The Cornflake House: A Novel

by Deborah Gregory

  I ought to point out how very select the area around Fisher’s Close happens to be. Across the narrow road beyond the close lies a golf course, open only to those with large bank balances and the correct outfits. The course is serene, paint-box green with puddles of pale yellow sand. It’s bordered by the ‘rough’, a stretch of bracken and shrubs which is a paradise for wildlife and for kids playing Hide and Seek or Cowboys and Indians. Further afield the land is a pleasing patchwork of meadows and copses, dotted with small ponds. The houses there are grand affairs, borrowing styles from many countries and ages, but each hidden discretely beyond drives of laurel or rhododendrons. A walk or bike ride down the leafy lanes of this part of Surrey leaves you with the impression of distant chimneys, half glimpsed tennis courts, a dash or two of turquoise from a far swimming pool. A couple of miles down the road you come to the country’s largest cemetery. Acres of graves and tombs are separated by a maze of paths. Quite a playground, for children with a suitable sense of the macabre. Zulema was especially fond of this place, begging me to follow her there on our old bikes, persuading me to play refugees searching for lost families, mothers hunting for the graves of tiny infants, jolly games like that.

  For the seriously energetic, beyond the vast cemetery, is a heath, a tangled prickly expanse, not to be explored without a bag of provisions and a compass. After a rare fight with my mother I once ran away, empty-handed, to this heath and hid in a dip. I hoped I would be found, hugged, forgiven and led home. In silence I grew colder and more frightened as darkness threatened. At dusk I clambered out of my pit and raced towards the sound of traffic. A man in a Jaguar gave me a lift. The journey, which had taken hours on foot, was over in five minutes; the row was over too, thank God.

  Into this rich man’s paradise our family fell like fleas on velvet.

  We were lucky to have Owen helping us with the move. Apart from the obvious benefit of his biceps, having a man by Mum’s side as we arrived made us seem slightly less outlandish. We must have looked like a complete family, large but not without the correct balance of adults. On the other hand you wouldn’t have needed a degree in genetics to see that Owen was not father to many of us. He was a bristly man. I supposed he did shave, but his cheek could make a child’s skin sting for hours. We were always hungry for male company. Being fatherless we attached ourselves to Owen, bristles and all, like leeches. He loved the attention we gave him, but best of all, he loved Victory. As usual, this love was not returned. I expect Owen harboured hopes of fathering an eighth child; but my mother was so into the mystical that seven was the number she had chosen and seven we were to stay.

  Owen seemed to us to have appeared from nowhere, but I suppose my mother picked him up on one of her nights out. She still went out on the town with Taff while we were living at Editha’s smallholding. I remember the scent of violets and the two of them giggling as they tried on each other’s lipstick. Taff was a dazzling blonde with a sexy, floppy fringe at that time. She tended to go for pinks, as shocking as possible. My mother looked best in crimson. Every time I smelt that perfume and saw those make-up bags open, my heart would sink. Being left out is bad enough but being left in charge of a tribe like ours, knowing that Fabian would bully me and Merry would crash into me all night … well it wasn’t my idea of fun. I’m ashamed now, of my long, sulky face. My mother deserved a break if ever anybody did.

  There was usually an Owen, or a Pete or a Dave in my mother’s life. They had little joy with her, after – I imagine – the initial bliss of sexual conquest. She tired of them instantly, as if the act of sex was an end in itself. Owen stayed the first night with us in The Cornflake House but he and his lorry vanished in a cloud of exhaust the next morning. He’d lasted longer than most. Looking back, I honestly think my mother kept him hanging around while she arranged the move simply because he had a lorry. After Owen there were no others. Not in the house anyway. Mum still dabbed her neck with violet scent and went out when Taff came to stay, but she never brought a man home.

  Anyway, back to our first days in our shining new house. Seven children of mixed origins and a mother who looked like a Gypsy fortune-teller. I wonder who was the most stunned? Us at finding ourselves so socially elevated, or our neighbours who must have believed the god of housing estates was playing a bad joke on them?

  I think the position of our caravan was the last straw. Before he left, and after Taff was through with it, Owen towed it on to the front lawn, stuck a pile of bricks under the tow bar and threw open the door to air the old heap. And there it rested, never more to sway down the lanes of England. Demoted from home to playhouse over night. It didn’t go to waste; bears and dolls lived there for years, rigid in front of plates of paper food. Wounded mice and wild rabbits hid or were hidden there, away from the cats and dogs. Almost every one of us children buried diaries and notes inside the built-in beds. My mother wasn’t a great believer in punishment, but she would sometimes ask offending children if it might not be a good idea for them to spend a while in the caravan, cooling off. We went willingly; space all to ourselves was considered a prize.

  I believe it will still be moored there, our egg-house, looking more incongruous than ever. It stood out, as if a dinosaur had laid it, amongst the neat, communal front gardens. The caravan represented our old life, the days before we reached The Cornflake House, when we ran even wilder and met no opposition, knew no prejudice. We never outgrew its confines. One by one, as adolescence bit us, we found it an invaluable refuge. The ideal place to try out new make-up or to squeeze spots in private. Perfect for late-night goodbyes, an oasis of softness in a prickly world, tailor-made for snogging. I had my first French kiss in the caravan, my tongue tentatively exploring the roof of Brian Holder’s mouth while persistent rain drenched less fortunate lovers.

  If my name wasn’t worse than mud in Fisher’s Close, I would take you there, Matthew, on my first night of freedom and teach you the true meaning of rocking around the clock.

  Seven

  I’m in the toilet, the washroom, having a wash, only face and hands. We get baths twice weekly and then I dip my head under the water and let my hair float free. Other than that I wash each evening. This is evening and I’m soaping my palms, a soothing action learnt in early childhood and practised daily throughout my life. I’m remembering, as usual, the little turquoise bathroom of The Cornflake House and how we’d fight for a few moments’ privacy there, amongst the seashells and rather smelly flannels. There was always somebody huffing on the landing outside, impatient for their turn. It strikes me as odd that I’ve got this place to myself, it’s more often a case of standing in a line, touching elbows with other women as they rinse the day’s dirt from their faces. There’s an eerie moment when I consider my solitude in this busy place more than odd, but only a moment, for the door bursts open and I have company.

  There isn’t time to count them, or to do anything other than register the fact that this is no friendly social call. I see a snarl in blurry close-up, as if I am a camera with an unadjusted lens. I see the snarl, then the floor comes up to meet me and in my open, protesting mouth is a foot, and in my hair is a hand, screwing its way through, twisting and pulling until it has me by the scalp. Shock has not yet given way to pain, I notice that the tap is still running and that my hands are too soapy to be of use. The floor is cold, wet, and a little bloody. Also it’s littered with hostile feet. Something hits my back, winding me again, sending alarm signals from screaming spinal cord to slowly adjusting brain. I am being attacked.

  Now I’m terrified. I try to curl up like a foetus, to give them less area to attack, to appear headless. But they find me again, hate me more than ever, hit me harder. This time the blows take out the centre of my face, ridding me of a mouth and a nose with well-aimed punches. I have no features now, just a throbbing mess of offal under my forehead. The back of my skull hits the floor a second time, and a kick finds my left breast which erupts instantly in pain. They are saying things, spitting words down on me,
hateful, untrue accusations that arrive on my pulped face in gobs. Through my tears I can see a tooth, not white but pink with saliva and blood, a few inches from my left arm. I reach for it, my hand travelling through a pair of stocky legs to make the rescue. Then a foot comes down hard on my fingers and I make a sound that is an ending in itself. Not groan or scream, it’s more of a siren. It frightens them; it scares me too. Muttering, my attackers turn and leave.

  From my spot on the floor I can see the underside of the porcelain basins. Not too clean, considering there’s a toilet duty every day. There are lumps of gum stuck to some of them. I might be able to reach a rim, to haul myself up, but my arms are jelly. Besides there are mirrors up above. No it’s better here, safer here. The floor doesn’t feel cold anymore, although I’m shivering now, but that’s shock, isn’t it? Not cold, not dead, just shaken to the core. My wounds are beginning to make themselves felt, the sharp pain in my back, the throb of my breast, the crushing ache in my hand. As for my face … I start to move my good fingers tentatively towards my mouth, but think better of it, afraid of finding only a hole filled with liquid. Of course I’m crying and there is comfort in these tears, I let them wash the wounds I can’t lick. They ooze from between puffed eyelids, flowing with ease, like urine from a bed-wetting child. It would be wise to call for help but that siren-sound has finished me, the only noise I can offer is snivelling, self-pitying sobs.

  ‘I want my mummy,’ I think, and it makes me smile. At least the corner of what was my mouth moves and I taste blood in my throat. Now I remember, I’ve been here before, down on the floor with a thick tongue and swollen eyes. Am I dreaming or remembering? Is there that great a difference? My poor eyes close, my head spins recklessly.

  I’m fourteen again and it hurts. I’m sorry for myself and sorry I disobeyed Mum. I ought to be at home, looking after the others. I said I’d stay while she nipped up to London, I promised. Now look what you’ve done, silly girl. And you can stop saying that, repeating that as if it will make everything all right. They’ll think the blow has knocked the sense out of you.

  ‘I am Eve, the first born. I am Eve, the first born.’

  ‘What’s that, Love? Never you mind now, we’ll soon get you sorted.’ It’s a man, his face is close to mine. I think he’s a Nazi, there’s a suspicious looking badge on his black jacket. Am I dying? Maybe this is hell, peopled not with devils but with fascists. There are people all over the ground, some with injuries, some sitting stunned. The place is foggy, full of smoke. A child is crying nearby and somewhere a man is groaning. I feel very sick so I lie back and think of home, screwing up my eyes to concentrate on the picture of Mum that’s gradually coming into focus.

  ‘Evey, Evey, what are you doing here? What happened to you?’

  ‘Mum?’ Yes, it’s my mum, nobody else smells that good, feels that wonderful, sounds so reassuring. We are hugging, her kneeling, me sitting up in her arms. Rocking together on the dirty concrete floor of the station, in the pigeon shit. It’ll be all right now, Mum’s here. She asks me, ‘Can you walk?’ I nod and my head aches as it moves. My legs feel fine, wobbly but uninjured. The Nazi isn’t sure, he offers me a hand which I don’t take as he tells Mum he thinks I should stay still a bit longer. Long enough for him to fetch the Book Of Registration, I suppose. No way, wobbly legs or no, I’m out of here.

  We are on the train, Mum and I. Going back to Woking through the suburbs. I have a blinding headache, stinging eyes and a great happy grin. I lean on my mother as the train shudders us homewards.

  ‘I saw you in the air,’ I tell Mum, ‘a second before I was blown-up, I caught a glimpse of you above me. You were waving your arms about.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she nods, ‘trying to get the buggers to listen, in vain, of course. I was behind glass, Evey, not floating magically over your head. I was in the Station Master’s office. He’s got a good view from there, long windows looking down on everything. I thought if I held him, just lightly touched his arm say, that he’d see what I saw. Danger coming, that’s what I saw. But he pulled away. Thought I was batty. Too late now. Lucky that St John’s man found you, and a good thing you called for me.’ Had I called? In my head I had, I suppose.

  My head is clearing. I have a past as well as this sore present. Only this morning Mum told me she’d have to go out, got to get to London, she said. I was meant to stay and look after the other kids but I couldn’t. She was so het-up, it frightened me. I thought they’d be fine with Fabian and Zulema. Why did it always have to be me who mothered them at such times?

  ‘I followed you,’ I tell her, ‘all the way to Waterloo.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have. You might’ve been killed.’

  ‘Not with you around,’ and I cuddle up closer. We are silent for a while. The landscape is opening out now, more green than grey.

  Then she speaks again.

  ‘I wasn’t much use today, not to you or anybody. Oh, I saw it coming, felt the vibrations and heard the screams’ – I shudder at this – ‘but I don’t know why I bothered. People didn’t listen, they never do.’ And then I remember that I’d also known the explosion was coming, but only a few seconds before it happened. I’d stood amongst the crowds trying to make sense of the inexplicable panic in my head and just before the bomb went off I’d run to a wall and flattened myself against it. That explained why my face was hit by bits of flying debris. I should have found a bench and hidden under it. Next time, I think, I’ll know better. And I begin to cry, snuggled in my mother’s armpit, because there might not have been the chance of a next time. I might have been killed. So might she; and she knew the risk she was taking. I swallow blood, my lip is badly cut, and I swear by every drop of blood in my body to take better care of my mother from now on.

  But how can I care for her now that she’s dead?

  ‘Leave me,’ I tell him, thinking it’s the St John’s man again, trying to move me so Mum won’t be able to find me, ‘leave me here.’ Of course it’s not him, it’s a member of the prison staff lifting me from my now familiar patch of floor to lead me to the sickbay.

  Here is the doctor, a woman with a long face and hands like a jellyfish, covered in cream latex. She seems a bit flustered, for a professional. Maybe she’d have liked to have trained as a hairdresser, but had ambitious, pushy parents. No, it appears to be me who’s unnerving her. Do I look that bad? Obviously I do. She checks for broken bones, tests my reflexes, covers me in ointments, and the whole examination is done with an air of distaste. Clearly she’d rather be somewhere else; even through the gloves her hands cringe from touching me. I understand. She longs to be curing just your common or garden murderer. She’s heard the accusations then, and believes them.

  Now I’m resting in a bed, not in my cell but in a quiet cubicle, under fresh sheets. I ache all over, even my toenails are tender. Also it feels as if my innards are composed entirely of liquid; perhaps I’m haemorrhaging. I would call the doctor back but her distaste clings bitterly to my tongue, leaving me speechless. I ought, after such an outburst of hatred, to be able to deal with a little antipathy. Now it comes rushing back to me, the venom with which I was attacked. To be hated so passionately, it winds you for ever. I’ve never hurt anyone. Never killed so much as an insect, knowingly. Yet those women, who must have sat near me at mealtimes, passed by me in corridors, maybe even smiled at me in that very toilet, crushed me to within an inch of my life. I can sense the build up of violence now, now that it’s too late. One word leading to another, Chinese whispers turning to spit, poisoned glances. Are they a different breed from me? We’re all prisoners, shouldn’t we share a common pain? Ah but I ignored them, kept myself apart, because of grief and love I may have given the impression of thinking myself too good for them. I didn’t communicate with my fellow inmates. Except for that one time when I had a confrontation about biscuits, making an enemy by refusing to give in. Is that what filled them with self-righteousness? I mean I know they hate me for what they believe to be my crime, but it had t
o begin somewhere. There must have been a seed, venom grows slowly in dark corners, it doesn’t arrive fully fledged.

  Best not to dwell on it. Better to think back to the past, beyond the loathing in the toilet and the distaste in the sickbay. I’ve met that distaste before, first and second hand; I guess we all have. My mother told me, in an attempt to demonstrate how desirable Taff used to be, about the night two young men nearly killed each other for love – although it sounded a lot like lust to me. It was in the early fifties, excessive days by all accounts when, because sugar and sex were no longer rationed, life was sweet and spicy. The two friends were working together, serving meals in a canteen for the bus drivers and conductors of Lincoln.

  ‘We wore green headscarves to keep our hair off the food, and flowery wraparound pinnies, made us look like upside-down gardens,’ Mum recalled, ‘but in the evenings we became exotic birds. There were the long promised nylons to make our legs shimmer and shoes had deviated from frumpy to flimsy, from solid round toes to dangerous points. Waists were all the rage and we were lucky there. Working in a canteen, sliding eggs from greasy pans all day, put us off meals. We lived on bananas, oranges and tinned pineapple, the things we’d missed during the war, and we could squeeze ourselves into the tightest, widest belts.’