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

smooth, stone frog was exactly what I most wanted. He sits in my palm, happy as any of his living brothers and sisters on their lily pads.
    See, I was right about you all along. You’ve proved that you have a heart. Please don’t panic when you read this. I understand that the frog is only a token of your sympathy. I heard what you said; it’s impossible for you to see me at any time other than on your official visits. And you must stick to only a professional relationship with an inmate. Understood. Honestly. You can relax in the certain knowledge that I’m not about to leap up and ravish you – much as the idea appeals. I’ll practise restraint. But things change; all things change all the time. I won’t always be here, on the wrong side of the law, gazing longingly at you, on the right side. When they hear my full story, they’ll throw my case out of court. If I hadn’t been incoherent with grief, I should have explained myself on the night of my arrest, and most likely I’d have been freed on the spot. You see, although my action was dramatic, in a place where drama is abhorred, I hardly think of it as a crime at all.
    I had a visit from my solicitor, my brief as they say. She’s not quite the forceful character a person in prison would chose. Dress wise, she reminded me of Perdita, my smart, businesslike younger sister, the same neat blouse and tight black skirt. My sister. Sometimes I think Perdita must have been a foundling, she’s so unlike the rest of us. Apart from the clothes, my solicitor is softer than my sister, I can’t imagine her standing up for me in court. Not that she doesn’t have my interest at heart, but she waffles. I did my best to reassure her, explaining that all I need is the chance to tell my tale but she gave me the impression she wasn’t quite listening. Her name is Valerie and she has dark, frizzy hair and very white skin which is flecked with moles. Because her voice is so monotonous, my mind kept wandering.
    I thought it was a shame Mum hadn’t met her. My mother had a way with moles. She had to find some excuse to touch them, which caused problems when they were in awkward places, but once she’d laid her hands on those brown growths, they faded away. Spots and warts also succumbed to her touch. We children had the clearest skins in the county.
    I once saw my mum grab a teenage boy in the street. A risky business because he was with a gang of his leather-clad mates at the time. She held his face in her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she told him, moving her fingers over to the screaming patch of acne near his nose, ‘I thought you were one of my brood,’ and she patted him as old people pat toddlers, ‘but I expect you’ve got a perfectly good mother of your own at home.’
    His companions hardly had time to be derisive as she walked away. Within seconds they were gawping at the magical vanishing of their friend’s pimples, craters and humps.
    Valerie droned on, being despondent, but I couldn’t concentrate. I gave her my most reassuring smile as I thought about moles and frogs. I’m so proud of myself because, in spite of everything, I saw, and fell for, the frog-giver in you.
    Scottie dogs and frogs. What else do you like, Matthew? Possibly, hopefully, snogs? Oh God, if I could only sit by you in a pub, drinking beer, giggling, teasing, watching you as you got to know me. I’d be so damn proud to be out with you. I should glow like a lump of plutonium. Still, we did it, eh? We met. We talked; and I didn’t die of embarrassment. Not quite. You can have no idea how tantalizing it was, seeing you again, or how nerve-racking. It was almost impossible to make the journey from cell to Visitors’ Room, my legs became rubber tubes, my heart a dinner gong. Didn’t you hear its reverberations? How polite and wonderfully understated you are. That’s a large part of your appeal for me.
    How