My legs propelled me into the shop and over to the television section. I was surrounded by hundreds of screens, each one showing The Jeremy Kyle Show. An assistant sidled up to me. His name badge said that he was Mohammed Anwar. He murmured, ‘Are you all right there, sir?’
I lied that I was interested in purchasing a 50-inch plasma television.
He led me over to a gigantic screen and said, ‘You pay nothing for the first year –’
I interrupted him, saying, ‘I would like to hear the sound quality.’
He produced a remote control and turned the sound up.
On the screen Rosie was shouting, ‘You’ve lied to me all these years, Mum.’
My father shouted, ‘Yes, Pauline, and how do I know that Adrian is mine?’
Jeremy Kyle said, ‘Adrian is your son, is he, Pauline?’
My mother nodded.
My father shouted, ‘I want a DNA test. I need to know if Adrian’s mine!’
Jeremy said, ‘Pauline, are you sure that Adrian is George’s?’
My mother sniffed and said, ‘I’m seventy per cent sure.’
‘Seventy per cent!’ I said. ‘Is that all?’
The assistant next to me laughed. ‘Where do they get these people from?’ he said.
‘God knows,’ I said.
He tried to talk me into buying the 50-inch plasma screen. I told another lie and said that I would think about it.
He sighed and said, ‘Nobody’s buying nothink any more. Everybody’s already got everythink.’ For a moment he looked stricken, saying, ‘What will happen if people stop buying? I’ll be out of a job.’
*
As I walked to the bookshop, I tried to remember a conversation I had once had with my mother. It concerned a maggot farmer called Ernie who she had been very fond of. She reminisced about the love poetry he had written for her. She had been going out with Ernie when she first met my father. Was I the son of a maggot farmer? Was it from him that I inherited my literary talent? It is true that I have absolutely nothing in common with my father. He thinks that only poofs and nancy boys write poetry. However, I am quite fond of him. It would be a bit of a blow to find out that I do not share his blood.
Midnight
Can’t write much. I am distraught. My mother could give me no guarantees that the man I have been calling Dad for the last thirty-eight years might be only a person my mother had married. She has asked me to contact Ernie the maggot farmer and ask him to provide a sample for DNA testing.
Saturday 8th December
Treatment.
Bernard took an order from a prematurely bald young man for a book published in America called The Audacity of Hope by somebody called Barack Obama. When the customer said his name was ‘Roger Mee’, Bernard laughed and said, ‘Bit of a bum moniker to drag through life, isn’t it?’
Roger Mee looked puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘Your parents obviously had it in for you,’ said Bernard. ‘Did your mother have a hard labour?’
Mr Mee’s mouth slackened. He glanced at me, silently asking for help.
I said, ‘Bernard is referring to an archaic term for sexual intercourse: “to roger”, as in, “Will you roger me?”’
Mee – who was, I’d guess, in his early twenties – said, ‘I’ve never heard the term before.’
‘I used to use it all the time,’ said Bernard unhelpfully. ‘I’d ring up one of my lady friends and say, “Hello there, Gladys (or Marcia or whatever her bloody name was), will you come round and roger me?”’
Roger Mee’s face had drained of colour. I could tell that he was reassessing his previous social interactions. He said, ‘I had to give my name at the library yesterday. I now know why the elderly librarian sniggered. And my wedding… the vicar… when he asked, “Do you, Roger Mee…” the congregation laughed out loud.’
After Mee had left, I reproached Bernard, saying, ‘In future, Bernard, please don’t make personal remarks about our customers. They are few and far between as it is.’
Bernard said, ‘You’re telling me. I’ve seen more customers in an hour in an Eskimo’s brothel than we get through here in a day.’
When I queried Bernard’s knowledge of an Eskimo’s brothel, he said, quite huffily, ‘I’ll bring in documentary evidence.’
Sunday 9th December
Bowing to pressure from Gracie, I agreed to go out and buy a Christmas tree (I think it is wrong to put up a tree and decorations until the last week before Christmas). I borrowed the Mazda and Daisy drove us to the first of three garden centres. My mother still refuses to put us on her insurance. I was a nervous wreck throughout, expecting at any minute to be flagged down by a police car. Most of the Christmas trees were trussed up like turkeys in bags of green netting so that it was impossible to tell whether their branches were even and symmetrical.
At the third garden centre Daisy put her foot down and said, ‘If we don’t choose one from here, Adrian, I swear I will go out tomorrow and buy a plastic one from Woolworths.’
We were sitting in the café surrounded by middle-aged people in sensible car coats and shoes. I was so tired I could easily have slept with my head on the table. I told Daisy to choose a tree, any tree, and that I would wait with Gracie in the car. Daisy stalked through the automatic doors into the outside area and was soon lost amongst the conifers. It was dark by the time she emerged. The Christmas tree was too large for the car, we had to tie it to the luggage rack with some rope we found in the boot.
Query: Why does my mother keep bits of old rope in the boot of her car? Isn’t that what serial killers do?
The tree is ridiculously tall. The top branch brushes the ceiling. The fairy is stooped like Quasimodo. The tree lights worked brilliantly until all the baubles and decorations had been meticulously placed on the tree. When we were sitting back and admiring our work, the tree lights failed.
Can nothing go right for us?
Monday 10th December
Treatment.
Sally is trying to book a seat on a plane to Canada. She wants to sit by Anthony’s bedside in hospital. I told her that doctors can perform wonderful reconstructive surgery these days. All the same, I hope she cannot get a ticket. I need her here in Leicester.
Mr Carlton-Hayes rang today and asked how Bernard and Hitesh had taken the news that we were going to close. I admitted that I had not yet told them anything about the closure.
He said, ‘Oh dear. Then I must do it myself.’ I apologized and he said, ‘I shouldn’t have asked you, my dear, you have a kind heart and I should have known that such a distressing duty would have caused you pain.’
I told Mr Carlton-Hayes that, by the end of business, Bernard and Hitesh would be told that they will not be employed in the New Year.
Midnight
I couldn’t do it. I’ll tell them tomorrow, first thing.
Tuesday 11th December
After treatment my mother drove me to the bookshop and dropped me off. Hitesh was clumping about in his plaster cast while Bernard was sitting on the sofa reading Vanity Fair (the book not the magazine). I called them together and broke the news to them that the shop was closing.
Bernard’s face collapsed. He said, ‘Well, that’s it, then. I’ll go ahead and do the deadly deed. England doesn’t want old farts like me hanging around with our haemorrhoids and halitosis. The blue birds over the cliffs of Dover are –’
Hitesh interrupted, ‘Am I entitled to any redundancy money?’
I said, ‘I’ll look it up for you.’
Bernard said, ‘It will be Christmas in the workhouse for me, then.’
I told him that he was welcome to spend Christmas with me and my family.
Why? Why? Why did I open my mouth and let that invitation escape my lips?
Bernard said, ‘I’m much obliged to you, young sir. I shall bring a bottle.’
Later on I Googled ‘redundancy pay UK Law’ and told Hitesh that he would not be entitled to anything because he had n
ot been working for Mr Carlton-Hayes for two years.
Hitesh said, ‘My cousin owns a franchise for KFC. I’ll ask him for a job.’
Bernard said, ‘What’s KFC? Kettering Football Club?’
Hitesh and I laughed longer than Bernard’s display of ignorance warranted. I suppose it was a release of tension.
My mother came into the shop and asked if she could leave her Christmas shopping in the back room. I helped her carry the bags through. She gave me strict instructions not to look inside a Marks & Spencer’s bag. On her way to the front door she said, ‘There’s a terrible atmosphere in here. Have you girls been quarrelling?’
I told her that the shop was closing.
She said, ‘I’m not surprised. Where’s your chick lit and your celebrity biographies? Your front window looks like Miss Haversham’s bloody library. The berries have fallen off the mistletoe and your holly and ivy are as dry as a nun’s crotch.’
Later I looked inside the Marks & Spencer’s bag. She had bought me a pale lemon 100 per cent acrylic V-necked sweater in a large size.
I hope she has kept the receipt.
Wednesday 12th December
Had a conversation with Daisy about Gracie’s Christmas presents. I suggest that we buy her something modest – felt-tip pens perhaps – and we donate a sum of money to Save the Children or a similar worthy charity. I also suggested buying my parents an Oxfam goat between them.
Daisy said, ‘Don’t even think about buying me livestock.’
I haven’t told her yet that I have invited Bernard for Christmas.
I went to bed at 7.15 p.m., weary and downcast, leaving Daisy in the kitchen bad-temperedly making a North Star costume out of aluminium foil and wire coat hangers for the nativity concert next week.
When Daisy came to bed, just after midnight, she stroked my back and whispered, ‘Are you OK?’
I pretended to be asleep and eventually she turned over and tuned in to the World Service on the radio. There was a documentary about child mortality in Africa.
I resolved to buy everybody farmyard animal tokens.
Thursday 13th December
Treatment.
Anthony’s insurance company have agreed to fly him back to England. I told Sally that I was surprised that Anthony hadn’t invalidated his insurance. Surely there was a clause somewhere in the policy advising against befriending wolves?
Rang Parvez for advice on unemployment pay and sickness benefit, but he was away at a Building Societies Association conference. He is giving a talk on ‘Sharia law and the Muslim housing market’.
I can remember the time when Parvez was too shy to blow the candles out on his twelfth birthday cake. He ran out of the house, leaving me and my fellow party guests to comfort his mother (who had been up half the night decorating the cake with a Porsche racing car on the track at Silverstone, complete with pit and mechanics – not an easy thing to do with marzipan and an icing bag). Now he’s doing public speaking and is a prominent member of the Rotary Club (Leicester Branch). Plus ça change!
Friday 14th December
The dirty washing has piled up and I had to search for a pair of clean underpants this morning. In my search I opened Daisy’s underwear drawer and found three new pairs of matching bras and knickers in black, red and white lace. They were a class above her old off-white knickers and her turned-grey-in-the-wash bras.
Eventually found a pair of boxers in the ironing pile.
When is Daisy going to see to the laundry? It’s easy enough – all she has to do is throw it into the washing machine, put a tablet of detergent inside the little mesh bag and press a knob. What’s so difficult about that? And as for the ironing, any fool can run an iron over pieces of cloth, can’t they?
On the way to treatment I asked my mother what I should buy Daisy for Christmas.
My mother said, without hesitation, ‘A Marc Jacobs bag – a Bruna quilted tote that combines classic cool with its metallic hue and gold hardware.’
I said, ‘It sounds expensive.’
My mother said evasively, ‘It does, doesn’t it? But it’s what she wants.’
I was grateful to her. She has saved me hours of trailing around the shops. I asked her if she would order the bag for me on the internet and gave her my Visa card.
Anthony is in the BUPA hospital in Leicester having skin grafts. His parents have sold one of their greengrocer’s shops to pay for it.
I said to Sally, ‘That’s very kind of his parents.’
She said, ‘Not really. They’re frightened of him.’
Saturday 15th December
On the way to treatment my mother said, ‘When are you going to give me some petrol money?’
I was flabbergasted. How mercenary can you get?
I pointed out to her that I will be unemployed soon and needed every penny of my wages at the moment.
She said, quite nastily, ‘You can afford to splash out on a Marc Jacobs bag for your working wife.’ She handed me back my Visa card and said, ‘Securicor are delivering the bag this morning. Your father will sign for it and make sure it is hidden somewhere so that Daisy doesn’t see it.’
Securicor! Why are they delivering a handbag? Surely they only deliver really expensive items.
Glenn and Finley-Rose are engaged. He rang me while I was on my way to treatment.
He said, ‘If I cop it in Afghanistan, Finley will get a widow’s pension.’
I think this is taking pragmatism too far.
Sunday 16th December
As I was spooning hot goose fat over the roast potatoes, I asked Daisy what I should buy my mother for Christmas.
She paused from chopping carrots and said, ‘She’d like a silver necklace with a rose quartz pendant.’
I said, ‘Where would I get one of those?’
‘From the Tiffany’s website,’ she said.
I said, ‘Tiffany’s, as in “breakfast at”?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Your mother has been waiting for your dad to buy her something from Tiffany’s since they went to see the film in 1961. Apparently, as they were leaving the cinema, he made a promise to her that, if she married him, he would buy her a piece of Tiffany’s jewellery for every birthday.’
I shoved the potatoes back in the oven and said, ‘One more broken promise to go with the others.’
I asked Daisy in passing if she would mind chopping the carrots more evenly. I pointed out to her that some of the slices were almost wafer thin whereas others were on the chunky side. My wife cannot take any criticism whatsoever. To my absolute amazement she went berserk and started stamping round the kitchen, gesticulating wildly with our sharpest paring knife. She went from ‘carrots’ to my ‘self-absorption’ to ‘Dr Pearce’, then to ‘Pandora’. She paused a while on my obsession with ‘stinking old books’ and then galloped forward again with ‘you’ve lost interest in me, emotionally, sexually and romantically’. She stopped and burst into wracking sobs.
Gracie came in and gave me a reproachful look and said, ‘If you make Mummy cry, you’ll go to prison.’
I told the child that she was being ridiculous, that nobody went to prison for shouting.
She said, ‘Yes they do. I saw it on The Bill. It’s called a Section Five.’
Daisy shouted, ‘We can’t even have a row in peace! Either Gracie interrupts us or your parents listen through the party wall!’
I shouted back, ‘Why have you suddenly taken to buying matching lace underwear?’
This allowed her to go on another protracted rant about my ‘meanness’, my ‘antisocial and suspicious behaviour’ and then, unforgivably, she shouted, ‘And your writing is a joke. You make Barbara Taylor Bradford look like a Nobel laureate. You couldn’t write your way out of a plastic bag. Think about it, Adrian – why has nobody wanted to publish or broadcast anything you have written for over twenty-five years?’
I did not deign to answer her. I took my warmest coat, my gloves, my scarf and balaclava and left the house, say
ing, before I slammed the door, ‘I may be some time.’
Unfortunately, it was 3.30 p.m. and almost dark so I walked up and down the lane a few times and went back into the house, where I was surprised to see that it was only 4.05 p.m.
I did not speak to Daisy that night apart from giving her my Visa card and saying, ‘For the necklace.’
Monday 17th December
At treatment I told Sally that I am experiencing severe discomfort when passing water.
She said, ‘How severe is severe out of ten?’
I said, ‘I am a writer, Sally. I choose my words very carefully.’
She said, ‘You are also prone to exaggeration, Adrian.’
Why are all the women in my life so difficult? Men do not correct your speech or criticise your character or accuse you of sexual indifference.
After treatment I went to the bookshop and was surprised to find quite a crowd in there. They turned out to be Bernard’s drinking mates. He promised to give them a discount of 50 per cent on all Christmas books. I noticed that many of the selected titles were alcohol related. One of Bernard’s mates, a man with a seasonally suitable red nose, bought the screenplay of The Days of Wine and Roses for his mother.
Tuesday 18th December
I am feeling the strain of not talking to Daisy. We are like two deaf mutes. We communicate in signs and little grunts. I shall have to break my silence soon because I need to talk to her about the Christmas arrangements.