Cold Sunflowers Read online

  When he arrived home and gave the flowers to his mother, her eyes glistened with tears. She held her nose close to the bouquet to hide her embarrassment, before hurrying into the kitchen to put them in a vase.

  The next week dragged slowly by.

  Every morning, Raymond waited with his mother for the post. But with each day that failed to bring news of Ernest, their disappointment became harder to bear.

  He continued to write, jotting ideas on to his crowded notepad. He enjoyed sitting in the quiet of his room, thinking about the right phrase, and a page in his pad often contained more crossings-out than words. But slowly poems and stories emerged. He smiled as he read them back to himself, mystified as to where they’d come from.

  Raymond signed on as usual, relieved that the dole office was quiet. The thugs no longer frightened him and in the absence of his fear their interest in him waned. He’d moved on; he was no longer scared of the world. He knew there would be good and bad in his life and that he needed to embrace both.

  He gathered his courage and spoke to one of the clerks about journalism and library work. The clerk, happy that someone had shown interest, gave Raymond a sheaf of leaflets, job vacancies and information on courses. He replaced Raymond’s lost giro and directed him to a notice about a DHSS recruitment drive. He said it was a good place to work, had a brilliant social club and thought Raymond would fit in well.

  Raymond left delighted, the cosy glow of possibility warming his heart.

  On his way home, he visited The Salt Shaker. He sat at the usual small table and looked around. Nothing had changed – the white walls, the tiny tables covered by blue floral cloths, the greasy iron griddle, and blackboard menu with the exotic chilli con carne.

  His life was so different yet the world continued around him, unaffected.

  He and Keith chatted about Ernest – happy tales. Keith knew more about Ernest’s later life, how he’d snapped the rich and famous and had many of his photographs published in the society papers of the day, even Time magazine.

  Raymond stared quietly at his coffee, regretting not asking Ernest more about his career.

  Keith seemed to sense his discomfort.

  ‘It’s typical of Ernest not to talk about his success.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to close this place.’

  ‘What … why?’ asked Raymond, stunned.

  ‘Oh, the fast-food chains are on their way in and trade is slow. People just don’t want to wait for a quality hand-cooked burger these days.’ He smiled.

  ‘But you’ve been here for as long as I can remember. I always wondered what chilli con carne was.’ Raymond shook his head.

  Keith chuckled. ‘Yes. If I had a pound for every time someone has asked that I’d be a rich man.’ He looked at Raymond. ‘But it’s time to move on.’ There was sadness in his voice. ‘You know, sometimes your dreams don’t work out and sometimes they do. The important thing is to have them. I think Ernest and I have had plenty of dreams and we’ve even managed to live a few. That’s what’s important. Hang on a sec.’

  Keith stood up and moved behind the counter. He returned with a white polystyrene cup full of steaming chilli con carne.

  ‘Try it. On the house. It might be your last chance.’

  Raymond looked at Keith, not quite believing what was happening. He was friends with the owner of a cafe and he was being given, for free, the mysterious food that had intrigued him since he was a small child. Tentatively, he dipped a plastic spoon into the cup and brought the chilli to his lips. It was hot, not just spicy, and Raymond gulped some of the water Keith had brought to the table. He could feel the bite and burn of the chilli as it warmed his stomach.

  He gasped. ‘Wow. This is … goodness.’ He hiccupped between laughing.

  ‘You never know what you might be missing until you try it, Raymond.’ Keith touched his nose with a finger and winked.

  Keith served his other customers while Raymond finished his meal. The spoon made white lines in the bottom of the cup as he scraped the last few morsels into his mouth.

  As he stood to leave, Keith came over and for an awkward moment held Raymond’s shoulders. Then they shook hands, neither wanting the embrace to end.

  Raymond left The Salt Shaker with a peculiar mix of emotions – elated that Ernest had pursued a successful career but sad that he’d not found out more about it. The news of the cafe’s closure was a shock. He remembered the tiny building from his childhood; he’d wander around the town, hand in hand with his mother, who’d hurry past without a second glance. A forbidden fruit, part of his history, and it was closing for good. Some things changed, and some things stayed the same.

  There was no pattern and he felt baffled by it all.

  * * *

  Each evening, Raymond lay in bed reading and writing. Once he’d switched off the lights, he began his familiar routine.

  ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild ...’

  He’d said those words so many times they were now instinctive; he felt strange on the rare occasions he forgot to say them. Years ago, wrapped up in bed against the cold at his nan’s house in East London, he’d screwed his eyes tightly shut, clenched his tiny hands together and recited the lines with his mother. The prayer had evolved into a chant, an incantation, and he was sure its magic had helped him with exams, doctors, even the bus. It had lengthened over the years as he’d added cousins and friends. He still remembered his nan and granddad in the words even though they’d died several years earlier.

  For the past five nights Raymond had added a heartfelt plea to the end of the prayer.

  ‘And, Lord, please make it come tomorrow. Forty prayers if Ernest’s letter comes tomorrow. Holy Ghost, everyone, please help. Forty prayers, I promise. And please look after Ernest. God bless. Amen.’

  * * *

  Raymond woke the next morning feeling drowsy. He’d overslept by more than an hour.

  He heard the clatter of cups as his mum tidied in the kitchen. Then the letter box rattled and there was a thump as envelopes hit the mat.

  ‘Raymond,’ his mum called up the stairs. ‘Ray, I think there’s something here from the home.’

  ‘Yes!’ Raymond laughed. He leapt out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and rushed down the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Forty prayers tonight. Thank you, Lord,’ he whispered as he ran into the kitchen.

  A white envelope with Caulfields Care Home elegantly printed above the address lay on the kitchen table. He stopped and looked at it for a few moments, not quite believing it had arrived, then tore it open.

  Inside was a neatly typed letter. Raymond began to read.

  ‘Mum,’ he whispered. ‘Mum …’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Letter (Part Two)

  Dear Mr Mann,

  I am sorry to inform you that your friend Ernest Gardiner passed away this afternoon. There were complications following his recent fall.

  While he was with us he talked about you every day. Your friendship lit his life and in the short time he was here his presence brightened ours too. He was a joy to be with.

  On the morning he died he asked me to post the enclosed letter to you.

  Please accept my sincere condolences. I will write to you again with details of the funeral arrangements as soon as I have them.

  Yours sincerely,

  Daphne Game

  Senior Nurse

  Raymond’s mum held him tightly as he sobbed into her woollen jumper. He pulled her close and felt her tears tumble onto the back of his neck. Gently she stroked his hair and kissed his head.

  After a while he turned, picked up the envelope and shook it. A smaller brown one fell on to the kitchen table. Raymond slid a finger under the flap and opened it. He felt something heavy in the bottom corner and tilted the envelope. A shiny golden key dropped into his open palm. He reached inside and pulled out a tightly folded letter, full of words from a friend who’d fallen from the world and would never return.

&
nbsp; My dearest Raymond,

  Thank you so much for your letter. It cheered me up no end. What great news about your sunflowers. We just needed to take a chance on them and with love (and the sun!) they’ve grown. I wish I could have seen them. Please visit next week if you can. It’s perfectly all right and it’ll be lovely to see you all. Please bring a photo of the flowers.

  It’s not too bad here. Don’t worry about me. I miss home terribly, of course, but there’s a wonderful nurse called Daphne who looks after us all and makes me laugh. I tell you, Raymond, if I were thirty years younger I think I’d ask her to marry me!

  I’ve been getting around in a wheelchair, which I thought I’d hate but it’s rather nice to be pushed about. People get out of the way and you always get to the front. It’s amazing – rather than being old and frail I’m empowered in my chariot. Of course, when you get stuck in the mud while looking at the flowers in the garden and have to get four people to carry you back to the patio, that’s a different story, and I wasn’t amused. But it seemed to make EVERYONE else here laugh, so it wasn’t such a bad thing.

  I keep getting terrible headaches but I think it’s just the after-effects of my fall. I did rather bash my head as well as my ankle, which I think has sadly had it. The doctor will keep an eye on things.

  Anyway, now to important matters. You’ll find in the envelope a key to my house – it’s yours. I am sure I won’t return there now. I’ve been preparing this for a little while; it was going to be a Christmas surprise. All the paperwork is in the bureau and everything has been arranged with my solicitor at Marriage’s in town. My brother is none too pleased but he’ll soon get over it. There shouldn’t be any problem – if there is, Mr Marriage will sort it out. I suggest you get along to their offices as soon as possible and sign the paperwork though.

  My home has been a happy one, with so many wonderful memories. Violet’s ashes are under the white rose bush, on the left-hand side of the garden as you look from the house. Please keep her safe and, if possible, let me lie with her when my time comes.

  You asked me in your letter if my current predicament was your fault because you’d insisted I chase my coin down the hill. Nothing is further from the truth. I may have fallen that night, but I did fly. As you get older, you’ll realise how rarely those opportunities come along and how wonderful and important they are when they do.

  I also need to thank you, Raymond, for three other things. You might think that I’ve been the older and wiser one, and that you’ve learnt from me (I hope I’ve been able to show you a thing or two though!), but actually it is I who’ve been given the most valuable lessons by you. Firstly, when we met, I said everything older seemed better. I wore my rose-tinted spectacles, remember? (I’m smiling now, thinking of you in The Salt Shaker). You’ve shown me that this isn’t necessarily true and I’m so grateful. The future is in good hands. Secondly, I’m not scared anymore. I always worried about the things I’d miss when I’m no longer around. I was so afraid of dying but how can I miss something that I don’t even know will happen? Instead, I’ve learned to cherish everything I’ve done; it’s been a wonderful, eye-opening experience. I’d forgotten to live for today because I was so worried about tomorrow. You and your party story taught me that. Now I can focus on all the beautiful things in the world. I tried to get you to do that with your flowers – how could I have forgotten myself? The world really can be a wonderful place. You’ve opened my eyes once more.

  Finally, thank you for my poem. No one has ever written anything for me before and it’s truly a precious gift. It’s become my heart’s best treasure and rests beneath my pillow every night. I sense it lying there in the darkness and can feel the wonder of our glorious summer of sunflowers and stars.

  With all my heart, thank you.

  Best wishes,

  Ernest – still kind and still with a dream or two up his sleeve!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Knock at the Door

  1974

  The snow was fluffy and white against the night. It swirled in gusts, building on the banks of the garden at number 43. It had been a cold winter; even February’s arrival had not driven away the persistent flurries or melted the ice that piled high on the pavements.

  Raymond moved towards the patio door, intending to close the curtains against the cold. He stared through the glass but saw only the glow of the electric fire and his own image reflected there. He stood back, his form bright against the darkness. He’d put on weight; his face was fuller and a stubbly black beard masked his pale skin. He smiled, secretly pleased. He held a large paintbrush up to the window and waved it, dark against his paint-splattered shirt. In the background, Yessongs was playing on his new stereo.

  He’d been living in Ernest’s old house for about a year and had decided to decorate. Finding time was the trick; his job at the DHSS left him with precious little. The clerk had been right – the social life was fantastic. He’d made lots of friends and the pub seemed a natural place to congregate after a day’s work.

  Ernest was never far from his thoughts and every day his friend’s generosity warmed him. Ernest’s brother had accepted the transfer of ownership with good grace, and with little delay Raymond had become the proud owner of Ernest’s house.

  The funeral had been a quiet affair. He’d travelled to Birmingham with his mum and dad. Afterwards they’d gone to Ernest’s brother’s house for the wake, which although sad was a wonderful celebration of Ernest’s life. His old photographs were displayed in every nook and cranny, many lit by a tiny Christmas light. Raymond had stood transfixed in front of each one, in awe of Ernest’s unassuming brilliance, so proud of their friendship. His excited dad had delighted in naming many of the bygone celebrities captured by Ernest’s film.

  A few days later, Raymond had reverently carried home a small black urn and laid Ernest’s ashes under the white rosebush, next to his beloved Violet’s.

  That summer the blooms were large, abundant and of the purest white.

  The front doorbell rang, snapping him out of his reverie, and he pulled the curtains shut with a flourish. It was late and he wanted to ignore the caller, but the bell rang again and then once more.

  Raymond sighed and wandered to the front door. He opened it just a few inches.

  A young woman was walking down the path, away from the house. Long black hair curled over the collar of a warm red coat. The snowflakes caught in the wool and the tangles of her hair. She turned and Raymond felt giddy as her dark, almond eyes met his.

  He opened the door wider and the young woman walked back towards him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Her voice was soft, the French accent conspicuous. The words seemed almost to dance as she spoke. ‘Does Mr Gardiner live here?’

  ‘Pardon?’ The music was loud and the sound of Ernest’s name had thrown Raymond. He squinted and leaned forward.

  ‘Mr Gardiner, Mr Ernest Gardiner. Does he live here?’ The young woman smiled reassuringly.

  ‘No ... I’m afraid he doesn’t,’ said Raymond, suspicious despite her warm manner.

  ‘Oh … um …’ A look of such sorrow swept over her face that Raymond felt instantly guilty. ‘I am so sorry to have troubled you,’ she said. She turned and began to walk down the path as quickly as the slippery ice would allow.

  ‘Wait,’ called Raymond. ‘Please wait ... look, he used to live here. He was my friend … he ... he ...’ Raymond fought to find the two words he hated more than any other. ‘He died.’

  She turned to face him and raised her hands to her mouth, her head shaking.

  ‘Oh no. I came here to tell him …’ She stepped backwards.

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I must go.’

  ‘Please tell me. I was his friend.’

  She hesitated and then took a step forward.

  ‘To tell him he has a daughter. I am his granddaughter.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Frostbite

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p; Raymond stood in the doorway, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. His breath caught as if a heavy punch had slammed into his chest. He stared at the young woman until the snow-filled silence became unbearable.

  Then she spoke. ‘I am so sorry to have troubled you. I must be going.’ She turned again and hurried away.

  Raymond breathed and the cold air was like icy water, shocking him back to reality.

  ‘Wait,’ he shouted. It sounded more like an order than the plea he’d intended.

  She glanced around then stumbled faster down the path.

  ‘I must go,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Please wait. I knew Ernest. He was my friend. He gave me this house. His daughter – why didn’t she contact him?’ Raymond took a step into the night, his socks soaking up the snow.

  The woman hesitated and turned.

  ‘No one knew he was alive,’ she said.

  ‘But … but ... please, come in. Just for ten minutes. You’ve come all this way for a reason; I might be able to help. Please.’

  He turned and walked back into the hallway, leaving the door wide open, praying she’d follow him inside.

  In a daze he made his way to the lounge. It was a muddle of paint pots, brushes, and rollers. He moved some newspapers and slumped into the familiar chair – the one he’d sat in when he’d visited Ernest – now covered with a white dust sheet. He gripped the soft arms; saw his fingers turning white with the effort.

  He concentrated on the lounge door, willing it to move, his ears straining over his pounding heart to hear the hoped-for footsteps.

  There was no sound and the cold air from the open front door began to filter through the room. Raymond shivered, only in part because of the cold. She wasn’t coming. He leapt up and ran into the hallway, knocking over a paint pot in his haste.