Cold Sunflowers Page 2

  He got up quickly and pulled on his skinny jeans and baggy T-shirt, then made use of the hairbrush his mum had given him shortly after he started senior school.

  He remembered that day clearly.

  He hated school dinners so had rushed home for lunch. On the dining-room table was a brown paper bag. He’d opened it and been surprised by the turquoise hairbrush with black bendy teeth. He had no idea why that brush meant so much to him. Such a mundane object, but it was special. It showed his mum cared. She had noticed him struggling to comb his tangled, lengthening hair and had found a solution.

  He turned and looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall of his bedroom.

  He didn’t like his appearance.

  There was no doubt about it – the primary-school nickname of Skinny Ribs, although cruel, was quite justified. The baggy T-shirt concealed his body, but the short sleeves exposed his arms – long, thin, devoid of muscle. He moved closer to the mirror, examining the whiteness of his face. Another spot had nudged through, the reddened skin matching his equally sore-looking eyelids.

  He yanked the hairbrush through the tangles. As always, his hair curled at a peculiar angle above his ear so that even his mum’s hairspray struggled to flatten it. When his fringe refused to comply, he saw with horror that it had become a matted lacquered lump.

  It was too late for a hair wash, so he wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  His dad had recently decorated the wall around the sink with orange tiles and then, pleased with his work, had extended the tiling to below the wooden cabinets. The rest of the room was a lemon yellow and Raymond was still unconvinced that the two colours complemented one another, although his dad insisted the look was modern.

  From the kitchen sink, the front garden and the road were visible. Raymond would often stand there daydreaming when he should have been washing up.

  The previous evening his dad had said he’d be taking a ‘Whitley’ in the morning – a day off when you weren’t really sick – but Raymond was still surprised when he saw his father sitting at the oversized kitchen table.

  His dad held a large newspaper in one hand, folded in half, and a piece of toast in the other. The front-page story had captured his attention but he glanced up and smiled as Raymond nudged past him and sat down.

  His dad was handsome, well built, but not overweight. He wore his black hair swept backwards, like a film star’s, and his chiselled chin was appropriately accented with a Kirk Douglas dimple.

  Raymond envied his dad’s physique and, as always, involuntarily looked down at his own body.

  His mother was at the sink, drying the plates left on the draining board from the previous evening. She wore a red dressing gown pulled tightly around her and fastened with a cord. It set off her short dark perm.

  ‘What are you having, Ray? You can get the 10.05 if you hurry.’ Her voice was cheery and kind, and she always spoke with a smile.

  ‘Just some toast, please. I’ll go later. I was going to sort the garden out this morning.’

  His dad took a precise bite from his toast. He was a kind, caring man but had old-fashioned values and kept emotion well and truly bottled – the English way. Unlike his wife, he was usually quiet, rarely excited. A black-and-white photo next to her coloured one. But the two complemented each other and seldom had a cross word.

  ‘Your flowers won’t give your mum her housekeeping.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, I hate the dole office.’ Raymond could hear himself whining. ‘Let me leave it one more day. I’ll definitely go tomorrow.’

  His dad put the paper down and looked directly at Raymond.

  ‘Ray, you’re entitled to that money. And, honestly, I’m fed up with you moping around. You need a job. I’ll take you to London on Friday; there’s plenty of jobs up there.’

  Raymond’s mum, as if sensing an argument, turned towards them from the sink.

  ‘I’ll get something soon, Dad. I will.’ Raymond felt his temper building. ‘You get up every day at six in the morning and don’t get home until eight. I never see you. I don’t want to do that.’

  His dad lay a piece of toast on the plate. Raymond sensed the lecture before it began.

  ‘Look, Ray, life isn’t easy. Most of us do jobs we don’t like just to pay the bills. I’ve told you since you were little, do something you enjoy. But you don’t seem to want to do anything. There’s a tiny minority of people earning a bloody fortune doing something they like, you know – snooker players or footballers. The rest of us just earn a pittance.’

  Raymond was breathing heavily now. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  ‘I know, Dad – you’ve told me a million times,’ he replied, his tone mocking.

  His father stopped chewing and glared. Raymond felt the heat rise to his cheeks, then shame as tears formed, the lump in his throat growing bigger. As if sensing Raymond’s discomfort his dad spoke gently.

  ‘Ray, I want you to be unique. I never wanted you to be part of the majority, but that’s the way it is sometimes. Pop down to the dole office and see what’s happening.’

  Raymond’s mum put a mug of tea on to the table in front of him. He picked it up and sipped slowly, occasionally blowing on to the surface. His eyes stung. He stared ahead, saying nothing; sure his quivering voice would betray his feelings. He noticed his mum look over at her husband and shake her head. Enough. She passed Raymond a piece of toast and he bit the corner half-heartedly.

  His parents looked at him, no doubt wondering what had become of their once bright, bubbly boy. When had the shadow descended and dragged him into a colourless world?

  His mum looked up, as if stung into action.

  ‘Ray! I know – why don’t I come with you?’

  Raymond’s head jerked up and he rose from his seat.

  ‘Mum, no!’ he squeaked.

  ‘Ray, we love you,’ his mum said softly, ‘but we worry about you. You stay in your room. You don’t talk to us and you seem so sad. Have a look at your flowers and then get the 11.30 if you like.’

  Raymond’s breath caught in his throat and he gulped.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  Toast in hand, he made his way back to his bedroom.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cold Sunflowers

  Raymond’s home was part of a new estate. A long row of identical houses stood side by side, white horizontal boards cladding the top of each one and all shielded from the rain and the sun by the same sloping roofs and black guttering. Only the front gardens nosing the pavement displayed their owners’ individuality. Raymond’s parents had built a small wall around their front lawn, dug borders and planted shrubs; the garden looked mature and planned.

  Raymond walked over to several straggly flowers tied with green string to bamboo poles, which were more than twice the height of the plants.

  It was sunny and aside from the shadows cast by the occasional shrub or bush, most of the garden was bathed in yellow. Raymond’s flowers were in the shade, hidden against the wall of the house. The drab location reflected their lack of vitality. Their leaves were small, pale and feeble and despite the valiant efforts of the string and the pole, the stems leaned forward, craving sunlight.

  Raymond lovingly dug the soil around the plants, removed weeds and dead leaves and tried in vain to get them to stand at ninety degrees.

  He picked up the book he had tried to read in his bedroom.

  Sunflowers will grow approximately six inches a week during the summer, reaching a height of over six feet. Shoots and large green leaves will amply cover a long stem and a glorious head will form after about nine weeks …

  He put the book back down on the grass, shook his head and used the watering can to drench the dry earth around each flower. He sighed and looked at his watch, stared once more at the plants, willing them to grow, and hurriedly took the tools and book to the shed. After one more check to assure himself he’d packed everything away, he walked up the garden path and on to the roa
d. It was 11.20 a.m.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Bus Ride

  The 11.30 was packed.

  People stood two abreast in the gangway, grimly gripping the vertical poles that rose from the back of every other seat, steadying themselves as the bus stopped, started, twisted and turned.

  The smoke from a dozen cigarettes drifted close to the ceiling and hung there, blurring the advertisements above the windows. Raymond always read these hoping to make the time pass a little quicker.

  Today he’d been lucky. He had caught the bus at an earlier stop and found a seat on the lower deck next to an elderly lady. She’d looked friendly enough, but frowned and tutted when she realised she’d have to move her shopping bag.

  Sometimes it seemed that a seat was more trouble than it was worth, and as the bus became crowded, he felt the standing passengers’ questioning eyes on him.

  Had he deserved that seat?

  Should he give it up?

  There were older people standing but would they be offended if he offered to swap?

  As for the women, he was sure that the new Women’s Lib movement didn’t even want doors opened for its members, let alone the gift of a seat.

  It was all so confusing and added to his unease.

  The bus was a double-decker – the worst type. Dark red with a grey trim above the windows. The new design, with the front entrance enclosed by sliding doors, meant he couldn’t leap off if he felt the need. A tiny cockpit ensconced the driver at the front while the conductor patrolled the aisles.

  Today’s conductor was a middle-aged woman, mid-to-late forties, so a little older than his mother. She had longish auburn hair, wavy rather than curly. Her face was tight and her lips thin. She didn’t suffer fools – Raymond had seen her push a young boy off a crowded bus because he’d had the audacity to ask whether she was going to a stop only a few miles down the road.

  Around her neck she bore a heavy silver ticket machine. Turning the tiny black handle produced a sound of whizzing gears and a flimsy white ticket. A large leather money bag was laid flat on a raised thigh and opened as she leant against an adjacent seat. She’d shake the bag vigorously to produce the correct change.

  Raymond hated bus trips; it was not so much the journey as the getting-off. He never had the courage to ring the bell or pull the wire on the older buses, relying on the conductor to do it for him. On several occasions he had missed his stop because she’d been upstairs.

  Panic rose in his chest and, with it, the familiar shortness of breath, irregular heartbeat, and fear that he would collapse and die.

  It was the same with every trip. He rubbed anxiously at his chest – up, down, faster and faster – in a feeble attempt to keep his heart going. Several times he inadvertently nudged the woman next to him but he was oblivious to her discomfort until she pointedly stared at him with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, and quickly focused his gaze on his knees.

  The bus was about to arrive at the stop before his and he looked out of the window at the waiting queue, trying to gauge whether anyone would head upstairs. Youngsters seemed to regard the top deck as their domain while older people more often than not took the lower. Today was a mixed bag.

  He turned his attention to the conductor, then lowered his head once more and closed his eyes.

  ‘Stay here. Please stay here,’ he whispered. ‘Please, God, don’t let anyone else go upstairs; let the conductor stay down here. Twenty prayers tonight if she stays. I’m on the sixty-five going towards town. Gentle Jesus, please help. Amen.’

  The bus slowed to a halt and several people got on. They looked to the right, saw passengers standing in the aisle and climbed the stairs.

  Raymond groaned loudly.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’

  Several people looked around to see who’d uttered the remark. Raymond shrank into his seat and stared at the small red button, the words Push Once moulded into the shiny steel surround.

  Familiar roads drifted past the window and he sensed his stop nearing. The conductor was nowhere to be seen although the whirr of the ticket machine and clatter of coins could be heard.

  Raymond felt the tension in his chest mount. He breathed deeply but it was as if the oxygen couldn’t reach his lungs. He tried again this time almost panting. Sometimes poking his tongue over his bottom lip while rubbing his chest helped, but not today.

  His elderly neighbour looked at him, concerned. Her gaze moved across the aisle to another passenger who shrugged.

  Raymond clutched the thin silver rail of the seat in front and tried to steady himself. Two seats ahead, a man lifted his bag. Was he reaching for the bell? Raymond’s heart leapt, but the passenger merely adjusted his sitting position, put his bag on his lap and rummaged through it.

  The stop was approaching fast; only two hundred yards. Raymond looked around again, his breathing even shallower, certain his heart would explode. He felt the tickle of perspiration on his cheek.

  The bus pushed onwards, doggedly eating up the road. Raymond stared at the bell. He just needed to stand up, move forward and press it.

  Fifty yards until the stop. None of the passengers had moved. Raymond gripped the seat in front of him and pulled himself upright. His legs trembled as he took a step towards the bell. Timorously, he reached forward, trying to control his shaking hand.

  ‘Are you all right? Can I help you?’ said a female voice.

  Before Raymond could answer, the conductor pirouetted down the stairs and, using the handrail to adjust her position, swung on to the front platform. She saw him edging forward, reached up and pushed the bell beside her. The bus came to a juddering halt.

  Raymond fumbled past the standing passengers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and they moved aside reluctantly, each of them eying his empty seat and calculating the age and sex of their companions.

  As he neared the exit, he mumbled a thank-you to the conductor and hopped off.

  He stood on the pavement and watched the bus disappear around a corner. His racing heart slowed and he inhaled deeply, comforted as the warm air filled his lungs. He skipped for a few paces, then stopped, horrified when he realised what he was doing. He looked up. The cloudy sky was turning blue, and a bubble of relief burst from within and formed into the widest of smiles.

  ‘Thank you, Lord. Twenty prayers tonight.’

  * * *

  The queue for the DHSS snaked out the door and stretched down the concrete steps. Several people lay on the grass in front of the building, soaking up the sun. Large cans of Special Brew littered the surrounding area.

  Raymond hated going to the social – loathed the grey, characterless building and the mundane questions. But most of all it was that sense of feeling like a child beside his streetwise companions with their jokes, their shoving and their swearing. He knew in his heart that everyone around him wasn’t like that, but it was as if he were a magnet for these individuals and more than once a visit to the dole office had resulted in an embarrassing altercation.

  The queue inched forward until Raymond finally entered the harsh, neon-lit building and took a small, white, dog-eared card with the number sixty-three written on it in black marker pen.

  He looked around.

  Glass-fronted booths lined one side of the room. On the walls, torn and graffiti covered posters hung at odd angles, their corners discoloured and lumpy. People milled about and chatted; it seemed unorganised and unhurried, and the atmosphere was filled with a sense of hopeless acceptance.

  Occasionally he’d hear a voice, raised and desperate, or the thud of a desk being slammed before someone hurriedly left the building, eyes bulging, daring anyone to look at them.

  Raymond eyed a row of red plastic chairs secured to the floor. He spotted an empty seat at the end and sat down. Opposite was an elderly man wearing a light quilted anorak, his white hair swept back. He looked out of place amid the noisy throng. He smiled at Raymond, who quickly looked down at his shoes.<
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  ‘Fifty-nine.’ The number crackled through the loudspeaker.

  The elderly man glanced at his card, stood up and walked over to the empty booth. Raymond watched as he sat down, then strained to listen to the conversation, hoping he’d pick up some tips for his own interview.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the man to the clerk.

  ‘Hello. How can I help you today?’

  ‘Well, I seem to have lost my order book and I have no money left in the house at all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. And you’ve no idea where it could be?’

  ‘No. I feel so stupid – it’s just disappeared.’

  ‘Not to worry. Could I have your name and national insurance number, please?’

  ‘Yes, Ernest Gardiner, and the number is BG752036D.’

  The clerk recorded the details on a sheet of white paper.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gardiner. I’ll just go and find your papers and then I’ll have a word with my supervisor and we’ll see what we can do. I won’t keep you too long.’

  Raymond felt a hard nudge on his arm.

  ‘It’s your turn, mate. Hurry up.’

  ‘Final call, sixty-three.’ The words hissed through the speakers.

  ‘Thanks,’ mumbled Raymond. He shuffled towards the booth, self-consciously looking around at the waiting people, and sat in front of the glass screen. The clerk was a young man, probably not that much older than him. He thought of his dad’s words about finding a job.

  ‘Hello. How can I help today?’

  ‘Hello, um, my giro hasn’t come. It should have come last week but ... but I’ve waited and waited and nothing’s arrived.’

  ‘I see. Has the post come today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The second post?’

  Raymond hesitated.

  ‘Well, no, but the giro was supposed to come last week.’

  In the next booth the elderly man was waiting patiently; he gave Raymond a reassuring smile.

  ‘I see,’ said the clerk. ‘Well, where are you currently living?’