Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

‘Not … quite … yet,’ said Raymond, and he splashed Ernest. The tiny droplets of water seemed to hang in the air as the sun refracted through them.

  ‘Why you—’ said Ernest surprised. ‘Now you’re going to get a nuclear retaliation.’ Ernest sent huge sprays of water over Raymond, not stopping even when he surrendered and held his hands to cover his face.

  ‘There, you can’t mess with a super power,’ said Ernest, grinning. Raymond took his chance, grabbing Ernest around the neck and pulling him into the sea.

  Drenched and choking, they stood and wiped the water from their eyes. Once the stinging salt had cleared and they could see each other again, neither could stop the splutters of laughter that filled the air. They linked arms and walked back to the sand.

  Raymond waved at the people on the beach, calling them over, but they shook their heads and walked away as if certain they were witnessing the after-effects of a drunken afternoon in Weymouth.

  The two men flopped down on to the sand and lay outstretched, looking up at the blue sky, feeling the sea breeze, on their wet clothes. Ernest was breathing heavily but it didn’t stop his smile as the sun gently warmed him.

  ‘Thank you for sharing such a perfect day,’ he said quietly.

  Raymond laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Granddad.’

  ‘Why, you young whippersnapper, how you’ve changed,’ replied Ernest, but he looked at Raymond and felt a pride so strong that it burned inside of him, and he was sure no father could have been happier.

  * * *

  ‘Raymond, Raymond. Wake up. We’re here,’ said Ernest, nudging him.

  Raymond opened his eyes. He’d been sleeping and wondered where those four hours had gone. He smiled and couldn’t remember a time since he was tiny when he’d been happier.

  ‘Thanks, Ernest,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just ... just for everything. It’s been a great summer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ernest, laughing. ‘It has, hasn’t it? Tell you what, tonight I’ll teach you how to fly. Well, the closest you can get to it without your feet leaving the ground. Meet me at The Quiet Life at nine. You know, the pub on the hill near my house. We need three pints before closing. Reckon you can manage that?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Learning to Fly

  The Quiet Life was a proper British pub – two bars, the public and saloon, and a tiny off-licence where every night an elderly man leant against the scarred green counter. He would wobble along the road on his bicycle, arrive at opening time, and remain until last orders, making his slowly sipped pint last the whole evening. A white terrier sat by his feet and was rewarded for its patience with a packet of ready salted crisps, which, unlike the beer, lasted only seconds.

  The saloon bar was warm and welcoming. Plush salmon-coloured banquettes lined the walls and small wooden tables took up the space in the middle, their chairs pointing towards a central chimney and an unlit fire.

  A young barmaid chatted happily to the elderly patrons while Henry, the craggy landlord, hovered in the background, adjusting the drip trays, straightening the bar towels and ensuring everything ran smoothly. His large moustache often displayed white bubbles of froth acquired from a surreptitious sip of beer, bought by a customer wishing to gain favour. On the odd occasion when he served behind the bar, he would tilt his head to one side and close an eye in an act of scientific concentration as he pulled the pump slowly towards him, ensuring the perfect pint. Less kind patrons often commented that he was judging the volume of beer to the nth degree, never exceeding the white measurement line. Unbeknown to Henry, some younger customers would mimic his beer-pulling technique, much to the merriment of the pub.

  Ernest and Raymond sat carefree and happy in the corner. The alcohol had done its work, and they were perched on the precipice of gay abandon but not quite ready to dive into drunkenness. An empty beer mug and pint glass sat on the table in front of them. A red Embassy ashtray held down a pile of flattened crisp packets and a lacy haze of smoke smudged the air. The sound of pool balls clacking and the odd groan or cheer could be heard from the public bar.

  ‘Last orders,’ the landlord shouted above the dull hubbub.

  ‘You want another?’ asked Raymond.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Ernest. ‘I’ve done this many times before. We need that early glow of drunkenness but we also need to be able to run.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Ernest! What are we going to do? Tell me!’

  ‘All will be revealed. Let’s go.’

  * * *

  Ernest and Raymond stood at the top of the gently sloping hill, their heads close together in whispered conversation. Ernest wore his white overcoat buttoned tightly to the neck; in contrast, Raymond’s black duffel flapped open.

  The anticipation was electric and their breath came in bursts as their pulses quickened. It began to rain. Raymond lifted his head and let the drops fall into his eyes and into his open mouth catching them on his tongue. He turned on the spot with his face to the sky watching Ernest share his joy.

  Ernest raised his arms, Christ-like, palms upwards catching the rain.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he whispered. ‘It’s the closest you’ll get to flying without leaving the ground.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Raymond, his voice barely audible.

  Ernest lowered his arms, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small round object. It was a French franc, battered and brown, its long history evident in the smoothness of its surface. He caressed it between his thumb and forefinger. After so many years the movement of his circling thumb was as natural as blinking.

  ‘Follow it down the hill. Go as quickly as your legs will take you. Leap whenever you can and don’t stop even if you overtake it.’

  Raymond looked down the slope and adjusted his position, imitating a runner about to start a race. Ernest swung his arm back and smoothly sent the coin rolling and bouncing down the hill.

  For a second, Raymond rocked back on his heels, surprised by the strength of Ernest’s throw, and then he leapt after the coin. He’d never been athletic and this was evident in his ungainly run and flailing arms as he plummeted down the slope.

  He gained speed, the incline of the hill assisting his momentum. And now his legs could barely keep up with him – sometimes it seemed as if his feet missed the ground completely. The breeze and the sound of his footsteps pounding the pavement were all he could hear. Then he leapt, arms outstretched, and everything was quiet for the briefest of moments. He landed lightly and continued to run faster and faster. The street lights, the stars and the pavement merged into a mist-filled swirl.

  Eyes closed, mouth open, gasping with joy, he ran and leapt, overtaking the franc that had now fallen on its side.

  And then it was over.

  Raymond was at the bottom of the hill and he jogged to a halt. He bent, put his hands on his knees and panted heavily. As his breath returned, he straightened, raised his arms to the stars and jumped, laughing and whooping.

  Ernest walked down the hill towards the franc. Lost in thought, he bent slowly to pick it up, passed it between his fingers and squeezed it in his hands.

  ‘Come on. You do it. You must – please, you must!’ Raymond shouted up the slope, his voice cutting through the silence.

  ‘I can’t. I’m past all that. How did it feel?’ he said.

  ‘Like I was the wind! Please do it.’

  Smiling, Ernest looked at the coin and once more sent it rolling down the hill. He ran after it, stuttering on stiff legs until his momentum, fuelled by the hill and gravity, began to increase and in an act of grace and wonder, he leapt.

  Raymond stood open-mouthed as he watched his friend rise into the air; saw him freeze-framed in flight, a huge smile on his face, his arms flung forward, legs poised like a long jumper’s.

  In an instant, the world spun back to grey reality as Ernest’s feet returned to the earth and his legs buckled under his weight. Arms outstretched, he tottered forward and crumpled on to
his open hands and bent knees.

  He lay motionless, face down, his white coat rising and falling with each heavy breath.

  ‘Ernest!’ Raymond shouted, and ran up the hill.

  Ernest slowly rolled over and sat up, his head resting on his knees. Raymond skidded to a halt in front of him.

  ‘Ernest! Ernest, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, brushing the dirt from his trousers. ‘It’s just my pride. Thank goodness it’s dark.’ He laughed, then winced.

  Raymond lifted Ernest to his feet and helped him over the road to the grass verge. Ernest gingerly sat down on a plastic grit bin and looked at his palms; they were bleeding.

  ‘What a foolish old man I am,’ he said. ‘Trouble is, I don’t feel old. I wanted to fly like you. Not that long ago I could do it.’ He looked down at his torn trousers; a glistening red stain had formed on each knee. ‘When we met, you seemed scared of living. Well, you know what?’ He sighed. ‘I’m scared of dying. I just keep thinking of all the wonderful things that are going to happen and how I’ll miss them all.’

  They sat in silence while Ernest’s breathing returned to normal. It was still raining and the two men looked a forlorn sight, perched on the yellow bin sagging under their weight.

  Raymond moved closer and the bin dipped a little more.

  ‘All my so-called friends at school had a party once,’ he said. ‘A reunion. The only thing was they forgot, or … or … probably didn’t want to invite me. But … I didn’t miss going because I didn’t know it had happened. It was only a long time afterwards when somebody told me about it that I felt bad and wished I’d been there. Before then, I was absolutely fine.’

  The silence continued. Then Ernest grinned and began to laugh, louder and louder, holding his ribs and grimacing.

  ‘You’re right, you’re so right; how can I miss things I don’t even know will happen? What I’ll miss are my memories. That’s it. It’s my memories I’ll miss and I’ve already had those. They’ve been so wonderful, but I can’t have them again, can I? Oh, Raymond, why didn’t I think of that?’ Ernest put his arm around Raymond’s shoulder. ‘Goddamn it, Raymond. How did you get to be so clever?’

  Raymond looked through the drizzle and found Ernest’s smiling eyes.

  ‘I had the best teacher,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s been an honour, my friend,’ said Ernest, returning Raymond’s gaze.

  ‘Don’t talk of sad things; I’ve learnt to fly. Come on – let’s get you home, then you can order me a taxi.’

  Ernest struggled to his feet, took a single step and stumbled. Raymond moved closer and held him tightly around the waist. He lifted Ernest’s arm and wrapped it around his neck and the two began a slow, staccato walk home.

  ‘Wait, hang on – stop a minute,’ said Ernest, and they paused. He reached into his pocket. ‘You have this. Please look after it – I hope it’ll bring as much luck and joy to your life as it has to mine. Mira gave it to me.’

  Ernest handed Raymond the old French franc.

  ‘Thanks, Ernest, but are you sure? It must mean so much to you.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Ernest. ‘Now home, James!’

  ‘James?’

  ‘It’s just a—’

  ‘I know.’

  They walked up the hill towards the moonlight and the threads of white clouds. The drizzle wet their faces and made their clothes stick uncomfortably to their arms and legs. But rather than dampening Ernest’s spirits, it seemed to lift him, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling as Raymond tenderly supported him, a wounded soldier returning from a last battle.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Book Club

  Raymond was up early – unusual for the weekend. Several days had passed since he’d flown down the hill, but the memory still blazed hot within him. He’d been tending his sunflowers every day, willing them to bloom, but the enlarging buds remained stubbornly closed.

  This morning was no different and he weeded around the roots, absentmindedly removing the curled brown leaves. The early-morning sun had yet to dispel the chill in the air; autumn would soon be upon them and end any hope of seeing his sunflowers bloom.

  He felt a sharp sting on his back and reached behind, thinking a bee had become trapped in his jumper. Then a stone whizzed past his head and landed with a puff of dust in the flowerbed.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bender.’ One of the skinheads leant over the wall. ‘Any news about your old poofter friend?’

  Raymond stood. ‘Just leave me alone. I haven’t done anything to you.’

  ‘No, but we’ll make do with you if we can’t find the old poof. What’re you doing anyway, you fucking homo? Looking after your pussy flowers?’

  The skinhead lunged forward. Raymond backed away and stumbled over his trowel.

  The yob sniggered, a mean cold laugh. ‘I got a fucking football match otherwise I’d love to stay and play, but I’ll be back.’ And he blew Raymond a kiss before continuing down the road.

  Raymond put his tools away and walked to the house. He sat down at the kitchen table, shaky and uncomfortable. His mum and dad were already eating toast and drinking coffee, his dad engrossed in a book.

  ‘You were late last night, Ray,’ his mum said. ‘Who were you talking to outside just now?’

  ‘Oh, nobody. Just someone from the social.’ His pounding heart returned to normal, soothed by the warmth of the kitchen and his mother’s voice. ‘I went to the pub last night with Andy – you know, the boy I used to be friends with at school. I saw him yesterday afternoon and he said it would be good to catch up. It was great. We’ll probably do it again.’

  The success of the evening had surprised Raymond; he’d not been looking forward to it, but their shared school history had given them plenty to talk about. He’d grown in confidence, even making Andy laugh on several occasions, and he walked home feeling pleased with himself, the alcohol enhancing his happiness.

  His mum got up to fill the kettle and get some bread for the toaster.

  ‘I can do that, Mum. You sit down.’ Raymond pushed his chair aside and moved to the bread bin. It creaked open to reveal a large white loaf.

  Raymond’s dad looked up from his book and smiled. ‘Morning, Ray. Where did you say Ernest was during the war?’

  ‘Hello. Umm, it was something like Ballyor. What’re you reading, Dad?’

  ‘It’s a book about the First World War. I got it from the club – it was only two bob, well, ten pence. You wouldn’t believe what those soldiers went through; they were only youngsters. Some were even shot for desertion. It was terrible … terrible, the conditions … goodness me.’

  ‘I know. I’ve told you that, Dad. Ernest was only seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen …’ His dad flicked through the pages. ‘Ah, here it is. I thought I’d seen it somewhere.’ He adjusted his glasses and began to read. ‘On the 14th of October 1914, the 19th Brigade occupied Bailleul. It became an important railhead, air depot and hospital centre.’ He glanced up from the book to look at Raymond, who sat, fascinated. ‘It goes on to say that the Australians used it as a casualty clearing station and it was headquarters to the British Army until July 1917, when the Germans severely bombed the town. It fell into German hands after the Battle of Bailleul in April 1918. The British recaptured it in August 1918.’

  Raymond stood up and walked behind his dad.

  ‘Listen to this,’ continued his dad. ‘Only ruins of the town remained. Ninety-eight per cent of it was destroyed. At one time they were just going to leave it as a reminder of the war, rather than rebuilding.’

  Raymond frowned and moved his head closer, almost touching his dad’s. He ran his finger along the lines his father had read.

  ‘Hang on. That can’t be right,’ he said. ‘It must be a different place. Ernest told me he’d spent the last year of the war there, and it was peaceful. Can I see?’

  His dad passed Raymond the book.

  ‘That’s funny. I’m sur
e that’s the place Ernest said. I’ll ask him. Thanks, Dad.’

  Raymond sat down and ate his toast, staring into the distance as he tried to remember Ernest’s words.

  ‘You all right, Ray?’ said his mum.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m … I’m going to see Ernest. I’ll see you later.’

  Raymond forced the last piece of toast into his already full mouth, gulped some coffee and went up to his bedroom.

  * * *

  The bus trip was uneventful and Raymond confidently rang the bell for his stop and departed the bus, a smile on his face.

  Reaching Ernest’s house, his eyes were once more drawn to the dozen large sunflowers that lined the wall, each of them standing tall, their large yellow flowers pointing skywards, determined to catch every drop of sunlight.

  Ernest opened the door.

  ‘I saw you coming,’ he said, smiling. ‘Cup of tea?’

  He led the way into the lounge, limping badly. The large dark bruise on his forehead shocked Raymond.

  ‘What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you for a few days.’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. I’ve been looking after my garden. The sunflowers are still growing but I think it’s too late for them to bloom now. Yours are great. Are you okay? How’s your leg?’

  Ernest shrugged. ‘Oh, I’m fine, and it’s all right, thanks. Give your sunflowers a chance – there’s still a couple of weeks of summer, they might be late developers.’ He smiled.

  ‘I went to the pub, too, with a friend from school, which was nice, and … and I’ve been trying to write some poems. I might even try a story next.’ He looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘My goodness, you have been busy. Remember your author’s name?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my mum’s maiden name and, er—’

  ‘Your first pet’s name.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Raymond, laughing. ‘It’s Dougal Hyland.’

  ‘That’s it. Come on then, Dougal. Let me hear what you’ve done.’

  ‘No way – they’re not ready yet,’ said Raymond, taking a step backwards. ‘Anyway, I wanted to ask you where you were at the end of the war.’