y hysteria.'

My mother sobbed, hysterical, 'It's not hysteria, Ivan, it's called emotion--something you and your tight-a.r.s.ed family know nothing about.' The decibel level rose when the New Dog joined in, barking loudly. The only person not making a noise was William. My heart stopped. In the chaos, no one had remembered to collect him from Kidsplay. I dashed to the car and drove to the nursery, exceeding the speed limit several times.

Mrs Parvez was sitting with her coat on by the entrance. William was asleep on her lap. The nursery was silent; all the little chairs had been turned upside down and placed on the child-sized tables. When she saw me rushing in she glared, then said, 'He cried himself to sleep. He thought you'd gone away, like his mum.'

Thursday October 16th I have made remarkable progress on my radio soap opera script.

THE ROYAL ARCHERS.

Agricultural bagpipe music plays.

QUEEN: Phil, was that the vet's van I saw driving away, with Eddie Grundy trapped amusingly between the back wheels?

PHIL (deep sigh): Yes, it was, and I'm afraid it's bad news Liz. The corgis have gone down with scab foot.

QUEEN: The whole herd?

PHIL: 'Fraid so. I'll have to shoot them all.

QUEEN: Then this is the end for us, Phil. We'll have to sell the farm.

SHULA: h.e.l.lo, Mum, I've just dropped into your farmhouse kitchen to sigh and stand by the Aga, and tell you that I'm having an affair with my best friend's husband, the village doctor.

QUEEN: Does Andrew Morton know, Shula? (Pause) Does he? (Pause) Tell me, tell me now.

(Agricultural bagpipe music plays.) Friday October 17th Arthur Stoat rang me in person today to ask for clarification on the pigs' trotters recipe I faxed to him on Monday 13th. He said, 'Are the actual trotters--the bits that make contact with the s.h.i.t in the pigsty--left on during cooking, or are they filleted out before, and thrown away?'

I informed him that the trotters were a vital ingredient of the dish, and that if he tried to edit them out I would remove my name from the book.

He said, 'Keep your hair on.' (Has he heard about my incipient baldness?) 'All I wanted was a yes or a no. As it stands your recipe is open to ambiguity.'

I didn't like the sound of him. I asked him if he came from Cardiff; I pride myself on my ability to spot a regional accent. He said, 'No,' he originated from South Africa, but conceded that he listened to a lot of Welsh-hill-farmer plays on the BBC World Service. He said, 'Do I take it that you will not be delivering your completed ma.n.u.script within the next few days?'

I said that I'd had a lot of family business occupying my mind lately.

He said, 'So you'll be missing your deadline, will you?'

I admitted that I was highly unlikely to be able to write the book in a week.

My new deadline is November 1st; Stoat is determined to have the tome in the bookshops in time for Christmas. He reckons he can 'turn a book round' in three weeks. He said, 'I did it with Diana at My Fingertips, by her personal manicurist, and I'll do it for Offally.'

If I work non-stop and cease all sleeping and eating and non-essential activities, I should be able to do it.

Sat.u.r.day October 18th Aaron Michelwaite has finished with Rosie. He told her that he was not ready for a 'long-term commit-ment' because he wants to study marine engineering at Plymouth University. I was outraged at the callous timing of his announcement and said so. Rosie is lolling about the house in her Knickerbox satin pyjamas. She refuses to get dressed because she doesn't intend going outside 'ever again'.

A recorded message at the Michelwaite residence informs callers that 'The family have gone to Devon with the caravan, to recharge our batteries.' This is a timely move on their part, because my father, subsequent to the news of Rosie's termination, is still threatening to punch Aaron's lights out. If he does, they'll need their batteries.

William came into my bed last night. Rosie woke him up crying for Ashby.

Sunday October 19th A researcher from Kilroy rang this morning to ask me if I would appear on the show tomorrow morning to talk about the theme 'mixed marriages'. I pointed out to her that my African wife was divorcing me. 'Due to racial intolerance?' she asked, sounding excited.

'No,' I replied. 'Due to her intolerance of my personal habits.'

She said they were doing a show in November called, 'My Partner's Habits are Driving Me Mad'. Would I be interested?

I said, 'No.'

The researcher then asked to speak to my mother, saying she had read in the press about her colourful private life. I handed the phone over with more than a few misgivings. An hour later, when she came off the phone, I warned my mother about the dangers of TV exposure, but I could tell that my warning fell on deaf ears. She is talking of booking herself a six-week course of non-surgical face-lifts at the place where she gets her hair done.

Monday October 20th I shall not be making any more entries in my diary until my book is finished. I must keep the deadline or risk losing all credibility. I have written to the Tortoise Society to say that I am unable to open their Christmas Fayre 'due to pressure of work'.

Friday October 31st A horrible thing happened today. I was unable to control myself when William found and scoffed my last packet of Opal Fruits. I went berserk, shouted at him and told him that he would end up in prison if he carried on stealing other people's property. He fled in tears to my mother.

Later, Ivan came into my room, sat down on my bed in a caring way, and said, 'Adrian, do you think you may be sort of getting dependent on Opal Fruits?'

I pushed his hairy wrist off my shoulder, drove to the cash-and-carry warehouse and bought a multi-pack of OFs. I have hidden them under my bed. I have fitted a bolt to my door. I have not finished or even started the book, despite sitting at my desk for sixteen hours a day.

FAX MESSAGE.

To: Boston Goldperson--Brick Eagleburger a.s.sociates From: Adrian Mole Date: 31.10.97.

Dear Boston, First may I say how much I admire your decision to change your surname from Goldman to Goldperson. In these times when so many women are renouncing their feminist principles, it is heartening to know that you still carry the flame.

Now for the bad news. It has become apparent to me that I will be unable to meet my latest deadline of November 1st for the delivery of Offally Good!--The Book!. Family matters have occupied my time and attention to the detriment of my creative impulse.

In your role as agent's a.s.sistant will you please break the news to Arthur Stoat of Stoat Books Ltd. I will, of course, return my advance of PS250, though I will need to give one month's notice to my bank or risk losing the acc.u.mulated interest. I hope to see you when I am next in London. I am slightly concerned that Birdwatching and The White Van remain unsold despite their obvious ma.s.s-market appeal.

Yours, A. Mole Sat.u.r.day November 1st FAX MESSAGE.

From: Boston Goldperson To: Adrian Mole Listen, kiddo, The f--offal book has been sold already. W.H. Smith have made it their Book of the Week). The cover has been sent to The Bookseller] Stoat Books have had advance orders for 25,000 copies in hardback! This book is a f--bestseller! It has to be written! Stoat is threatening to sue this agency for every cent we have if you don't deliver. So write the mother!

Boston Sunday November 2nd William seems to have forgiven me for the Opal Fruits incident, though my mother is unrelenting and has not laid a place at the table for me for three days.

Ivan is negotiating with Tania over his Tyrolean-style garden shed. He wants to take it down and rea.s.semble it here, in the back garden of Wisteria Walk. I objected, saying that it would take up nearly all of the lawn. 'Where will William play?' I asked my mother.

'In your garden?' she said.

'I haven't got a garden,' I pointed out.

'Then get a garden,' she said.

I think this is a hint that she wants me and William to move out.

Monday November 3rd I went to see my father and Tania today. I took William with me. My father was on the back lawn digging a hole for Tania's Koi carp pool. A black Labrador puppy called Henry was watching him. 'Our baby,' said Tania.

I asked if we could move into the Tyrolean shed until I found something permanent. Neither of them looked very keen. Unfortunately, at that moment, William had a spectacular tantrum because I refused to sing the Teletubbies song, there and then. After five minutes of watching him scream, drum his heels and roll around on the gra.s.s, Tania said, 'Should we call an ambulance?'

My father said, 'No, Adrian was just the same when he was three. You had to do 'Incy Wincy Spider' fifty times a day.'

Eventually Tania said, 'I don't think it would work out, Adrian, not with the dog and the carp. Your father and I have a domestic routine that suits us and, anyway, we're not insured for small children.'

This was patently ridiculous, but I let it pa.s.s. William, now recovered from his tantrum, asked for Coco Pops. My father, who used to eat three bowls a day himself, said, 'Coco Pops are full of additives and E numbers, William. How about a nice gla.s.s of carrot juice?'