The Cornflake House by Deborah Gregory Page B

and getting to the new.
    But, as a portent of things to come, before my mother even had time to open her front door, one of our new neighbours strode over to complain. A dog – ours – had shat on his patio. Dino, the dog in question, padded along behind this man, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, looking most relieved. It would have been useless to argue with that.
    â€˜It’ll be cleared up by the time you get back,’ Mum promised.
    â€˜Is that it?’ our neighbour growled, obviously unimpressed by this magical offering. ‘Aren’t you even going to say you’re sorry?’
    â€˜Of course I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be clearing it up if I wasn’t.’
    At this point, Django, who had been staring at the newcomer, tugged the man’s sleeve. Reluctantly the man looked down, his face stiff with disapproval of my little brother.
    â€˜You have a bogey,’ Django told him, ‘you should wipe your nose, it’s disgusting.’
    Owen laughed and patted Django on the back. ‘Check mate,’ he said.
    There was more than a moment’s silence and even at a distance, I understood that from this point of impasse things might go one of two ways. In terms of social blunders, we were equal, and we were neighbours. The man might find a hanky, use it, laugh too, shake hands and be friends. Or he might glare, stamp and become a sworn enemy. I hoped for the hanky, but was disappointed. This was a stamping, glaring man. His scowl encompassed my family, Owen, and the reception committee; but suit-man and co. met his gaze with well-rehearsed smiles which sent him thumping back to his soiled patio.
    Mum turned to Zulema and me. ‘Come on girls,’ she begged, ‘you should be here for this.’ We hung back, reluctant to join an atmosphere which had turned sour. Over the years I’ve imagined that I heard my mother speak again, but I think she was silent. I don’t know; she might have said, as she put the key to the door, ‘I wish Taff was here.’ Even if she didn’t speak aloud, she must have thought it, because there was a sudden honking of car horns, spluttering of engines, calling of excited voices; and there was Taff, all hair and grin, leaping from an open-topped sports car. She held a bottle of champagne in each hand and although several young men were emerging from her convoy, she eyed suit-man and shouted, ‘Extra rations, you’re brilliant you are, Vic.’ It was party time.
    Thinking about it, I believe Taff was the first to step inside The Cornflake House. Mum turned the key, held back the door and Taff’s stilettos sank into the newly fitted Axminster. By the time Zulema and I crept in, Taff was in full swing, swigging straight from the bottle, filling the empty house with ‘oohhs’, and ‘just get a load of this, Vic’.
    I saw a lot of floor, some banisters, and many adult knees as I stole from room to room. There wasn’t much else to see, empty houses are sorry places, especially when decorated entirely in a wan blue. This colour was, next to having to contend with Taff, my greatest disappointment. I remembered the description Mum and I had hung over, the words I’d read to her so often ‘… Enjoying a quiet, orchard setting, your three-bedroomed Dream House will have a modern, fully fitted kitchen complete with washing machine, refrigerator and stainless-steel sink unit. You will be able to relax in your pale turquoise bathroom before slipping into bed in the luxurious master bedroom. The walls will have been painted in Duck Egg Blue and the floors will be fitted with a carpet of your choice. ’ Well, if this was Duck Egg Blue they’d been feeding the ducks the wrong stuff. I looked at the bright, positively garish carpet.
    â€˜What’ll it be, Evey?’ Mum’d asked when we went to see Mr Pollard who ordered rugs and lengths of carpet for those who came to feel their