The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole Read online

  The mean git says that he has already forked out four hundred quid for a canoeing holiday down the Wye for his family in September, and Pandora’s made-to-measure wet suit was costing forty quid so he was ‘unable to stretch his finances further’. So, a fortnight without Pandora looms ahead, unless I can think of a way to make £120 in a hurry. Pandora hasn’t got any money of her own; she spends all her pocket money on viola strings.

  WEDNESDAY JULY 28TH

  My mother’s lump started showing today, but she is doing nothing to disguise it. In fact she seems quite proud of it. She is showing it to everybody who comes to the house.

  I have to go out of the room.

  THURSDAY JULY 29TH

  My father has been working flat out on the canal bank for the past three days. He hasn’t been getting home until 10 p.m. at night. He is getting dead neurotic about leaving it and going on holiday.

  Went to see Queenie in hospital. She is on a ward full of old ladies with sunken-in white faces. It’s a good job that Queenie was wearing her rouge, I wouldn’t have recognized her without it.

  Queenie can’t speak properly so it was dead embarrassing trying to work out what she was saying. I left after twenty minutes, worn out with smiling. I tried not to look at the old ladies as I walked back down the ward, but it didn’t stop them shouting out to me and waving. One of them asked me to fetch a nice piece of cod for her husband’s tea. The tired-looking nurse said that a lot of the old ladies were living in the past. I can’t say I really blame them; their present is dead horrible.

  FRIDAY JULY 30TH

  Our family went to Pandora’s house to discuss what was involved in looking after Bert while we are on holiday.

  Bert grumbled all the way through the meeting. He’s never a bit grateful for anything you do for him. Sometimes I wish he wouldgo and live in the Alderman Cooper Sunshine Home.

  My mother gave this list to Pandora’s mother:

  1. He will only drink out of the George V Coronation cup.

  2. He takes three heaped spoons of sugar in tea.

  3. Don’t let him watch Top of the Pops, it over-excites him.

  4. District Nurse comes on Tuesdays to check for pressure sores.

  5. He’ll only eat beetroot sandwiches, scrambled eggs, Vesta curries and various Dream Toppings. Don’t waste your energy in trying to extend his range. I’ve tried and failed.

  6. He moves his bowels at 9.05 a.m. precisely. So please make sure you arrive at his bungalow in plenty of time to arrange the commode.

  7. Sabre needs at least a four-mile walk every day. Any less and he becomes quite impossible.

  8. Don’t talk to Bert during Crossroads.

  9. Mrs Singh will cover for you in an emergency, but she must be chaperoned.

  10. He’s OK to be left at night providing he’s had his quota of brown ales (three bottles).

  11. He’ll accuse you of fiddling him out of his pension. Ignore him.

  12. The Best of British Luck!

  SATURDAY JULY 31ST

  Rio Grande Boarding House,Skegness

  Pandora came round early this morning to say goodbye; normally I would have been in anguish at the prospect of being without her for two weeks, but I was too busy packing my cases and looking for my swimming trunks to break down. Pandora helped me by packing my medical supplies for me. We finally left our cul-de-sac at 6 p.m.

  The car broke down at Grantham so we didn’t arrive at the Rio Grande until 12.30. The boarding house was locked and in complete darkness. We stood on the steps ringing the bell for ages, eventually a miserable-looking bloke unlocked the door. He said ‘Mole Family? Yer late. These doors are locked at 11 p.m. an’ there’s a 50p fine for latecomers.’

  My mother said, ‘And whom might you be?’

  The man said, ‘I’m Bernard Porke, that’s whom I am - Proprietor of the Rio Grande.’

  My mother said, ‘Well, thank you for your effusive welcome, Mr Porke.’ She signed the register while I went and helped my father get the cases off the roof rack.

  The tarpaulin had disappeared somewhere en route, so everything was wet through. I am writing this in my basement room. It overlooks the dustbins. I can hear Mr and Mrs Porke quarrelling in the kitchen next door.

  I wish I was back in the Midlands.

  SUNDAY AUGUST 1ST

  Eighth after Trinity.Lammas (Scottish Quarter Day)

  I was woken up by Mr Porke shouting, ‘Only one piece of bacon per plate, Beryl. Are you trying to ruin me?’

  I got dressed quickly and ran up six flights of stairs to my parents’ attic room. Woke them up and told them that breakfast was nearly ready. My father told me to run down to the dining room and bag a decent table. (He is experienced in seaside boarding houses.)

  I sat at a table next to the massive picture window and watched my fellow boarders take their places at the tables. For some reason everyone was whispering. Mothers kept telling their children to sit still, sit up straight, etc. Fathers stared at the cruet.

  My parents’ arrival caused a bit of a stir. My mother never keeps her voice down, so everyone heard her complaining about the nylon sheets, including Mr Porke. I’m sure that’s why our table only got two pieces of fried bread.

  MONDAY AUGUST 2ND

  Bank Holiday (Scotland). Holiday (Republic of Ireland)

  My father has gone back to his proletarian roots. He bought a ‘Kiss me Quick, Squeeze me Slowly’ hat and walked along the promenade swigging out of a can of lager.

  I wore my dark glasses and kept well behind him.

  TUESDAY AUGUST 3RD

  Eleven days to go and I have already spent all my money on the slot machines.

  WEDNESDAY AUGUST 4TH

  Full Moon

  The sun came out today!

  Also Prince William was christened. The Rio Grande celebrated by giving everyone an extra boiled egg at tea time.

  THURSDAY AUGUST 5TH

  A man called Ray Peabody has joined our table. He is a divorcee from Corby. He spent his honeymoon at the Rio Grande. (No wonder he is divorced.) He comes to Skegness to take part in the talent contests. He is a singer and juggler. He showed us a bit of juggling with the cruet until Mr Porke told him to ‘stop abusing the facilities’.

  FRIDAY AUGUST 6TH

  Sent Pandora a donkey postcard.

  Dear Pan,

  The sun came out on Wednesday, but it didn’t reach into the black despair caused by our separation. It is a cultural desert here.

  Thank God I have brought my Nevil Shute books.

  Yours unto infinity.

  Adrian X

  SATURDAY AUGUST 7TH

  Went to Gibraltar Point in the car to see the wild-life sanctuary. Saw the sanctuary but no wild life. I expect they were all sheltering from the wind.

  Read The Cruel Sea by a bloke called Nicholas something.

  SUNDAY AUGUST 8TH

  Ninth after Trinity

  My father went on a sea.fishing trip today with the Society of Redundant Electric Storage Heater Salesmen.

  My mother and I spent the day on the beach reading the Sunday papers. She is quite nice when you get her on her own. The sun was dead hot but I’ve got eighteen spots on my shoulders so I couldn’t take my shirt off.

  MONDAY AUGUST 9TH

  We bought day tickets and went to a holiday camp today.

  The sight of all the barbed wire and the pale listless people walking aimlessly around inside gave me a weird feeling.

  My father started whistling ‘The Bridge on the River Kwai’ and it was like being in a prisoner of war camp. Nobody was actually tortured or starved, but you got the feeling that the attendants could turn quite nasty. My parents went straight to a bar, so I went on all the pathetic free rides, watched a knobbly knees competition, then a tug of war, then I stood outside the bar waiting for my parents.

  They had selfishly chosen a ‘No under-eighteens’ bar.

  At 1.30 my father came out with a bottle of Vimto and a packet of crisps for me
.

  At 2.30 I put my head round the door and asked how long they would be. My father snarled, ‘Stop whining. Go and find something to do.’ I watched the Donkey Derby for a bit then got fed up and went and sat in the car.

  At 4 p.m. a loudspeaker shouted, ‘Would Adrian Mole aged fifteen please go to the lost children’s centre where his mummy and daddy are waiting for him.’

  The humiliation!

  The torment of being given a lollipop by a morose attendant!

  My parents thought it was dead funny; they laughed all the way back to the ranch.

  TUESDAY AUGUST 10TH

  During the evening meal Mr Porke brought my father a message to say that a close friend had been taken into the Royal Hospital and would he please ring ward twelve immediately, it was a mystery to all of us. My father hasn’t got any close friends.

  My father left the table in a panic. My mother got up to follow him but he said, ‘No, Pauline, it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  He was gone for about fifteen minutes, when he came back he said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you both, let’s go somewhere private.’

  We sat in a wind shelter on the promenade and he informed me and my mother that he was the father of Stick Insect’s one-day-old baby boy.

  About sixty hours passed, then my mother said, ‘What’s he called?’

  My father said, ‘Brett. Sorry.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say so I kept quiet. I still can’t think of anything to say so I am going to sleep.

  WEDNESDAY AUGUST 11TH

  72.30 p.m. My father has gone to see Brett and Stick Insect. My mother made him go.

  I can’t think of anything to say to my mother. I always knew I had no small talk, and now I know I’ve got no big talk either.

  8p.m. She just sits in her attic room with her hands over her lump. She hasn’t cried once, I am dead worried.

  9 p.m. I phoned Pandora’s mother and told her everything. She was very sympathetic. She said she would get Bert settled for the night and then drive to Skegness and pick us up.

  I packed all the suitcases and made my mother wash her face and do her hair, then we sat and waited for Mrs Braithwaite.

  THURSDAY AUGUST 12TH

  Home.

  11 p.m. As soon as she saw Mrs Braithwaite my mother started to cry. Mrs Braithwaite said, ‘They’re all bastards, Pauline,’ and gave ME a filthy look! It’s just not fair! I intend to stay completely and totally true to Pandora. All else is chaos.

  We got home at 4.30 a.m. this morning. Mrs Braithwaite doesn’t like driving over 30 mph.

  I went straight to bed. I didn’t dare to check to see if my father was in his room.

  FRIDAY AUGUST I3TH

  The day augured ill.

  My father’s razor had gone from out of the bathroom so I was forced to use my mother’s pink underarm one. It cut my face to ribbons (but there was a very satisfactory amount of bristle around the side of the washbasin).

  I had to have a shave because Grandma came round to be told the awful news that her son had fathered an illegitimate child, whilst his wife of fifteen years was expecting a legitimate one.

  Grandma took it quite well. She said, ‘Which hospital is this woman in?’ My mother told her and she straightened her hat and left in a taxi.

  Pandora told me that her mother is close to having a nervous breakdown because Bert Baxter has been playing her up all week.

  Personally, myself, I think the world has gone mad. Barry Kent won the ‘Off the Streets’ youth club poetry competition. His grinning moronic face was in the evening paper. I can’t take much more.

  SATURDAY AUGUST 14TH

  Grandma has gone over to the other side!

  She has given some of our baby’s clothes to Brett Slater, Stick Insect’s son. I know Grandma doesn’t like my mother, but at least my mother is my father’s legal wife.

  I am just about sick and tired of adults! They have the nerve to tell kids what to do and then they go ahead and break all their own rules.

  Pandora’s father came round this morning to ask my mother if she wanted any help. My mother said, ‘Bugger off home and help your own wife.’ At this rate she’ll have no men friends left.

  Barclays Bank was open this morning. I bet my father was first in the queue. He always forgets to go on Fridays.

  SUNDAY AUGUST 15TU

  My father came round and asked if he could come home. I wanted my mother to say yes, but she said no. So my father has gone to live with Grandma.

  The rat fink has taken the stereo with him. My mother says she doesn’t care, she says that after her baby is born she is going to get a highly paid job and buy the best stereo system in the world.

  MONDAY AUGUST 16TH

  Pandora shocked me today by asking if I was curious about my ‘brother Brett’. It’s dead strange to think I’ve got a brother. I hope the poor kid has better luck with his skin than me.

  TUESDAY AUGUST 17TH

  A cheque for fifty pounds arrived today from my father. My mother ripped it up and posted the pieces back. How stupid can you get?

  Even my mother regretted it later on.

  Stick Insect, Maxwell House and Brett have moved into Grandma’s house.

  WEDNESDAY AUGUST 18TH

  Took the dog for a walk and called casually round to Grandma’s and casually looked into Brett Slater’s cot. The kid’s skin is covered in white flaky stuff. He’s got loads of wrinkles as well.

  I didn’t see Stick Insect or my father. Grandma was teaching Maxwell manners at the tea table.

  I didn’t stay long. I didn’t tell my mother I had been, either. It was only a casual visit.

  THURSDAY AUGUST 19TH

  New Moon

  Mrs Braithwaite is on Librium because of Bert Baxter, so Mrs Singh has taken over her duties. I haven’t seen Bert for ages. I know he will make crude comments about my father’s virility, so I am keeping away.

  I have gone right off sex. It seems to cause nothing but trouble, especially to women.

  FRIDAY AUGUST 20TH

  My mother is too depressed to do any cooking so I am having to do it. So far we have had salad with either corned beef or tuna, but I think I will try something different tomorrow - ham perhaps.

  My father keeps ringing up to see how my mother is. Today he asked me if she had mentioned divorce. I said no, she hadn’t mentioned it but she certainly looked as if she was thinking about it.

  SATURDAY AUGUST 21ST

  Casually called in at Grandma’s again. Brett has got my father’s big nose. Grandma was changing his yukky nappy. I was amazed at how big his thing is.

  Stick Insect is breastfeeding Brett. (The poor kid must be hungry because the last time I had a close look she hadn’t got any breasts.)

  My father and Stick Insect were out, buying baby equipment between feeds.

  SUNDAY AUGUST 22ND

  Eleventh after Trinity

  Went out and bought the Sunday papers, but didn’t bother sneaking a look at the News of the World behind the greetings card rack like I usually do. I’ve got enough sex scandals in my own family without reading about anyone else’s.

  Mr Cherry, the newsagent, asked if he was to cancel my father’s fishing and DIY.magazines. I told him to go ahead.

  The papers weighed 3 lbs, but there was nothing in. them apart from the PLO fleeing from Beirut again.

  MONDAY AUGUST 23RD

  Barry Kent’s mother has had another baby; Pandora passed by the church just as the Kents were emerging from the Christening service. She said the baby looked just like all the other Kents - fierce eyes and massive fists.

  They have called the baby Clarke, after Superman. Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!

  TUESDAY AUGUST 24TH

  Mrs Singh has arranged for Bert to go on holiday with some charity for elderly Hindus. I asked how long Bert had been a Hindu. Mrs Singh said, ‘I don’t care if he’s not a Hindu. I don’t care if he’s a Moonie or a Divine Light Missionary so long as he is far away
from me.’

  Sabre is staying at the RSPCA hostel. I hope he is in isolation for the sake of the other dogs.

  WEDNESDAY AUGUST 25TH

  Courtney Elliot was sipping Brazilian coffee in the kitchen when I came downstairs. He said, ‘I bear an important missive for Master Mole.’ It was a letter from the BBC!

  I took the letter up to my room and stared at it, willing it to say, ‘Yes we are giving you an hour-long poetry programme; it will be called “Adrian Mole, a Youth and his Poetry”.’

  I wanted it to say that, but of course it didn’t. It said:

  British Broadcasting Corporation

  19th July

  Dear Adrian Mole,

  Thank you for your very neat letter and for the new poem entitled ‘Norway’. It is a considerable development on your previous work and indicates that you are maturing as a poet. If your School Magazine rejected ‘Norway’ then the Editor of the magazine probably needs his (or her) head seeing to. Unless, of course, you have a lot of very good poets at your school. I agree with you about those boring rhyming poems about flowers and stuff but you must remember that before you can break the rules of rhyme and rhythm you do have to know what those rules are about. It is like a painter who wishes to do abstract paintings - he has to know how to draw precisely from life before he jumbles things up. Picasso is a very good case in point to cite.

  I hope you were successful in your test on the Norwegian Leather Industry. The Norwegian colleague (he is a Radio Producer in Bergen, Norway) to whom I showed your poem was very impressed that you were studying his country so diligently. I attach a translation of a letter he sent you which must have been rather difficult to understand since it was in Norwegian. Incidentally, I think ‘Fjords’ is a better word than ‘Inlets’. Don’t worry about the spelling, a good editor will always correct details like that. I like your use of the explosive ‘But!’ in the penultimate line. There isn’t anything practical I can do with this particular work but I will put it on the file as an aide memoire to your progress as a poet (remember there is not much money in poetry…).