The Cornflake House (12 page)

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 to 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.'

I expect the violet perfume and bright lipsticks were used unsparingly. I've seen photographs of them arm in arm, Taff a few inches taller than Victory and with longer, fairer hair. Both are glowing with anticipation. It was a double date, set up by Taff who was, for once, uncertain of her man. Mostly they dated bus drivers and conductors, enjoying, after a film or a dance, the luxury of plush seats, upstairs or down, to themselves in the dark, deserted depot. But this time they were going out with a taxi-driver called Mac who had strayed into their canteen and stolen Taff from under the nose of her current beau. Taxi-drivers were a bit classier, or so Taff thought, although this one had a shifty look. She agreed only to a double date.

‘I'll bring me brother,' Mac had winked at Mum. ‘He likes 'em dark and stormy.'

‘What's his name?' Mum thought that names contained the essence of people.

‘Kenneth,' Mac said, his eyes focused on Taff's floral figure. Kenneth sounded a solid, dependable name. The women consented to meet the brothers outside the Odeon, Friday, at seven sharp.

‘They dragged us straight to the back row,' Mum told me, ‘no ifs or buts. I was on the end, by the aisle. Well, I thought, at least I'll be able to grab an ice-cream in the interval, or to make a quick exit. Kenneth sat between me and Taff, fidgeting, eating boiled sweets without offering them round, sniffing, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He was most unlike his name, small and oily. I didn't fancy him one bit, and the feeling was mutual, I could tell. Fine by me. I settled down to watch the film as best I could, considering I was next to an eel. To be honest, Eve, I didn't see that one coming. I was disengaged, sort of, from the vibrations, lost in a black and white world of soppy American romance. I knew Mac was well away with Taff, that was only to be expected, other than that I was unaware of my surroundings.'

They were thrown out, all four of them. A fight began when Kenneth's hand, exploring Taff's left leg, met Mac's hand, exploring Taff's right leg, somewhere between her thighs. The air turned blue. As the manly film star whispered soft words of love, the flesh and blood men swore obscenities at each other and eventually at Taff who tried to separate them by swinging her handbag from groin to groin. My mother told me she was almost hysterical with glee and responding to a demon in her guts, she took off one of her wonderful pointed shoes and prodded Kenneth in the buttocks with the heel of this fashion item. All around them couples were giving themselves stiff necks turning to shout for peace. It took the manager, an elderly, timid man, both usherettes and the projectionist, to disentangle the four fighters and evict them from the building. During the fracas the reel of film ended and the audience shouted and booed at the poor man who had left his hideaway to help out so gallantly.

They none of them saw the blood, because of the street lighting and their eyes adjusting from the cinema. Taff was cursing the fellows, her stockings were laddered and her handbag hung by a broken strap.

‘Bloody fools,' she told them, ‘great pair of bloody babes, fighting like schoolboys.'

Then, at last, my mother's intuition returned. Sensing that Mac was about to make a getaway, she grabbed him by the back of his mohair jacket and he found himself pinned to the spot. Next, Kenneth let out a groan and fell flat on his face. My mother was seriously worried for a second, imagining her heels had done the damage, but the blood, and there was quite a pool of this, was seeping from his front, oozing under his flattened belly.