The Cornflake House: A Novel

by Deborah Gregory

  ‘Carpenter I expect.’ Another fatherless child’s fantasy, having a dad who did the same thing as Jesus’ father.

  ‘Spot on.’

  But the joy had gone from the evening, from the play-acting, her voice was flat, like my hopes.

  Later, in my bed, I wondered if it was for the best. Had I wanted to know each of my mother’s secrets? Didn’t she have the right, as we all do, to take some of them with her to the grave? That night I was painfully aware that I’d soon be without her, and in my state of dread I was prepared to forgive her anything. Besides, maybe those men were nothing more than dimly remembered shadows to her, ghosts whose shapes and personalities had been altered over the years by the yearnings of her children. She may not have been behaving dishonestly in presenting me with personified dreams; dreams might have been all she herself had to draw on. Also, now that she’s gone, I remember The Night Of The Fathers with gratitude and affection. It always used to puzzle me, the way my magic drew the line at managing to tell me anything at all about the fathers. But as the effect of the rum receded and sense returned, I understood that my mother controlled the extent of my powers. That night she’d made an allowance, letting us fuse our magic to conjure those images; a rare and special amalgamation.

  My mother took my father with her when she burnt. For all I know that may be a good thing. He could have been a thief or a mass murderer. He may have been nondescript and boring. What good do they do anyway, apart from being handy with a hammer and brave enough to lift spiders from the bath? Some might say I’m lucky, I have an unknown entity that I can mould to fit my needs, a piece of putty to shape into the man who made me. But I don’t feel lucky. I long for flesh, no matter how ancient and flabby, to grab in a daughter’s hug.

  Within days, the trial will be in full swing. I wonder if I’ll see a sandy-haired man in the gallery? If so I’m afraid I might burst out laughing. I do want to give a good impression of myself and I know, although I’m not certain I understand why, that frivolity isn’t acceptable. Best to keep my eyes down, on my regulation shoes, and my mouth shut except when answering questions. People don’t die of being in court, do they? Hundreds go through the courts daily and you hardly ever hear of anybody dying from fright there, from fear of standing or sitting in the judge’s line of vision, being Public Enemy Number One.

  There’s so many questions I ought to be asking. What, for example, is the usual punishment for arson? I don’t know if we’re talking years or months here, or burning at the stake for that matter. It can’t be that bad, I’m sure Mum thought it through, weighing up the options. Presumably she reckoned that I’d suffer less for committing the crime than I would being tied to an empty Cornflake House for the rest of my days. I don’t feel reassured, though, I’m not convinced Mum knew what she was asking of me.

  Who will come to my rescue? I’ve asked you not to, and there is nobody else now Mum’s dead. My kicking foot has developed into a nervous twitch. I have to walk about in bare feet at night so as not to wake Liz. If I stay in bed my foot rocks both bunks. Her turn is yet to come and I think Liz deserves quiet sleep until then. Quiet sleep, a treat beyond my imaginings … but you must go there, I shouldn’t be keeping you from sleep. Save me a place under the deep bedcovers.

  Twelve

  Forgive me for having neglected you for the last few days. Especially when you sent those roses, well the card with roses on which I take to be the next best thing to a real live aromatic bunch. Everything came to a head so fast I hardly had time to wipe my nose, as Mum used to say. Now, as I write this I’m aware, for the first time in days, of the feelings of other people. Liz, for example, has been heading surreptitiously towards a nervous breakdown while maintaining our agreed silence. She probably wouldn’t have noticed my kicking foot as she herself is a mass of twitching and jerking. Plus she cries constantly – but without making a sound which excuses me a bit for not having noticed before. Tears drip like water torture down her cheeks and she collects them in her sleeve. I asked her if she’d care to break the habit and talk things over. She shook her head but fell mutely into my arms and soaked my shoulder. The first real hug I’ve had in ages. Her hair smelt of ash but I don’t think she indulges in cigarettes. Maybe this angst is due to a broken love affair with a chain-smoker.

  I’m dithering. The truth is that it’s hard to begin, especially if I’m to talk not only of what’s been going on in court but my reaction to this. I think I said that I might have enjoyed the attention on the night of the fire, had I been a true exhibitionist. Well, I’m not, and walking into court, with all eyes turned on me, I felt exposed and humiliated. I kept my head down, not wanting to see faces familiar or unknown, hoping that I’d become magically invisible. A murmur ran round the room, the rumble of unfriendly thunder. When I did raise my head, I found myself facing the judge, a man. I’d vaguely hoped for a woman, believing a mother or a daughter would have a better understanding of my plight. Mind you, far from being inhuman, the man I found myself staring at was a surprisingly sympathetic looking creature with curly hair and a pink complexion. But his voice, when he told us to sit, was impressive and my hands were shaking as they hit my lap. I’ll be very critical of films and television shows when they portray the accused casually wandering into court. I don’t believe any but the hardened criminal could make that entrance nonchalantly.

  There were some awful moments while they sorted out the charge. Inspector Somebodyorother stood with his back to me, as if discussing secrets that should be kept from me. I felt angry and possessive about this, it was my crime after all. Having, only seconds ago, disliked being the focus of attention, I found myself thinking, ‘Oy, what about me? I’m the one in the dock here.’ I turned offended eyes on Valerie but she was waiting to be called up, to join them, and her gaze was fixed on the inspector’s back. She was summoned soon, along with the man heading the prosecution and they huddled around the judge, heads down. I half expected a rugby ball to appear behind them.

  The case went public while I was trying to remember the words to a very rude rugby song that one of Taff’s blokes had taught me.

  Forensic evidence showed conclusively that my mother hadn’t died in the fire. There were enough remains for them to be certain about this, a grisly detail conjuring an image I have tried to block out but which I know will haunt me for ever. There were not enough remains, God can we hurry over this part please, however, for them to say exactly how she did die.

  ‘You cannot then rule out the possibility of foul play?’ asked the prosecuting counsel. The forensic expert said she couldn’t. But then my side, sorry if the terminology has a ring of Cowboys and Indians but at the time it felt a bit like Custer’s last stand, my side called some witnesses and saved the day. They called Perdita. I was shocked by this, hearing her trotting in from behind, then seeing her face before me. Who had I been expecting? A guardian angel I think. By then I was feeling quite queasy, with memories and nerves, and I’d have liked to be taken out and given a cup of hot, sweet tea instead of having to sit still and listen to Perdita talking about Mum and her illness. She assured Valerie that our mother had indeed been ill, very ill, for some time before her death. Perdita looked as if the BBC had dressed her for the part, young up-and-coming businesswoman, in some courtroom drama. There never was a suit so firm and neatly cut, a blouse so white on a throat so scrubbed. Then, as I mocked, Perdita turned to me and smiled. It was a genuine smile, full of sisterly affection and sympathy. It made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with guilt. I smiled back but it probably looked as if I was trying not to gag. She frightened me, my little sister to whom I had been a bully rather than a friend. Suddenly she had the power to hurt me, in fact I was hurting very much. I wanted more than anything to be out of that place and free to tell her how sorry I was, not only for making her homeless but for ridiculing her over the years. I wouldn’t have felt more restricted if I’d been wearing a ball and chain.

  The second witness who confirmed that Mum ha
d been dying was Merry’s carer, Jim. He explained how Merry was in the habit of making monthly visits home and how these had grown shorter and more strained as Mum got weaker. Instinctively I searched the court for Merry, expecting to catch sight of him leaping over the jury box or charging at the judge. Without Jim he was sure to run riot. I thought it kind of Jim to come and speak up for me but reckless of him to bring, and then abandon, Merry. Of course the two of them aren’t joined at the hip. The Home has other staff. It’s just that Jim always accompanies Merry on outings. In my head I must have switched this to ‘Merry always accompanies Jim on outings.’ This time Merry had been left behind, thank God. I hadn’t thought of Jim as anything other than a carer. In court he was an anxious, quietly spoken man who was prepared to help a friend. He’d made an effort for the occasion, his sparse hair was combed out of his eyes and his tattoos were hidden under a pale blue shirt. I was touched by his consideration and tried, in spite of the emotions Perdita had aroused, to give him an appreciative look, but he was nervous and didn’t meet my eyes.

  The prosecution wanted to know why, if my mother had been ill, no doctor had been involved. They also inferred that the lack of a death certificate was very dubious. Doctors, medicines, bits of paper. Mum hated the lot. Valerie doesn’t have the kind of skin that blushes but I could see she was getting hot under the collar at this point. I didn’t envy her. I wouldn’t have wanted the job of explaining Mum and her quirks to that lot. Having been moved by the support of Perdita and Jim, I tried to distract myself by searching for other familiar faces. Witnesses are kept outside, so that they can appear like white rabbits, but surely if I looked around I’d find a few friendly folk amongst the punters. It took a while, I couldn’t turn my head for long, it would’ve looked rude, but finally I spotted Bing, bless him, sitting with his head down, dreadlocks covering his eyes. I have horribly underestimated my son and my feelings for him. Then more than ever, I wanted to be free, to have time to share with him.

  On my next exploration, I saw our next-door neighbour, Mr Lee from Fisher’s Close. Not friend but not quite foe. He always was a nosy old fart with no life of his own. I hoped he was enjoying the show, it was the last one he’d have at my expense.

  I wasn’t running on a full tank (Taff’s expression this time) so it took a while for the proceedings to sink in. The judge was gathering papers to his breast, the jury checking their watches.

  ‘There,’ Valerie was smiling, ‘that’s one relief.’

  ‘Not manslaughter?’ I guessed, wondering how many reliefs made for an easy mind.

  ‘No, just the charge of arson.’

  Right, so I wasn’t being accused of killing Mum, only of burning her house to the ground. It sank in, slowly.

  Day One was over. I had no clear idea of how things would progress but I felt relieved. A cell is positively cosy compared to a court. I longed for my bunk bed and the almost dark of a prison night. As I was being led from the court a man stepped up and whispered to Valerie who in turn whispered to my warder.

  ‘No,’ the warder said, ‘I don’t think she can have it, not right now. But you can show her it, then give it to her after, if all goes well.’ The man, who looked at me like a long lost friend but whose face I didn’t recognize, opened his hand. Zulema’s moon pendant lay curled on his pink palm.

  ‘I was covered in soot when we last met,’ he explained, ‘but I’d rescued this from the fire and I didn’t know what to do with it.’ I couldn’t have smiled, any movement of my facial muscles would have brought tears. I stared at the opal until the shape blurred and only white light remained.

  ‘I’ll keep it safe for you,’ my fireman promised. If I hadn’t done so recently, I could have fallen in love on the spot.

  I slept well that night. It’s the unknown that keeps me awake. Going to court had been my nightmare. Now I knew what to expect the next day, more of the same and not pleasant either. The outcome of the case had paled in comparison to the ordeal of being in the hot seat.

  I’d been kidding myself if I thought I knew what was coming. Day Two was far more nerve-racking. For a start I was in the box, being cross-examined by Valerie, knowing the prosecutor was itching to have his turn.

  ‘Would you describe your mother as having been eccentric?’ Valerie asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I felt like Judas, ‘to some she must have seemed that way, but I think of her more as a person who had firmly held beliefs.’

  ‘And it was because of one or several of these beliefs that you set fire to your family home?’ People began to mutter expectantly at this. Although I was pleading guilty to arson, this was to be the first time I’d admitted setting fire to my home.

  I never had the chance to answer that essential question. There was shouting from beyond the closed doors, a woman’s voice yelling about being, or not being, a witness and the firm voice of an official telling her to quieten down. Her refusal to obey was heightened by the way in which the entire court hushed. We could hear her cursing amongst light thuds, presumably as she and the official collided with the doors.

  ‘Evey!’ screamed the woman. ‘Tell ’em to let me in.’

  My heart stopped. I was instantly chilled to the bone. Even through solid doors the Lincolnshire accent was unmistakable. Mum was the only one who called me Evey. My mother had come back from the dead to plead my case. My prayers had been answered. I was practically gagging with joy. I had no doubts, Mum was greater than death, just as she’d always been larger than life. Instinctively I raised my arms for the long embrace.

  ‘Evey!’ cried the voice beyond the door. ‘Tell ’em.’

  ‘Mum!’ I shouted, concentrating on the doors in the hope of opening them from afar. Time raced, whole scenes ran through my head. Mum and I hugging, kissing, promising we’d never part again. The judge smiling, shaking his curly head, banging his mallet to declare the case closed. Valerie looking bewildered as Perdita pushed her way towards us with tears of joy running down her face. All this I experienced in a split second. Then the doors burst open and a round figure stumbled in, tripping and swearing in her hurry to reach the judge. Although it was far from funny to me, I can see now that it was a classic comic entrance. A pair of bandy little legs staggered under the weight of a tree-trunk torso, wide feet squeezed into tight high heels twisted under the strain. As she appeared I let out a cry, the wail of the broken-hearted, of the utterly devastated. You may have heard similar sounds on television, when reporters film women who have lost their children in violent, pointless wars.

  My mother hadn’t risen from the dead. The combination of the accent and the use of the endearment ‘Evey’ had tricked me. Air rushed from my lungs as the colour rose in my cheeks. This was magic gone mad, and I was the lady who’d been accidentally sawn in half.

  ‘You got to listen to me,’ ordered the flustered new arrival, as the officials made grabs for her and she fended them off with an outsized pink handbag, ‘I’m your prime witness.’ Another one who’d seen too many TV programmes. I sneaked a look around and saw amazement and amusement on every face, including Perdita’s. Even those of us who grew up with Taff are continually taken aback by her being so over the top.

  ‘Madam!’ the judge bellowed. ‘You are going about this the wrong way. We shall adjourn while you speak to the counsels, then if you have anything of importance to say, you will be given the chance to do so in a civilized manner.’ That shut her up, long words always made her gape with wonder.

  ‘The letter,’ she hissed at me as she was escorted from the court, ‘why the bloody hell didn’t you read my letter, Evey?’

  ‘Sorry Taff,’ I said to the departing figure. I meant it, I could see she’d come to help me, in her inimitable way, and I needed all the help I could get.

  I had to sit in a dingy ante-room while Taff talked to Valerie. I wish I could say that as I sat there I thought kindly of Taff, but the truth is I was horrified by her appearance and still angry with her for not being a reincarnation of Mum. Of all the iro
nies, this just about took the barrel full of biscuits. I’d prayed for a saviour, begged to be rescued, but by whom? Not for me the loving father, watching from the gallery until his moment came. Oh no. I got my worst enemy, a loud, ludicrous woman, someone I’d never been pleased to see under any circumstances.

  To give Taff her due, her appearance had turned my case around, moving me swiftly on from dread to shame. I felt I was trapped in a Whitehall farce or a Carry On film. No it was worse than that; it was as if a perfectly good drama had been taken over, halfway through the making, by the director of Lassie. When I was led back to find Taff standing in the witness box, looking very pleased with herself, I couldn’t help wondering if her great handbag contained a rescue kit, small bottle of brandy, bandages, glucose sweets.

  With an effort I reminded myself that this woman had been my mother’s best, most constant friend, but I wasn’t much comforted by that. Now she was my confederate, I assumed, an ally in my camp. I wasn’t greatly comforted by this either. I believe I gave an audible sigh as I sat down. Valerie looked at me as if I’d belched loudly. Then she crossed the floor and began to question Taff.

  It was hard for Taff to restrain herself. She wanted to blurt out her story in one breath but Valerie kept her on a tight reign and guided her until it seemed almost as if we were listening to a sane, ordinary person. Throughout the opening questions my mind wandered around in a daze and I thought of other visitations I’d suffered from this witness. I remembered one time when Taff had arrived on the back of a motorbike, her hair knotted round her face, her body encased in red leather. What a sight. Taff has never been slim, her womanly curves may have attracted men in her youth but they spread to Humpty-Dumpty proportions by middle age. All right, I’m not slender myself, but then I’d not be seen dead in tight red skins, motorbike or no motorbike. Her companion, a man half her age glorying in the name of Shane, had a matching set of leathers in bright blue.