The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Sue Townsend

  Sue Townsend, with The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾ (1982) and The Crowing Pains of Adrian Mole (1984), was Britain’s bestselling author of the 1980s. Her hugely successful novels are Rebuilding Coventry (1988), True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, Margaret Hilda Roberts and Susan Lilian Townsend (1989), Adrian Mole: From Minor to Major (1991), The Queen and I (1992), Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years (1993), Ghost Children (1998), Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years (1990) and The Public Confessions of a Middle-aged Woman (Aged 55¾) (2001). Most of her books are published by Penguin. She is also well known as a playwright. She lives in Leicester.

  Also by Sue Townsend

  THE SECRET DIARY OF ADRIAN MOLE AGED 13¾

  Sue Townsend

  the growing

  pains of

  adrian

  mole

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Methuen 1984

  Published by Methuen-Mandarin 1985

  Reprinted in Arrow Books 1998

  Published in Puffin Books 2002

  11

  Copyright © Sue Townsend, 1984

  All rights reserved

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-196243-6

  To Mum, Dad and the whole family,

  with love and thanks

  ‘The aristocratic rebel, since he has enough to eat, must have other causes of discontent.’

  Bertrand Russell The History of Western Philosophy

  spring

  SUNDAY APRIL 4TH

  My father has sent a telegram to the War Office. He wants to take part in the war with Argentina. His telegram read:

  QUALIFIED HEATING ENGINEER STOP A1 FITNESS STOP OFFERS HIMSELF IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY STOP READY FOR IMMEDIATE MOBILIZATION

  My mother says that my father will do anything to avoid working for Manpower Services as a canal bank renovator.

  At tea-time I was looking at our world map, but I couldn’t see the Falkland Islands anywhere. My mother found them; they were hidden under a crumb of fruit-cake.

  I feel guilty about mentioning a personal anguish at this time of national crisis, but ever since last night when a model aeroplane became stuck fast to my nose with glue, I have suffered torment. My nose has swollen up so much that I am frantic with worry that it might burst and take my brain with it.

  I rang the Casualty Department and, after a lot of laughing, the nurse who removed the plane came on the line. She said that I was ‘probably allergic to the glue’, and that the swelling would go down in a few days. She added, ‘Perhaps it will teach you not to sniff glue again.’ I tried to explain but she put the phone down.

  Pandora has been round but I declined to see her. She would go straight off me if she saw my repulsive nose.

  MONDAY APRIL 5TH

  Just my luck! It is the first day of the school holidays and I can’t go out because of my gigantic swollen nose. Even my mother is a bit worried about it now. She wanted to prick it with a sterilized needle, but I wouldn’t let her. She can’t sew an accurate patch on a pair of jeans with a needle, let alone do delicate medical procedures with one. I’ve begged her to take me to a private nose special-ist, but she has refused. She says she needs the money for her ‘Well Woman’ test. She is having her primary and secondary sexual organs checked. Yuk!

  The dog is in love with a cocker spaniel called Mitzi. The dog stands no chance, though: (a) it isn’t a pedigree, and (b) it doesn’t keep itself looking smart like most dogs. I tried to explain these things to the dog, but it just looked sad and mournful and went back to lying outside Mitzi’s gate. Being in love is no joke. I have the same problem with Pandora that the dog has with Mitzi. We are both in a lower social class than our loved ones.

  TUESDAY APRIL 6TH

  The nation has been told that Britain and Argentina are not at war, we are at conflict.

  I am reading Scoop by a woman called Evelyn Waugh.

  WEDNESDAY APRIL 7TH

  Wrote and sent Pandora a love letter and a poem. The letter said:

  Pandora my love,

  Due to an unfortunate physical disability I am unable to see you in person, but every fibre of my being cries out for your immediate physical proximity. Be patient, my love, soon we will laugh again.

  Yours with undying love,

  Adrian

  P.S. What are your views on the Argentinian conflict, with particular reference to Lord Carrington’s resignation?

  The Discontented Tuna

  I am a Tuna fish,

  Swimming in the sea of discontent.

  Oh, when, when,

  Will I find the spawning ground?

  I hope Pandora sees through my poem and realizes the symbolism of ‘spawning ground’. I am sick of being the only virgin in our class. Everybody but me is sexually experienced. Barry Kent boasts about how many housewives he makes love to on his father’s milkround. He says they are the reason why he is always late for school.

  THURSDAY APRIL 8TH

  Maundy Thursday. Full Moon

  Nose has gone down a bit.

  My mother came home from her ‘Well Woman’ check in a bad mood.

  I allowed Pandora to visit me in my darkened bedroom. We had a brilliant kissing session. Pandora was wearing her mother’s Janet Reger full-length silk slip under her dress and she allowed me to touch the lace on the hem. I was more interested in the lace near the shoulder straps but Pandora said, ‘No, darling, we must wait until we’ve got our O levels.’

  I pointed out to Pandora that all this sexual frustration is playing havoc with my skin. But she said, ‘If you really love me you will wait.’

  /said, ‘If you really love me you wouldn’t wait.’

  She went then; she had to replace the Janet Reger slip before her mother got back from work.

  I have got thirty-eight spots: twenty-eight on my face and the rest on my shoulders.

  FRIDAY APRIL 9TH

  Good Friday

  Barry Kent has been spreading malicious rumours that I am addicted to Bostik. His auntie is a cleaner in the hospital and heard about the nose-stuck-to-model-aeroplane incident. I think it is disgusting that cleaners are allowed to talk about patients’ private medical secrets. They should be made to take the Hippocratic oath, like doctors and nurses.

  My mother is fed up. She is just sitting around the house smoking and sighing. There was a programme on BBC 2 about French babies being born into swimming pools; it was most interesting (and erotic) but my mother quickly switched over to ITV and watched bernie winters!!! When I protested s
he screamed, ‘Why don’t you clear off and sulk in your room like other teenagers?’

  My father is as baffled as I am as to why my mother is depressed. She’s been like it since she came back from the ‘Well Woman’ clinic.

  Perhaps she’s not well.

  The Canberra has gone to the Falklands and taken Barry Kent’s older brother, Clive, with it.

  SATURDAY APRIL 10TH

  Bert has been thrown out of the British Legion club for saying that the Falklands belong to Argentina. Bert doesn’t mind, he only used to go to take advantage of their OAP cheap beer offer.

  Grandma came round to check our pantry for Argentinian corned beef. We passed the test because our corned beef was made by Brazilian cows.

  Grandma has got a funny look in her eyes. My mother says it is called Jingoism, but I think it is more likely to be cataracts forming. We did them in human biology last term, so I speak from knowledge.

  SUNDAY APRIL 11TH

  Easter Day

  The working classes are toiling round the clock to mend Britain’s old battleships. Britain is planning to spring a surprise attack on Argentina in six weeks’ time.

  Grandma made me go to church. The vicar forced us to pray for the Falkland Islanders. He said that they were ‘under the tyranny of the jackboot of fascism’. He got dead mad talking about world peace. His sermon went on far too long in my opinion; even Grandma started fidgeting and whispering about getting back to switch her sprouts on.

  I have made my mind up to confess to Grandma that I am no longer a Christian believer. She’ll just have to find somebody else to help her up the hill to the church. Didn’t get an Easter egg: my mother and father said I am too old. Anybody would think there is a law against people of fifteen eating Easter eggs!

  MONDAY APRIL 12TH

  Easter Monday

  I think mother is cracking up; she is behaving even more strangely than usual. She came into my bedroom to change my sheets and when I objected to her dropping cigarette ash on my Falklands Campaign map she said, ‘For God’s sake, Adrian, this room is like a bloody shrine! Why don’t you leave your clothes on the floor like normal teenagers?’

  I said that I like things to be neat and tidy but she said, ‘You’re a bloody obsessive,’ and went out.

  My mother and father are always arguing about their bedroom. My father’s side of the room is dead neat, but my mother’s side is disgusting: overflowing ashtrays, old yellow Observers, books, magazines and puddles of nylon knickers on the floor. Her bedside shelves are full of the yukky junk she buys from second-hand shops, one-armed statues, broken vases and stinking old books etc. I pity my father having to share a room with her. All he’s got on his shelves are his AA book and a photograph of my mother in a wedding dress. She’s the only bride I’ve seen who’s got cigarette smoke coming out of her nostrils.

  I just can’t understand why my father married her.

  TUESDAY APRIL 13TH

  After Crossroads had finished I asked my father why he had married my mother. Talk about opening the flood-gates! Fifteen years of bitterness and resentment spilled out. He said, ‘Never make the mistake I made, Adrian. Don’t let a woman’s body blind you to her character and habits.’

  He explained that he met my mother when miniskirts were in fashion. He said that in those days my mother had superb legs and thighs. He said, ‘You must realize that most women looked bloody awful in miniskirts, so your mother had a certain rarity value.’

  I was shocked at his sexist attitude and told him that I was in love with Pandora because of her brains and compassion for lesser mortals. My father gave a nasty laugh and said, ‘Oh yeah! And if Pandora was as ugly as sin you wouldn’t have noticed her bloody IQ and bleeding heart in the first place.’

  He ended our first man-to-man talk by saying, ‘Look, kiddo, don’t even think about getting married until you’ve spent a few months sharing a bedroom with a bird. If she leaves her knickers on the floor for more than three days running forget it!’

  WEDNESDAY APRIL 14TH

  Mitzi’s owner came round to ask my mother to keep our dog away from Mitzi. My mother said that the dog lived in a liberal household and was allowed to go where it pleased.

  Mitzi’s.owner, a Mrs Carmichael, said that if our dog ‘continued harassing Mitzi’ she would be forced to report our dog to the police. My mother laughed and said, ‘Why don’t you go the whole hog and take a High Court injunction out?’

  Mr Carmichael came round half an hour later. He said that Mitzi was being prepared for Crufts and mustn’t suffer any stress. My mother said, ‘I’ve got better things to do than to stand here talking about a romance between a bloody cocker spaniel and a mongrel.’ I hoped this would mean she would cook some dinner but no, she went into the kitchen and read the Guardian from cover to cover, so I opened a tin of tuna again.

  THURSDAY APRIL 15TH

  Woke up at 4 a.m. with a toothache. Took six junior aspirins for the pain. At 5 a.m. I woke my mother and father and told them that I was in torment.

  My father said, ‘It’s your own bloody fault for missing your last three dentist’s appointments.’

  At 5.30 a.m. I asked my father to drive me to the hospital Casualty Department, but he refused and turned over in bed. It’s all right for him: he hasn’t got any real teeth. I sat up, racked with agony, and watched the sky get light. The lucky toothless birds started their horrible squawking and I swore that from this day forward I would go to the dentist’s four times a year, whether I was in pain or not.

  At nine o’clock my mother woke me up to tell me that she’d made me an appointment at the dentist’s emergency clinic. I told her that the pain had stopped and instructed her to cancel the appointment.

  FRIDAY APRIL 16TH

  Moon Last Quarter

  Woke up at 3 a.m. in agony with toothache. I tried to suffer in silence but my pain-racked sobs must have filtered through to my parents’ bedroom because my father crashed into my room and asked me to be quiet. He showed no sympathy, just moaned on about how he had to work on the canal tomorrow and he needed his sleep. On his way back to bed he slipped on one of my mother’s Cosmopolitans that she’d left on her side of the bedroom floor. His swearing woke the dog up. Then my mother woke up. Then the lousy birds started. So once again I watched dawn’s grey fingers infiltrate the night.

  SATURDAY APRIL 17TH

  Still in bed with toothache.

  My parents are showing me no sympathy, they keep saying, ‘You should have gone to the dentist’s.’

  I have phoned Pandora: she is coming round tomorrow. She asked me if I needed anything; I said a Mars bar would be nice. She said (quite irritably I thought), ‘Heavens above, Adrian, aren’t your teeth rotten enough?’

  The dog has been howling outside Mitzi’s gate all day. It is also off its Pedigree Chum and Winalot.

  SUNDAY APRIL 18TH

  Low Sunday

  Pandora has just left my bedroom. I am just about devastated with frustration. I can’t go on like this. I have written to Aunt Clara, the Agony Aunt.

  Dear Aunt Clara,

  I am a fifteen-year-old schoolboy. My grandma tells me that I am attractive and many people have commented on how mature I am for my years. I am the only child of a bad marriage (apart from the dog). My problem is this: I am deeply in love with an older girl (by three months). She is in a class above me (I don’t mean in school: we are in the same class at school. I mean that she is a social class above me.) but she claims that this doesn’t matter to our relationship. We have been very happy until recently when I have started to be obsessed by sex. I have fallen to self-manipulation quite a lot lately, and it is OK for a bit but it soon wears off. I know that a proper bout of lovemaking would do me good. It would improve my skin and help my mind to concentrate on my O level studies.

  I have tried all sorts of erotic things, but my girlfriend refuses to go the whole hog. She says we are not ready.

  I am quite aware of the awesome things about bringing
an unwanted baby into the world and I would wear a protective dildo.

  Yours in desperation,

  Poet of the Midlands

  MONDAY APRIL 19TH

  We had a dead good debate in Social Studies this morning. It was about the Falklands.

  Pandora put the proposition That this class is against the use of force to regain the Falkland Islands’.

  The standard of debate was quite good for a change. I made a brilliant speech in favour of the motion. I quoted from Animal Farm and The Crapes of Wrath. I got quite a good round of applause when I sat down.

  Barry Kent spoke against the proposition. He said, ‘Er, I er, fink we should er, you know, like, bomb the coast of Argentina.’ He was quoting from his father, yet he sat down to a standing ovation!

  Dentist’s at 2.30, worse luck!

  4p.m. I am now minus a front tooth! The stupid Australian dentist took it out instead of repairing it. He even had the nerve to wrap it in a bit of tissue paper and give it to me to take home!

  I said, ‘But I’ve got a gap!’ He said, ‘So has Watford, and if Watford can get used to it so can you.’

  I asked him if another tooth would grow in its place. He said, ‘Bloody ignorant Poms,’ under his breath, but he didn’t answer my question.

  As I was stumbling out of his surgery clutching my frozen-up jaw he said that he had often seen me walking home from school eating a Mars bar, and it would be entirely my own fault if I was toothless at thirty.

  I will walk home another way in future.

  TUESDAY APRIL 20TH

  I have now got the kind of face that you see on ‘Wanted’ posters. I look like a mass murderer. My mother is dead mad with the dentist; she has written him a letter demanding that he makes a false tooth free of charge.

  School was terrible; Barry Kent started calling me ‘Gappy Mole’ and soon everyone was at it; even Pandora was a bit distant. I sent her a note in Physics asking her if she still loved me. She sent a note back saying, ‘I will love you for as long as Britain has Gibraltar.’