The Cornflake House (20 page)

Forebodings of death were shared experiences for us. I remember my knees turning to jelly and my heart aching when I was at school.

‘I have to go home,' I told my teacher, ‘now.' Not waiting for permission, I ran to the bus stop and paced restlessly until the sixty-three ambled along. Did I know what was wrong? Or only that something had happened? I can't be sure; I was young, afraid, frustrated by the torturous progress of that blasted bus. By the time I reached my stop I was in tears, my head throbbing as if the sea had invaded my skull. Mum was on the front lawn, her head lifted like an animal trying to place a scent. She opened her arms for me and stroked my hair.

‘I think it's your Grandad,' she told me, ‘the lamp fell off the mantelpiece, but I knew anyway. We'll go inside and wait.'

There were telegrams in those days, missives of congratulations or doom. Ours came about an hour later. Eric had died; Editha wanted Mum to go immediately. I cried, maybe more for my Grandma than for the departed, but my mother only bit her lip and worried about leaving us.

‘Where is Taff now,' she asked herself, ‘she said she was going to London, but when? She won't mind, at a time like this, wherever she is.'

Luckily there weren't many repetitions of this joint knowledge of impending death. Grandma Editha died in The Cornflake House, and
everybody
who lived there saw that end coming, including Grandma herself.

Mum did some amazing things in those between years. Not just displays to delight her grandson but, as I said, a great deal of fortune-telling and healing. She mixed and matched these talents. People who came to discover whether they were about to meet Mr or Mrs Right often found themselves being cured of aches and pains at no extra cost. Mum could sense pain from across the room; ‘You've had a lot of trouble with your back, have you?' she'd ask unsuspecting visitors as they sipped their after-session tea. ‘Come here and sit in front of me.' Then she would touch the trouble spot, gently. Her hands were warm when healing, not lukewarm, more the temperature of the average hot-water bottle. Pain bowed out under the mild pressure of those hands. I experienced that touch several times and nothing in the world compares with it. The blood would tingle in my veins, the skin on my scalp would tighten as a warm sensation flowed through every part of me. While I felt my headache clear, I knew the true meaning of the word luxury, for my mother's method of healing was a salve to body and spirit.

Sadly I learnt, too late, that every time she laid her hands on another soul, Mum's own energy was decreasing.

I doubt if even you can imagine how I felt when I came to understand this. Alone in a room I'd once shared, I sat and cried long, quiet tears for her, and for myself. Every time she'd helped me, each magical demonstration for Blessing, the competitions and the fun, the healing, all these had taken their toll. Without saying a word, she'd known this was so, and carried on using her fatal talent. By the time I could act, it was too late. My mother was dying.

I put a sign on the front door, ‘Victory can see nobody', then I pulled the bolt for good measure. Only family were allowed inside. As hopeful clients shuffled back down our path, I'd sigh with relief, but Mum felt their disappointment deeply in the very part of her which was ailing from previously helping them. I had to rise early and stay up late to perform the task of sentry. People in need have no respect for the sick, they'd ring our bell at all hours. Once, and only once, one of Mum's regulars caught me out. I came down the stairs at six in the morning to find Mum sitting opposite this woman, her face ashen, eyes closed. Exhausted. The visitor was marched out: there are some advantages to being well-built.

We were cosy and companionable in those closing months. In the evenings, when I looked across the room and smiled at Mum who'd be sneaking a glance at me, I understood the expression ‘broken-hearted'. The ache I lived with was centred in my breast, often giving the impression that the organ which kept me alive was in the process of slowly cracking. Do you see me bravely carrying on as if all was well? Hiding my sorrow? If so, switch pictures. This was my mother, my heart and soul, I could hide nothing from her. She comforted me, when it should have been the other way around; ‘Things'll work out for you, Evey,' she promised as I soaked her shoulder.

‘I don't see how, without you.'

‘No, I wouldn't expect you to see, but try and believe.'

Was it you, Matthew? Were you the one I was supposed to believe in? Or did she mean the trial? Maybe she knew I would suffer prison, attacks, loneliness, love-sickness, and triumph over these afflictions. Shall I be stronger for it, more able to live without her? You see, even now, at the lowest ebb, I do believe in magic, her magic. I panic, but I have an inherent seam of hope. She was a clever woman, my mother. Not educated, not able to read or write easily, but with a given instinct and an intelligence capable of planning beyond the grave.

An enormous rock is falling into place. My God, she made me do it for myself as well as for her peace of mind. What would I have done if I
hadn't
come to prison? How was I supposed to handle her funeral, booking the church, flowers, a hearse, while my mind was wild with grief? She thought the whole thing through, organizing the worst days of my life so that they'd be frenzied enough to take my mind off the shattering sadness of losing her. Putting me safely out of harm's way, beyond pills or knives or ravines, or at least ensuring I was watched over, until … until you came to rescue me. Sorry my love, but you are part of
this
life's rich pattern; we have been woven into place by an expert in colour, texture, composition.

I'm crying again. A benign shadow nods her approval; ‘You may be bright, but you're slower than a slug through mud, Evey.'

If you knew how I miss her – my arms are empty, aching for a hug.

Will you touch me? When next we meet, for the last time before my trial, will you reach over and hold my hand? I know it's allowed, I've seen dads, husbands, lovers make this gesture. Recently I've been searched and attacked, those are my physical experiences. I haven't been touched tenderly since my mother squeezed my hand, closed her eyes and slipped from this world.

I didn't kill her, Matthew. I must share that responsibility with everybody who grasped any part of her powers. Do you think she took
my
talent with her to the grave, saving me from having to suffer the same fate as herself? I wonder if Zulema has also lost the ability to foresee events, to change things. Did Mum bestow these gifts on us, perhaps? I assumed they were inherited, but now I'm not so sure. If given, they could be retracted. I appreciate that death entails a loss of energy, but at the moment of her death, my mother sighed as if she had nothing left; as if crushed by rocks. Was that because she consumed all the magic in our family? I'll never know. My only comfort is that I gave her peace of mind, before and after her dying.

The problem is this; the rest of the world can't see what happened as a balm, a relieving, freeing action. I had to be destructive to be constructive. Come with me on this journey of baptism if you dare. There's no going back; once I've led you through fire, we will be joined for life.

Are you still there, Matthew? Do I see you with a hand outstretched, waiting for me?

I love you.

How could I take you through hell if this was mere infatuation? I would only show my poor, dead mother to the man I love. Look at her, grey ringlets laid on her pillow, mouth set in a wistful smile, taking secrets to the other side. I bend and kiss her cheek, inhaling the smell of her skin. Should I cover her face? My hand is shaking, I drop the counterpane before it reaches her chin. She wouldn't have hidden in life, she shall ‘see' it through to the end. I have to cling to the banister as I go down the stairs. I turn on the kitchen tap and gulp cold water from my hands, splashing my face, mixing tears and drink together. Then I hear her voice. Oh I don't jump, I know it's a ghost, and a loving one at that. She encourages me, calms me. I do what has to be done automatically after this, one action following another, just as we planned.

My surroundings are so familiar that I do none of the final looking about, taking in everything for the last time. In fact I hardly notice where I am until I stand outside in the garden. Then I gaze at The Cornflake House as if seeing it for the first time. As if Owen has only just brought me here, to this prize.

My mother loved Surrey. After the fens she found the gentle slopes refreshing. ‘Leafy Surrey', with its silver birch and tall, fat pine trees. She liked to pull the tips off bracken, when it was new and moist, and rub these between her fingers until her skin was green and smelt of spring. Even the heaths, frustratingly difficult to walk with their gorse bushes and tufts of heather, were pleasure grounds to her. Mum never wore trousers, she favoured full skirts – perhaps in order to look the Gypsy – and on Walking Days these swung about her legs above a pair of clumsy hiking boots. But she always took care not to tread on wild flowers, small animals, even spiders. Nothing in nature frightened her, not rats, not snakes, not insects that sting or bite. We children grew up accepting all creatures, from humans down to ants.

As I stood and stared at The Cornflake House on the day of my mother's death, I saw how nature had navigated around the minor setback of Fisher's Close, and how we'd provided an oasis for butterflies and bees in a desert of clipped lawns and trim flower beds. It was a sight, our house, paint chipped, windows cracked, curtains hanging at odd angles; but it was more at home with the tall trees behind the little estate, more at peace with the ferns and hawthorns than any of its companions. Perhaps if we'd bought it, paying good money for the privilege of living tidily, we might have kept the place in better repair. Maybe if there'd been a man about the house … On the other hand, my mother had a purpose in all she did and all she left undone. Knowing what she was to ask of me, she'd probably intended to let the house go partially to ruin.

Don't be afraid. I've already set free the last of the birds. There are no dogs left alive, and the cats are in the woods behind the houses, chasing poor fledglings. You won't hear any squarks or whines. We must hurry. Death has a way of attracting attention and we don't want our neighbours coming round, sniffing about, asking questions. Everything we need is in the caravan, which doubles as a garden shed. This is the risky bit, carrying these cans up to the house without being noticed. Do you think three is enough? It had to be either three or seven, Mum insisted. Numbers, she was so sure of their power. To speak, to think of her in the past tense, I can't believe … Bless her for giving me this task, to keep me occupied. She was right, it feels the right thing to do, doesn't it? Terrible yet wonderful. Passionate.

I'll take the upstairs, it's my responsibility and I know what to do. In my mind I've carried these cans, their contents splashing, that smell escaping through sealed tops, a hundred times. But nothing prepared me for the real thing, for the sound, almost comical, of metal banging the stairs, of my breathing as I heave the blasted can, of my nails as they rip to shreds while struggling with the clasp. Considering the age I live in, I've spent exceptionally little time in motor cars. The fumes catch me unawares, filling my eyes, making me cough. Half the contents, one sixth of the total, ends up on the landing as I tip too violently. My right hand is soaked and I leave the can and tip-toe into my mother's bedroom. I anoint her forehead with the liquid, not making a sign but stroking her brow, feeling her skin move under my fingers, across her skull.

From then on I move like the wind, before nerves overcome me. The rest of the petrol is poured, scattered haphazardly here and there. The stink is unbearable now, I'm worried it will drift to next door, to the other houses. Leaving the front door open, I exit, taking three backwards steps, stumbling over a pile of papers, holding the long taper in one hand, the matches in the other. Fumbling, trembling, I pull out a match and place the taper in my teeth. I have both hands free to strike. I do this quickly, dropping the box of matches to the ground as soon as my chosen one ignites. The flame touches the taper. The taper touches the petrol-drenched papers in the hall. The Cornflake House roars. It is done.

Eleven

Yes, it was done. I wonder if my mother ever doubted me? If so there was no need; it never occurred to me not to obey. Had she asked me to walk through the fire, I wouldn't be here, telling my tale.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stood watching The Cornflake House burn. That old song's right enough, smoke does get in your eyes, and up your nose. I smelt of it for weeks, as if I was made of ash. Can you imagine how bright a house on fire can be, how much heat it gives off? I'd invented a million monsters, flames sprang from nowhere, breeding more flames. Once created they were instantly vast, eternally hungry. They devoured everything, furniture, floors, curtains, the worn Axminster. And upstairs, the body on the bed, the corpse for cremation. I thought nonsense, Ladybird, Ladybird fly away home … nonsense. Anything to keep my feet planted on the spot, to stop me from running back to my home, to rescue treasures; to carry my mother to safety. Then I wished the fire brigade shouldn't come soon. The image of my mother's corpse, charred and hanging over a man's shoulder, danced in the haze before my eyes. Too terrible.

I was limp with heat, scarlet on the outside, melting beneath my skin. How mad I must have looked. A demented soul on the edge of hell.

When did I come to my senses? Was it as the first frantic neighbour pulled me back, away from the heat? Or later, when the authorities arrived, one emergency service screaming on the heels of the next, in Ealing Comedy fashion? Did I recover? Will I ever be over the shock?