Cold Sunflowers Read online

  He walked back into the kitchen, smiling and humming a song to himself. He’d not felt this happy for an age. His mum was putting away the remaining shopping but she turned quickly, still holding a couple of cereal boxes.

  ‘What on earth were you thinking, letting an old man like that into the house? You have no idea what he might have done. You’ve got to be so careful these days.’

  Her words stung, harsh and cold, slapping him out of his revelry.

  ‘What do you mean? He’s … he’s really nice. He helped me at the social and he moved all my sunflowers.’

  ‘Raymond, you don’t understand; you don’t even know him. Why on earth would an old man like that want to be friends?’

  Raymond felt the familiar heat rise to his cheeks. ‘This morning, you were pleased when I said I had a friend.’

  ‘Yes, but that was before I found out he was a hundred years old.’

  Raymond paused deciding on another approach. He spoke quietly, in the hope his mother would have a change of heart.

  ‘Mum, he’s nice. He helped me. You can’t put an age on a friendship, can you?’ He looked down at the floor. ‘And, anyway, he’s invited me round to his house.’

  ‘What? Well you’re not going. It’s just not right; it’s not natural. You’re definitely not going, Raymond, and that’s that. I’m not arguing—’

  ‘But, Mum!’ His voice was a squeak but he carried on regardless, despite his embarrassment. ‘You can’t stop me! I want to. He’s really interesting. He listens to me, asks me what I want to do. He knows about sunflowers and everything.’

  ‘We’d listen to you, Ray, if only you’d talk to us.’ His mum spoke slowly, emphasising each word. ‘But you’re always in your room.’ She shook her head. ‘Let’s see what your dad says. Why you can’t find friends of your own age, I don’t know. You haven’t spoken to anyone since you left school, have you? And you didn’t even go to the reunion.’

  The words tore into Raymond and he recoiled from the rancid memories that flashed through his head. The reunion had been a big event, organised one year after everyone had left school. Raymond’s old friends had either been invited or had heard about the plans through word of mouth. No one had thought to tell him. Sometime later, his friends had been talking about the party and Raymond discovered he had missed it. Although his friends all apologised, each saying they’d assumed one of the others had told him, Raymond had felt hurt for weeks afterwards. The nagging suspicion that they hadn’t wanted him there in the first place, left him feeling insecure and sad.

  ‘That’s because no one invited me or even told me about it!’ he said, his voice shrill and loud. He stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  His mum called after him. ‘I know, Ray. I’m sorry – that was horrible of them, but sometimes you need to make an effort though. I … I just want you to be—’

  Raymond turned. ‘Normal, you just want me to be normal.’

  He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

  ‘Happy,’ she said gently. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ernest’s House

  The packed bus didn’t help Raymond’s state of agitation.

  There were three stops to go before his and he watched in horror as the conductor pursued several new passengers up the stairs. He felt the familiar tension in his chest as each breath failed to fill his lungs.

  ‘Oh, no. Please no,’ he muttered. ‘Lord, ten prayers tonight if you make her come back down before my stop.’

  The chances of her returning to the lower deck before the bus reached his destination were slim. He looked about to see if there was any other movement in the passengers around him.

  An old lady stood, rang the bell and hobbled towards the exit. The engine slowed and, without thinking, Raymond jumped to his feet and followed her off the bus.

  Hot, sweaty and still shaking, he rested his hands on his knees and took a deep, cooling breath of fresh air. He looked at his watch. Although he’d alighted two stops too soon, he could still be on time. Smiling, he began to half-run, half-skip towards his destination.

  * * *

  Raymond looked down at the creased slip of paper. Spindly blue writing formed an address. Forty-three. This was it. He walked cautiously up the gravel drive, his footsteps scrunching on the stones despite his efforts to move quietly.

  He was breathing hard; it had taken him longer than expected and this, together with a feeling of reckless excitement, made his heartbeat quicken.

  The house was old-fashioned but well looked after, probably built at the turn of the century. It seemed sturdy and substantial compared to Raymond’s new-build estate home. White gloss shone on the newly painted window frames.

  The garden was immaculate. Borders overflowed with shrubs and flowers, each complementing the other in size, shape and colour – a testament to the time lovingly spent on the design. By the wall, bathed in sunlight, were a dozen large sunflowers already in bloom. Raymond stood spellbound, feeling himself drawn across the finely cut lawn for a closer look.

  He stared upwards in admiration.

  Each flower was at least six feet tall. The large yellow heads nodded heavily, petals tickled by the breeze, the colour accentuated by the bright sunlight. Raymond gently brushed his hand over a rich green leaf and felt its fine nap hold his fingers like a cat’s tongue.

  ‘Hello.’

  Raymond jumped, quickly retracting his hand. He turned and, seeing Ernest, began to laugh.

  ‘You made me jump.’

  Ernest smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I seem to have that effect on your family.’ They stood side by side, looking at the sunflowers. ‘Thanks for coming; I didn’t think you would somehow. I know your mum didn’t like me much, and why should she? An old fellow like me, friends with her son? I can see her point … why are you so out of breath?’

  Raymond returned his gaze to the sunflowers. He felt once more transfixed and replied absent-mindedly, ‘It’s a long story. I … I don’t like getting off buses. These are amazing. Why are they in bloom when mine have barely a bud? And, er, my mum doesn’t know I’m here. She wants me to have friends but when I find one, she doesn’t like it.’

  Ernest shook his head but continued to smile.

  ‘They’re in bloom because they’ve found where they belong. They’re round pegs in round holes, not square ones like yours.’

  Raymond frowned and mouthed, Round pegs in round holes?

  Ernest laughed. ‘Where have you been all your life, Raymond? You aren’t very good at sayings, are you? And don’t blame your mother; all she does, she does because she loves you and wants you to be happy and safe. I can still remember the last time my own mother held me tightly all those years ago. I could smell her flowery scent, hear her heart quicken, and I knew all she wanted to do was keep me safe from the war. She must have felt my grip tighten, because she squeezed me once more, then gently moved away while still holding my hands. She leant forward and kissed my cheek and said, “Time to fly, son.” I’ve never forgotten it and I never held my mother like that again. I can still remember it like yesterday. When you get home, give your mum a big hug. One of these days it will be your turn to fly and those hugs will never be quite the same again.’

  Raymond shuddered. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ he said, shaking his head and taking a step backwards. ‘I don’t hug anyone. It just feels weird.’

  Ernest laughed. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Come on – let’s get a cup of tea and we can talk about the summer.’

  Ernest opened the front door and Raymond followed him inside to the hallway of a tidy and nicely decorated home. It didn’t have the sharp lines of his parents’ house and Raymond felt at ease as soon as he entered.

  Ornaments covered most of the flat surfaces and on a high wooden shelf multiple knick-knacks immortalising special memories were displayed.

  By the front door on a thin wooden table, Raymond noticed a single black-and-white photograph sur
rounded by a silver frame. It showed a beautiful young woman, her dark hair tied back. She was laughing.

  They moved into the lounge and Ernest led Raymond to a comfortable-looking armchair with several plumped cushions.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘There are gardening books over there. I think there’s one on sunflowers if you can find it. Tea or coffee?’ Ernest disappeared into the kitchen as he spoke.

  ‘Oh, tea, please. Could I have two sugars?’

  Raymond reached across and flicked through a magazine rack next to the armchair, then stood, stretched and walked over to a bookcase stuffed with publications of every sort. He pulled out one or two books and browsed the pages, but both failed to hold his attention and he replaced them and wandered around the room.

  Through the large patio doors, he could see a beautifully kept back garden. Shrubs and trees moved in the gentle breeze. For once, he didn’t linger on the flowers but, instead, turned to explore the room. His gaze was drawn to a sepia photograph in a dark-brown frame on the far wall. It showed several horses with riders leading a group of men. Raymond moved closer to study the picture. The men were soldiers. Behind them, the sun shimmered through the morning mist and bounced off silver puddles. All around was thick dark mud and a forest of broken trees.

  Ernest returned to the lounge holding a tray with tea and biscuits on it.

  ‘Ah, I see you’ve found my photographs. A long time ago I used to be a photographer; it was my job. I loved it. Would you like to see some of my other pictures?’ He put the tray down on a small coffee table, walked over to a large wooden cabinet and opened a drawer.

  ‘A photographer?’ Raymond couldn’t conceal his excitement. ‘Yes, please. I’d like that.’ He picked up his teacup.

  Ernest pulled out a large photograph album and handed it over. Raymond turned the pages slowly, revealing faded black-and-white photographs protected by yellowing plastic. Beneath each picture was a name, written in Ernest’s spidery blue handwriting: Gene Tierney, Rita Hayworth, Jennifer Jones, Joseph Cotton, James Stewart, Orson Welles. Raymond turned another page, this one seemed devoted to large orchestras: The Berlin Philharmonic, The New York Symphony, The Vienna Philharmonic.

  ‘I seemed to be the go-to person for classical albums years ago,’ said Ernest with more than a hint of pride in his voice. ‘You can still buy those records with my photographs on their covers today.’

  ‘But ... but you’re famous,’ said Raymond. ‘Even I know some of these people and album covers. That’s fantastic.’ He looked again at the far wall. ‘What about that one?’ he said, pointing to the sepia picture. ‘That one must be special.’

  ‘Well, that was where my career started. I was a photographer in the First World War. Do you know much about what we call The Great War?’

  ‘Yes, we learnt about it at school. First World War poetry. I really liked it.’

  ‘I can tell you, Raymond, there was nothing to like about that war. It was terrible and it changed my life. Of all the pictures I took, I can only look at this one.’ Ernest moved closer to the photograph. ‘There just seems to be some hope in it; the sun is still shining and the forest is still growing. Look there …’ Ernest pointed to the bottom corner of the photograph. ‘You can just see the tiny shoots picking their way through the mud.’

  ‘Oh, yes … yes, I can see them!’ said Raymond, squinting.

  ‘It was a dreadful time, but at the end of the war I met my wife and I began my life again.’ He smiled. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  ‘Your wife? You’re married? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yes, for fifty years. She died three years ago and not a day goes by without me thinking about her. We had the happiest of times. Have you ever been in love, Raymond?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond, uninvited warmth invading his cheeks.

  ‘Oh, you will,’ said Ernest, smiling. ‘And it’s the greatest feeling in the world. You’ll buy each other gifts, have pet names for each other, you might even have your own language.’ He laughed. ‘Does liccle-iccle Waymond want his tea?’

  ‘I will never do that,’ said Raymond, horrified. ‘I’m sure my mum and dad don’t.’

  ‘Mark my words, you will. And I bet they did before you came along.’

  ‘What was your wife’s name,’ said Raymond, determined to change the conversation.

  Ernest pointed to another photograph in which he stood beside a portly but elegant woman with tightly curled white hair and a smile so gentle that Raymond felt as if his heart were being brushed by snow.

  ‘Violet.’

  Raymond studied the photograph. ‘She looks beautiful and ... and kind.’

  ‘You have a way with words. Thank you. And you’re right, she was beautiful and kind, and I don’t think you can have a better combination than that, do you?’

  Raymond continued to scrutinise the picture. ‘She looks different to the lady in the photograph by the front door though; it’s not the same person, is it?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, that’s a picture of Mira. She was French and I met her during the war. I have only been in love twice in my life; once for a few weeks and once for over fifty years. Mira was my first love.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’ said Raymond, intrigued.

  ‘Oh, Raymond! We’re here to talk about the summer – the future – not what happened in my past.’

  ‘But it’s interesting. Tell me more,’ implored Raymond.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, you come up with five things to do this summer and I’ll tell you the story.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I like the seaside,’ said Raymond quickly.

  Ernest laughed. ‘That’s a start, but you’ve already mentioned that one.’

  There was a long pause. Raymond stared into space, thinking intently, his mouth moving slightly.

  ‘There must be other things,’ said Ernest after a while.

  ‘There are, I know there are. I just can’t think of anything right now. Er, gardening?’ he said, wondering if that counted.

  ‘Great, we’ll go to Kew Gardens. It’s fantastic there – so many plants from all around the world. There’s one called the corpse flower that smells awful and only blooms once in a blue moon. Maybe we’ll be lucky and see it.’

  ‘I’ll have a think. It’s not just me though – we have to do things you want to do too,’ said Raymond.

  ‘We will. Okay, I’ll have a think as well. Anyway, you’ve heard a bit about me and my photography; tell me about you. What do you want to do with your life?’

  ‘You sound like my dad. I-I don’t know.’ A sense of hopelessness overwhelmed Raymond momentarily.

  ‘Well, what do you like? What inspires you?’ Ernest said, his clenched hand pumping with each word.

  ‘I don’t know, gardening I suppose … umm, I liked those First World War poems. They made me think. There was one by William Owen – it had a long name.’

  ‘Wilfred Owen,’ said Ernest, ‘and you’re probably thinking of “Dulce et Decorum Est”.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that was it,’ Raymond said excitedly as he put down his cup.

  ‘That’s a wonderful poem, one of my favourites. So you like words?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose I do,’ said Raymond.

  Ernest smiled. ‘Well, you should try to write them down. I enjoyed photography so much it didn’t seem like a job; it was just fun. You can be a writer or a gardener, anything. Find something you enjoy though.’ He leant back in his armchair and chuckled. ‘Oh, I wish I could have your years again, Raymond. The things I’d do, especially now that I’m not worried about what people think of me.’

  Raymond’s anxiety began to take hold; he really had no idea what to do with his life. On many a cold, dark evening he’d sat in his room, thinking hard about the future but unable to picture himself achieving anything. When he was little and his friends had wanted to drive tractors or trains, or be footballers or doctors, nothing had ever appealed. Was there something lacking in him? If there were, h
e didn’t want Ernest to know. He looked at his watch, exaggerating the movement, then stood.

  ‘I know, I will write them down. That’s a really good idea. Actually it took longer to get here than I thought and I’ve just remembered I’ve got to do something for my mum. I’m going to have to go. I’m really sorry.’

  Ernest rose quickly from his chair. He raised his hands, the palms facing outwards.

  ‘Goodness, I’m so sorry. Who am I to tell you about life? Especially you with your whole future ahead of you. You’ll make mistakes, we all do, but it’s allowed. I reckon that if you’re kind, have a dream or two and try not to say What if too many times, it will all be fine. I promise it will.’

  He reached across and touched Raymond’s arm, but Raymond instinctively pulled away.

  ‘Don’t go just yet,’ Ernest said gently. ‘Let me tell you about Mira, or should I say Mirabelle. That name means “wonderful” or “incredible beauty”, and both those definitions suit her perfectly.’

  ‘Well, er, I don’t know,’ said Raymond. ‘I ... I still can’t be late.’

  ‘Let’s just see how we get on then, shall we? You go when you need to.’

  Raymond sat back down in the armchair. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying not to smile.

  Ernest sighed, as if relieved, and settled back into his chair, linking his fingers over his stomach.

  ‘Right, where do I start,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ernest’s Story (Part One)

  1917

  A column of soldiers moved towards the brow of a hill. Ahead of them a small group of riders mounted on large brown horses led the way. Panniers slung on either side of the horses weighed them down, and as they trudged through the mud, they held their heads low.

  The mood of the khaki-clad men seemed upbeat and cheerful in contrast. It was a spring day and a shimmering mist shrouded the pathway. Shards of silver sunlight broke through the trees and bounced off puddles, dazzling the men as they marched forwards.

  At the top of the hill a photographer stood by the side of the road. He steadied a large, square camera on his chest and looked downwards through the viewfinder as the troop trudged past.