Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  ‘Um ... yes, sir.’

  ‘Private Gardiner, the photographer?’

  ‘He’s the one sir,’ said Bill. ‘He’s the best around.’

  Ernest pointed to the camera lying next to him.

  ‘Some bigwig up at HQ wants his war effort captured on film for the nation to enjoy,’ said the rider in an upper-class British accent. ‘You’re the nearest blasted photographer. You need to get up there tout suite.’

  Ernest looked at Bill, who shrugged.

  ‘But where do I go? How do I get there?’ he said.

  ‘HQ’s on the front line,’ answered the horseman, ‘but we haven’t seen the bloody Hun for ages; you’ll have a picnic up there. There’s a transport leaving shortly – make sure you’re on it.’

  ‘But what about all my equipment? I can’t move it by myself. It’s far too much for one person.’ Ernest glanced at Bill.

  ‘I only have orders for you, Gardiner. Now get yourself on the bloody lorry.’

  ‘But, sir, if the major, or whoever, wants me to take his photograph, I need all my equipment. I’m sure he’ll be none too pleased if I’ve had to leave most of it behind.’

  The rider looked at Ernest with suspicion as if unsure what to do. Then, with a quick dig of his heels into the horse’s flank, he wheeled around. The horse reared slightly then stilled.

  ‘Right. Who’s your assistant?’

  ‘It’s Bill here; he’s my assistant.’

  ‘You two chaps, get all your gear together; the lorry leaves in about twenty minutes. I’ll clear it with the goddamn sergeant.’

  The rider spurred his mount once more and in a cloud of dust rode back down the street in the direction he’d come from.

  ‘Thanks, Ernie,’ said Bill, ‘but I don’t know the first thing about photography.’

  ‘Stick with me, Bill. You’ll be all right.’

  Bill shoved him hard and both men laughed.

  ‘Right, let’s get your equipment then,’ said Bill. ‘We don’t want to miss the transport.’

  Ernest picked up his camera and handed Bill the canvas bag. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he said, and stepped out down the street. He looked back at Bill and started to laugh once more. Bill jogged after him.

  ‘This is it?’ he said, a little out of breath. ‘This is the equipment?’ Bill was laughing now and he put his arm around Ernest’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ – he mimicked the rider’s upper-class accent – ‘let’s get on that goddamn lorry tout suite, before the sergeant finds out.’

  They quickened their pace and proceeded through the derelict town. The buildings lay shattered and bare; piles of rubble cleared from the roads dwarfed their skeleton brick remains. Chimney stacks stood tall amid the wreckage and window frames jutted at odd angles, defying the gravity that had pulled the rest of the building towards the earth. All about, men sat in twos and threes, smoking and talking, and as Bill and Ernest walked past, the soldiers looked up, curious to know what had caused the spring in their step.

  As they turned a ruined corner, they found a dark-green lorry with a canvas tarpaulin arched over the back. Thick grey smoke belched from its exhaust, obscuring rickety spoked wheels with barely enough tyre to dampen the tiniest of bumps. More than a dozen men sat under the tarpaulin and they moaned and cussed as the additional passengers climbed over the tailgate and assumed the prime position at the back of the vehicle.

  Almost as soon as Ernest and Bill had clambered inside, the driver crunched into first gear, and with a couple of loud misfires the lorry lurched forward. The men momentarily lost their balance and tumbled backwards. They grabbed the side rails for stability and found the position they would adopt for the rest of the journey.

  Ernest and Bill looked back at the departing town. As the dust cleared they saw the sergeant in hot pursuit. He waved his arms and appeared to be mouthing the words stop and halt but no sound reached the lorry. Knowing they were safe, they laughed and waved back, both arms high in the air. The sergeant stopped, bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. When his breath returned he stood, straightened and brushed the dust from his uniform. A small smile broke on his face and he waved, one arm in the air, his hand hardly moving.

  ‘God speed,’ he mouthed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Bud

  Raymond sat transfixed; his interest and wonder growing as the story progressed.

  ‘So that was my first proper experience of the front line,’ said Ernest. ‘Bill told me the bits I couldn’t remember. You know, those times when I was a quivering wreck’ – he shook his head – ‘I didn’t shower myself in glory, did I?’ He picked up his teacup and drained the last drops. ‘I wouldn’t have got through it if it wasn’t for Bill, he’s the reason I’m sat here talking to you. He was my friend, and he said everything happened for a reason.’ Ernest smiled. ‘Maybe he was right.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’ asked Raymond.

  Ernest looked away; he seemed to hesitate.

  ‘No, we lost touch. Things change.’ He raised himself from his chair, using his arms to take the weight off his legs. As he straightened his back, a grimace flashed across his face. He turned to Raymond, then made a point of looking at a gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Look at the time. You’d better be off – your mother will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘But I can’t go yet,’ Raymond said in disbelief. ‘We haven’t even met Mira!’

  Ernest smiled again. ‘Tell you what, come again tomorrow and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. Now go!’

  * * *

  Raymond sat on the bus, his head turned to the window as the world whizzed by. A small smile crept over his lips as he stared into space, lost in the afternoon’s revelations. Ernest had told him about a different age and he tried to imagine himself uniformed, in a trench, and facing such horrific adversity. How would he have coped? Ernest had been a similar age to him but it was hard to find any empathy with those soldiers – their lives were so different and his own worries seemed trivial in comparison.

  The standing passengers swayed to the movement of the packed bus, gripping the silver handrails tightly and reluctantly moving aside as fellow travellers squeezed past, each one alert for a precious empty seat.

  The gentle hum of the engine soothed Raymond, and he leant his head against the vibrating glass window, oblivious to the throng surrounding him.

  Familiar landmarks began to register, and with a start Raymond realised he was close to home. He sat straight and looked quickly around the bus for the conductor, but she was nowhere to be seen. Shocked into action, and almost without thinking, he stood and excused himself to the passenger next to him, who huffed and angled his knees so Raymond could pass. The red button loomed before him and the reality of his situation dawned. He hesitated, his heart beginning to gallop as he stared hard at the button, willing himself to move. His mind began to scream, dulling all other sound. But then, just as the silence threatened to overwhelm him, he reached forward and pressed the bell.

  The familiar ring echoed through the bus and the driver brought the vehicle to a halt. Raymond inched past the standing passengers, hopped off the exit step and stood watching as the bus motored off. He grinned, causing those rarely used muscles in his cheeks to ache. Try as he might he couldn’t stop, and as he turned and headed for home, he found himself skipping along the pavement.

  He neared his house and saw his garden wall looming into view. Rising above it and slightly swaying were his newly transferred sunflowers. The plants seemed to have grown and were standing straight, pointing towards the sun. Healthy green leaves had replaced the limp pale ones, and as Raymond skipped past his heart missed a beat.

  At the top of the tallest flower, a bud had formed. Gently, Raymond drew the stem down towards him and looked more closely, the way Ernest had shown him. Tiny yellow petals were just beginning to emerge from the t
ight green ball. He felt the blood thumping hard in his head. He allowed the stem to straighten, then ran to the front door. He banged impatiently and, when no one answered, fumbled in his coat pocket for his keys and let himself in.

  ‘Mum, Mum,’ he shouted excitedly. ‘You’ll never guess what.’

  Raymond’s mother, tea towel in hand, hurried out of the kitchen, her face tight with concern.

  ‘What? What is it Ray?’ she said anxiously. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. It’s my sunflowers – they’re coming out!’

  ‘Raymond, I thought you were ill! Where have you been all afternoon?’

  ‘Mum, for the first time ever my sunflowers are actually coming out.’ He bounced on his toes in excitement.

  ‘You’ve been to that old man’s, haven’t you? I told you to wait until I’d spoken to your dad.’ She flicked the tea towel against her leg.

  ‘Mum, he’s great. It’s because of him my sunflowers are flowering. He said I could be whatever I wanted to be. He ... he ...’ In his delight Raymond could find no more words.

  ‘Raymond, what on earth’s got into you?’ Her lips mirrored his smile.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Raymond, turning on the spot. ‘I just feel so happy.’

  His mother shook her head. ‘Oh, Ray, what am I going to do with you?’ She tentatively reached forward to touch his arm, but he turned quickly and climbed the stairs.

  * * *

  That night, Raymond pulled the covers high over his shoulders. It was warm and humid, but he liked the security of the sheltering blankets. Light from the street lamp diffused through his curtains, bathing the bedroom in a golden glow. He began his prayers as usual, wishing his family well, but when he neared the end he paused, thought for a moment, and added, ‘And thank you, Lord, for looking after me on the bus and for making it such a good day. Please make tomorrow be just as good. Twenty prayers if tomorrow’s just as good. Oh … and, Lord, please look after my friend, Ernest. Amen.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Disagreement

  The next day, Raymond woke early and wandered downstairs into the kitchen. His father was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper and eating a slice of toast. Raymond tipped some cornflakes into a bowl and sat at the opposite end.

  ‘You’re late for work today, Dad,’ he said, reaching for the milk.

  ‘I’m working in town today. Cuts out the rail fare, thank goodness. What’s happening with you, Ray?’

  ‘I’m going round Ernest’s.’

  His father frowned. ‘Ernest? Do I know him?’

  ‘You know, he was the man I met at the DHSS who helped me with my flowers. He was a photographer in the war.’

  ‘Photographs and flowers won’t find you a job, Ray. You need to stop moping around and get yourself out there.’ His father hadn’t looked up from the paper. ‘When are we going to London, anyway?’

  ‘Dad, I’m not moping around.’ Raymond’s voice rose and his pulse quickened. ‘Ernest said we can all do what we want to do. I’ve been thinking, you remember how I used to get good marks at school for English? Maybe I could be a writer or a journalist.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Raymond.’ His dad slammed the paper down on the table. Raymond jerked, spilling milk and cornflakes. ‘All I see you do is walk around with your head down and the weight of the world on your shoulders. And if you’re not doing that, you come up with these stupid ideas.’ He sipped his tea then continued, ‘We can’t all do what we want to do. Look at me; look at my goddamn awful job. Knuckle down, stop being so miserable and get on with your life. And I can tell you now, you’re not seeing that dirty old man again either.’

  The chair scraped across the lino as Raymond sprung to his feet. He leant towards his father, fingers stretched out on the table to bear his weight. ‘He’s not a dirty old man; he’s the nicest person I’ve ever met, and you’ve told me yourself to find a good job, something I enjoy.’

  ‘That was before. Now you need to live in the real world, and it’s not easy.’

  Raymond’s mum hurried into the kitchen and glanced at her husband and son.

  ‘Now then, what’s all this shouting?’ she said. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘Dad called Ernest a dirty old man and won’t let me go round there.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it. We’ve just been so worried about you, Ray. Look, how about this; you see Ernest today and then tomorrow you make some phone calls and try to find a job. Is that fair?’ She straightened the creases in her apron.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Raymond quietly.

  His mother turned to her husband. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get the chance to speak to you last night – you were home so late.’

  His dad dropped his toast on to the plate and shook his head.

  ‘I can’t understand it – yesterday morning you were worried sick about this old bloke.’

  ‘I know, I know, but perhaps I was a little hasty. We shouldn’t judge a book by the cover now, should we?’ She turned and took the kettle over to the sink. ‘Let me make you another cuppa.’

  ‘This family’s gone crazy. Perhaps someone would like to help me out when I’m doing a triple overtime shift to make ends meet.’ His dad stood and hastily left the table.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said softly. She took a step towards her husband, intent on giving him a hug, but he moved away and into the hall before she could reach him.

  ‘You don’t though, that’s the trouble,’ he called. ‘I’m late for work. See you tonight.’ They heard him fumble with his coat, then the front door opened and slammed shut.

  She sighed. ‘Right, Ray, off you go. Don’t forget, tomorrow you look for some work to help your dad out. We’re just struggling to make ends meet and he’s working all the hours under the sun.’

  ‘I will ... I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Raymond.

  ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll get through it – we always do. It’s just a bad patch.’

  She smiled and reached for Raymond’s hand. Feeling awkward, he avoided her touch and squeezed past her and out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dougal Hyland

  Raymond pulled the front door shut and took a deep breath. He hated arguing with his dad but it was something they seemed to be doing more and more. It was as if he had to prove himself and he often felt a disappointment.

  He wandered, dejected, down the front path but the bright morning sunshine cheered him and a cool summer breeze revitalised his spirits. Stopping to look at his sunflowers, he smiled. Their stems were even taller and on each there was now a definite bud.

  He closed the garden gate behind him and jogged to the bus stop.

  The bus was less crowded today and Raymond sat near the front. He watched as the conductor braced herself against the seats, her buttocks clenched either side of the backrest. She shook her satchel to find the correct coppers, then used the handrail to swing acrobatically up the stairs.

  He recalled the previous afternoon’s events. Did everything happen for a reason and could he really do anything he wanted as Ernest had said? The ideas, images and future opportunities spiralled in his head like a shoal of glittering golden fish. He smiled, lost in his reverie until, again with surprise, he realised he was nearing his stop. The journey, so often fraught with worry, had simply disappeared.

  Although his breath had become shallow and his heart was beating quickly, he gripped the seat in front, reached forward and pressed the bell. The bus slowed and stopped and Raymond leapt off. He felt exhilarated; at that moment any dream was achievable. More than anything else he wanted to share his happiness.

  He arrived at Ernest’s house and rang the doorbell. A cheerful chime broke the silence followed by a jangle of keys. After what seemed like an age, the older man turned the lock with a satisfying clunk and opened the door. He greeted Raymond warmly and ushered him in.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ said Ernest as
he moved the cushions from the armchair. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’ He passed a plate of biscuits. Raymond took a chocolate one.

  ‘Didn’t think I’d come? Of course I was going to come.’

  He’d taken a bite from the biscuit, and though his mouth was full and he knew it was rude to talk, he couldn’t stop himself. The words, and a few crumbs, sprung from his lips, one after the other leaping joyously into the air. ‘I’ve got to hear the end of the story, haven’t I?’ He picked up a few bits of biscuit from his T-shirt and put them back in his mouth. ‘And I’ve been thinking about all the other things you said as well – you know, the stuff about doing what I want to do. My dad used to say that too. He said he’d help me find something I really enjoyed, but now he just says I’ve got to be sensible.’

  Ernest thought for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose he’s right, but I still think that if you want to do something more than anything else in the world, if you put every ounce of your heart and soul into it, you can do it. It’s just that most people don’t have that sort of determination.’

  Raymond felt suddenly silly and embarrassed and wished he’d not given voice to his feelings. He studied the room with interest, avoiding Ernest’s gaze, the silence broken only by the crunch of biscuits. He was deliberating what to say next when out of nowhere a thought flew into his head. It was now or never – he needed to leap into the unknown and hope that Ernest would be there to catch him. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I … I think I’d like to write something.’

  Ernest laughed and Raymond’s cheeks warmed.

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ said Ernest. ‘I wasn’t laughing at your idea, not at all. You just don’t sound sure that’s all. It doesn’t sound like something you want to do more than anything else in the world.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only just thought of it,’ said Raymond defensively, and took another bite of his biscuit. ‘I’ve got to build myself up.’

  Ernest’s face came alive, like a sea at sunrise, and he broke into silent laughter, his eyes sparkling with joy. Raymond smiled then, glad that he’d brought happiness into the room. He looked into Ernest’s kind eyes and saw in them a young man with a life full of dreams.