‘With my mum and dad.’
‘So you’re single, with no dependants and a non-householder. Is that right?’
Raymond began to feel uncomfortable; he could tell by the clerk’s tone that the conversation wasn’t going the way he wanted.
‘Yes, that’s right. I live with my mum and dad, but I have no money and I, ah, I owe my mum twenty pounds.’
‘I see. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to replace the giro for seven weeks. I have to send your details to our office in Ireland. They’ll do a search to see if your giro’s been cashed; if nothing comes back within seven weeks, I can replace it. Now, if you’ll take this form, fill it in over there on the counter and drop it back through the letter box, I can get a search going.’ The clerk slid the sheet under the glass screen and towards Raymond.
‘But ... but I have no money. I owe my mum.’
‘Sorry, Mr …?’
‘It’s Mann, Raymond Mann.’
‘Sorry, Mr Mann, but as you’re single, a non-householder, living with your parents, there’s no hardship involved and you’ll have to wait for your money.’
‘B-But my mum won’t believe me. She won’t believe I’ve even been here. Can you write me a note, please?’
‘Sorry, Mr Mann.’ The clerk sighed. ‘Now, I have other people to see. If there’s nothing else, just fill in this form and I’ll contact you in about seven weeks.’
The clerk in the booth next to Raymond returned to his desk and began talking to the elderly man. Raymond looked across at them.
‘Okay, I’ve spoken to my supervisor and what we can do is give you two weeks’ money. That should tide you over until your replacement book is ready. Obviously if the old one turns up you must return it straight away,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ replied the man. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
Raymond sat spellbound by the conversation. A tapping on the glass screen in front of him brought him out of his trance.
‘Mr Mann, if there’s nothing else, I have other people to see.’
Raymond got up from the seat and trudged towards the exit at an all-time low. Why was everything against him?
Then his name boomed from the speakers.
‘Mr Mann, Mr Mann, please return to the desk.’
Three youths sniggered as Raymond retraced his steps to the booth.
‘Mr Mann, you forgot to take your form. Fill it in and pop it in the post box,’ said the clerk.
‘Okay. Thank you,’ said Raymond quietly.
He walked to the exit again.
The three youths whispered to each other and laughed loudly. One, a skinhead with dark-blue tattoos down his arms, looked directly at Raymond.
‘All right, Mr Mann,’ he said menacingly. ‘How’s Mr Bendy, or should we say Mr Bender?’ Hoots of laughter ensued. Other people turned to look and were smiling.
Raymond’s cheeks grew hot and he knew a telltale blush was forming. He tried to hurry past.
‘Excuse me,’ he said assertively, in a vain attempt to hide his discomfort.
A second, stockier youth reached forward and tried to grab Raymond’s leg.
‘Has Miss Tickle been up to no good?’
There was more laughter as the youths leaned back in their seats and stuck their legs out, bridging the aisle and blocking Raymond’s way.
He dodged an outstretched hand and attempted to hop over the legs. The youths raised their limbs when he was halfway across. Tight, faded blue jeans and black Doctor Martens formed a treacherous obstacle course that adjusted to his every move.
Laughter filled the office as he struggled astride the legs. He felt the other claimants’ eyes boring into his back. Embarrassment burned through him.
At last he escaped and hurried out into the fresh air. He sat on a brick wall running along the office boundary and completed the form, balancing it awkwardly on his skinny thigh, then posted it in the letter box by the front entrance.
He returned to the wall, sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
‘Jesus, I know you didn’t make it come,’ he whispered, ‘but let it come tomorrow. Please, Lord, thirty prayers if it comes tomorrow. Promise. Amen.’
The sun was high in the sky and Raymond tilted his head back, letting the hot rays bathe his face. What now? He couldn’t tell his mum; she’d never believe him.
Raymond lowered his head. The elderly man who’d been in the next booth ambled past and nodded.
There was a shout from the doorway.
‘There he is – it’s Mr Mann. And, look, he’s got his mate Mr Bender with him.’ The three youths from the dole office made a beeline for Raymond. As they strolled towards him they laughed and pushed one another, mimicking gay courtesans.
‘Are you two off to do some DIY, or did you get a bum-hole plumbing course from the social?’
They circled Raymond and the elderly man. One moved forward. He cracked his knuckles and flexed the muscles in his arms. Raymond looked around for an escape route. The older man just smiled and turned to face the group.
‘What’s wrong? I’m sure this can all be sorted out amicably,’ he said politely.
The skinhead pressed his face up close to the pensioner’s. ‘Amicably wankibly, you old poofter. Shut up.’ Spit sprayed on to the older man’s face.
The skinhead bounced back and stood in line with his grinning accomplices, then spoke softly. ‘Listen, Mr Mann and Mr Bender, we’re a bit skint – you know how it is. So if you have some loose change we’ll show our appreciation by … NOT SMASHING YOUR FUCKIN’ FACES IN.’
Raymond and the old man jumped back in fright and the three youths burst into laughter again. Raymond, pale and shaking, put his hand into his pocket while the old man retrieved a large juicy orange from his carrier bag.
‘We don’t want no fuckin’ food, you fuckin’ idiot,’ the lead skinhead shouted, spit again erupting from his mouth.
The older man smiled and looked at the orange. ‘Oh, what a waste,’ he whispered, then threw it hard into the face of the skinhead.
The yob fell to the ground, clutching his head and rolling around while his companions tried to lift him.
‘What’s wrong with you people? Where’s your pride? Grow up,’ the old man said calmly. He turned to Raymond. ‘Come on. Let’s get a coffee.’
Raymond stood still and open-mouthed as the elderly man marched away, his back straight and his head high.
The yobs huddled around their fallen friend. ‘We’ll report you – you could have blinded him, you fucking bender.’
The man stopped, looked back at the youths and smiled, their V-signs making no impression on him.
‘I can see the headlines now. “Frail old man beats three thugs with an orange.” I don’t think so, do you? What will your friends think of the fearsome threesome?’ He glanced at Raymond. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he said kindly.
‘Er ... yes. Yes please,’ Raymond replied, his voice small and shaking. He jogged to catch up.
The pair walked in silence through the grey concrete underpass that shielded them from the newly opened dual carriageway. The drone of traffic rumbled above them. They crossed the old link road and entered the throng of shoppers. The older man seemed sure of his destination and Raymond often had to double his stride or do an awkward step to keep up.
They reached a small cafe called The Salt Shaker. Ernest pushed open the single red door and gestured for Raymond to enter. A bell jangled as he walked through and a well-spoken man with longish curly hair and a moustache welcomed them inside.
‘Morning, Ernest. The usual?’
‘Yes, please. And one for my friend here.’
Raymond had noticed The Salt Shaker when shopping with his mum; he’d assumed it just sold takeaway burgers and something foreign called chilli con carne. Now he saw two tiny tables set beside the wall, each covered by a blue floral tablecloth.
‘Take a seat,’ said the proprietor. ‘I’ll bring them over to you.’
‘T
hanks, Keith,’ said Ernest, walking over to the furthest table. He pulled out a chair, sat down and beckoned Raymond to join him.
Raymond looked around the coffee shop. It was small but the white walls gave the illusion of space. In front of Keith was a large silver bain-marie and Raymond wondered if this contained the mysterious chilli con carne. To the side of the owner was a greasy, well-used iron griddle for the burgers, and behind him, a spot lit blackboard displaying the price list. The thick chalk handwriting flowed and swirled artistically over the surface.
The old man offered Raymond his hand.
‘Hello, I’m Ernest Gardiner. Pleased to meet you.’
Raymond accepted the man’s hand tentatively. It felt cold, a little bony and fragile.
‘I’m Raymond, Raymond Mann,’ he said quietly.
Ernest seemed agitated.
‘I ask you, what makes people do that, Raymond? Why is everyone so angry? People’s rudeness is just extraordinary. We have a wonderful country, yet they live like that and get enjoyment from someone else’s misfortune. I tell you, Raymond …’
Keith appeared with their coffees.
‘Here we are, gents,’ he said. He looked at Raymond and smiled. ‘If I were you I’d drink that quickly and get going.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the door. ‘Otherwise you’ll get the thoughts of Chairman Ernie for the next three hours. I’m a captive audience, but don’t let him snare you as well.’
Keith spoke with authority and a quiet charm. His voice was neither high class nor accented, but it demanded to be heard. Raymond envied the man’s natural confidence and seemingly effortless conversational skills.
Ernest laughed. ‘Yes and you, Mr Worth, will be the first against the wall come the revolution.’
Keith placed two white plastic cups on the table. Raymond reached forward and picked his up but it was hot and burnt his fingers. He quickly put it down, hoping no one had noticed.
Ernest was still laughing. ‘Yes, it’s not the most luxurious of places, I’m afraid. I don’t know why I keep coming back! Hmm, maybe it’s the company.’ He raised his cup to Keith in a mock toast. Keith waved a single finger and touched his temple in a friendly salute.
They drank their coffee slowly. Raymond concentrated on each sip, searching for something interesting to say but finding himself mute.
Ernest broke the silence. ‘I’m so sorry about losing my temper like that. We don’t even know each other but it makes me so cross. All the chances in the world and they choose to be like that. Anyway, enough. Tell me what you like to do.’
Raymond felt even more uneasy. His dad’s words about finding a job echoed in his head. What would this old man think if he found out he was unemployed? He slid his chair backwards.
‘Thanks for your help but I’ve got to go. I’ve just this minute remembered my mum’s expecting me. I’m really, really sorry. Thanks again for the coffee and everything. Bye bye. Hope to see you again sometime.’
‘Oh, don’t leave,’ Ernest quickly replied. ‘You haven’t drunk your coffee yet. I can give you a lift home if you like; that’ll save you some time. I have my car. I’m just a silly old man who doesn’t get out much. Well, apart from The Salt Shaker, of course, which doesn’t really count.’ He looked over at Keith and smiled. ‘You know ...’ He leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers high on his chest. ‘I long for the days of chivalry and honour, which I suspect weren’t there in the first place. In my cranky old brain and with my rose-coloured spectacles on, everything old seems better, and I wish it wasn’t so. What I need is for someone to show me I’m wrong.’
‘But I have to get my bus,’ Raymond said hurriedly. He felt odd. ‘My mum’s waiting for me.’
‘Finish your coffee and I’ll take you home in the car.’
‘But … but I don’t know you, and my mum’s waiting for me; she’ll be wondering where I am.’ Raymond had decided to emphasise his mum just in case the old man was planning to kidnap him. Then, intrigued, he asked, ‘Can you see without your glasses?’
‘Pardon?’ asked Ernest, puzzled. ‘What glasses?’
‘Your rose ones,’ Raymond replied. ‘I haven’t seen any like that. Are they like John Lennon’s?’ He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, eager to hear the answer.
Ernest laughed, a gentle rumble that wrapped Raymond in its warmth.
‘Oh, yes, they’re very special, but I wear them far too much,’ he said. ‘Raymond, I understand why you’re reluctant to accept a lift home from me; I’m an elderly man whom you’ve never met before. But this is what I mean about the world today – I’m just offering to give you a ride home in my car. It’s a simple act of kindness but these days it suddenly has lots of different connotations. You know what? A little boy fell over in front of me the other day. I went to pick him up but then changed my mind in case his mother thought I was about to molest him. What’s happening to the world, Raymond?’ Ernest took a large mouthful of coffee and then tipped the cup back. ‘A great friend of mine once said that everything happens for a reason. You seem a little down. Maybe the reason we met was so we could cheer each other up. I really hope so.’ He stood. ‘My car’s just down the road. If you’d like a lift, you’ll be most welcome. And if not, it’s been wonderful talking to you. I’m sure that when you get to my age, you too will have some rose-coloured spectacles of your very own.’
Ernest paid the bill, said goodbye to Keith, and smiled briefly at Raymond. As he opened the cafe door a shower of sunlight washed over the tables. Raymond closed his eyes against the brightness. When he opened them, Ernest had gone.
Raymond was unsure what to do. He still had coffee left, but it felt uncomfortable sitting in The Salt Shaker alone with the owner.
‘You won’t find a nicer gentleman than Ernest,’ said Keith as he strode over to collect the cups. ‘And gentleman is absolutely the right word. Ernest says everything happens for a reason, and maybe it does, but I think you have to take a few chances in life to make things happen, don’t you? I wouldn’t be here in The Shaker if I hadn’t taken a risk or two.’
Raymond nodded and pushed back his chair, his mind made up.
He offered Keith a timid thank-you and hurried out of the cafe. The bell on the door jangled behind him as he set off in pursuit of Ernest.
CHAPTER SIX
The Biggest Smile
Raymond rushed down the road and caught up with the old man just as he was about to get into a dark-blue Morris Minor. The car was pristine; even its black tyres were devoid of dirt.
From a distance Ernest had seemed sad and preoccupied, as if the weight of the world were on his old shoulders, but on seeing Raymond a smile bloomed on his lips and his eyes twinkled back the years. He moved quickly around the car and vigorously shook Raymond’s hand, then guided him into the passenger seat, his palm resting on Raymond’s back.
The two men travelled in silence, but Ernest’s smile remained in place the whole way. They drove out of town, around the confusing new roundabouts that resembled the Olympic rings, then followed the bus route along the New London Road. Raymond watched the familiar streets and landmarks of his bus journey pass by and thought about how his panic would usually increase the closer he got to home.
He was unsure what to do or what to say and the silence overwhelmed him as it had in the cafe. Powerless to stop the heat rising to his cheeks once more, he focused his gaze out of the side window, feigning interest in the scenery until his neck ached with the effort.
Every now and again Ernest would glance over. If he noticed Raymond’s discomfort he made no mention of it.
At last they turned into Raymond’s road.
‘Okay, it’s just over here on the left. Just drop me anywhere. Yes, this will do. Thank you very much for the lift.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Ernest. ‘Are those sunflowers?’ he asked, looking past Raymond into the garden.
‘Er, yes. I’m trying to grow them but they’re not doing very well.’
‘I love sunflowers; they’re my favourites. I have lots in my garden. Can I see them?’
Ernest stopped the car outside the small semi and got out. He looked at the untidy lawn. White daisies covered most of the front garden. A small brick wall marked its boundary and there were bedding plants flowering in the narrow borders. Raymond’s sunflowers stood pallid against the light-red brick of the house.
‘Can I have a closer look?’ Ernest asked again. He stood on the driver’s side of the car, his arms resting on the roof as he gazed over at the garden.
‘Yes, okay. If you want to.’
Raymond held the small metal gate open and Ernest strolled through. He walked slowly over the lawn, then stopped and turned, taking in the whole of the garden. The borders, though well stocked with bedding plants and mature shrubs, were a little unkempt and weedy but Raymond’s patch was immaculate. Ernest smiled as they neared the sunflowers.
They knelt in front of the green stems and Ernest reached out to inspect a leaf.
‘Did you know that sunflowers were around four thousand years ago?’ he said. ‘They used to be grown by American Indians. They’d grind the seed into flour for bread and use the oil on their skin and hair.’ Ernest pulled off a curled brown leaf and let it drop to the grass. ‘And in Peru, the Aztecs used them to crown their priestesses.’ He straightened, wincing at the effort. ‘Can you imagine? As far as the eye can see, rows and rows of sunflowers. What a sight that must have been.’
Raymond tilted his head slightly and looked at Ernest, intrigued.
‘You know a lot about sunflowers?’ he said.
‘Well, a little.’
‘In my book it says they can grow six feet in five months. That’s fourteen inches a month, so that should be at least three inches a week.’ The words burst from Raymond without pause or breath. ‘But mine grow nowhere near that much. It’s been nearly three months since I planted them, so I reckon they should be at least three and a half feet, but look at them – they’re barely two.’ Raymond glanced at Ernest, now embarrassed by his display of enthusiasm.
Ernest smiled. ‘Ahhh,’ he said quietly, ‘so there is something that gives you a spark, that makes you smile, that makes the day worth getting up for.’ He turned and looked at Raymond. ‘What are these flowers called, young man?’
Cold Sunflowers Page 3
