Cold Sunflowers Page 4

  ‘Sunflowers,’ Raymond said, looking at the grass.

  ‘That’s right, sunflowers. Look at yours; they’re in the shade. They love the sun. They want to bathe in its rays, hold their heads towards it, worship it.’ It was Ernest’s turn to become animated; he turned his weathered face to the sky and held out his arms.

  ‘Well, my book says they don’t mind some shade,’ said Raymond, feeling a little defensive.

  ‘Yes, some shade, but yours are in perpetual darkness.’ Ernest began to laugh.

  ‘But it’s out of the wind here,’ said Raymond. ‘They’ll get blown over if I move them. And if I put them near the road, someone will probably knock them down. In the shade they’re safe.’

  ‘I know, but they’ll never get the chance to bloom. Surely that’s not right. It’s got to be worth the risk to see those wonderful flowers. Raymond, we have to give them a chance. Your sunflowers are cold. Let me come round tomorrow and I’ll help you move them.’

  Raymond turned towards Ernest in surprise.

  ‘Well … what? I don’t know … I don’t know what we’re doing tomorrow. I’ll have to ask my mum.’

  Ernest straightened his back slowly but it was clear he was excited.

  ‘I’m not doing anything else. It would be wonderful! We can get to know each other. We already have something in common. I don’t get out much. Could I help?’ Ernest was talking so fast it shocked Raymond when he ran out of words and a silence ensued.

  Raymond shook his head, pondering the situation. He looked up at Ernest.

  ‘Well … okay, then. I suppose it’ll be all right.’

  ‘You know, Raymond, if all the smiles in all the world could be melted into one and if each of us could choose a moment to wear that smile, I would choose this one.’

  Raymond lay in bed with the covers pulled high over his shoulders. A night light turned the darkness to a warm red that made the room feel safe and cosy. The sunflower book with its ruffled pages and bent corners lay discarded on the floor. Raymond pushed his hands together in prayer, his eyes shut tightly. He whispered the usual litany and each time he finished a prayer he crossed the opposing fingers of each hand to allow him to keep track of how many he’d said.

  ‘Amen. Nineteen.’ He crossed his ring fingers so only the little ones now remained upright. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child. Pity my simplicity. Suffer me to come to thee. God bless Mum, Dad, nannies, granddads, aunties, uncles, cousins John and Clive, and all kind friends, and make Ray a good boy, for Jesus’ sake. And thank you, Lord and everyone, for making the bus trip okay. Can you please make my giro come tomorrow? Thirty prayers if it comes tomorrow, promise. Amen. Twenty.’ He flattened his little fingers.

  Raymond sat up. He turned his top pillow over so he would feel the coolness of the other side when he went to sleep, then adjusted his blankets and settled back down. He lay bathed in the red haze for several minutes. He felt content and happily mulled over the day’s events.

  A notion took flight and he spun on to his right side so that his heart was again facing towards heaven. He closed his eyes, pushed his hands together and whispered into them, ‘And, Lord, thank you so much for making me meet Ernest.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Lost Giro (Part Two)

  The next morning, Raymond sat at the breakfast table eating his cornflakes. The sunflower book was propped against the marmalade jar, its pages wedged open by a salt-and-pepper pot.

  ‘Raymond, what have I told you about reading at the table?’ his mother said.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m just at an important bit.’

  Raymond looked up from his cereal. His mum wore a crisp, recently washed, yellow-and-white chequered apron. She was busy drying the plates with a matching tea towel. There was a constant clatter as she placed the crockery in the cupboard.

  ‘Okay but don’t do it in front of your dad.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Raymond said, but he still felt the injustice of his dad being allowed to read the newspaper at the kitchen table every day.

  The post fell through the letter box with a rattle and a clunk. Raymond’s mum put her tea towel down and went to collect it. He could hear her sorting through the envelopes.

  ‘Whatever you said, it worked; your giro’s here,’ she called from the hallway.

  Raymond could hardly believe it and tried not to smile as he spooned cornflakes into his mouth.

  ‘Yes, I told them, Mum,’ he shouted triumphantly between mouthfuls. ‘I said it had to come today or they’d need to replace it. They said they’d send it straight away.’

  ‘Well done, Ray. I’m so proud of you. And Dad will be pleased when he gets home from work.’

  His mum returned to the kitchen and passed him the official-looking brown envelope with the letters DHSS written along the top.

  ‘Open it, Ray. Maybe they’ve given you a bit extra for all the inconvenience.’

  Raymond opened the envelope, took out the papers and unfolded them. He read the top one before rifling through the remaining paperwork. There was no giro.

  ‘It says my money’s going up; they must have forgotten to put the giro in.’ He kept his eyes on the envelope, purposely avoiding his mother’s gaze.

  ‘Oh, Ray, what are they doing?’ His mum slammed the other post on to the kitchen table with such uncharacteristic force that it made Raymond jump. ‘You need to go straight back down there. Jessie next door had hers over the counter. You have to make a nuisance of yourself, Ray. Put your foot down.’ She untied her apron. ‘Look, I’ll come with you; we’ll see them together.’

  ‘No, Mum. And, anyway, I can’t go this morning – my friend’s coming round.’

  Raymond’s mum stopped what she was doing. She looked at him, then to the letters, and then back. The double take seemed almost comical.

  ‘Your friend?’ she said. ‘What friend, Ray?’

  ‘Oh, I met him yesterday at the social,’ Raymond replied casually. ‘He seems nice.’

  ‘Well … well, I’m really pleased. That’s lovely. I’m going into town soon but perhaps I’ll meet him when I get back.’

  ‘He’s only staying a little while, Mum,’ he said quickly. ‘Just to help me move my flowers.’

  ‘Your sunflowers? Does he like gardening, then?’

  ‘Yes, he really likes it. He’s got sunflowers himself.’

  He watched his mother look about her, as if trying to think of something to do. She seemed at a loss for words.

  ‘Well, that’s so nice, darling. I’m just a little surprised; most boys your age seem to like football and things like that. Anyway, you have a lovely morning. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget to make him a cup of tea or something, and there’s biscuits in the tin.’

  Raymond stayed at the kitchen table, listening to his mum in the hallway as she put on her coat and shoes. She called a goodbye and the front door clunked behind her.

  He felt a little guilty; he’d not lied but he’d not been entirely truthful either. He knew that he should have mentioned Ernest’s age, but was sure his mum would disapprove and he didn’t want to lose this feeling of warm anticipation. He ran up the stairs to his bedroom, pulled on his gardening jeans and picked up the sunflower book. It wasn’t long before he was bounding over the garden towards the shade, ready to rescue his straggly flowers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Risky Move

  It was a bright sunny morning. Raymond and Ernest worked busily in the garden. Scattered over the lawn were trowels, clippers, spades and various other gardening paraphernalia.

  Ernest bent over the flowers and dug carefully around their roots while Raymond watched intently, holding the stem upright as Ernest worked. Two large half-finished glasses of orange cordial stood beside them.

  ‘We’re risking it,’ said Ernest. ‘I was thinking last night, it’s the wrong time to move them; it should have been sooner. We’ve got to make sure we get the roots up in one ball. Then they might stand a chance. Yo
u’ll have to keep an eye on them, you know. Regular watering.’

  ‘I know,’ said Raymond quietly. ‘I’ve plenty of time.’

  ‘I was wondering about that.’ Ernest paused and wiped his brow. ‘Raymond, what do you like to do with your time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing really. I like reading … my flowers. My dad wants me to find a job in London, but I don’t know what to do.’

  Ernest stood up and looked down at Raymond.

  ‘You know, Raymond, you can do whatever you want, but you have to want to do it enough – more than anything else.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, I don’t know what I want to do.’ Raymond raised his head. He felt sad. ‘Sometimes I want to stay in my room, draw the curtains and let the day pass me by.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Ernest offered his hand and pulled Raymond up. ‘There are so many beautiful things in the world. Look, have you ever truly studied a flower?’

  Ernest guided him to the border and knelt beside a small Busy Lizzie. Raymond followed the older man’s lead and knelt too.

  ‘Now, look at this flower closely; at the petals – the way they overlap, the way light shimmers on them. Look at the colours, Raymond. They’re not one colour are they but many, each changing and blending into the next.’

  Raymond placed his hands on the grass and bent forward so his face was inches from the flower. The petals appeared translucent as the sun shimmered through them, fizzing and illuminating the golden flecks of pollen. The colours were so vibrant that they seemed to pulse with life. Raymond sat back on his haunches.

  ‘That’s so beautiful,’ he said, shaking his head in amazement. Despite his love of flowers, he’d always looked at them as a collection of colour rather than reaching deeper for their individuality.

  Ernest smiled. ‘Yes, and there’s so much more you’ll miss if you’re stuck in your room. We need to get you out, Raymond.’ Ernest dug around the sunflowers. ‘We could spend some time together this summer; I’ve nothing particular to do. I could show you the places that are special to me and we could visit some of your favourites too.’

  ‘I don’t know … I don’t really go anywhere,’ Raymond said.

  ‘What about when you were little?’

  Raymond shook his head and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I like the seaside.’ He stood up. ‘My mum and me would sit on the beach and dad would always go off exploring and bring back ice creams when he’d finished. We’d build sandcastles and tunnels and wait for the water to fill the moat and …’

  The memory lay deep inside – those happy days at the beach, often spent with his cousins. The sun, the blue sky, the cooling breeze. Such excitement and a little trepidation when they boarded the train. It separated at Thorpe-le-Soken, about half way to their destination – the first four coaches heading for Clacton, the last four for Walton. A strange silence would befall their carriage as the shudder, clunk and metallic screech of the uncoupling took place. The boys would hold their breath and look wide-eyed at their parents until they felt the slow, staccato pull of the engine and their journey resumed.

  The two families filled a single compartment. Buckets, spades, flasks and sandwiches, wrapped in greaseproof paper – all in over-stretched plastic carrier bags positioned haphazardly over the seats. The boys’ laughter as they called to passers-by from the open window, then dived to the floor when they turned to look, was shrill and deafening until the adults quietened the excitement, only for it to build, and build again.

  Raymond stared into space and smiled.

  ‘Wakey-wakey,’ said Ernest kindly. ‘We’ll go to the seaside then. I haven’t been there for ages.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask my mum … I-I’m not sure.’

  ‘Okay, have a think about it. Come on. Let’s move these flowers.’

  The two men worked in silence, concentrating on their efforts, each falling naturally into their respective roles. Raymond bowed to Ernest’s greater experience, the junior surgeon attending a major operation, supplying the tools and an extra pair of hands. Ernest dug expertly around the base of each flower, patient and gentle, never forcing the plant from the soil until the roots were free.

  A couple of hours later, the men stood back to admire their work. They had transferred the line of sunflowers from the shaded side of the house to a border by the front wall of the garden. Each plant now stood straight and tall, anchored to a bamboo cane firmly embedded in the soil. The sun shone brightly overhead, and as it moved across the sky towards the house, the sunflowers cast shadows on the road that seemed to breathe with the breeze. A bold dark wave on the cold, hard concrete.

  ‘There, finished,’ said Ernest happily. ‘It’s been a wonderful morning. Thank you for letting me help.’ He stamped his feet, dislodging some of the mud from his shoes. ‘Water them every day and keep your fingers crossed.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen. ‘Look, this is my address and phone number. If you want to meet again give me a call.’ Ernest wrote his details on the paper.

  ‘Would you like another drink before you go?’ asked Raymond shyly. ‘I could show you my sunflower book.’

  ‘Well, that would be lovely. I am very thirsty.’

  Raymond opened the front door. They took off their dirty shoes and padded through the hallway into the kitchen. Raymond poured two large glasses of orange squash and they sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Ah, just what the doctor ordered,’ said Ernest, stretching.

  ‘Did he?’ said Raymond, puzzled. ‘Are you … are you okay? Um, I’ll just get my book.’

  * * *

  Ernest smiled as Raymond pushed his chair back and hurriedly ran for the stairs. He leant forward on to the kitchen table, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his aching back. Sitting down had made him realise just how tired he was. His legs and arms felt stiff and heavy. He hated the way old age had crept up on him, and his unforgiving joints annoyed him. It had been a long time since he’d done that much manual work; his own garden more or less took care of itself.

  Fight it. Fight it.

  He took another sip of his squash and looked around the kitchen. The tiling, although not to his taste, made it so much easier to clean. He made a mental note to do the same in his own kitchen when it needed redecoration.

  Ernest heard the front door open. Then a fumbling of bags and keys before it slammed shut. A woman’s voice called from the hallway.

  ‘Ray, are you home? The sunflowers look lovely there. You have been busy.’

  Ernest half-stood. Unsure what to do next; he remained in a crouch, facing the unopened kitchen door.

  ‘Yes, Mum. Thanks. My friend’s—’

  The kitchen door opened. Raymond’s mother screamed and lifted a can of baked beans.

  ‘I am terribly sorry to have startled you,’ said Ernest, who had retreated to the kitchen sink and was keeping the large table between them. His hands were raised in supplication.

  ‘I’m Ernest Gardiner. I’ve been helping your son with his sunflowers.’ He lowered his right hand and held it out to Raymond’s mum in the hope she would shake it. She ignored his hand and Ernest tried to disguise the attempt by scratching his other arm.

  ‘Oh! You frightened me,’ she said, brushing imaginary fluff from her coat.

  Raymond stumbled into the kitchen, barely catching his breath.

  ‘Hello, Mum. Er, this is the friend I was telling you about.’

  His mother concentrated on her shopping, lifting the heavy bags awkwardly on to the kitchen table. She looked at the tin of beans, as if surprised it was still in her hand, and quickly placed it inside the cupboard with the others.

  Then she looked at Ernest.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Her tone was polite but Ernest could see accusation and fury in her eyes. He looked away quickly.

  ‘This is the book I was telling you about,’ said Raymond.

  Ernest, half-heartedly flicked through the pages, his gaze constan
tly wrenched towards Raymond’s mum, who could barely disguise her rage.

  ‘This is lovely, Raymond,’ he said, glancing across the kitchen, ‘but I really must be going. Thanks for the drink. If you’d like to meet up sometime, don’t forget I’ve put my details on this piece of paper here. It was nice to meet you, Mrs Mann.’

  He eased sideways past Raymond’s mum and nodded. An icy stare met his convivial smile, and he quickly returned his gaze to the floor. Raymond followed him out of the kitchen and opened the front door.

  ‘Thank you so much for helping me today,’ said Raymond. ‘I could never have done it without you.’ The words flew from his smiling mouth.

  * * *

  Though he realised he’d upset his mum, and that Ernest was making a hasty escape, Raymond desperately wanted to make things right. He couldn’t lose this new, unlikely friend. He sought the courage to reach out and shake Ernest’s hand but felt awkward and didn’t know how to make that happen.

  ‘The sunflowers look fantastic. They’re all straight and … and, well, I’ll talk to mum about the trip to the seaside. I’d really like to go.’

  Ernest smiled. ‘I’d like that as well. Fingers crossed, then.’

  Raymond watched as Ernest walked down the path and out of the gate. His new friend passed the front wall and stopped to look at the sunflowers, still bathed in dazzling yellow light. Raymond raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. As the shadow fell across them, easing his view, he saw Ernest, partly obscured by the green leaves, jumping excitedly up and down, his arms high in triumph, fists clenched as if he’d just scored a goal for England. Then he waved and continued along the pavement to his car, doing another little jump and skip when he reached it.

  Raymond laughed and returned the wave, astounded that anyone, especially a grown-up, could act in such a way.