Free The Cornflake House by Deborah Gregory Page B

chickens’ eggs. No, Perdita could not be relied on to tell the truth about that timeless night.
    Maybe I overestimate your reaction, perhaps it isn’t so strange or unbelievable. We change the clocks twice a year, moving our mornings on or our evenings back, and few complain that time cannot be gathered up and herded in such a way. It seems I’ve begun to think in terms of proving every case, like Valerie. Finding evidence and witnesses to bear me out, when I’m only recounting an event.
    Before I tell you what happened, I ought to take you inside The Cornflake House as it was all those years ago and introduce you to its inhabitants one by one. You already know my mother. Then there’s Fabian, a troubled teenager at this time, handsome and haunted. He dreams of greatness, longs for fame. He needs to escape, fly the nest and join that gathering of musicians who wait for him. But tonight he’s obliged to sit with us, pouting, restless, wasted. Fabian had a tough time in Surrey, being half-caste he was the butt of prejudice and envy. He was every teenage girl’s fantasy, except the middle-class white girls of our town weren’t supposed to dream in glorious Technicolor.
    With Fabian, on one of our sagging sofas, you’ll see Zulema. Her skin is not quite as dark as Fabe’s, but her eyes and hair are black. At twelve she’s already a beauty with graceful movements to match her gentle looks. I used to think she was an angel sent to watch over us; even now I’m not convinced she’s an ordinary mortal. Well, mortal maybe, but ordinary, never. As she grew up she became lovelier and more remote. I miss her most of all, but that’s the future. Tonight you can feast your eyes on her oval face and share her serenity. I won’t blame you for finding yourself drawn to look in her direction.
    Sitting all by himself, on his special chair, is Django. By rights, he should look wild, reckless. My mother insists he really did come from the Gypsies. He has brown eyes and twisting hair, but he cuts his locks so short that no curl remains. What is about to happen will have less affect on Django than on the rest of us, because he is already in his evening state of semi-trance. Only the stroke of midnight can wake him. He goes to bed then, counting the stairs, undressing from the feet upwards, brushing his teeth thirty-two times. He reads through his vacuum cleaner catalogues for exactly fifteen minutes and switches his light out at twelve thirty-one. You know, he’s the most unlovable boy in the world, but I can’t think of him without wanting to grab him in a crushing embrace.
    The shining example of cleanliness is Perdita, and pinned to her side, held down by her tidy but forceful hand, is Merry. What a scruff. He’s how old? About six I should think. Wonderful face, eyes of polished turquoise, the chin of an apprentice garden gnome. Mind out for Merry, he has a way of landing on people, like a comet.
    Grandma Editha has moved in with us now that Eric is dead. She takes the fireside chair, sits so close her knees cook slowly all evening. I swear I sometimes smelt them roasting. Last but not least is Samik, the baby of the family, squashed between Fabian and Zulema. He adores Zulema, who doesn’t? And everybody loves him. Right now Samik, at five, is as cuddly as a panda. Sadly he’s already suffering from insecurity brought about by teasing and bullying. He’s not entirely English, he has a look of Eskimo around the eyes which marks him out for special treatment at school.
    All right? Ready to step inside? I’ll escort you up the garden path, holding your hand as we pass the caravan and the tree house in the overgrown front garden. Together we can peer through the bubbled glass into the hall. This space glows warmly back at us thanks to red paint and stained-glass lampshades. We go inside and are greeted by a haze of warm, sweet and sour air; musk, incense, dogs,