Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  ‘Bloody hell, latrine duty. Can you bloody believe it?’

  Mira and Ernest looked at each other. Mira raised a hand to cover her mouth but couldn’t stifle her giggle; it escaped like a tiny bird fluttering into the air. Ernest pressed his lips together but his laughter squeezed through them in a breathy buzz.

  ‘It’s not bloody funny,’ said Bill crossly.

  The three walked back to the farmhouse in a jolly mood though Bill was still annoyed about his punishment.

  * * *

  The photo shoot with the general had been troubling Ernest for several days but as soon as he’d handed his finished photographic plates to the corporal for dispatch, a weight had lifted from him. Now, the countryside seemed even more beautiful.

  They followed the path beside the river, stopping to watch the swallows skimming the water and catching tiny black flies. Bill had refused to carry any of Ernest’s equipment as retribution for his laughter and to compensate for the latrine duty, and Ernest breathed heavily as he endeavoured to keep up. Despite this, he was happy; he was in love and for the first time in his life, he felt a connection to the world around him. He marvelled at the trees waving in the breeze and the sunlight reflecting off the river.

  ‘What will you do after the war?’ Mira asked him.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ interrupted Bill. ‘It’s all planned. I’m going to open a restaurant in London. All the rich and famous people will eat there and Ernie here will take pictures of them. As I always say—’

  ‘Everything happens for a reason,’ said Mira and Ernest in unison.

  Bill laughed. ‘Yes, as I was saying, everything happens for a reason. I’ve met Ernie here for the publicity and to hobnob with the rich and famous. And now I’ve met you, Mira.’

  ‘Me?’ Mira replied, intrigued. ‘What shall I do? Will I entice the gentleman to eat there with my wit and beauty?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Bill, laughing. ‘You’ll be doing the washing-up.’

  Mira squealed and swung her arm towards Bill. He ducked, then dodged her sweeping kick. He ran ahead, all the while looking back, making faces and daring her to chase him. Mira didn’t hesitate and was soon in hot pursuit, her laughter blending with the bird song. Bill weaved between the trees, allowing Mira to get close enough to catch him. Then he’d swerve, once more increasing the distance between them.

  Ernest struggled with his equipment, and half-walked, half-jogged to keep up.

  ‘Slow down – wait a minute,’ he shouted, but Bill and Mira were far ahead and disappeared out of sight as they rounded a corner.

  Ernest trudged on, hot and annoyed that his friends had left him behind. By the time he’d reached the farmhouse he was exhausted. Sweat trickled down his back, forming dark, wet patches on his uniform.

  The farmhouse looked as picturesque as ever. Blue delphiniums and dark-pink foxgloves battled for prominence with the lavender and white roses. Above the chaos of colour, golden sunflowers swayed with a divine grace, as if looking down on their less important subjects.

  Mira and Bill were not waiting for him at the old wooden table. Puzzled, Ernest lowered the canvas bag and camera on to the grass. He wandered to the side of the house and turned the corner.

  The view assaulted him.

  All the breath left his body and he staggered forward in disbelief.

  Mira was in Bill’s muscular embrace. His hands pressed her spine, drawing her closer to him. Her face nestled in his neck and she held her arms above her head, elbows bent, hands clasped and falling behind her in surrender.

  Held in an evil spell that he doubted would ever be broken, Ernest could not move. In those moments, he told himself he had no claim to Mira that she could do whatever she wished. He wanted to laugh, to be happy for his friends. Anything other than the aching jealousy that raged through his veins. But he couldn’t stop himself, and to his shame the words escaped from his lips, feeble with sarcasm.

  ‘Well, it didn’t take you two long, did it?’ He gulped in several large breaths of air, trying to forestall the tears he knew to be close.

  Bill released Mira, startled by Ernest’s interruption. ‘Ernie … Ernest,’ he said as Ernest stumbled backwards.

  Mira turned. Ernest looked into her dark eyes and his heart broke.

  Tears pooled and streaked her cheeks. Strands of black hair fell wet across her face. In her hand was a single sheet of crumpled white paper. She stood silent. Her mouth, which usually moved so effortlessly into a smile, was thin and stretched. Then it opened and the tiniest note of despair escaped before she ran into the farmhouse.

  ‘You bloody idiot,’ hissed Bill. ‘She’s just found out her dad’s been killed.’

  Ernest took another step backwards. He shook his head and raised his hands, trying to push away the news.

  ‘No, no. Oh God ... what have I done? I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.’ Ernest turned towards the farmhouse and Mira’s wretched figure.

  ‘Leave her be, Ernie,’ said Bill quietly.

  ‘But, Bill, I didn’t know. What have I done? Please, Bill … please.’

  ‘Come here, you daft apeth.’

  Bill smiled and Ernest fell into his arms, his shoulders shaking as he surrendered to the grief that overwhelmed him.

  * * *

  That evening, the candlelight once more flickered on the dull metal pans and cast dancing shadows on the kitchen walls. Over the last couple of weeks, Ernest had looked forward to this part of the day more than any other; it had become a magical hour. Now there was just an air of gloom and the faint sound of muffled sobbing pervading every dusty corner of the farmhouse. Unlike the wailing mourners he’d heard as a boy at his father’s funeral, the weeping was soft and gentle but the quietness seemed to heighten the sense of heartbreak rather than lessen it.

  Mira’s mother sat at the old oak table, whimpering into a tiny embroidered handkerchief. Ernest wondered about that table and the many scars it bore; what sadness and celebration it had seen during its history. Could it distinguish between tears of joy and those of sorrow as they fell on to its pitted surface?

  Mira perched on a window ledge, her cheeks etched with the salty lines of her drying tears, her eyes puffy and sore. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, a barrier against the world, and she gazed out of the window at the night sky.

  Bill and Ernest sat at the dining table, sipping steaming tea from large white mugs. Through the gloom they watched her, shoulders hunched and twitching with each sob, a tiny animal lost in a bad dream.

  ‘I’m going to have to go, Ernie,’ said Bill. ‘Latrine duty.’

  ‘Can’t you stay, Bill, just this once?’ Ernest whispered.

  Bill shook his head. ‘You know the way it is, Ernie. If I miss this one I’ll be scooted up to the front and be in even more trouble. You just make sure Mira’s all right. Just ... just look after her, mate.’

  They both looked towards her again.

  ‘Stars always look brighter from the kitchen sink,’ said Bill quietly. ‘But all our dreams must seem pretty hopeless to her at the moment.’

  ‘I can’t talk to her,’ said Ernest sadly. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Come on, mate. Think of Mira and what’s she’s going through.’

  Ernest shook his head. ‘I know. I’m being selfish. I ... I just can’t. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Okay, mate. I got to go. See you in the morning.’

  Bill stood up and walked to the front door. Ernest followed, his head down, not daring to look at Mira or her mother. Bill playfully punched him on the shoulder and opened the door. It creaked loudly.

  ‘Night all,’ said Bill, and he stepped outside.

  Ernest turned to face Mira and her mother.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said. His voice was little more than a whisper but the silence that greeted it was deafening.

  As he slowly mounted the stairs he realised again just how quickly things could change.

  * * *

  Ernest lay in his bed,
looking up at the ceiling. He pulled the large quilt over his chin and sunk his head into the soft white pillows. Moonlight shimmered through the curtains on the small window, the slats casting square shadows across the room. He tried to sleep but uninvited thoughts pecked and pulled, swamping his head. After an hour of fitful turning, he opened the curtains and allowed the moonlight to flood over the bed.

  The shadows entranced him and after a while, heavy eyed, he drifted towards sleep, only to find himself awake moments later, his head jerking upwards and his eyes wide as he remembered the day’s events.

  He heard movement on the stairs and propped himself up with the pillows. The bedroom door creaked open slowly, then closed again. A few seconds later it inched open once more, this time wider, the person on the other side tentative and unsure. He watched, astounded, as Mira tiptoed into the moonlight. She closed the door behind her and mouthed Shhh before making her way silently to his bed. She took Ernest’s fingers in hers and brought them to her lips so that his palm covered her mouth. Then she gently buried her face in his hand and kissed his skin. She retreated a step, letting his fingers fall to the bed, and Ernest saw she was wearing a long white nightshirt buttoned at the front. Slowly, she undid the buttons, not taking her eyes from his, and slipped the shirt over each shoulder. It fell to the ground, revealing her nakedness beneath.

  For several moments Ernest almost forgot to breathe. A sharp intake of air turned into an embarrassing gasp. His heart galloped but, tempted as he was, he had neither the courage nor the audacity to take his eyes from Mira’s. She tilted her head slightly and Ernest watched her mouth form into a tiny smile.

  He glanced at her slender neck and then, with more confidence, followed the line downwards, over her flawless olive skin, to the swell of her breasts that rose and fell in perfect time with each long, deep breath. He felt his excitement building and looked up at Mira’s face.

  She nodded.

  His gaze washed over her body – to her smooth taut stomach, then her legs and thighs, so athletic and lithe. And as his eyes fell at last upon the dark triangle between her legs, the breath left his lungs in a shuddering gasp.

  Mira pulled back the quilt, climbed on to the bed and in a single graceful movement straddled Ernest. She held his stare and undid the buttons of his pyjama jacket, brushing it open with her soft hands. She caressed his thin white chest with her fingertips, her touch like a butterfly’s kiss.

  The feeling was so intense it was almost unbearable. Ernest closed his eyes and willed himself not to call out and pull her fingers away. He trembled with each touch but longed for the next.

  Mira leaned forward and placed the tiniest of kisses on first his forehead, then each eyelid, his cheeks and ears. She moved lower to his neck, her hair over his eyes. A breathless murmur escaped Ernest’s lips, which Mira quickly smothered, her tongue darting between his lips. She sat back and looked down at him, smiling.

  ‘Touch me,’ she whispered. ‘Put your hands on me.’

  She took Ernest’s hands, guided them to her breasts and held them there. Amazed by their softness and how they moved under his fingers, he watched transfixed as she tilted her head backwards and arched her body. Releasing his hands, she reached forward and cradled his head to her chest. She gasped as his warm breath and kisses touched her skin.

  She began to move on him, and he grew under her and then inside her.

  They held each other tightly, lost in the sensation. Then, clutching his head hard to her breasts, she lifted her hips. The movement was almost imperceptible but it made Ernest look up. Her face was highlighted by moonlight and framed by her luxuriant dark hair, which fell in waves over her shoulders.

  Eyes closed, she moved faster and with purpose.

  Ernest felt her breath hot on his neck. He lost himself within it and began to move with her, encouraged by the tiny gasps that interrupted her breathing.

  Then a sensation spread from his stomach to his thighs and his groin, and he turned inside out as heaven held him, crushed him, drowned him. Surely he would die; surely no one could survive such a feeling. He tried to hold Mira still but she was unstoppable until her breath became ragged in his ear and she, too, gasped and collapsed on to him, her weight forcing him deep into the bed, cocooned and safe in the world.

  He pulled her to him, encircling her legs with his, holding on to the moment for as long as he could.

  I love you. He sought the words but his voice escaped him, and he buried his face in her hair, ashamed of his cowardice.

  They lay entwined, breathing easily now. Ernest stroked her back and watched the shimmering moonlight reflect in the beads of perspiration on their bodies.

  He’d never let her go. The moment would last his lifetime.

  * * *

  When Ernest awoke Mira had gone.

  Bill was asleep and snoring in the other bed.

  With dismay, Ernest wondered if it had all been a dream; there was no sign of Mira. Thoughts clamoured in his head.

  Why would she come to him? He was an idiot for thinking she would.

  Did she feel sorry for him? Did she like him?

  Should he say something? But what if nothing had actually happened?

  Maybe her father’s death had made her crazy. Maybe, maybe, maybe … it was all too much. Whatever the reason, there was no proof that the greatest moment of his life had even taken place.

  Ernest sighed and saw with surprise that Bill was standing over his bed.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Ernie, mate? Staring into space like a lunatic. I tell you, you’d have reason to be staring into space if you’d done bloody latrine duty all night, you lucky sod.’ Bill pulled the covers away. ‘Come on, we need to get up and back into town. Do you want to wash first?’

  Ernest stood, yawned and made his way past Bill to the sink.

  ‘Hey, Ernie, you got to stop that bloody cat sleeping on your bed.’ Bill plucked a long dark hair from Ernest’s pyjamas and held it up to him.

  Ernest hurried through the door and turned the corner, out of Bill’s sight.

  ‘I know,’ he called as the smile stretched wide across his face.

  * * *

  Bill and Ernest sat outside on the wooden bench, trying to slow the time before they had to report back for duty. Mira brought them strong coffee and crispy white bread, but she hardly spoke. Her eyes were red and puffy and Ernest wondered again if he’d been dreaming.

  They ate and drank, lost in their thoughts. The air seemed pure and clean in the early-morning sun. The flowers were all in bloom – blues, reds, yellows and pinks against a canopy of green. Still, despite their beauty, there was an air of melancholy about the farmhouse that no amount of colour could dispel.

  Mira slowly clipped the sunflowers, putting the largest ones into a wicker basket. She paused and stared far, far way.

  Ernest felt a terrible guilt at his own happiness when Mira was so sad. She seemed so small and fragile, so lost. He wanted to hold her, to keep her safe, but he was buzzing with energy. He was alive, overwhelmed by the desire to sing and dance and tell the flowers of his good fortune. Instead he spoke quietly.

  ‘Why do you cut them? They look so beautiful here in the garden.’

  ‘I want to see them in the house when they are at their most radiant. Soon they will wither and winter will be here. I want to be close to them while they are perfect.’

  Ernest fiddled with his small Kodak camera, framing a shot.

  ‘Stand there, Mira. In front of the flowers. Let me take your picture.’

  ‘Non … No, I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘Just one, please. The flowers are so beautiful.’

  Mira sighed, put her clippers into her apron pocket, hooked the wicker basket over her shoulder and stood where he’d asked. Ernest got to his feet and positioned himself in front of her. He held the camera up to his chest and peered through the viewfinder, closing one eye.

  ‘Okay. Ready.’

  Mira smiled and Er
nest clicked the shutter.

  ‘I must put these flowers in water,’ she said, her eyes filling, and she pushed open the creaking front door and went into the house.

  Mira’s departure relieved the tension a little and the men began to relax and enjoy the sunshine. Ernest drifted into a dream as he played with his camera.

  ‘Hey, Ernie, what is the matter with you?’ Bill prodded Ernest, waking him from his reverie. ‘I’ve never used one of those before,’ he said, pointing at the camera. ‘Can I take a picture of you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, if you want.’ Ernest handed his camera to Bill and lifted the strap over his head. ‘Keep the strap round your neck, then you can’t drop it. They cost a fortune, you know.’ The camera hung by Bill’s waist. ‘Good. Right, now lift it up, rest it on your chest and look down into that glass viewfinder. You should be able to see me. Hold it steady then slowly push the button on this cord.’ Ernest pointed to a brown cable about six inches long with a silver plunger on the end of it.

  ‘I can’t see you, mate.’ Bill waved the camera from side to side, then up and down.

  Ernest laughed. ‘No, slowly. Up a little.’

  ‘You must be moving yourself. Keep still, you bugger.’

  ‘It says in the instruction manual that a child can use it. What are you doing?’ Ernest moved forward to help.

  ‘No … wait, there you are. I have you. Hold still. Here goes.’

  Bill squeezed the shutter.

  There was a click.

  Then the farmhouse exploded.

  * * *

  For a split second, Bill looked at the camera, unable to comprehend what had happened. Another explosion sent flames and debris spiralling into the air. The blast threw them to the ground. Large fragments of bricks and mortar crashed around, one smashing into Ernest’s knee. Bill rose unsteadily to his feet, still stunned.

  ‘Mira!’ Ernest cried. ‘MIRA!’ he shouted again, his voice an animal wail.

  ‘Stay there – I’ll get her.’

  Bill staggered to the front door. Flames leapt out of the kitchen window, vivid orange, red and yellow. Thick black smoke belched through what remained of the roof, its timber beams splintered and scattered haphazardly in the garden. Bill pushed at the front door but it wouldn’t budge. He took a step back and kicked it hard, three times, until finally it gave way.