Cold Sunflowers Read online

  ‘Poetry!’ his mum laughed. ‘Goodness, you have changed. I didn’t think you liked that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, I always liked the First World War poets, Mum, remember? I did it for my A level.’

  ‘Yes, that rings a bell,’ said his mum. ‘I like the new you. Er, not that I didn’t like the old you.’ She smiled.

  ‘Thanks, Mum … I think.’ Raymond grinned and they held each other’s gaze for a few moments.

  ‘By the way, did you know your sunflowers are out?’

  ‘What?’ Raymond leapt from his chair, dropping the poetry book. ‘Why didn’t you say? My sunflowers are out!’ He ran to the hallway and tried to put on his shoes without undoing the laces.

  ‘Raymond, you’ll ruin them. Give them here.’ His mum took the shoes. He watched as she worked, her head lowered in concentration, her kindness instinctive. He felt himself glow, lit by her love.

  He slid on his shoes and without bothering to tie up the laces burst through the front door, barely keeping his balance as he rushed into the garden. The sun bathed him in yellow and he breathed in the smell of freshly mown grass. He was halfway down the path when he saw them and stopped.

  Four glorious sunflowers.

  They stood majestic, nodding gently in the light breeze, shafts of sunlight reflecting off their golden heads. Raymond approached them solemnly and looked into the blue sky. The huge yellow flowers swayed above him, ragged silhouettes momentarily blocking the brightness from his eyes.

  He raised his hands to the sky and stretched his fingers. Quietly at first, then louder, he celebrated with whoops and shouts, oblivious to the neighbour’s twitching curtains. He spun on the spot, round and round until he noticed the uninvited surveillance.

  ‘Look at the flowers! Look at the flowers!’ And then quietly to himself, he said, ‘Ernest.’

  He pulled open the garden gate and dashed down the road. To his joy a bus was waiting at the stop, the last person just about climb on to the rear platform. He sprinted and leapt, landing in front of the conductor.

  ‘Morning,’ he said happily, and took his seat.

  The journey seemed interminable. At every stop passengers struggled and bumbled, their shopping bags either primed in readiness or full to bursting, so that progress along the narrow aisle was excruciating.

  As the bus neared Ernest’s road, the conductor followed an elderly couple up the stairs, tutting at their laboured efforts to get to the top deck. Unperturbed by her absence, Raymond reached forward, rang the bell and negotiated his way off the bus, a jubilant smile illuminating his face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Poem

  He ran the rest of the way to Ernest’s house at such a speed that he misjudged the distance to the front door and clattered into it. He banged on it with his open hands, face pressed against the glass.

  ‘Ernest, Ernie!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door. My sunflowers are out. Hurry up – you’ve got to see them.’

  Raymond continued to knock loudly on the door, then pressed the bell repeatedly, but no one answered.

  There was no sign of life and Raymond took a step backwards, puzzled. He moved to the front window and peered through the net curtains.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said a man behind him.

  Raymond jumped and turned, his face flushing.

  ‘What’s all this noise? Is everything all right?’

  Raymond looked around but saw no one. Then he noticed one of Ernest’s neighbours, an elderly man in a thick grey cardigan, leaning over the fence.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ said Raymond. ‘I need to find Ernest. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Ah, I know you. You’re Ernest’s young friend, aren’t you? He’s done nothing but talk about you. It’s Raymond, isn’t it? Yes?’

  Raymond nodded.

  ‘Well, he goes on and on about you. It’s Raymond this and Raymond that. Oh, I do hope he’s all right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Raymond, a hollow feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Oh dear, he had a dreadful fall. He was taken off in an ambulance to the new place. He was unconscious, all strapped to a stretcher. He’s in there now. I haven’t heard anything else.’

  ‘Oh no ... When ... when was this? Is he all right?’

  ‘Must have been four or five days ago.’

  ‘Oh God, no. I … I must be going. I’m sorry. Thank you.’

  Raymond dashed down the path and ran back to the bus stop. He didn’t know what to do and had no idea where the new hospital was. His only thought was to get home – perhaps his mum and dad could help.

  The bus ride was uneventful but Raymond was so preoccupied that he almost missed his stop and had to ring the bell at the last moment, much to the annoyance of the conductor.

  He walked back to his house feeling helpless and deflated. His mind whirled with every awful possibility. He kicked a stone hard across the road, sending it clattering against the opposite kerb.

  ‘Careful, Mr Bender. That could’ve been dangerous.’

  The cold, menacing voice made Raymond look up with a start.

  ‘Glad we bumped into you, or should I say Mr Bumped into you?’

  The skinheads walked towards him, their cruel laughter echoing in his deadened ears. They surrounded him and patted him on the back.

  ‘Still no poofter friend, I see. That’s such a shame. But, look, Roy here says he reckons you caught that poofter stuff from your pussy flowers. So, my friend, we’ve been doing our civic duty to help you.’ The skinhead spat on the pavement in front of Raymond’s feet and raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘No, no ... it’s okay, please ... don’t thank us.’

  They were laughing hard now. Roy raised a long branch and pointed the end at Raymond’s face.

  Raymond’s eyes focused on squashed flecks of gold clinging to the bark. He looked at the thugs in horror, not believing what they seemed to be telling him.

  ‘No,’ he said, barely whispering. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see anymore. ‘No.’ He pushed past them and ran for home as if his life depended on it. He heard the skinheads’ calls of eeeew behind him, though he no longer had any thought for them. He ran until he was convinced his heart would explode, until there was no air left in his lungs. Then, as he turned the corner he saw them. A host of yellow petals, dancing gently across the street.

  He walked slowly to his house, thoughts of Ernest and the wrecked sunflowers drowning him with every step. The act of putting one foot in front of the other took all his willpower and as he neared his garden wall, his rasping breath smothered the sounds of the outside world.

  The sunflowers were all but gone.

  One, broken in the middle, folded sharply downwards, the flower hanging by a single sliver of stem. The others stood beheaded, their beautiful golden crowns stark and lifeless on the green lawn. Petals blew about the garden and the leaves lay scattered in the borders.

  He opened the front gate. His mother knelt in front of the flowers, clutching bamboo poles and a ball of green string. She supported the remains of the sunflowers as best she could, gently untwisting their mangled stems and binding them precariously to the poles. The gate creaked and she looked up. Sorrow etched her face, pulling her thin lips taut.

  ‘Raymond.’ She stood and moved towards him, her hand outstretched.

  He shook his head. ‘No, Mum, I can’t. Ernest is in hospital. He’s had a really bad fall and now … I just …’

  ‘Raymond, come here.’ Then the words registered. ‘Ernest is in hospital?’ She reached out to touch his hand. Their eyes met. He could see her concern but couldn’t bring himself to move his fingers to hers. He sidestepped her attempted hug and pushed through the front door.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I just can’t. I need to get inside.’

  ‘Okay, Ray,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ And then she added quietly, her voice breaking, ‘Love you.’

  * * *

  Raymond spent the rest of th
e afternoon in his bedroom, cocooned under his blankets, dozing and thinking. Later, he tried to find the hospital’s number in the telephone directory but couldn’t decide which department he should ask for. In frustration he tossed the heavy book aside. It thumped loudly on the floor.

  As dusk gave way to darkness, his bedroom light burned against the night, but the harsh yellow glow only added to the melancholy that hung in the air, feeding on the silence. Raymond felt stuffy and bored. Everything irritated him; even his lightweight nylon sheets felt heavy on his skin. He switched off the light and wondered why God, Jesus, the Holy Ghost and everyone else he knew in heaven had made things so horrible despite his prayers.

  What had he done?

  He racked his brains for an answer but couldn’t think of anything. Above all, he wished he’d gone to see Ernest sooner, despite the rainy weather. He closed his eyes, put his hands together and began to recite the familiar words. He offered extra prayers if Ernest came home in the next couple of days and said how sorry he was for anything he’d done that might have brought about the day’s awful events.

  He felt a little easier then, but sleep still eluded him. His head spun, weaving the recent months’ memories. He lay on one side, then the other, trying to find a cooler, more comfortable position.

  An hour later, he switched on the bedside lamp, reached into his cupboard and rummaged around for a small blue writing pad. He began to jot down his thoughts and soon the pages were full of doodles, scribbles and crossings-out.

  Raymond became engrossed. He sat upright, leaning against his pillows, the notepad resting on his bended knees. Slowly, sentences emerged, creeping down the page. The minutes dissolved into hours. Shadows flickered around his pencil and on to the paper as he worked on his words.

  Finally, his lips moved noiselessly as he read. He smiled and placed the notepad on the bedroom floor, switched off the light and closed his eyes.

  Within moments sleep held him safe, transporting him to the place where dreams began …

  A seagull floating on the summer’s breeze above a rocky promontory, waves washing through a natural arch releasing white seahorses of foam. And far, far below, a family raced across the sand …

  Silver shafts of moonlight streamed through the curtains and made their silent journey across the floor. They tiptoed on to the notepad and illuminated Raymond’s words with their soft glow.

  Moments make and move the magic of the day.

  Some shine and sparkle, others softly fade away.

  But most precious of all are those that linger and enhance,

  Soaring forever in the hallowed hallways of our hearts.

  The next morning, Raymond woke feeling ready to tackle the world. Despite his troubled sleep, a spontaneous smile erupted across his face. As he kicked off the covers and leapt out of bed he noticed the writing pad lying on the floor. And he remembered.

  A joyless weight descended and he slumped on his bed looking hard at the white ceiling.

  After a while he mooched downstairs and into the kitchen. His parents sat blowing into their steaming mugs of coffee. They looked at each other with concern and Raymond’s dad nodded towards his wife.

  ‘Ray, there you are. Dad phoned the hospital last night,’ she said. ‘Ernest’s all right. He’s just had a nasty fall – broke his ankle and banged his head. He was unconscious for a while.’ She glanced at her husband again. He returned her gaze with wide eyes and smiled supportively. ‘The only thing is, he’s been moved to Birmingham. They needed the bed so he’s gone to a rest home … just while he recovers,’ she added hastily. ‘He couldn’t go back to his own house by himself with no one to look after him. Apparently, he’s got a brother who lives up there and they thought it would be good for him to be near his family.’

  ‘What?’ said Raymond, confused. ‘He’s okay? But … but been moved to Birmingham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s miles away. I won’t see him for ages. When will he be home?’

  ‘The main thing is, Ernest’s all right. And Birmingham isn’t that far away. Maybe we can visit,’ said his dad.

  ‘But Dad, I … I ...’ The words wouldn’t come. Ernest was all right, but Birmingham? What was he doing there? His relief was buried beneath the thought that he might never see Ernest again.

  ‘Look, I have his address here. Write to him; tell him we’ll visit in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘But, Dad, it’s miles away. How will I get there?’

  ‘We’ll go in the car. I’m owed some leave. We’ll make a long weekend of it.’ His dad was smiling now. ‘It’ll be an adventure, like we used to have. Write to him, Ray. Ask if it’s okay and I’ll book my leave.’

  Raymond looked at his parents. They seemed small and somehow older. He felt in his heart their concern and love for him; they were both desperate to make things right, to care for him as they’d always done. If they wrapped him in their warmth, everything would be all right.

  He moved closer, feeling their arms around him. And for the first time in a decade he surrendered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Letter (Part One)

  Raymond sat in his room. Now more positive, he began to compose a letter to Ernest. At first he struggled to find the words, but gradually they wound their way down his pen and on to the paper.

  Dear Ernest,

  I was so sorry to hear about your fall and that you have been in hospital. It was such a shock when your neighbour gave me the news. I went to your house to tell you that for the first time EVER my sunflowers are out. They look beautiful. It’s all down to your help and advice – it’s never happened before!

  Apart from that, nothing else has really changed here. We’re all worried about you and I miss our chats. Dad has said we can visit in a couple of weeks; he’s owed some time off work. We’ll probably come on a Thursday or Friday and stay for the weekend. Is that all right? Are we allowed? Please let me know ASAP.

  Remember when we first met outside the DHSS? It seems like a world away. I feel like such a different person now. SO MUCH has changed, all for the better, and once again it’s all down to you. But I want to have some more adventures. Please get well and come home soon.

  Last night I was thinking about what we’ve done since that day at the dole office and I wrote some words (or rather Dougal Hyland wrote them, haha). I’ll put them in with this letter. It’s a start, and it’s for you, Ernest. Let me know what you think.

  I worry so much about your fall. Was it my fault for making you chase the coin down the hill? I know you really hurt your leg – I shouldn’t have gone on about it. I am so sorry, Ernest.

  Finally, when you read my poem you’ll know what I mean. You’ll always walk in the hallways of my heart and I will forever follow your advice – be kind and have a dream or two.

  Best wishes. See you soon.

  Your friend,

  Raymond

  Raymond folded the letter into quarters and put it in an envelope. He was about to lick the seal when he remembered his poem and retrieved the notepad from the floor. He carefully removed the page and slid it between the folds of the letter.

  His mum, who always seemed to own exactly what Raymond needed, provided a stamp, then handed him his coat. He pulled it on and walked out into the morning.

  Thunderclouds skimmed the sky and the air held the bite of an autumn breeze. Raymond trudged down the garden path and forced himself to look at his sunflowers.

  Three broken green stalks stood before him. To the side of the wall a single flower remained, held up by the makeshift splint his mother had assembled. A sliver of green miraculously carried the sap between the two pieces of stem, and against all the odds the sunflower waved tall, proud and golden against the dark sky. Raymond stood in front of it for several minutes, watching the large yellow head nod heavily in the quickening breeze. Though acute sadness engulfed him, thick and dark, shrouding everything in shadow, in the flower he found a pinprick of joy. Bewildered, the smalle
st of smiles slipped on to his lips.

  He posted his letter, then caught the bus into town and wandered around the shops.

  Before he’d met Ernest, shopping hadn’t interested Raymond. Lately, though, he’d begun to take more care with his appearance and found himself drawn towards the red SALE signs that hung in many of the shop windows. He’d discovered good-quality clothes for the same price as his old baggy bargain-basement gear. His wardrobe had expanded, much to his mother’s approval. Today, though, nothing tweaked his interest, and he meandered along the streets, daydreaming.

  A steady drizzle saturated his coat, intensifying the cool breeze that blew around the street corners. After an hour, he decided to go home. As he neared his bus stop, an Interflora on the other side of the road caught his eye. On the pavement large silver tubs burst with an assortment of colourful blooms and he crossed over to take a closer look. One of the tubs contained ready-made bouquets of white chrysanthemums, lilies and pink roses. A special-offer sign was pinned above.

  On impulse – one that even Raymond himself thought uncharacteristic – he bought a bunch for his mother.

  The bus trip home was the usual busy affair but these journeys no longer held any fear. He thought about the days he’d prayed the conductor would stay on his floor so he didn’t have to ring the bell, and of all the stops he’d missed because of his anxiety. It all seemed so long ago. The gentle rhythm of the bus now soothed him. How things had changed in just a few months. Content, he sat and people-watched, wedged close to the window by a large, puffing elderly man in too many clothes.

  An image of Ernest in the trenches came to him – frightened and covered in mud. It contrasted starkly with the warm cosy bus. At the time, his own fear had felt so real and overwhelming, but now, comparing it to what those young soldiers had endured he felt a duty to face whatever adversity came his way.

  Raymond smiled and felt part of this microcosm of humanity; so many hopes and dreams, what ifs and if onlys. He felt safe, optimistic even, and wondered why every wish in the world couldn’t come true. He was no longer afraid; it was as though Ernest cradled him, and he was certain his friend would never let him fall whatever sorrow or surprises life offered.