On new flash fiction: The Eligibility of Different Homes and the Households that Occupy Them

Mum learns about ECO stooped over her laptop at the dining table. It seems to give her a lift. She’s talking at me about it.

‘We have a date.’ 

She’s playing ambient music through her phone. 

‘They’re doing the pre-survey on Tuesday.’ 

‘Pre-survey?’ 

‘I’ve been emailing them. I’ll tell Corm later.’

I imagine Cormorant in his room, birding away, his hands caked in the strongest glue available from Amazon. He’s the reason we’re eligible for any of these ECO measures. I tell Mum I need to leave now or I’ll be late. 

‘Be safe, love.’ 

At work, I tell Karen about the pre-survey. Work knows about Dad and everything, so they give me some leeway. Karen’s going to update the rota.  

I ask Mum to text me the name of the company. Energy Bulb. Their logo is a smiley lightbulb with a green hue. Its eyebrows are so thin it creeps me out a bit. 

It’s nearly midnight when I get home. Mum’s asleep in front of her screen. I guide her upstairs and meet Cormorant on the landing. His eyes are bloodshot. 

‘Is she alright? I’m going out.’ 

‘She’s fine.’ I don’t ask where he’s going. He hugs my shoulders and then he’s off.

On Tuesday, a van parks outside the house. I spot the cartoon bulb. I go out with Mum to greet the man as he walks up our drive. He’s wearing a bodywarmer. He explains that Cormorant needs to sign all the documents, as he’s the one eligible under the scheme.

‘Go get your brother, love.’ She turns back to the man. 

I give Cormorant’s door a knock. Inside, his curtains are drawn. The smell is Cormorant concentrate. I see large clumps of dust in the air between the door and his single bed, and two model planes hanging from the ceiling. One is a Lancaster Bomber. It’s held up by the thinnest piece of white string. 

Cormorant’s head is under the covers. 

‘The man’s here. You need to come down.’ 

But another head pops up. A blonde head, like Cormorant’s. She looks up from the bed at me, confused. 

‘I’m Julia,’ I say. She doesn’t say anything back.

The man’s going through his plastic wallet filled with documents. There’s the header ‘Ofgem’ at the top of each page. The borders are faded orange. The ink in the office printer must be running low. I imagine an office in the middle of a quarry, although this doesn’t make much sense.

He gets a call but declines it, then says something I don’t catch. His phone has one of those stupidly bulky cases that would survive a nuclear strike. 

‘Corm awake?’ 

‘Yeah, he’s coming.’ 

‘Is it every room?’ 

‘Yeah. The whole house.’ 

He takes out laminated pieces of paper: ‘KITCHEN’ ‘BATHROOM’ ‘BEDROOM 1’. 

‘I need these to tell me where I am.’ This is possibly his attempt at a joke. 

‘Who sees the photos?’ 

‘I can blur anything, don’t worry.’ 

We follow him into the kitchen, where he takes several photos on his phone.  

He holds up the ‘KITCHEN’ sign, so it’s in the shot. 

We repeat the same process in the ‘LIVING ROOM’. 

‘That photo, could you blur that one out?’ Mum asks. 

It’s a photo of the four of us sitting on a wall, squinting, in Whitby. In the photo, I’m about six.     

When we’re about to go upstairs with the man, Cormorant appears on the landing. 

The girl is behind him. She’s got on his grey UCLan hoody. I imagine all the stains on the inside of that hoody, all the ones that don’t come out in the wash, and I cringe a bit for her. 

The man then carries on upstairs himself, as if taking control of the situation.

‘You carry on,’ Mum says after him, as Cormorant and the girl come down.

In the living room, Mum sits them on the sofa. Mum’s in her chair. I sort of linger.  

‘So, what’s your name, love?’ 

‘Mary.’ 

‘Mary, well. You don’t get many Marys your age, do you? Do you not think, Cormorant?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You don’t have many people your age called Mary?’

‘I don’t know.’ 

‘Well, you don’t. I didn’t know you were staying over, Mary. But it’s nice to meet you.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ 

‘Oh, no.’ 

‘I didn’t mean to, like, upset you.’ 

‘You haven’t upset me. There are things to be upset about. Upsetting things. But you haven’t upset me. It was just impolite.’ 

Mary doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She’s pulling at the sleeves of Corm’s hoody.

‘You don’t get many Cormorants,’ she says.

Mum’s back in the room again. She points at the girl.

‘You don’t, no. I’m so used to it now, though.’ It’s like we’re not in the room. ‘It wasn’t my choice, though, make that clear.’

Dad would have said something now about the man upstairs, because we can all hear him wandering about in his big boots from BEDROOM 1 to BEDROOM 2. And wasn’t it awkward when he just went upstairs on his own?

Eventually, he’ll make it to BEDROOM 3, which in my head is Mum’s room.  

‘You didn’t ask him to take his shoes off,’ I say to Mum.

‘No, but he can keep them on.’

When he returns, Cormorant goes to the table and signs everything, while Mum puts the kettle on. She is absolutely elated to learn that Mary drinks tea. They’re talking about Mary. She lives with her parents. Her dad works at BAE.

‘And do you have insulation?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mary says.

Mum points at herself. She’s wearing a t-shirt with Madonna’s face, faded, on her chest.

‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it. I’m wearing this just to feel the benefit.’

Figures in a Courtyard Behind a House by Pieter Hooch