One afternoon in 1977, a year before I began primary school, my mother and I went to pick my brother up from school. He was very excited about an upcoming school fete and couldn’t stop raving about it.
“There’s going to be a raffle,” he said, “which is this thing where you can win prizes. And the first prize is a Sound Pillow!”
“What’s a Sound Pillow?”
“It’s a pillow that talks!”
“A pillow that talks? Far out, no way!”
“Really. It’s a talking pillow.”
My mother, who was on the Parent and Teachers Committee, confirmed that there would indeed be a raffle with a whole range of prizes – including this fabled Sound Pillow.
“I’m not sure the pillow actually talks,” she said. “But you can listen to it.”
These words of caution, perhaps because they didn’t go far enough in detailing the exact nature of the pillow, failed to deter my brother from his belief that the pillow could actually talk. I implicitly trusted my brother in everything – because he was older and already at school, so it was only natural to assume he knew what he was talking about. Once the idea had taken root in my mind, I was utterly convinced that the words “sound pillow” could mean nothing other than that the pillow could speak. After all, what other sounds would it make? It wasn’t exactly going to bark or miaow, now was it?
For days before the event I constantly thought about the myriad possibilities of the Sound Pillow. Lying in bed, the sky still light in the early autumn, I would ply my brother with questions.
“Can you ask the pillow questions? Can it answer them?”
“I think so,” said Matthew.
“What does it sound like?”
“I don’t know. Like a person. An adult.”
“Does it know everything?”
“I guess. Or else it couldn’t answer questions.”
“Can it sing?”
“But how does it work?!”
When my brother got tired of answering, I lay quietly thinking of the incredible powers of the pillow. How great that it should be a pillow too, for pillows were such marvellous things; comfortable, comforting, soft and friendly. The idea of one that could converse on any topic was beyond my wildest dreams. If my brother did win the raffle, I’d have to make sure he let me have access to the pillow. After all, if it was as smart as all that, it would be just like a family member, like another brother – perhaps even more so than Jason and Lady, our dachshund and bitsa. It was only right that we should all share in the pillow.
When the day of the fete came, the only thing that mattered was the raffle. It was sunny and warm and we were gathered before a demountable table on the bitumen in the junior playground. Whilst we were all excited about the Sound Pillow, I had also noticed a large, red, soft-toy tortoise amongst the prizes. As a child, I was completely obsessed with tortoises and turtles and already had three stuffed ones of varying sizes among my “favourites.” The red “tort” would make a fantastic addition to the collection, and make a suitable wife for “Papa Tort.”
Fate must have been on the side of the Cornford brothers that day, or else my mother had rigged the raffle. For, when the ticket numbers came to be called, my brother won the sound pillow and I won the red tortoise. It is difficult to express the joy that my brother and I felt, suffice to say that if you’ve ever been to a children’s birthday party…
The Sound Pillow came in a light brown cardboard box with orange lettering, or so I recall, and as much as I wanted to rip it out of the box and start chatting with it immediately, my mother insisted we wait until we got home. Fortunately, I had “Mama Tort” to offer solace during the interminable wait.
When we finally did get home and open the box, my brother seemed to have already dismissed all his imaginings of the much vaunted pillow’s capability. In a disappointingly, yet still impressively pragmatic way, he showed me how you could plug the pillow into a television or radio and the sound would come through via a speaker inside the pillow.
“But doesn’t the pillow talk?” I pleaded.
“No, you can just listen to the television or radio.”
I was astonished. Not only by the revelation of the Sound Pillow’s less than spectacular abilities – though it was still worthy of some reverence – but also by my brother’s apparently cool knowledge of the reality of the situation. How long had he known? Had he worked it out days before, or had he just read the information on the box? If the former, why hadn’t he told me, or was it that he didn’t want to disappoint me, nor dispel the illusion himself?
Either way, that Sound Pillow, for a short time worshipped as potentially the greatest invention in the history of human ingenuity and a worthy rival to God in its infinite wisdom, was now just another curious item, hardly more amazing than a transistor radio. And worse, it wasn’t comfortable to lie on – having a rather chunky speaker inside which the stuffing and padding had not quite succeeded in softening. It was also, ultimately, practically useless. For, if my brother wanted to use it, it meant I could not hear the television, so it hardly saw any service. Indeed, the poor old Sound Pillow was even relegated from pillow fights – one hefty whack from the speaker could render a child unconscious.
Rather than fulfilling all our dreams and more, the Sound Pillow wound up stuffed in the corner of my brother’s bed, against the wall, and failed to live up to its role either as a (rather crappy mono) speaker or, indeed, a comforting headrest. The final indignity came when, during a bout of gastro, my brother vomited all over it and the Sound Pillow ceased to function. It lived on in the house for a while longer, a sad and sorry reminder of how brutally infinite possibility can be reduced to disappointing banality. Eventually, however, all sentimentality evaporated in the face of its growing tattiness and the pillow was out on the street.
Ah well, may the Sound Pillow rest in peace.