Cold Sunflowers Read online

  It was eerily quiet. The front door was still wide open and the moonlight lit the room with a translucent glow. Ice had formed on the carpet by the door where the snowflakes had blown inside and melted.

  ‘Damn it,’ he whispered.

  He dived into the night, dressed in just a T-shirt, jeans and socks. The cold air hit him a hammer blow and he reeled backwards, gasping for breath. The young woman was nowhere to be seen. He reached the end of the garden path and looked left and right. Still no trace. The heavy flurries of snow had covered any footprints. He chose left and skidded along the street on his frozen stockinged feet. At the end of the road he looked both ways but she had gone.

  ‘Shit,’ he cursed quietly, holding his head in his freezing hands.

  He retraced his steps and continued along the road, past his house, in the opposite direction. He shivered violently and wondered whether his numb feet were at risk of frostbite.

  Thinking he’d lost her and about to give up, he turned a corner. There, twenty yards ahead of him, was the woman. She trudged slowly into the night, huddled against the cold, her long hair lit by moonlight and speckled with white snowflakes. She reached a small yellow car and opened the driver’s door.

  Raymond gasped. ‘Wait … please wait.’ It was difficult to talk; his jaw was tight and his teeth chattered.

  She stopped, hesitated and turned holding the car door open. She looked at Raymond and raised a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Please, you must talk to me. I was Ernest’s friend. He told me all kinds of stories but never mentioned a daughter.’

  The woman smiled, her eyes darting from his desperate face to his sodden feet. ‘You must get indoors. You will freeze out here. Where are your shoes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. It was just so important I see you and I couldn’t waste a second.’

  ‘I-I don’t think Ernest knew he had a daughter,’ she said. ‘His friend in France – Mirabelle – she was my grandmother.’

  ‘What? Wait … no ... that’s not right. Mira died in a bombing. Ernest was heartbroken.’

  ‘No, she didn’t die. She lived a long and wonderful life. She kept a journal, which I have been reading since I was a little girl. That’s how I know about Monsieur Gardiner.’ She shook her head. ‘I am sorry – I really have to go.’

  ‘Please, t-there’s a pub down the road. It’s called The Quiet Life. C-can you meet me there tomorrow night about 8 o’clock? I’ve got work during the day. You can see how important it is – look at me. I’m half-dead with the c-cold.’

  ‘I don’t know. I have a lot to do. I go back to France the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Please, you came all this way. Just take a chance. Everything happens for a reason.’

  She laughed then, a gleeful birdsong in the winter wilderness. She turned and faced him through the snow. ‘Those words are in my grandmother’s journal. Bill said them.’

  Her smiling eyes found his and Raymond felt a warmth filling his body, keeping him safe from the cold.

  ‘Yes ... yes … you see, I know loads,’ said Raymond. ‘I know the story, everything. But ... but ... it’s all wrong.’ The words tumbled from him and his hands gesticulated wildly. ‘I need to know what really happened. I—’ He sighed and rested his hands by his side. He could do no more. ‘Please,’ he whispered.

  The woman smiled again and began to get into the car. Raymond took a step forward then looked down at himself. The situation was ridiculous; she must think him mad, shivering in front of her, shoeless and in just a T-shirt and jeans.

  He lowered his head. Enough.

  ‘The Quiet Life at 8 o’clock. I will see you then.’ She curled into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and shouted a muffled au revoir.

  The car pulled away slowly, sliding a little on the frozen road. Its rear lights glowed, two warm red embers disappearing into the night.

  Raymond skipped back through the slush to his house. He was no longer cold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Quiet Life

  The next day dragged. Raymond couldn’t focus on his work and several colleagues asked if he was all right. Nothing seemed real and although the sun shone brightly, and the snow was slowly thawing, everything appeared grey and on hold. It was as if he were waiting in the foyer for a long-awaited and favourite show to start. At four, he flexed off work and caught the bus home.

  He moped around the house. He wasn’t in the mood for painting so he flicked between the three TV channels. Nothing sparked his interest.

  At seven he showered. By seven thirty he was on the way to The Quiet Life.

  It was still bitterly cold. The snow had melted during the day but the slush had turned to ice and he took great care as he walked along the treacherous paths. The roads were now quite clear and Raymond made the most of a car-less evening.

  The Quiet Life was its usual welcoming self. The subdued yellow glow and the fading floral sofas around the wall gave the pub a homely feel. At the bar, regulars sat on their high stools, listening dutifully to the landlord’s stories. Raymond squeezed between them and ordered a pint of lager in a mug. A brand-new glass cabinet full of pasties caught his eye so he decided to try one and he took it over to the corner by the window where he’d sat with Ernest. Since that time he’d become a regular, often meeting friends from work, though whenever he visited he thought back to that night when he’d flown down the slope.

  From his seat he could see the bar and the door. A low hubbub of chatter filled the smoky air. Older regulars, their stomachs straining their shirt buttons, talked mainly in twos or threes. A larger group of youngsters occupied the opposite corner, and Raymond suspected that several were under eighteen. They supped their half pints sheepishly, talking quietly about last weekend’s football results. In the public bar a game of pool was in progress and the clatter of balls and raucous laughter interrupted the calm of the saloon.

  Time seemed to stand still. He bit into his pasty. The flaky pastry caught in his throat and he helped it down with a mouthful of beer.

  He stared at the clock and waited.

  The anticipation was unbearable. The previous evening had been a shock; first the young woman, then the news of Mira. He wished with all his heart that Ernest was sitting with him and tried to think of the questions his friend would have asked.

  He looked at the clock. Eight fifteen. Icy panic cut into his spine and tickled the tips of his fingers.

  Where was she? Had she changed her mind?

  He surveyed the room.

  Maybe she’d already arrived. Gone to the public bar. Gone home when she couldn’t find him.

  He stood quickly, banging his thighs against the table and sending it scraping across the floor. Several people looked around and, embarrassed, he slumped back into his seat, unsure what to do.

  Look outside? Go to the public bar? Leave?

  The turmoil made him giddy.

  He took another sip of lager. It was now BFL, as his friends would say – below flob level. He smiled and looked at the clock again. It seemed the faster his heart beat the slower time went.

  The pub door opened and all heads turned. The excitement sent Raymond’s pulse racing. He breathed in a deep ocean of air. His spirits buoyed then sunk, as he realised the young woman was not one of the new arrivals. A middle-aged couple stamped their feet on the mat and nodded to several regulars. An icy blast of wind accompanied them, sending an involuntary shudder through the room. White smudges on the couple’s coats revealed that snow had begun to fall again.

  Time dragged unmoving, but that was how he wished it now; the later it got the less likely the chance of her arrival. He looked around the bar. Where was she? He had so many questions.

  He watched the group of youngsters laugh and relax as the beer mellowed their nerves. They had their whole lives ahead of them, but he knew how easy it was to drift; he’d done a lot of that.

  When Ernest had died, Raymond vowed he’d write a book by the time he was
thirty. Over a year had flown by and he’d not written a single word. He imagined his life as a silk ribbon stretching ahead of him, twisting and turning, but with every second that passed the silk became a little shorter. He shook his head and looked at the clock. Eight thirty. His ribbon had shortened by fifteen minutes and he’d not even noticed.

  And then it hit him. She wasn’t coming.

  Why would she? Who would meet a complete stranger in a pub? He’d been a total idiot to think she would.

  He stood and pulled on his coat. His limbs felt heavy with sadness, and a weariness overcame him. He turned and stepped towards the door. It flew open in a flurry of snow.

  She whooshed into the bar. Olive skin, long dark hair floating behind her. She seemed startled, as if the lights of The Quiet Life had temporarily blinded her, and she moved her head quickly from side to side, searching.

  She didn’t see him and hurried towards the public bar, holding a battered brown briefcase that swung precariously close to the glass-laden tables.

  Raymond stood transfixed, watching her enter, then return to the saloon, her eyes all the while seeking something. Then she found him, and the biggest of beaming smiles lit her face. She walked quickly, dropped the briefcase, clasped his warm hand between her frozen ones and squeezed.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Her words were rushed, and she breathed as if to steady herself. ‘My hire car wouldn’t start and I had to get a taxi. I was sure you would be gone.’ She seemed about to hug him but just smiled again. ‘But you are still here. Thank you for waiting.’

  Raymond was speechless. He could only look at her, his mouth slightly open.

  She was beautiful.

  The golden glow of the lights gently illuminated her face. Her big brown eyes, edged with black eyeliner, were expectant and questioning. With a brush of her hand she swept a curl of hair away from her cheek, but almost instantly it fell back into place.

  Raymond self-consciously looked around the room. The group of youths and the regulars at the bar were staring, intrigued by this strange meeting.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Red wine, merci.’ She sat down on the sofa.

  Raymond walked to the bar and felt the eyes of the regulars following him. He imagined them wondering how he knew this beautiful woman, and he stood a little taller and smiled as he ordered the drinks and returned to his seat.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said again. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here. I was so worried. I couldn’t contact you and thought I’d never see you again. I have so many questions.’ He looked around the pub; most people had now returned to their own lives and conversations. ‘I’m Ray by the way.’ He extended his hand.

  The woman took it again and held it in hers.

  ‘Ah, Ray, like the sun. That’s lovely. My name is Aimee.’

  ‘Oh, Aimee ... like ... er … um.’ Raymond felt the heat rush to his cheeks.

  Aimee laughed, a wonderful, joyous childlike giggle that made Raymond feel instantly at ease.

  ‘Um … so are you staying in England long?’ He tried to appear casual, not wanting to mention Mira too soon although he was desperate for information.

  ‘No, I have been here for three days. I go back to France tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Have you enjoyed your stay?’

  ‘It has been cold, much colder than France. I should have waited until the summer but I was impatient.’ She looked at Raymond and smiled, as if inviting him to enquire further, but he remained resolute.

  ‘Have you visited anywhere else?’ he asked nonchalantly.

  ‘Yes, before I came to the UK, I took a trip to Bailleul.’

  He could no longer contain himself. ‘Bailleul!’ he replied somewhat louder than he’d intended, and several people turned to look over. He spoke again, more quietly this time. ‘Bailleul. Where Ernest and Bill met Mira?’

  ‘Yes. Mirabelle was my grandmother. She was a remarkable woman and lived an extraordinary life. With her husband she travelled all over the world, raising money for charities that were close to her heart. My grandfather was a musician. He played with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.’

  Aimee could barely keep still. A smile flashed across her face, lighting the gloomy corner, her pride unmistakable.

  ‘They were always together. When he was playing in the orchestra, she was out persuading people to give her money or go to the charity concerts her husband had arranged. They were quite a force.’ She laughed.

  ‘But Ernest was sure she’d died when her farmhouse was bombed.’ The words gushed out of him, his dam of indifference breached in a second. ‘He saw her body,’ he added, as if more proof were needed.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my grandmother’s. She spoke of a young English photographer who spent a wonderful summer with her in Bailleul before he was killed.’

  ‘But ... but he wasn’t killed!’ said Raymond. He paused to catch his breath. ‘How do you know all this?’

  Mira leant closer and Raymond mirrored her movement, conspirators huddled over the table.

  ‘When I was a little girl,’ Aimee continued quietly, ‘I sat on my grandmother’s knee while she read to me from an old green journal. I loved hearing about the countryside; it was a different world to the city I was used to. I looked forward to those days, and the journal became something magical. But she would never finish it, despite my protests, and we would always start the book again from the beginning. As I grew older I visited her less and less, and those days, snuggled in her lap, listening to her adventures, came to an end.’ Mira sighed and looked sad. ‘My grandmother died six years ago, and when my mother was clearing her house, she discovered an old wooden chest. It was full of memorabilia and she gave it to me to look through. At the bottom of the chest I found the green journal. Imagine how I felt. I could hardly breathe. I began to turn the pages my grandmother would never read. It was a harrowing tale and I can understand why she didn’t want to burden me with it. That is where I discovered Ernest Gardiner – a young English photographer – and his friend Bill. Since then I’ve been researching the story. It’s been nearly five years and I’ve probably written a hundred letters.’ She laughed again. ‘I found out there were only sixteen official British photographers in the First World War. So I wrote to the Ministry of Defence, asking for service records, and to my surprise I discovered that Ernest Gardiner had left the army, alive and well. He’d also lived in the same house for over fifty years, so it wasn’t hard to find him.’ She looked at Raymond and whispered sadly, ‘Just a little too late, it seems.’

  She reached down to the floor and lifted the battered brown briefcase on to the table.

  ‘Anyway, look what I have with me.’

  She opened the scratched clasp, then removed an olive-green notebook and laid it on the table. Dirt had accumulated along the edges of the dog-eared cover, leaving a line of black smudges. There was a look of great age about it.

  Aimee smiled at Raymond, a secret and excited smile, then opened the briefcase wider and took out a slim black box about nine inches long and four inches high. It too was old and there were dents and scratches all over it. Raymond looked closer. Scorch marks fanned the side.

  Aimee clicked a tiny button and the front of the box swung open. She reached inside and gently pulled. A small camera appeared, its dry black leather bellows expanding concertina-like behind it.

  ‘It’s a No. 1 Autographic Kodak Junior. I’ve researched it,’ she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘I think it was Ernest’s. I wanted to return it to him.’ She watched him as he processed her words.

  ‘What? No … you’re joking.’ Raymond couldn’t stop himself – he picked up the camera, turning it in his hand with reverence. ‘But where did you get it? How do you know?’

  ‘My grandmother, Mira, mentioned it in her journals. There are also these photographs that she developed after the war.’ Aimee reached into the briefcase and took out a small photo album. �
��There are only two pictures, I’m afraid, but this keeps them safe.’ She opened the cover and passed the album to Raymond.

  The pictures were just a few inches tall and wide. They were black and white, and time had left them faded, especially around the edges. The first showed a young woman with long dark hair like Aimee’s, looking sadly at the camera. Her mouth curved gently into the tiniest of smiles. Flowers bloomed behind her, and hooked over her shoulder was a wicker basket full of freshly cut sunflowers. Raymond looked up from the picture and mouthed, Mira?

  She nodded.

  He looked at the second picture and his eyes widened in recognition. A boy in a uniform smiled up through the creases of the faded photograph. The pictured was skewed at an odd angle, as if something had jogged the camera at the moment of the shutter’s release. Still, without a shadow of doubt it was Ernest. He stared back across the years, his eyes alive, delighted and innocent.

  Raymond’s fingers trembled as they gently caressed the picture.

  ‘I can’t believe it. It’s Ernest. It’s bloody Ernest!’ said Raymond, laughing. ‘Sorry I didn’t mean to …’ He half-stood, barely able to stop himself from leaping. ‘But … this … oh, goodness … but how do you know Mira’s daughter was Ernest’s?’

  ‘Let me read the journal to you,’ said Aimee, trying to hide her own excitement. ‘I marked the pages this afternoon.’

  Raymond sat back down and leaned closer. He could smell the journal’s musky scent. It was beginning to fall apart, and some of the pages stuck stubbornly together, but Aimee persevered and, at last, she spread the journal open on the table at the place she wanted.

  The neat copperplate handwriting surprised Raymond. The words flowed like perfect waves across the page, each sentence finishing with a looping flourish.

  Aimee began to translate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Journal

  This evening, two Tommies arrived at the house. They will be staying with us for a while. I had been sitting and reading the poetry book father bought for me but had lost interest and was thinking about the war and father, and staring at the night sky and the stars when I heard the door creak.