Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 14

She slipped this under my door last night.

When I saw her at breakfast I made no reference to it. What could I possibly say? Ivan is behind all this: he believes that 'Everybody has a talent, it's just that our society cannot encompa.s.s...' etc., etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.

Tuesday December 2nd Jesus Christ almighty! G.o.d save me from this biblical-like curse which has fallen on me!

A letter from Sharon Bott, with whom I once had a frenzied s.e.xual relationship.

Dear Aidy, This must come as a bit of a downer. I belong in the past, I know, but it weren't me who wanted to send this letter. It is my son Glenn. He is a big lad of 12 now and he wants to know who his father is. And the thing is, Aidy, I don't know. As you found out I was having relations with you and Barry Kent at the same time. I have written to Barry the same as you. Glenn says that you and Barry should take a DNA test to find out who is his dad. He is a good lad at home, never no trouble. I don't know why the teachers are against him at school. I'm sorry to bother you with this only I had to do it for Glenn. Can you give me a ring? I work shifts at Parker's Poultry, but I'm home at ten. Me and Glenn have seen you on Cable. You were quite good. Did you see that Barry has won a prize for writing a book about a blind man? It was in the Mercury last night.

Yours faithfully, Sharon L. Bott No way! No way! No way is she forcing me to accept Glenn 'The Teachers Are Against Him' Bott as my son. I've got one son. Another is surplus to requirements.

I showed the letter to Rosie, who said, 'I know Glenn Bott. He's a psycho, but he has got your nose. He helps out on a stall at Leicester market on Fridays after school. The one opposite Walker's, the pork butcher's.'

I phoned the Bott house. A little kid told me that 'Mam's gone to work.'

Wednesday December 3rd William returned to Kidsplay today. He was greeted like a returning hero by the other children, though the teachers were distinctly cool. There have been several copy-cat incidents of children placing foreign objects in their ears (lentils, beads). Mrs Parvez is away with a stress-related illness.

Phoned Sharon late tonight. It was hard to concentrate due to the old s.e.xual frisson and the background noise of television and yelling of children. It was an awkward conversation. I kept getting flashbacks of the two of us engaging in s.e.xual intercourse on the pink velour sofa in my parents' house on Thursday nights while they were out having marriage guidance.

I told Sharon that I was unlikely to be Glenn's father due to an abnormally low sperm count, but she asked if I would take the test 'for Glenn'. What could I say but yes? She put the phone down, saying, 'Douggie's just come in.'

Thursday December 4th At four o'clock I drove to Leicester, parked in the Shires car park and walked through the Christmas shoppers to the market place. I stood outside Walker's, the pork butcher's, and watched the fruit stall opposite.

It didn't come as a complete shock to find that Glenn is the same boy who's been hanging about outside our house for the last few months. He's tall for his age, and if he had a decent haircut and stopped glowering he'd be quite a handsome lad. He was dressed as though he lived on the streets of h.e.l.l's Kitchen, New York, in ludicrously baggy trousers and a Puffa jacket. When he came round to the front, to tidy the fruit, I saw that he was wearing trainers the size and shape of small bulldozers.

The owner of the stall, a weasel-faced man, with earrings and a grey ponytail, seemed content to let Glenn do most of the work, apart from handling the money. I presumed this was Douggie, apparently Sharon's live-in partner.

As I watched Glenn I tried to get in touch with my emotions. What exactly did I feel?

Diary, I felt nothing.

I could tell even from a distance that the boy didn't have a single strand of intellectual DNA in his body.

Sharon lives on the dreaded Thatcher Estate. I parked outside 19 Geoffrey Howe Road and decided to activate the car alarm and fit the steering lock on the Montego. The battered wooden gate sc.r.a.ped on the concrete path as I pushed it open. There was a picture of a large Devil Dog saying, 'Go Ahead, Make My Day,' propped against the front-room window.

Sharon opened the door before I could knock. She looked like Moby d.i.c.k with a perm. I could barely discern the Sharon I once knew from the flesh mountain she had become. The cigarette between her podgy fingers looked tiny, like the ones made of confectionery I used to 'smoke' as a boy.

She led me into the front room where two shaven-headed little boys were sitting on a sofa, watching a video. The TV screen showed a maniac with a hedge-trimmer pursuing a girl with large b.r.e.a.s.t.s down the steps of a dark cellar. The smallest boy picked up a cushion and hid his face behind it.

I was not introduced to them and, after a swift glance at me, they turned their attention back to the screen. Sharon indicated that I was to sit in one of the two matching armchairs. The carpet felt sticky beneath my feet.

She stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer. It was inconceivable to me that I had ever had carnal knowledge of this woman. A loud atonal cacophony from the television prompted me to ask Sharon if we could talk in the kitchen, though once we'd arrived there, I wished we'd stayed where we were.

I've not 'ad time to wash up yet,' she said, looking around at the spectacular chaos.

I looked through the grimy window into the garden. A sodden mattress lay in the long gra.s.s. Glenn's bike was out there, padlocked to the concrete post of the washing-line. The spillage of light from the kitchen window showed that the bike was well maintained: the chrome trims and the spokes sparkled. I was pleased to see that the boy had fitted a padlock and chain to one wheel, and a cycle lock to the other.

Sharon handed me a piece of paper, which told me where and when to go for a blood test: 10.30 Monday December 8th at the clinic in Prosper Road. 'Barry's solicitor 'as arranged it all,' she said. She kept glancing nervously at the narrow, gold-coloured watch which lay between the folds of fat around her wrist.

I said, 'Has Glenn shown any preference as to who his natural father is?'

Sharon was rinsing a mug under the cold tap. 'He's not,' she said. 'But it might be better for me if it's Barry, maintenance wise.'

'And certainly better for me, if it's Barry, maintenance wise,' I said.

She offered me tea, but I declined. She told me that I would receive a copy of the results from a laboratory, and then we could 'take it from there'.

When I got home I asked my mother if she could locate any photographs of me at the age of twelve. She sorted through a few s...o...b..xes and brought out a school photo. On the back was written 'Adrian, aged eleven and a half in my father's a.n.a.l handwriting. When I turned it over I was shocked to see a picture of Glenn Bott looking up at me. My mother wanted to know why I wanted a photograph of myself at that age. I could not answer her.

Sunday December 7th Staff Nurse Lucy rang to say that I'd left A.N. Wilson's biography of Tolstoy in William's bedside locker. She was pa.s.sing our house; she lives in Clematis Close--should she drop it in? I said I didn't think it would squeeze through the letterbox. 'If Tolstoy had died at thirty-five you might have stood a chance,' I joked. She asked how old Tolstoy was when he died. 'In his nineties,' I said. I waited for her to say that she was busy on the ward, but she seemed to have plenty of time to talk. She said that after work she would walk round to Wisteria Walk with Lucinda. I begged her not to. I wanted to sit and read the Observer in peace--but she insisted.

Rosie and my mother got themselves into a lather of excitement, and Ivan went upstairs and came down in a shirt and toning tie. I told them all not to waste so much nervous energy. I am not in the least attracted to Staff Nurse Lucy.

I tried to keep her and Lucinda on the doorstep, but William pulled Lucinda inside to play with his farmyard, which is stocked with dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals, so I reluctantly showed Staff Nurse Lucy into the kitchen, where I found a Sains-bury's chocolate gateau thawing in her honour. In the subsequent conversation it emerged that her favourite poet is Barry Kent, her favourite singer Liam Gallagher. I had to get up and leave the table. She stayed two long hours. She p.r.o.nounced the gateau 'yummy'. Just before she left, she went upstairs with me and my mother to watch William and Lucinda putting the dinosaurs to bed in the farmhouse.

'Ah, bless,' said Lucy. 'They get on so well, don't they?'

I looked at my mother's face and saw that, in her mind's eye, she had me and William installed in Clematis Close with Lucy and Lucinda. When they'd gone I disabused her of this idea, citing the hairy blonde wrists. My mother said, 'A tube of Nair would sort that problem out.'

An air of heavy disappointment hangs over the house.

As I was putting him to bed William asked when Lucinda was coming to play again.

I replied, 'Never.'

Monday December 8th I needn't have changed my underwear. I wasn't asked to remove my clothes, just roll my sleeve up. I felt rather weak when I spotted the syringe and I looked away while a fat bloke in a white coat took my blood. To distract myself I muttered the words of the Lord's Prayer. The blood-taker said, 'Pardon?'

I opened my eyes and saw him syringing my dark red blood into a little plastic bottle. 'I didn't speak,' I said.

'You did,' he said. 'You said, 'Amen.' Have you, too, found the Lord?'

As I was fastening my cuff, he took a leaflet from the drawer in his desk and placed it in front of me. He belongs to a sect called G.o.dhead. They believe that the world is going to end a second after the stroke of midnight on January 1st in the year 2000. I put my coat on and stood by the door, but he wouldn't let me go until he'd explained that the Dome at Greenwich was to be the site of 'Satan's Last Stand'. According to him, Mr Peter Mandelson is the Prince of Devils, and the entire Cabinet is made up of demons. He said that Jack Cunningham has cloven hoofs and has to have his shoes made bespoke. I thanked him for the information and he thanked me for listening, saying, 'A lot of people think we're cranks.'

I was glad when he handed me my blood and asked me to give it to the clinic receptionist, ready for collection. I didn't like the thought of him tinkering with it after I'd gone.

When I got home my mother reported gleefully that Arthur Stoat had rung, demanding the name and telephone number of my ghost-writer. She said, 'I don't understand why you can't write the b.l.o.o.d.y thing yourself. It's only a few recipes. It wouldn't take you more than a week if you got stuck in.'

I said, 'You non-writers don't understand. There's the question of tone and tense and clarity. And which word to put in front of another, and when to use a semicolon and how to know when only a colon will do!'

The DNA results will be sent to me by registered letter on Friday. Barry Kent has paid for the express service.

Tuesday December 9th I went to Toys '.R' Us this afternoon in my thankless quest for a Teletubby. I asked a boy (who inexplicably wore a badge saying 'Gary Heppenstall, a.s.sistant Manager') where the Teletubbies were to be found. He smirked and said, 'In China, sir, where they make 'em.' He said they'd had a few La-Las on Monday, but they'd gone within minutes. I asked him why they couldn't manufacture the Teletubbies in this country. He smiled pityingly at me and said, 'They'll work all week for a bowl of rice in China, sir. We can't compete.'

Trawled to town for Teletubbies. There are none to be had. I am now on the waiting list of seven shops and have my mobile everywhere with me at all times should a consignment arrive in the middle of the night. Nigel is also on the case.

2 a.m. Is there no end to the suffering of Paula Yates? The latest tragedy to befall her is that DNA testing has proved she is the daughter of the dead right-wing aviationist and sinister quizmaster Hughie Green. Personally, I curse the day DNA was discovered. Weren't we all happier in our ignorance?

In the evening Ivan went round to The Lawns to start dismantling his hardware and software. He is going to set up a home office in an alcove in our dining room.

Tania is insisting on keeping the chalet as part of the divorce settlement. While he was out we decorated the house with paper chains and balloons, and I held the ladder while my mother climbed into the loft to retrieve the Christmas tree and the box of decorations. The fairy-lights fused after only half an hour but, as I said to my mother, 'It is traditional in our culture.'

Wednesday December 10th There's been a big row about the Christmas tree. Ivan said, I've got to be frank with you, Paulie, I think it's far too early to put a tree up and I can't bear that kitsch stuff you've thrown on it. The effect is nauseating.'

My mother rounded on him with a knife in her hand (she was peeling potatoes at the sink), and said, 'Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are? Sir Terence bleeding Conran?'

He said, 'Pauline, please don't swear, it demeans you.'

She said, 'Then don't criticize my baubles, Ivan.'

The tree row led to the who-will-be-where-and-with-whom-at-Christmas row. I took charge and asked each person what their ideal Christmas would be. My mother said, 'Ideally, I want to watch William open his presents on Christmas morning and then go abroad, somewhere hot, with Ivan.'

Ivan said ideally he wanted to invite his ninety-two-year-old mother, who is in a residential home in Rutland, to spend Christmas week at Wisteria Walk. 'It could be her last Christmas,' he said.

Rosie said, 'Ideally I want to stay in bed eating tortilla chips all day and watch my Christmas present: a new portable colour television.'

William said he didn't care what he did, so long as he did it with a full set of Teletubbies.

I phoned my father to canva.s.s his opinion. He said, 'Ideally we'd like to watch William open his presents with us at The Lawns on Christmas morning and then spend the rest of the day quietly with Henry.' He said that they had received a press release from Pandora which said that she would be visiting Leicester Royal Infirmary on Christmas Day and was planning to carve a turkey for the tragic youngsters on the children's ward.

The Sugdens, my mother's parents, said they would ideally like to drive up from Norfolk on Christmas morning and spend 'a quiet two days at Wisteria Walk, eating and drinking in moderation'.

I said, 'In an ideal world I would like to take William to a hotel with a log fire for the duration.'

Ivan, who had been inputting all the 'ideal Christ-mases' on his computer, looked up from the screen and said, 'The computations are beyond it.' However, he did find a week self-catering in Tenerife, which left on December 24th from Stansted at 3 a.m. My mother asked me if I was prepared to break with Mole tradition and let William open his presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning.

I said, 'No.'

Thursday December 11th My mother sent me round to The Lawns to cut some greenery for the holly wreath she is making as per the instructions in the Christmas supplement of Good Housekeeping. I asked Tania if I could borrow some gardening gloves and secateurs, but she said, I'm afraid I can't have a non-gardener just slashing at my conifers and evergreens w.i.l.l.y-nilly.'

My father looked up sheepishly from the marble slab where he was cutting out gingerbread men, eventually to be varnished and hung on the tree that Tania had so sensibly reserved at a specialist nursery.

I said, 'I'll go elsewhere for my greenery, then.'

My father said, 'Don't go, son...'

But Tania said, 'Don't you see, George? This is just Pauline's way of tormenting me.'

I left them to it and headed for Sainsbury's car park, where I used my Swiss Army knife and filled two carrier-bags with their green p.r.i.c.kly stuff.

While I was out my mother had made the skeleton of a wreath by twisting three coat-hangers together. We managed to fashion the green stuff and holly into a roundish shape and hung it all'on the door with a red ribbon. Ivan said it had an 'anarchic spirit' to it. I could see my mother was unsure whether this was a compliment or not.

Friday December 12th I was woken at dawn this morning by an urgent ringing on the doorbell. Thinking it to be the registered letter, I stumbled downstairs dressed only in my boxers, to find the milkman on the doorstep clutching a handkerchief to his left eye. Two broken bottles of milk lay on the doorstep. I've been poked in the bleddy eye by a piece off--holly,' he said.

As we watched, a piece of recalcitrant holly fell from the wreath and landed among the shards of gla.s.s in a little white lake. I had no choice but to give him a lift to Eye Casualty at the Royal Infirmary in Leicester. When I got home I found my mother anxiously reading the household-insurance policy. There was nothing in it about cover for third-party holly-wreath accidents. She has cancelled the milk 'until further notice' and removed the wreath from the front door.

I waited for the postman with a thumping heart and a dry mouth, praying that Barry Kent would be the one to stump up the maintenance, but the only thing that came was a Christmas letter from George 'n' Tania circulated to their 'many friends and family members around the world'.

Dear Loved Ones, 1997 has been a turbulent year for us both. Most of you have been informed about the breakdown of Tania and Ivan's marriage, due to his love affair with Pauline, George's wife. For those of you who are finding out for the first time, phew! Sorry! Take a breather!

Let's go back to the start of the year, shall we?

January saw Ivan and Tania in Norwich where they attended a get-together of the Redundant Dairy Workers a.s.sociation. Ivan enjoyed seeing some of his old colleagues and catching up on the news.

In February Tania started a night-school course in Citroen car maintenance, after receiving a horrendous bill for a service from Honest Jack's (Railway Arches) garage. Tragically, Bismarck, Ivan and Tania's adorable marmalade cat, died of leukaemia. She remains sadly missed to this day.

In March Tania took on more responsibility at De Montfort University- she formed a gardening club, Doigts Verts, which meets fortnightly in the physics department from 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. and already has a thriving membership. In the same month, George won a Spot the Ball compet.i.tion in a local trade paper--PS25 for placing a cross correctly! But not as easy as it looks!

April saw Ivan and Tania drifting apart somewhat, though they enjoyed a weekend visit to Stratford and had a lovely meal in the Dirty Duck.

May: Pandora, bless her, was elected the Member of Parliament for Ashby-de-la-Zouch. We're so very proud of her. She has since been appointed a PPS to Julia Snodworthy at the Department of Agriculture. Pandora's ex-husband, Julian, has also been making a name for himself, becoming a leading campaigner for a bill to lower the h.o.m.os.e.xual age of consent to sixteen.

In late May Ivan began a clandestine affair with Pauline Mole. Meanwhile, Tania was working hard to pay the mortgage, the household bills and also to repay the loan on the garden chalet from which Ivan was going to freelance as a dairy management consultant, but as it turned out hardly ever did. Tania was devastated by Ivan's betrayals; she had meant every word of her wedding vows. However, in June she and George found that their relationship was more than friendship, and Tania is slowly accepting that it is possible to love again.

In September, Brett, George's only son by Doreen Slater, a.k.a. 'Stick Insect', wrote to his father from Rugby School, where he has been awarded a scholarship. George was pleased and not a little proud! Brett has since had several meals with us, and is a charming, good-looking boy, with exquisite manners!

Dear Diary, this is news to me! Why are all these sons suddenly creeping out of the woodwork? I put it down to the millennium. Why didn't my father tell me about Brett's success? After all, he is my half-brother.

I read on...

Adrian, George's elder son, has been away working in London's Soho! He once met Ned Sherrin in the street!

Is that it? Is that the full sum of my considerable achievements this year, to have met Ned Sherrin in the street? In fact I more than 'met' Ned in the street. I engaged him in conversation just as he was about to step into a black cab.

We have embarked on an ambitious plan to landscape the garden at The Lawns. The lawns are to be replaced and gravel laid in their place. We hope ultimately to re-create the Emperor Hirohito's palace gardens, though on a more modest scale! George will shortly be attending a course on Zen gardening at Dartington College, Devon, run by Isokio Myanoko, garden master to the j.a.panese Royal Family.

Lastly, but certainly not leastly, Henry, an adorable black Labrador puppy has arrived to share our lives. So, together with the Koi carp, Yin and Yang, we have become a family!

Happy Christmas, Love to all, Tania and George I couldn't wait for my mother to get out of the bath. When she read the letter she laughed until she cried. Even Ivan smiled at the thought of my father raking gravel in a meaningful way. Tania 'n' George's round robin has been pinned up above the bread-bin. Every time I extracted a slice of organic white at breakfast I laughed quietly to myself.

Most of the World War II baby-boomer generation are to be pitied. My mother has often spoken about the overcrowded cla.s.srooms: 'Three of us to a desk, four of us to a book.' She claims that even the pavements were crowded when she was a girl, and that she had to queue to go on the swings in the park.

At 10.10 a.m. a post-office van drew up outside, then the doorbell rang and the New Dog began to bark. I took this to be an ominous portent. The New Dog never barks. (It cost me PS26 at the vets in April to have its vocal cords checked.) The New Dog obviously sensed, with its canine intelligence, that the letter the postman was holding out to me contained bad news. I scrawled my name on the postman's clipboard and wished him a merry Christmas, then went upstairs to my bedroom. I locked the door and opened the letter.

Labtest Ltd Unit 1, Branson Trading Estate Filey-on-Sense Ess.e.x Dear Mr Mole, Tests carried out on blood samples by this laboratory show conclusively that you are the father of Glenn Bott, who currently resides at 19 Geoffrey Howe Road, Thatcher Estate, Leicester.

Should you wish to query the test results, there will be a further charge of PS150 plus vat. As requested, copies of this report have been sent to Barry Kent, Mrs Sharon Bott, and Mrs Bott's solicitor, Ms Miranda Pankhurst of Justice for Children.

Yours sincerely, Amanda Trott (Director of Parental Attribution Tests) I have now read the letter several times, including the enclosed lab report, which might as well be written in Welsh for all the sense it makes to me. I have hidden it under a pile of handkerchiefs, next to my rolled-up socks.

I am in shock.

Sat.u.r.day December 13th Spent the morning searching for a word or phrase to express my feelings. I tried to imagine what Tony Blair would do under the circ.u.mstances, and was certain that tears would not be very far away.

Glenn Bott Seen from a distance Tall, frowning, twelve. Gangsta clothes In an English market. Half of Sharon, half of me. Fully himself.

Sunday December 14th I phoned Sharon this morning. Douggie answered. He said that Sharon was out Christmas shopping. He said, 'She'd better be back soon. I'm stuck here with the bleddy kids, waiting to go out for a few bevvies.'

I said that I would ring later. He said, 'Bad luck on the blood test, eh?'