Cold Sunflowers Page 13

  ‘I told you,’ said Ernest. ‘Bailleul.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but my dad has a book that said the Germans almost bombed it flat in July 1917. But I remember you saying it was really peaceful.’

  Ernest licked his lips and looked around the room. He sighed deeply.

  ‘Er ... yes, it was very peaceful,’ he said too quickly. ‘Now let me get us that tea.’

  Raymond persisted. ‘Was it a different place? Did you see any bombs near you?’

  Ernest seemed to stumble. He reached for his armchair and fell into it, then leant forward, resting his forehead in his hands.

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Raymond. I haven’t been completely truthful with you; you’re my friend and you deserve better. It’s just that it was so awful. Would you like me to tell you the whole story? How it really was?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ernest’s Story (Part Three)

  1917

  Ernest, Bill and Mira sat by the river. It was a beautiful July day. The sun soared high in the sky and the heat was dark and dense, making every movement a struggle.

  Ernest and Bill lay bare-chested on the river bank, their feet dangling in the cool, fast-running water, hands behind their heads, cushioning the ground. The contrast between the two men was clear – Bill, muscular and brown, his experience etched in the contours of his body; Ernest, skinny and pale, still waiting to lose his wiry innocence.

  Mira sat between the two, legs bent and cradled in her arms, her head on her knees. Her eyes were closed and her long hair fell over her shoulders, black as night against her white dress. Perspiration beaded her olive skin and the open neck of her unbuttoned dress fluttered in the cooling breeze.

  Bill opened one eye and looked across at her.

  ‘You been using your Sunlight soap on Ernie? He’s whiter than one of your sheets.’

  Mira laughed, her voice like a song, and she leaned back to look at the men beside her, supporting her weight on long, slender arms. Ernest sat up and self-consciously covered his chest, but Mira reached over and gently took his hand and smiled.

  Bill raised himself on to his elbows. He shook his head and stared at Ernest, then stuck out his tongue and laughed.

  They’d been living in Mira’s house. The search continued for a horse that had not been spooked by the bombs, and every day that the general’s photo shoot was delayed saw ever-wider smiles bloom on their faces.

  It had been idyllic. The three had become inseparable. They lived in a parallel universe, far removed from the mud filled trenches and the smell of death; it had become hard to believe that another darker place existed so close by.

  Their days took on a familiar pattern: breakfast at the farmhouse followed by a slow walk through the countryside to the river, where they’d sit and talk about their lives before the war.

  Mira’s stories of the farm intrigued the men, especially Bill, who’d never set foot outside the city. She told them about her father, how there’d always been a special bond between them, that it had often been the two of them against the world. He’d insisted, against all convention, and to the annoyance of his neighbours, that she be educated rather than marry the first farmer who asked for her hand, and she was grateful. But now she was desperately worried. Her fiancé had been killed and there’d been no news of her father.

  Ernest and Bill tried to ease her fears, telling her tales of the trenches that included only the humour and none of the horror. Their eyes would meet as they told these half-truths, each word born from straight, thin lips that should have betrayed their feelings, though Mira never seemed to notice.

  At lunchtime Mira would open a creaking wicker basket and spread a red tablecloth over the grass. On that she’d set yellow cheese, crispy French bread, brown pickle, so chunky that the vegetables were easily recognisable within it, and a bottle of homemade red wine that had been fermenting since before the war. Their stomachs rumbled as they waited patiently for Mira to fill their glasses and say a short prayer of thanks.

  Ernest was some ten years younger than his friends and his worldly inexperience made him feel inadequate. He was in awe of Bill’s ability to find the right words and to make Mira laugh, and the deep well of stories seemed never to run dry. Each meandering tale would end with his favourite saying – that everything happened for a reason. Mira and Ernest usually anticipated the conclusion of a story and would mimic Bill mercilessly amid hoots of laughter.

  Despite his quietness, Mira always took Ernest’s hand on their way back to the farmhouse, or wove his arm through hers as she laughed during Bill’s stories. He wondered if her actions were maternal or whether she liked him, and as the days passed he felt his heart miss a beat every time he saw her. When she took his hand, his body tingled.

  Ernest had never been in love.

  He had never felt such joy in another’s company.

  Mira’s laugh washed over his soul and bathed him in a warm fountain of happiness. When she gazed dreamily into the distance and nervously bounced her leg, his heart melted. He imagined holding her tightly, shielding her, keeping her safe for eternity. He’d give his life for her, of that he had no doubt.

  Bill teased him relentlessly, but it mattered not; inside he was aglow and had never felt happier.

  After two weeks of contented idleness, the corporal knocked on the farmhouse door.

  ‘Come on, you two. Your luck’s run out. I’ve found a horse.’ He was jubilant, and a beaming smile spread across his face.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Bill. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ And he shut the door in the corporal’s face.

  The corporal banged hard on the door. ‘Stop arsing about. I’ve had enough trouble with the general because of you two bloody idiots. Now fall in, at the double.’

  Ernest picked up his camera and handed the bag of plates to Bill. They followed the corporal back along the same route they’d taken fourteen days earlier. Ernest trudged behind the soldier and his friend, marvelling at how quickly things could change. He had been in the depths of despair, so low and weak he couldn’t carry on; now the weather was fine and he’d experienced the golden glow of first love.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with him?’ said the corporal.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Bill, shaking his head in despair.

  They reached the outskirts of the town; it was overflowing with soldiers, all heading towards the square. They joined the throng and were at once immersed in the excitement and jollity. It was like a public holiday. The sun shone and the men smiled and laughed, glad of some respite from the trenches.

  The corporal led them down a narrow shaded side street. Ahead, a group of soldiers blocked their path. Those at the rear darted back and forth or leaned and jumped on the shoulders of the men in front, trying to force a better view. A hubbub of voices and laughter greeted them as they neared the tightly packed group of men.

  ‘Coming through,’ shouted the corporal, but the men took no notice and continued to vie for the best vantage point. ‘Out of the way,’ he shouted again. ‘General’s orders.’ And he grabbed one man by his jacket collar and pulled him aside.

  ‘What the fuck!’ snarled the soldier and raised his fists.

  ‘These men have to see the general,’ shouted the corporal. ‘Help me get them through and I’ll see you have a front-row spot.’

  The soldier thought for a moment, realised he’d nothing to lose and ploughed into the melee.

  ‘Emergency, out of the way,’ he shouted. ‘The general’s waiting for these men.’

  There was a dull moaning and groaning and some momentary flashes of temper, but the path slowly cleared. Bill and Ernest followed close behind. Bill holding on to the corporal’s shoulders, the bag of plates tucked close to his body. Ernest hung to Bill’s waist; his head low against his friend’s back. They felt like royalty battling their way through an adoring crowd.

  Then, as if a storm had passed, they were free of the crowd and stan
ding in the town square, surrounded on all sides by a mass of dull brown and green. It was an undulating wave, broken every now and again as a single soldier was pushed out of line and into the square.

  Bill and Ernest looked around, shielding their eyes from the blazing midday sun. They felt vulnerable, like Christians about to be fed to the lions, the baying masses eager for blood.

  In the middle of the square stood a large chestnut mare. It shook its head furiously and danced on its front legs as if the ground were too hot for its hooves. The groom tried to keep its head still but the horse whinnied and lifted him off his feet.

  The general perched precariously on the saddle and grabbed the reins, pulling the mare’s head backwards. The whites of the horse’s eyes bulged and its ears were folded back in fear and confusion.

  The general saw Bill and Ernest and beckoned them over.

  ‘Thank God you’re here. This damn horse is supposed to be as gentle as a bloody lamb,’ he said, huffing. ‘But I think it’s going to bolt at any moment.’ He shortened the reins and the horse whinnied and raised its front legs again.

  The general wore his full-dress uniform, the reds bright against the wall of dull brown and green. The dazzling silver regalia sent bright arrows of sunlight into the eyes of the onlookers.

  ‘I say, keep this goddamn thing still, can’t you?’ he hollered at the anxious groom.

  Bill stepped forward.

  ‘Right, Ernie, you go over there and set up your camera. I’ll try to hold this horse.’

  Ernest inserted the glass plates into his camera, as the hilarity of the watching soldiers grew louder and echoed around the square.

  ‘I really don’t know if this is such a good idea,’ said the general, straining as he tried to control the agitated horse. ‘Perhaps I could just stand and point my rifle, eh?’ Ernest noticed him glance at his men, as if pondering how he might get out of the situation without losing face. ‘Cameraman, Cameraman, what do you say?’

  Ernest looked up and was about to answer, but Bill interrupted.

  ‘No, General. Sir, this will make a wonderful shot – just think of those statues in London.’

  The general sighed and puffed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Just get the damn thing done, will you, before this bloody horse throws me off.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bill, stifling a laugh. He looked over at Ernest and nodded furiously. Ernest gave a thumbs-up. ‘Right, General, I’ll count to five. Then your man must let go of the horse and jump out of the shot. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Just get on with the bloody thing.’

  Bill began to count. ‘One, two …’

  The men joined in and the volume rose with each number. The horse began to panic. White foam ran down its neck where the reins had rubbed, and its front legs stomped. The groom continued to wrestle with the mare to stop it from rearing, but it was a losing battle.

  ‘FOUR, FIVE,’ chanted the crowd, drowning Bill’s voice.

  The groom released the reins and leapt aside. The horse, momentarily stunned by its freedom, stood stock still, its nostrils flared. For the briefest of moments, there was silence as the crowd held a single anticipatory breath.

  Ernest pressed the shutter. There was a loud click followed by a flash.

  The horse flexed its huge muscles, reared upwards and sprang forward.

  The surprised general lurched in the opposite direction on to the horse’s back, his feet still in the stirrups but now level with its shoulders. He pulled himself upright with the reins, then, in an act of desperation, wrapped his arms tightly around the horse’s neck.

  The horse bolted wildly, circling inside the corral of men, who cheered, waved and fought for a better view of the general’s misfortune. A cloud of white dust rose in the horse’s wake, and some of the soldiers began to cough and choke.

  Ernest darted to the side of the ring while Bill and the groom tried to intercept the horse.

  On the third lap the horse bucked. The general slid over to one side of the saddle, held on for a few more paces, then slithered unceremoniously into the dirt.

  With one voice the crowd gasped, a single intake of breath that stretched and stretched. Then there was silence save the horse’s hooves slowing to a halt.

  The general heaved himself to his knees and then leant on all fours. Covered in white dust and with the knees of his dress uniform badly ripped, he stood, teetered a step and straightened. Several men ran over to him and brushed away the dust but he shoved them aside.

  ‘Get off me. Get off me,’ he said to his men. ‘I knew this was a ridiculous idea. This is your fault. You there, holding the horse.’

  Bill looked around and pointed at himself.

  ‘Yes, you. Report for latrine duty for the next month. Move. NOW.’

  ‘But sir ... it was an amazing photograph. Ernie, tell him, mate.’

  ‘Er, yes, sir,’ said Ernest. ‘It was, um, quite majestic.’ Ernest stared at Bill and then, his mind made up, he continued. ‘I’m sure I took the picture just as the horse reared up. You looked like … well, like Wellington on Copenhagen.’

  The general turned to Ernest and slapped his tunic energetically. Dust formed a white cloud in the air.

  ‘Mmm, did I? Yes … yes, I can see that.’

  ‘And, sir, I have six plates left. Perhaps I could take some more pictures of you standing with your rifle.’

  ‘I see. Yes, yes, very well. It seems a shame to waste them, but be quick about it.’

  Bill walked away slowly, hoping to mingle with the crowd.

  ‘Not you. No you don’t. I haven’t forgotten your part in all this. I could have been killed. Killed, I tell you. Report for latrine duty at twenty-one hundred hours sharp.’

  ‘But, sir ...’ The general’s face reddened. ‘Yes, sir,’ Bill said quietly, and then, visibly brightening, ‘Right, General, you stand over here with your gun and get into position as if you’re about to bayonet the Hun.’ Ernest could only smile and shake his head. ‘All the dust and rips in your uniform will make it more realistic.’

  It was as if the spark that had been quietly travelling down a long fuse finally reached the gunpowder.

  ‘DISMISSED, PRIVATE,’ the general bellowed. His voice broke and globules of spit sprayed on to the dusty square. ‘I … AM ... QUITE … CAPABLE ... OF ... DECIDING … ON … MY … OWN ... POSES. Sergeant … SERGEANT, make sure this man reports for latrines at twenty-one hundred. DISMISSED.’

  Bill turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  Though he hated seeing his friend get into trouble, Ernest couldn’t help but smile as he prepared his camera.

  The general began by practising fighting positions with a fixed bayonet. His men gathered closer around him, offering increasingly outlandish advice, enjoying a rare day of frivolity at the expense of their leader.

  ‘Look more menacing.’

  ‘That’s it – stab the Hun.’

  ‘Jump.’

  ‘Growl.’

  ‘Stick your tongue out.’

  Howls of laughter followed each suggestion, but the general seemed oblivious and continued to strike different poses. Ernest took five more photographs before the general grew tired and impatient.

  ‘Right, that’s it. I have work to do.’ He handed his rifle to a soldier, straightened his back and slapped the dust from his tunic once more. ‘Dismiss the men, Sergeant.’ He strode over to Ernest, and with his hands clasped behind him, peered down at the diminutive photographer. ‘When will the photographs be ready? We must get them sent home without delay.’

  Ernest stepped backwards, surprised by the general’s proximity.

  ‘Er, I’ll need to send them by dispatch rider tomorrow. I don’t have any developing equipment here. It’ll probably take two or three weeks.’

  ‘TWO OR THREE WEEKS?’ thundered the general.

  Ernest closed his eyes tightly and moved his head to one side.

  ‘That’s an inordinate amount of time, quite ridicul
ous in this day and age.’ He sighed, then slouched forwards. ‘Very well, then. Tell me immediately they’re ready. Immediately, I say.’ And with that he turned on his heels and left the town square. An entourage of soldiers followed in his wake, one or two still trying to brush the dust from the back of his uniform.

  Ernest collected his photographic plates and placed them carefully in the canvas bag. The town square was emptying, the soldiers departing for their billets and barracks, but laughter still echoed from the buildings. The sun was now low in the sky and there was a cool breeze, like late afternoon at the seaside, a holiday not ready to end. Something made him look up and although the brightness momentarily dazzled him, the silhouette was unmistakable.

  Mira.

  She was twenty yards away, her dark hair shimmering with golden flecks. He watched enchanted as she smiled; just the tiniest of movements that lit her face. It took his breath away.

  She walked towards him and then, with childlike excitement, she dipped to the ground and picked something up. She straightened, skipped the rest of the way and took Ernest’s hands in her own.

  ‘Look, Ernest, look what I’ve found.’ She placed a brown franc on to his palm and closed his fingers around it.

  ‘They say if you find a franc you will have good luck; you have it, Ernest.’

  Ernest looked at the coin as if it were the most precious pearl in the ocean. He held it for a moment, trying to feel the essence of Mira’s touch, then put it into his pocket.

  ‘Thanks, Mira,’ he said, though the words seemed inadequate. ‘Quickly. I have one plate left – let me take a photograph of you.’

  He took Mira’s hand and led her away from the long shadows stretching across the square. He slotted the last plate into the camera and adjusted the viewfinder until he had the beautiful young woman framed. She was laughing.

  Ernest clicked the shutter.

  He had no idea he would cherish that photograph for the rest of his life.

  Bill wandered over. Dust coating his boots as he kicked at some loose stones.