Read Online The Cornflake House by Deborah Gregory - Free Book Online

cave.
    â€˜Papers,’ he explained, ‘big spread and a picture in the locals, little para in a national.’ Yes, of course he’d be getting the newspapers, or having them delivered. I found myself whimsically wondering if his hole had an address. It must have been a shock, searching for articles about himself and his fellow protesters but finding a ‘big spread’ about his errant mother. As if he’d read my thoughts, he said, ‘We were in together, one day, you and me.’
    â€˜Ah,’ I thought this was rather touching, two lawbreakers united by the snipe and snap of the press.
    The look on my face must have prompted him, in this strange about-turn situation, to ask what any responsible prison visitor should.
    â€˜Why? Why did you do it?’
    I was tempted to answer, flippantly, that it had seemed a good idea at the time, because this had been his response when I’d once asked him the same question. He’s always been anti motor cars and when he was asked ‘Why did you do it?’, he’d just punctured every tyre in our neighbourhood. Not only that, but he’d been caught doing so. Still, this was a whole lot more serious and he deserved a decent answer, ‘I did it for her, for your Grandma Victory.’ I found it impossible to say more, my throat itched, my eyes prickled and I so badly wanted to avoid tears.
    â€˜Fair enough,’ he said. I loved him the most then, more than I knew I could.
    Our time was up. We were standing, smiling gently at each other.
    â€˜Do you hug?’ I asked.
    He responded as if I’d invited him to dance.
    â€˜You asking?’
    â€˜I’m asking.’
    â€˜Well, I’m hugging.’
    I expect, I hope, that I still smell of him, of his earthy hideout and his unwashed hair, of his roll-ups and his age-old combat trousers. No perfume could have been sweeter to me. Back in my cell, holding him again and again in my memory, I find it impossible to think of him as Bing. It just doesn’t suit him. He chose it because it consists of four of the letters of his whole name. Other possibilities were Les, Sin or Sing and, one which had us rolling with mirth, Bess. I can’t say I blame him for discarding the name I chose for him. I suppose I was hoping to follow in my mother’s footsteps, give my child a head start in being extraordinary, but now I can see that I went too far. Mind you, my boy didn’t shrink from me as I whispered his name in his ear while enjoying that long, lovely hug:
    â€˜Thank you, Blessing,’ I dared to offer. ‘Thank you for this show of strength.’
    Eighteen years ago, when Oliver had disappeared through the swing doors of the maternity ward and the echo of his scorn had died away, I lay with Blessing in my arms and wept. Of course I felt abandoned, heavy with the tragedy of unrequited love; but now I understand that those were probably just the usual post-natal tears, brought about by dancing hormones. I don’t cry easily or frequently. Only birth and death seem to affect my tear ducts. And before long I felt a gratifying grain of grit mixed with the salt on my cheeks. I knew I’d get by without a man – but I was no fool, I understood that it wouldn’t be easy. I’d watched my mother struggle the same way. I looked down at baby Blessing’s fuzzy head. ‘Son,’ I told him, ‘you’d better live up to that name of yours.’
    Today, at last, my Blessing has proved that he was listening to me all that time ago.

Five
    Thank you, Matthew, for your visit and for my frog. I can honestly say I like nothing better than this tiny creature. I love his polished colours, shades of damp forest floors, moss, ivy and periwinkle. Being made of stone, being the colour of plants and shaped in the image of a living thing, he brings all aspects of the outside world into my cell. What a clever man you are. You knew, before I knew myself, that a