The Cornflake House: A Novel by Gregory Deborah

Author:Gregory, Deborah [Gregory, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781466892385
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2015-03-16T16:00:00+00:00

Nine

I walked with caution, aware of movement over my shoulder, expecting the sudden onslaught of fresh violence but I was still eager, if not exactly light of foot, when heading down the corridor to see you.

Thanks for your discretion, Matthew, and for the good advice; deep breathing, yes, I’ll try that, and thinking positively, well, again I’ll make the effort. Although it won’t be easy, when the only certainty is that the rest of the world is lined up against me. I’d never have thought that the day would come when I was afraid of almost everybody.

Sorrow and nervousness are eating my insides. Causing weight loss; there, a positive thought. I must have mislaid several pounds with all the worry. I used to eat in times of crisis, as if buns and biscuits would cure a broken heart or get me through exams. It was a whale who sat my GCEs for me. Come to think of it, I used to eat in times of calm too. Meals in The Cornflake House were random affairs, it was a case of grab it while it was there or go without. Mum was an unwilling cook, not a regular meal-giver, not one who prepared food when it was needed. She cooked when she saw us pigging too many snacks. She could mix a cake as light as air or blend herbs and spices to make mouthwatering stews when the mood took her, but the mood didn’t take her nearly often enough. We kids developed arm actions to accompany meals and some of these, embarrassingly enough, linger on. If you and I ever settle down to enjoy a quiet dinner in a smart restaurant, please feel free to place your hand on mine when I seem to be diving across the table to grasp the last remaining bread roll. No, I’ll be fine really, either my glands have altered, or prison food has worked a transformation on my psyche. Somehow I’m not tempted to eat myself stupid anymore. An entrepreneur could make a fortune by prescribing instant mashed potato and lumpy gravy as a cure for obesity.

Since I’m hated for having cut myself off from company, perhaps I should write to other people, not confine my letter writing to you. I have been getting post, as it happens. I suspect Valerie of circulating my address, possibly even of writing to my family for character references, then adding a postscript to say she thinks I might appreciate letters or cards. I had a postcard from Fabian. Sea, sand, outrageously blue sky, made me long for freedom. I miss the weather. Of course I go outside but I’m unaware of the skies, in general. I’m excused exercise, my back hasn’t recovered well, sudden movements bring spasms of pain to my spine. Flitting from block to block is about my limit now so I’m not out there long enough to notice what kind of day it is. And I haven’t seen a night sky for months. No doubt the stars shine on, the moon glides through her phases, but all unseen by me.

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