Cold Sunflowers Read online

  The corporal bounded through the gate, happy to have reached his destination. He banged hard on the sturdy old weather-beaten door. When there was no reply he repeated his knock with even more gusto.

  ‘Open up,’ he shouted.

  There was a creak of floorboards and the door opened a couple of inches. Through the crack a single shadowed eye scrutinised them. The door opened a little more, scraping on the wooden floor. A middle-aged woman in a long, light-blue dress and a faded yellow headscarf stood in the hallway. Her auburn hair fell over her leathery face and onto plump shoulders.

  Ernest peered over the corporal’s shoulder, thinking the woman was probably much younger than she’d first appeared.

  Her hands shook as she gripped the door but instead of moving aside to let them in she held her head high and her mouth taut and defiant.

  ‘Right in you go.’ The corporal motioned with a nod of his head to Bill and Ernest. They remained still and looked at each other in embarrassment.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, get in. I haven’t got all sodding night.’ The corporal forced the door open with a quick kick that jarred the woman’s fingers.

  Bill and Ernest squeezed past and mumbled an apology.

  The corporal turned to the woman and spoke slowly and loudly. ‘These men will be staying with you for a while. You must feed them and find them somewhere to sleep.’

  The woman took a step backwards and shook her head; she looked frightened and confused.

  ‘Sodding hell,’ hissed the corporal. ‘Fucking frogs. Thick as two short planks. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  Bill came back to the door and spoke softly in French. The woman nodded curtly but seemed to relax and moved inside the hallway.

  ‘Right, see you both in a couple of days,’ said the corporal, relieved. ‘You’d better be as good as the general thinks you are or we’re all bloody well done for.’

  The woman closed the door and with a tiny movement of her hand led them down the hallway.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ whispered Ernest.

  ‘Oh, I apologised and explained what we’re doing here and, er ...’ Bill grinned. ‘Well, I may have just mentioned you recently took some photos of the royal family.’

  ‘What? Bill!’ Ernest shook his head but was unable to stop a smile spreading over his face. ‘Where did you learn to speak French, anyway?’

  ‘My mother was French; it comes in handy sometimes. But don’t tell the general or he’ll have me doing all sorts of missions.’

  The woman led them up a flight of steep, narrow stairs that groaned under the additional weight. At the top was a long landing with several doors leading off. The woman opened the nearest one and beckoned the men inside before lighting two candles that bathed the room in a flickering yellow light. It was a small room with two beds, each set against a wall. At the end was a fireplace with a stone hearth. The beds looked comfortable and inviting, with plump white pillows and soft yellow bedspreads.

  It was quiet; a cosy haven of peace.

  Bill and Ernest looked at each other, not quite believing their luck; it had been many months since they’d slept in a proper bed. The woman left the room and the door creaked shut behind her.

  ‘Beats the trenches, Ernie,’ said Bill. ‘I told you—’

  ‘Yes, I know, stick with you and I’ll be all right.’ Ernest laughed.

  Bill moved to the nearest bed and in one quick movement flung his feet outwards and leapt backwards on to it with a thud.

  ‘Shhhhh, careful,’ hissed Ernest, but Bill was already curling into a ball, his head disappearing into the soft pillow. Ernest looked at his own bed. The temptation to lie down was overwhelming, but something made him open the bedroom door and look down the landing. ‘I’m going for a wander,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t see anything in the dark,’ said Bill, stifling a yawn. ‘Get your head down, mate.’

  ‘I know. I just fancy doing a bit of exploring,’

  Ernest closed the door behind him, found the narrow staircase and gingerly made his way down the creaking steps, all the while clutching the thick rope handrail. Only a dim orange glow illuminated the walls, and he almost tripped over a portly black cat that attempted to wrap itself around his legs. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he began to move with more confidence.

  He reached the hallway and saw light from a doorway halfway down the corridor. He moved towards it and found himself in the kitchen; it was lit by flickering candles strategically placed on the tables.

  The woman stood by the sink. She turned, smiled and beckoned him over. Beside her on an old oak butcher’s block was a large crusty loaf of bread cut in two, crispy golden crumbs scattered around it. The woman picked up a knife, cut a generous slice and held it towards him. Ernest stepped into the room and took the bread, not knowing what to say or how to say it. He felt a blush forming on his face and hoped the woman wouldn’t notice in the candlelight.

  ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, staring at the floor. ‘Merci.’

  The woman smiled and waved her hand, beckoning him to look around. The bread was still warm and as he bit, the crust crunched in his mouth. Ernest closed his eyes, savouring the taste and the texture.

  The kitchen was homely. Ernest thought it had probably remained unchanged for many years. A large wooden table in the middle of the room was surrounded by an assortment of chairs and stools. The seat at the farthest end had a high rounded back and worn arm rests. It stood ready for the head of the house, a clean plate and cutlery laid before it.

  Hanging from a square wooden frame attached to the ceiling by rusting black chains was a collection of pots, pans and other cooking implements. The candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, making it difficult to discern how big the kitchen really was, but Ernest nodded to the woman and continued his exploration. A thin red chequered cloth covered the lattice window of a small white back door. Through the curtain he could see the glow of more dancing candles. He opened the door gently, just enough to peek through to the garden beyond. His eyes fell instantly upon the woman who’d waved to him earlier from the river, and the shock of recognition left him disorientated. He breathed a tiny gasp and goose bumps tingled on his arms and legs as his heart quickened.

  His initial impulse was to close the door, but he stood transfixed. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his young life. She sat on a wicker sofa at the far end of a long wooden veranda, her head turned away from him. She’d been reading by the candlelight but now stared into the night sky, wistful and lost. The yellow glow illuminated her long elegant neck and her black hair shimmered silver in the moonlight. As Ernest pushed the door a fraction wider a floor board creaked beneath his feet. Startled, the woman turned her head towards him.

  If Helen had launched a thousand ships, then this face would have launched a thousand more, Ernest was sure.

  He remained frozen in the doorway, unable to breathe. In that second it was as if the moonlight existed only for her and as she turned, her pale face became framed by her long dark hair and an eternity of stars. Ernest felt weak, his fingers turning white as they gripped the door frame. Their eyes met. Then she smiled and a shooting star soared behind her, lighting up the night sky before disappearing beneath the deep waves of her hair.

  Ernest’s heart was beating so quickly he was sure his chest was about to explode. And in that moment, the dreariness and fear that had filled his days dissolved.

  ‘Bonjour,’ said the woman quietly. She was still smiling.

  ‘Bon … bonjour. I’m afraid I don’t speak any French. Can you speak English?’ He pushed open the door so she could see him but remained in the kitchen.

  The woman laughed gently. ‘Oui, er, yes. I mean a little. Look, I am reading English poetry.’ She held up a book. ‘Come, sit next to me. My name is Mirabelle, but please call me Mira. My mother said we had two Tommies staying with us.’ Mira moved to the side of the sofa to make room for him. ‘I saw you on the lorry?’


  Ernest stepped onto the veranda. Her eyes followed him and he felt self-conscious, unable to remember how he normally held his arms.

  ‘Yes, that was me,’ said Ernest, moving to the wicker sofa. ‘I’m Ernest Gardiner but Ernie will do. That’s what my friend Bill calls me.’

  ‘Oh no. Mirabelle is a crazy name – it’s too long – but Ernest is wonderful, a powerful name.’ She patted the sofa. ‘Please sit. Is your friend from the lorry here as well? He was funny.’

  ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s asleep upstairs.’ Ernest sat down next to Mira, wondering if she was mocking him. He pretended to concentrate on something in the far distance as she looked intently at his profile. She smiled as if aware of his shyness.

  ‘Do you live here?’ said Ernest, desperate for something to say.

  Mira laughed. ‘Yes of course. That is my mother in the kitchen.’ She shook her head and looked away. ‘My father is fighting with your Tommies. We have not heard from him for two months; we are so worried ... and ... and … my sweetheart was killed at the start of the war and we hear the dreadful news.’ Her voice cracked as she spoke and Ernest turned to look at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must be so hard for you.’

  ‘Merci, but it is hard for all of us and you are so young.’

  ‘I’m not that young,’ said Ernest a little more quickly and sharply than he had intended. ‘I’m eighteen, well nearly. Anyway, I’m a soldier and …’ The heat rose again to his cheeks.

  ‘Pardon me, Ernest. You are indeed a brave young man, but your eyes should not be seeing this misery. Your life should be filled with colours and joy and you should be held safe in your mother’s arms.’

  Mira shivered and quickly took his hand in hers. Ernest started to pull away but the tender touch of her soft warm skin felt beautiful and, against all his instincts, he allowed his hand to remain clasped in hers.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be saying those things, but I am so worried about my father,’ she said. Then, with a childlike gasp, she nudged Ernest. ‘Look! Look at the sky.’ Two shooting stars glided gracefully across the dark canopy. ‘There is so much beauty in the world. Look – a sky full of stars, but there’s so little hope at the moment.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ whispered Ernest shyly, ‘and I know what you mean – everything seems awful right now, but I’m sure there’s still hope and I know your father will be home soon.’ He now felt more at ease and was suddenly overcome by a need to offload the emotions he had hidden for so long. ‘I shouldn’t say this either but every day I wish I hadn’t signed up. I heard the stories and saw the women giving out white feathers; I just didn’t want them to think I was frightened.’

  ‘Are you frightened?’

  Ernest turned away as his eyes began to sting.

  ‘All the time,’ he said quietly. He looked down at the books in Mira’s lap, wanting to talk about something, anything else. ‘Tell me about your book.’

  Mira smiled. ‘Which one?’ she picked up an olive-green notebook. ‘This one is my journal. Each evening I write down my thoughts and memories of the day. And this,’ she said, replacing it with a small, black cloth-bound book, ‘is my poetry book. My father bought it for me; he thought it would help improve my English. It is full of your poetry, but difficult to understand. I think lots of the poems are old and written many years ago.’ She turned the pages, momentarily lost in thought. ‘I am reading William Wordsworth at the moment.’

  ‘Would you read it?’ said Ernest. ‘I don’t know anything about William Wordsworth, but it would be nice to hear you speak.’

  Mira gently let go of Ernest’s hand. ‘Yes, of course, but it seems strange – me, a French peasant teaching a young English gentleman about his poetry.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not from the gentry,’ he said. ‘What poem is it?’

  Mira turned to him and put her feet on the sofa, bending her knees so she could prop the book against them. She moved her head closer and fanned through the pages.

  Ernest could only stare in wonder and admiration as the candlelight danced across her face. He smiled as a frown of concentration tightened her brow and the breeze teased a strand of dark hair across her face. It was so peaceful beneath the stars – unreal, like a dream; a different world to the terror of the trenches. His eyes followed the contours of her neck downwards until the delicate swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each breath, gently captured his gaze.

  Mira cleared her throat and with a start Ernest’s eyes found hers. Embarrassed, he hoped she’d not think badly of him but as their eyes met, he found only lines of laughter on her face as she once again graced him with her soft smile. She began to read.

  ‘Surprised by joy – impatient as the wind,

  I turned to share the transport – Oh! With whom,

  But thee, long buried in the silent tomb,

  That spot which no vicissitude can find?

  Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind –

  But how could I forget thee? – Through what power,

  Even for the least division of an hour,

  Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

  To my most grievous loss! – That thought’s return

  Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

  Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

  Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;

  That neither present time, nor years unborn

  Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.’

  Mira sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Such beautiful words, but so sad.’

  Ernest thought he saw a tiny tear shining in the corner of Mira’s eye, but the flickering light made it impossible to be sure.

  Miles from the mud and the mayhem, beguiled by this voice that sung so softly, Ernest lost himself. Mira touched his hand and then gently held the tips of his fingers. Joy burst within him, spiralling down his spine and then onwards to every long-neglected outpost of his body.

  The back door banged shut.

  Ernest jumped and straightened, releasing Mira’s hand. He looked up; Bill stood before them.

  ‘Ernie, you sly old dog! No wonder you’ve been so quiet.’ Bill laughed, winked and sat down on a brown wooden chair to the side of them.

  ‘Hello, Bill,’ said Ernest nervously. ‘This is Mira. Mira, this is my best mate, Bill. He saved my life and got me through this war so far; I wouldn’t be here without him.’ He smiled shyly at Bill.

  ‘Ah, shut up, mate. You’ll be hugging me next.’ Bill laughed and looked at Mira. ‘Gentil de vous recontrer. Comment allez vous, Mira?’

  ‘Goodness, an Englishman who can speak French. Quand les poules auront des dents.’ Mira turned to Ernest. ‘Sorry, I said it is as rare as a hen with teeth.’ Mira laughed. ‘Where did you learn?’ she asked Bill.

  ‘My mother was French,’ said Bill, ‘so I grew up speaking both languages.’

  ‘Well, it is nice to meet you. I can speak simple English, and it is good to practise. Talking to Ernest has been lovely.’ She reached over and squeezed his fingers. Ernest, shocked by the familiarity, withdrew his hand quickly and glanced over at Bill, who was trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ said Mira. ‘I know my mother has bread and cheese in the kitchen.’ She stood up, straightened her dress and put the books down on a small table near the sofa. ‘Come on,’ she said, reaching for the door.

  The two men stood and let Mira pass. Bill beckoned for Ernest to go next. As Ernest moved in front, Bill pushed him in the back, laughing. When Ernest turned, Bill used his hands to mime the shape of a voluptuous woman.

  Shut up, Ernest mouthed, smiling.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Escape

  1972

  Ernest had stopped talking and Raymond was surprised and saddened to see tears running down the old man’s face.

  ‘Ernest, what’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it�
�s nothing, just memories – such beautiful times mixed with such terror. I wish everyone in the world could experience how I felt when I first saw Mira. I’m sure war, terrorism and religion would all fade away if people could feel the joy I did that night.’ Ernest took a large white handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

  ‘What happened after that?’ said Raymond. ‘Did you take the photograph?’

  ‘Well’ – Ernest leant sideways to stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket and compose himself – ‘we spent the next couple of weeks at Mira’s house, and I fell more and more in love with her. She read other poems, but that first one has always stuck with me and it’s still my favourite. “My heart’s best treasure” – what a beautiful line.’

  The afternoon sun passed behind dark clouds, and a grey shadow settled across the room.

  ‘The three of us had a wonderful time; we were always together and there was never a hint of jealousy; we just became inseparable.’ Ernest chuckled. ‘Though as the youngest by quite a few years, I was often the butt of their jokes. The general was happy with his photograph and I also took the picture of Mira you saw on the hall table.’

  Ernest stared over to the photograph of the line of troops.

  ‘Then, as quickly as our friendship started, it finished. Bill and I got billeted a couple of miles away from Mira and, despite the usual promises to stay in touch, we drifted apart. There was about a year left of the war and we lived it out peacefully in Bailleul, working at the casualty clearing station. We were very lucky.’

  Ernest eased himself from his chair. ‘Listen, I’ve told you enough, and it’s getting late. You’d better be off.’ He led the way through the living room, then stopped and turned to Raymond. ‘Tomorrow’s my favourite night of the year. It’s the Perseid meteor shower. Can you get round here at about eleven? We can watch it together.’

  ‘Eleven? You mean eleven o’clock at night? My mum will never let me out that late. And how would I get here anyway? There aren’t any buses.’ Raymond shook his head and shrugged. ‘What is it anyway?’