Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  He looked up at the sky and smiled. And for the first time since he was a small child cradled in his parent’s arms, he felt at ease.

  ‘Once, a friend of mine said there was so much beauty in the world,’ said Ernest. ‘A sky full of stars. I think we’ve gone one better – a sky full of shooting stars.’

  The sky erupted in a silver symphony of light.

  Three faces flashed white. Laughter and gasps of awe floated upwards to weave with the stars and to one day return as the breeze, washing over closed eyes on a summer’s day.

  Above them in the bedroom, Raymond’s dad watched through the window.

  He was smiling.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Seagull

  The summer seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. In previous years, Raymond had hidden in his room, only venturing out to tend the garden, but this summer his face and arms displayed the glow of long days spent in the sunshine. Whenever he glimpsed himself in the mirror, his darker complexion surprised him. He felt fit and healthy; each morning seemed to bring something new to look forward to.

  After the Perseid meteor shower, Raymond’s parents had warmed to Ernest and, to Raymond’s amazement, agreed they could spend more time together, even plan a holiday. From that moment on, the two had become inseparable.

  Now the summer was almost over and Raymond dozed as the countryside drifted by. They’d left Dorset that morning but home was still four hours away. A political discussion crackling on the car radio captivated Ernest but Raymond had no interest. Instead, he thought about the past six weeks, which had begun in London and ended that morning in Weymouth. The weather had been glorious throughout and beautiful blue skies provided a perfect backdrop to their days.

  A week after the meteor display, they’d met at The Salt Shaker. Keith, the owner, had joined them as they pulled the two round tables together and spread out their maps. Raymond was offered chilli con carne in a white polystyrene cup and the two older men had laughed as he refused to try it, despite their encouragement and proffered plastic spoon.

  Keith and Ernest had debated over whether to head north or south – the Lake District or Dorset – but Ernest had won the day.

  Raymond found it hard to believe – the days of planning seemed like yesterday but now they were driving home …

  * * *

  London was a revelation as the grandeur of the city replaced the grimy graffiti-clad walls of Liverpool Street station. The huge brick buildings, the white marble statues and the thronging crowds of tourists overwhelmed Raymond, and he turned on the spot, breathing in the sights and sounds.

  Ernest led the way to Westminster Abbey and Raymond tingled as he looked up at the vaulted roof and dazzling stained glass. They walked along the darkened aisles and into the South Transept until they stood quietly in Poets’ Corner, looking at the engraved memorials.

  ‘This is what I wanted to show you,’ said Ernest smiling. ‘Look at all these names: Chaucer, Dickens, Wordsworth, Austen and the Brontë’s. Maybe one day Raymond, in a very long time, of course,’ – he chuckled – ‘if you keep up your writing and want to do it more than anything else in the world, they’ll be honouring you.’ He poked a friendly finger at Raymond’s sternum.

  ‘Get out of it,’ said Raymond, laughing but nevertheless moved by Ernest’s words and his faith in the future. He felt warm and was sure others must be able to see him illuminated in the gloom.

  Ernest pointed towards a marble plaque. Around the outer edge, carved in red, were the words My subject is war, and the pity of war. The poetry is in the pity. Within the inscription was a column of sixteen names, listed in alphabetical order. The eleventh was Wilfred Owen.

  Raymond stared at the plaque and imagined the men in the mud and the debris, frightened and homesick. He found it hard to understand how Ernest had coped. He’d been so young, little more than a boy; it was all so difficult to comprehend. There in the dark, he felt a surge of gratitude to all those young soldiers who’d never returned home. He looked at Ernest, who stared hard at the wall, swallowing.

  Together they stood quietly, then Raymond took Ernest’s arm and led him out into the sunshine.

  After the visit to London, they went to the theatre and the cinema and spent lazy days sitting in the garden, talking about the war, Ernest’s life and Raymond’s dreams. Raymond rode home in the late-afternoon stillness, the bus empty, each journey less fraught than the last.

  His dad returned home from work each evening and they sat together in the kitchen, drinking tea, while his mum cooked dinner. They talked about music and sport, but most of all about Ernest – his life, and his days in Bailleul. It was the first time Raymond could remember having a grown-up conversation with his dad and he relished those evenings, going to bed happy and content, his prayers short and thankful.

  Ernest would also visit Raymond’s house to tend the sunflowers – feeding them, removing dead leaves and straitening their stems. The flowers were growing taller all the time, but the green buds stubbornly refused to open.

  Each day, glorious as it was, only seemed a prelude to the final part of the holiday – the trip to Dorset – and Raymond counted the hours until their departure.

  They spent the first part of their break at a holiday camp in the small village of Osmington Bay, a few miles outside Weymouth.

  On arrival, Ernest followed a white, hand-painted wooden sign directing them up a winding lane to the camp. The road was lined on either side by green fields stretching endlessly into the distance. They drove slowly, admiring the scenery but mindful of vehicles coming the other way. After a few hundred yards they turned a final corner and reached the brow of a hill.

  The sea and sky filled the horizon. It was as though they were floating in the clouds high above the ocean, and Raymond sucked in a shallow breath. The road curved downwards towards the holiday camp but Raymond continued to look outwards towards the sea, shielding his eyes from the diamond pinpricks that burst through the wisps of white.

  The camp was full of laughter, good food and cabaret. A team of gregarious entertainers worked tirelessly to cheer their guests and Raymond admired their effortless ability to socialise easily with everyone they met.

  Each morning, the bluest of skies welcomed them back to the world and gradually they found a quiet routine. On waking they would wrap up against the early-morning chill and take turns walking to the small gift shop to buy newspapers and wonderful sweet tea. Then they would hike over fields to a cliff top, where they’d stand in awe, looking down at the sand and sea hundreds of feet below.

  As the morning melted into the afternoon, lunch in a local pub would be the priority. The Pirates Inn became their favourite. They sat outside on the wooden benches, enjoying a basket meal and feeling the sun on their browning faces. The pub was beamed and dark with low ceilings, and had been the home to the leader of a notorious gang of smugglers during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The tales of pirates and contraband intrigued Raymond and a childhood memory of his dad telling him stories of knights and princesses, honour and adventure reminded him warmly of home and his family.

  A few days later, they moved to a tired, but comfortable bed-and-breakfast in the heart of Weymouth. The tiny, elderly woman who ran it darted about with dusters and cleaning products at a speed that belied her age. Despite her size she had a formidable presence, a booming voice and a set of rules that no one dared break, the strangest of which was no red wine in the bedroom. Much to Raymond’s amusement, at every opportunity, Ernest would close his eyes, put the back of his hand to his forehead and declare his need for a glass of red, despite never normally drinking it.

  The final morning’s breakfast was an enormous fry-up. Sausages and bacon overlapped the edge of the plate, each cooked to a perfect salty crispness. The egg was the deepest of yellows and solid the way Raymond liked it. It was a huge meal especially for Raymond, who usually only ate cornflakes, and just when he felt fit to burst, the landlady dropped a large rack
of toast between them.

  ‘I think she toasted that by breathing on it,’ whispered Ernest as he mimicked a dragon.

  Raymond laughed but quickly fell silent when he saw the landlady’s small hawk-like eyes focus on his.

  After breakfast they got their bags and waited at the bus stop outside the entrance. A light-green, bull-nosed double-decker trundled up to the stop. Despite the time of year, it was strangely empty and the two men sat upstairs alone.

  The bus meandered through the narrow Weymouth streets, up the steepest of hills and out into the countryside. Raymond excitedly pointed out a large white horse and rider carved into the green hillside.

  ‘That’s George the Third. He often visited the town,’ said Ernest.

  They sat in silence then, shoulders pressed together, moving to the slow rhythm of the bus. They soaked up the views, trying to memorise the sky and the sea and the cliffs, building a squirrel’s store of memories to warm them in winter.

  As the countryside gave way to villages, Ernest noticed Raymond staring at the bell. He reached across and pushed it making Raymond jerk backwards.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ernest. ‘I just felt like pushing it.’

  The bus slowed and stopped.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ Raymond whispered, looking around in embarrassed panic. Ernest just shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Is this your stop?’ the conductor called up the stairs gruffly.

  ‘So sorry,’ said Ernest politely. ‘I’m mistaken – it’s further on.’

  Raymond shook his head, eyes wide in astonishment. The bus moved off again.

  ‘You once told me you had trouble getting off buses,’ whispered Ernest. ‘Push it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, do it.’

  ‘No!’ Raymond’s hands formed a barrier in front of him.

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ said Ernest. ‘Push it – it’s a bell.’

  Raymond rested his hand on the silver rail and edged towards the red circle, staring at it. Then, as if the heaviest of burdens had flown into the blue sky, he shrugged, smiled and pushed. Ernest did the same several more times.

  The conductor raced up the stairs, breathing heavily.

  ‘Can’t you read? Just push once,’ he said angrily.

  ‘So sorry, Inspector,’ said Ernest.

  Laughter burst from Raymond’s lips in a joyous, champagne explosion.

  ‘Right, that’s it. You two off ... now,’ shouted the conductor. ‘And for Christ’s sake, grow up.’

  Raymond and Ernest edged past the conductor and half-walked, half-fell down the stairs. At the bottom, Ernest looked into the cab at the furious driver and pushed the button again. Raymond followed suit several times. Ding, ding, ding, ding. The sound echoed through the empty bus.

  ‘Grow up, you bloody idiots,’ shouted the driver as the two jumped off the platform and skipped down the road.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Ernest. ‘It was a bell. It was fun! And what’s the worst that could’ve happened? You mustn’t worry so much.’

  ‘I know,’ said Raymond, smiling. ‘Ernest, we’re skipping.’

  Ernest grinned. ‘I know.’

  * * *

  They waited at the next stop in silence until another bus arrived and took them to Lulworth Cove.

  It was mid-afternoon and the throngs of tourists were making plans to leave although the sun was still high in the sky.

  Ernest and Raymond walked through the car park and down to the sandy bay sheltered on three sides by white cliffs. They lay down on the pebble beach near the rocks and watched the world – there were families splashing in the sea, building sandcastles and eating ice creams. They hugged, jumped, ran and squealed. Their laughter fused with the sound of the sea and the chatter of seagulls, to form a perfect backdrop.

  Raymond closed his eyes and listened.

  He felt the breeze gently cooling his face and imagined being anywhere in the world and this same simple scene playing out over and over throughout time.

  He prayed it would always be so.

  ‘One hundred prayers, Lord,’ he muttered, then, with a start, realised he’d spoken out loud. But Ernest only turned his head and smiled.

  As if reading Raymond’s thoughts, he said sadly, ‘Oh, Raymond, all the things we do to each other in the world. It’s still so beautiful. Why oh why can’t we all get along? There’s got to be a better way, hasn’t there? All the food we have in Europe and nothing in Africa; the troubles in Ireland. I want everyone to share this perfect moment.’

  Raymond turned and touched the older man’s arm. Ernest smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry to be sad,’ he said. ‘It’s just so wonderful. I’m a stupid old codger. Come on – I’ll show you something.’

  Raymond followed Ernest out of the cove. They walked back through the emptying car park and made their way towards a steep hill in the distance. The path was narrow and they strolled in single file, passing other walkers on their way back down. Everyone seemed to be in a happy mood and they exchanged frequent pleasantries as they climbed.

  ‘Afternoon.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lovely day.’

  To their left, the sea swelled gently, tiny flecks of white riding the waves then disappearing into the dark blue. Above them, seagulls hovered, slightly tilting their wings to get the best of the thermal currents.

  A younger bird, snowy white with slate-grey wings, flew alongside the two men, flapping, cawing and hoping, Raymond thought, for some titbits. But the bird just seemed to enjoy the quickening breeze and soared up and down at speed, as if showing off its skills. Then it glided close to them and looked directly into Raymond’s smiling eyes. For the briefest of moments, two hearts rejoiced at the simple pleasure of being alive.

  It was a difficult climb; Ernest was breathing heavily, silver drops of perspiration beading his forehead.

  ‘You okay?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Ernest, catching his breath. ‘I was here only a few years ago and hadn’t realised just how old I’d become in the meantime.’

  They reached the summit. The path ahead wound downwards over some narrow steps.

  ‘This is what I wanted you to see,’ said Ernest, and he pointed towards a large dark rock formation rising from the sea. ‘That’s Durdle Door.’

  But Raymond had already seen it and was looking across at the rocky promontory, mesmerised by the waves washing against the large natural arch formed in the limestone. Far below, several canoeists were paddling through the archway and the last few tourists were making the most of the surf.

  ‘I love it here,’ said Ernest. ‘I’ve been so many times with Violet. The weather has always been good. It’s such a happy place; today it’s perfect again.’

  Raymond looked at Ernest, trying desperately to see beyond the skin and bone, to feel the essence of this kind and gentle man who’d shown him how to be happy. He wished with all his heart to have shared Ernest’s memories, to be part of his history, but as he stood on the hill, the sun low in the sky, he knew that could never be. So, with a determined sigh, he quietly vowed to make his own history and to share it with someone else at this same spot.

  He closed his eyes and gently moved his head, breathing deeply as the wind cooled his face and ruffled his hair. There was nothing more to do or say that would add to the moment so he walked down the path towards the shore, leaving Ernest to his memories.

  Raymond sat on the beach and waited for his friend to join him. The older man struggled on the steep steps; the stiffness in his joints clear and he grasped the rusty handrail. When he reached the bottom, he gave a small reassuring wave, ambled over to Raymond and lowered himself awkwardly on to the pebbly beach.

  They sat in silence, looking out over the sea towards the horizon. The sun was even lower and the shadows had lengthened, dark now against the yellow sand. Most of the sightseers had packed up and left for the day,
leaving only those stubborn enough to wring the most from the last remnants of the afternoon. There was a quiet peacefulness, and a gentle warmth replaced the earlier heat.

  ‘This is my favourite time of the day,’ said Ernest. ‘Violet and I used to go to Walton – we had a lovely little beach hut on the prom. We’d sit and watch the crowds leaving; then it would just be us and the seagulls calling overhead. Violet would always reach over and find my fingers; she’d rest her hand in my lap, our shoulders touching ... I miss that.’

  Ernest looked away from Raymond, feigning interest in the long stretch of beach but Raymond could see his friend’s sadness.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, standing quickly.

  Without looking back, Raymond jogged to the sea. Ernest turned and watched, propping himself up on one elbow and shielding his eyes from the sun with his free hand. Raymond reached the water’s edge, hesitated for a moment as the bubbling foam washed over his trainers, and then, without further thought, walked into the water fully clothed.

  The cold sea took his breath away as the waves lapped against his knees and then his thighs.

  The water was already up to Raymond’s waist before Ernest struggled to his feet and put his hands on his hips.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he called, trying not to smile.

  Raymond jumped up and down and laughed, his arms outstretched. He beckoned Ernest to join him but Ernest shook his head.

  ‘You’ll be frozen! We have to get back to the hotel. You’re mad!’

  ‘Come on,’ said Raymond, laughing. ‘You only live once.’

  Ernest looked around. There were still several families dotted about on the beach and Raymond’s actions had drawn their attention. Ernest took a deep breath and hobbled slowly over the stones towards the sea. He didn’t stop when he reached the water and appeared oblivious to the cold as he wandered into the waves and stood, half-submerged, next to Raymond.

  ‘Happy now?’ he said, tilting his head to one side.