Free The Cornflake House by Deborah Gregory Page A

as I grew up, to have made an effort with my fellow students or the mothers at Bing’s play group. I don’t think I was aloof, I just never went the extra distance, always turned down offers of drinks or coffees, was always either in a hurry or in love. In my present situation I can see the attraction of close friends. It would be delightful to have a woman, somebody not connected with my family, who knew me well, who cared about my fate. A friend to visit me, to bring frivolous gifts, makeup or magazines, to listen when I spoke of my grief and my new found love. It’s a lack I’ve rarely considered but suddenly it appears as a gaping hole, this friendlessness. Perdita has friends, she always did. I haven’t met the present ones, her own smart set, but I expect she’s still in touch with Katie, the nice, clean child she befriended at school. They went to Art Club together and invited each other to tea. Lord knows what Katie thought of Perdita’s lot, but I know my sister was impressed and embittered by the order of Katie’s home.
    â€˜Why don’t we use napkins?’ she asked Mum mournfully. ‘And why does Merry make that slurping sound when he eats?’
    â€˜It’s his way,’ Mum explained, ‘of showing his appreciation.’ And she presented Perdita with a Man Sized Kleenex in lieu of a serviette.
    I shall make some friends when I’m free, get out to evening classes, or join a bridge set. You see, I’ve no idea how to begin. Of course there’s always Liz, but she seems intent on maintaining our agreed silence, and who am I to intrude?
    On the way back to my cell today, with your kindly face clear in my mind, I stopped to kick the wall in frustration. The warder handled me roughly and I was glad to feel my muscles burning. If nothing else, pain brings an awareness of life going on regardless. Yesterday, I overheard two of my fellow prisoners as they sighed over a magazine. ‘It’s not all the crap inside that gets to you,’ one said, ‘it’s thinking of the stuff out there you can’t have.’
    Too true. Until they let me out of here, I must not only practise restraint, I must also learn the art of doing time.
    Do you remember the word you used when telling me how you were enjoying the stories of my family? You said you found them bewitching. An appropriate adjective. I was wondering how my mother would have coped with doing time, and the answer is that she would have bewitched time to make it serve her. Not that she’d have ended up behind bars in the first place; she could make folks forget what they’d seen. Or if, as in my case, the evidence was too glaring to be forgotten, she would talk soothingly until the listener’s perspective shifted to her advantage. But supposing she had needed to kill time for some reason; can you believe me when I say she was able to do so?
    She could make time stand still. It must be hard to credit and it’s almost impossible to prove; although there were eight witnesses with her on the night she achieved this feat. Unfortunately they were all family and may be considered biased. Also, of the eight, my Grandma Editha is no longer living and my brothers Merry and Django would be disregarded as witnesses in any situation. That leaves me, an imprisoned criminal, my other two brothers – Fabian and Samik and my sisters, Zulema and Perdita. From this bunch, Perdita is the only one who could convince even the seriously sceptical that time had stopped. And Perdita might well have chosen to forget the episode. She disapproves of messing about with the status quo, of what happened to her in that non-time, and of my family in general. Perdita is a broker these days, she sells stocks and shares. From the bedlam of The Cornflake House she emerged in a trim suit and crisp white blouse to walk the floors of commerce. As strange a phenomenon as a peacock hatching amongst a clutch of scraggy