The Cornflake House (24 page)

‘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 ironies, 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.

‘We had to make do with red for Taff,' he told us regretfully, ‘because they don't do these in pink.' This comment was the final straw. I had to be taken away by a kindly Zulema as I snorted with hopeless laughter. The idea of Taff trussed up in pink leathers, looking naked but fit to burst any moment, was too much.

Then there was the time she brought a poodle with her. Maybe she was beginning to lose her charms, the poodle appeared to be instead of a man. It was an unhappy dog, with eyes that collected clumps of brown sleep. She carried it about under her arm.

‘Is that a child substitute?' Mum asked, for once speaking just a little harshly.

‘No, it's a fucking poodle,' and Taff laughed until her smoker's cough turned to a choking fit.

‘Well then put it down and let it walk,' Mum ordered. The dog was lowered to the floor where it was instantly attacked by our own mutts. As I've said, we were never cruel to animals. Perdita grabbed the poodle, disentangling him from the jaws of our dogs and was given, for her pains, the job of looking after the little visitor for the duration. I think the thing she minded most, as she carried the poor soul around, was his scruffiness. Taff, having only just acquired him, hadn't had time to take him to a parlour and have him clipped down and puffed up.

Then, another time … I was brought sharply back to the present by hearing my name. Not only my name but the endearment which had previously been Mum's prerogative.

‘Tell 'em where the letter is, Evey,' Taff was begging. ‘What've you done with that letter I sent?' For a while, as she gave me her most pleading look, I wondered what the hell she meant. Then the scent of violets drifted in my direction and I knew Mum was prompting me to concentrate harder – because Taff had been sent to help me.

‘The letter,' I muttered while Taff gave me encouraging nods. The unopened post. Yes, I remembered, it was in my cell, lying under your frog. I was allowed, with my warder, to leave the court and search for this missive. Of course I knew where it was, but I didn't want anybody else to touch the frog. The letter was found and we marched back to court. It was not unlike a historical scene, with the King's pardon arriving seconds before the executioner raises his axe. I knew that sealed envelope contained information which would save me. My magic was returning. I honestly felt the air about my head clear. It was rather like having my ears syringed. There was a spell of painful but exquisite tingling noises and a low hum, then a popping sound and Hey Presto. After that I found myself smiling, a kid with the present she most wanted. I smiled at Taff as I was led past her, I gave Valerie a grin, I even beamed at the judge. Only Taff smiled back, flashing her undoubtedly false teeth.

There was a hubbub in court, like actors saying ‘rhubarb, rhubarb,' and I knew that if I wanted, I could have picked out one mutter from the far back and isolated it in order to listen in. Magic is exhilarating, even when you choose not to use it. I'd missed being special, missed knowing I could interfere with the normal, make the world a more interesting place. I was so pleased with myself that it took a nudge from Valerie to make me pay attention to what was happening. My letter had been opened and the judge was reading through it. I thought of Taff's language and blushed, but when I looked across at my mother's friend she was nodding her head at the judge, silently agreeing with what he was reading.

‘Hope the language isn't too blue,' I whispered to Valerie and I inclined my head in Taff's direction, ‘she's famous for her swearing.'

Valerie put her mouth to my ear, ‘You haven't been taking any of this in, have you?' she hissed. ‘That letter's not from the witness, well there is an enclosed note from her to you, but the essential part, the evidence we need, is from your mother.'

I gripped her arm so hard I imagine I left my mark, ‘Say that again.'

‘It's a letter from your mother to Mrs Davenport.'

‘Who?' I'd forgotten that Taff had once married a man called Davenport; she'd divorced him so fast you'd think his name would've gone with him.

‘From your mother to the witness,' Valerie's patience was running out.

‘From my mother…'

‘Yes. Written several weeks before her death.'

To give myself time to recover, I gazed at the judge. He had put on a pair of specs but even so he was squinting at the page of notepaper. Not smart, blue Basildon Bond like you use, Matthew. This was from Mum all right. The thin, white, lined paper he was holding took me straight back to The Cornflake House. My heart ached to see it. And on this familiar paper would be my mother's writing. The judge wasn't squinting because the writing was small, but because it was ill formed. She was no great writer, Mum. I could hardly remember having seen her handwriting, she was adept at getting one of us kids to jot things down for her.

‘My hands are floury, Eve,' she'd say, or, ‘I'm all wet, Dear, write a message to Fabe for me will you?'

I wonder if she went to the pantry first, and covered her hands in flour, or if she purposefully began the washing-up every time a note needed writing.

‘You say it's written from Mum to Taff, not to me?' I asked Valerie.

She shook her head, laying a sympathetic hand on mine, ‘But it contains information which will clarify your mother's wishes, do you see?'

Yes, I did. The thin paper collapsed the moment the judge stopped supporting it with his spare hand. Cheap stuff. Trees pulped to tissue. Lines to guide the unsteady hand. No need to wonder why Mum hadn't asked me to write that letter for her, it contained secrets. Secrets she'd struggled to keep, straining to put pen to paper in spite of her problem with words and her illness. I was upset by this, wishing she'd written to me, left a message for me, until I realized that she knew I'd have burnt any such letter along with everything else.

Mum's letter to Taff proved once and for all that I had set fire to The Cornflake House at her bidding.
‘I have asked Eve to burn the house down the moment I'm dead,'
it said, as plain as that. This has thrown a new light on my case, a glimmer of hope. It isn't enough to clear me, the case has been adjourned for two days.

During this respite I'm not allowed visitors, so I shall make do with sobbing Liz and with your card. Having my magic back I've lost the doubts that haunted me. I
know
the roses on the card are substitutes for the real thing. I can sense the emotions you were feeling when you wrote your message. By running my fingers over your handwriting I can feel that you wrote the word ‘love' with trepidation, but that you meant it. Scary, isn't it? What can I say to calm and reassure you? You are my shooting-star wish come true. I will never let you down. I will be there for you as long as that's what you want. Now I understand the frog too, it was symbolic, wasn't it? Even the colour was no coincidence. Are you green when it comes to love, Matthew? I find that hard to credit, since you are the most desirable man in the world to me. Never mind, I'm practised in the art, and after all, I did train as a teacher.

The return of my magic has enabled me to look at this gift anew. Perhaps magic consists largely of the ability to absorb information not only about myself but about anybody I single out. Is that magic, or merely common sense? I shall sleep tonight, and dream not of fathers but of lovers, of a frog who turns into a prince when the imprisoned princess places her lips on his.

Having spent the worst two days of my life waiting, I was led back to court this morning. It was a clearer case for the judge and jury, but if Mum thought she'd free me by writing to Taff, she was wrong. Taking into consideration the time I've already served, I'm to be moved to the Midlands to spend a further three months at Her Majesty's pleasure. ‘Ooh goody,' said the queen of my imagination, ‘that fat blonde girl's got another three months porridge.' The judge told me that no matter how much I loved my mother and wanted to obey her wishes, he could not condone my actions. It seems that, as adults, we have to make choices and the right choices have nothing to do with family love or duty, because they must always fall within the law.