Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  A curtain of flames engulfed him. He felt himself lifted, the inferno cradling him for a moment before flinging him, flame-soaked, to the ground. Once more he staggered to his feet, his face black, smoke curling into the air from his ripped and smouldering uniform.

  He reached the door, kicked away the few remaining fragments of wood blocking his path and turned to Ernest with a small smile of reassurance that failed to disguise the wince from his charred lips. With a final deep breath and his arm covering his mouth, he crashed through the doorway and disappeared into the farmhouse.

  Ernest struggled to his feet, dazed by the explosion. The pain in his knee was excruciating. He hobbled to the door, shaking his head to clear it. All around him the ground shook as rockets soared through the air. The noise was beyond deafening; he couldn’t think straight and moved with leaden limbs. The whistle of mortars screamed around him, a cacophony of cries in a sky of fire …

  * * *

  He had no recollection of losing consciousness but he woke, bewildered, to find himself sprawled face down in the dirt and covered in wood and concrete. He had no idea how much time had elapsed. And despite his efforts, the farmhouse seemed further away. Pain, fear, sadness and horror contorted his face and once more he began to stagger towards the burning building.

  The farmhouse exploded again as several more mortars found their target, sending the walls, roof and windows skyward in a frenzy of flame. Ernest was lifted from the ground and flung twisting into a tree. He fell through the boughs until his boots became wedged between two branches.

  There he hung with half-closed eyes under a veil of green against a smoke-black sky. And before all awareness left him, he saw the last two sunflowers waving defiantly until the flames found their golden heads.

  * * *

  Ernest came to, still upside down in the tree. Using the last of his strength he pulled himself upright, twisted the branches away from his boots and fell heavily on to his back. The impact took the wind from his lungs. He lay on the grass, at peace for a moment, as the blood returned to his tingling limbs.

  Gingerly, he sat up and looked across at the smouldering farmhouse. He limped to the doorway. Black smoke still curled from the building and he tentatively made his way inside.

  The rooms were unrecognisable. The walls were gone. The beautiful old oak beams that had once lined the kitchen, lay blackened and shattered next to buckled metal pots that had seemed so indestructible. The stairwell had collapsed and through the smoke it took Ernest several breaths to comprehend what he was looking at.

  He let loose a miserable, childlike wail. ‘No, no, no, no … NO!’

  Protruding from the bricks were two uniformed legs, blackened by the flames. Ernest fell to the floor whispering a desperate prayer for the impossible. He clawed at the rubble, nails breaking on the bricks, refusing to accept the futility of his actions.

  There was no hope.

  Each slab removed brought the smell of death, darker and deeper, and finally he stopped when he could lift no more and his fingers were raw. He knelt and cried, his tears dissolving into the red stains on the floor.

  More of the stairwell collapsed in a plume of white dust. He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the choking fog. As it settled he stared, uncomprehending, at an oval shape lying close to Bill. He leaned forward and moved his head a few inches nearer, squinting, trying to remember. Then with a cry of recognition he scrambled backwards up the mound of rubble, kicking against the bricks.

  Mira’s wicker basket. It was black now, the sunflowers carbonised, their leaves floating dark fragments. Through the wreckage a small charred hand still held the handle.

  He vomited.

  Then, in the dust and debris and puke, he curled into a ball and sobbed and retched again and again until the last of the bile dribbled down his chin and the only thing left to spew was the shit from his bowels.

  He could endure no more, and sleep took him.

  * * *

  The bombardment resumed. The shaking ground and whistling mortars returned Ernest, who had been dreaming of home, to his nightmare.

  He scrambled over the rubble and out of the house, hobbling through the fields, tripping and falling until he finally found the British lines.

  * * *

  In the ensuing weeks Ernest refused all offers of help. He became a recluse living at one end of a disused trench, oblivious to the mud that encrusted his uniform and matted his hair.

  An unquenchable hatred raged within him, an abhorrence of all living things.

  He volunteered for every mission and the opportunity to wreak revenge on the enemy. He would be the first over the top, leading the charge across no man’s land and the last to return, reluctant, and disappointed that a bullet hadn’t found its mark.

  He had no fear of death; he’d nothing more to lose. And, as is the strange way of the world, he remained unscathed, while those who cherished life or had families praying for them perished.

  His platoon kept their distance and called him Mad Ernie, but secretly he became their talisman and the men watched his every move, talking in admiring whispers about this strange, silent maverick.

  One cold February night, Ernest volunteered for a raid behind enemy lines. Headquarters had received intelligence of an imminent German push and the mission was to establish if there was a build-up of troops or weapons.

  He was part of a small group of men that slipped across no man’s land, under the cover of clouds that cloaked the moonlight. They followed a route used for previous incursions and reached an abandoned trench close to enemy lines, where they rested and planned their next move.

  Ernest remained silent throughout, offering no comfort to his inexperienced companions. He no longer thought about home, his mother or his friends. Numb and broken he wished only that his weary legs would give up the fight so he could rest in the mud for a final time.

  The sergeant was pointing to various targets on the map but Ernest could not hide his distain. This was his fourth mission and each had followed an identical route. So he was unsurprised and partly relieved when on this freezing night, as the men huddled together, the enemy swarmed into the trench in a carefully choreographed ambush.

  In a breath they surrounded the squad, and when the maelstrom had subsided men on both sides lay dead or dying.

  Ernest opened his eyes – pinned beneath a heavy torso he was barely able to move. He could feel blood, dripping warm through his tunic. In the narrow confines of the trench, the German numbers had been of little consequence; there was only room for one or two to challenge at a time and both forces had found equal success. Ernest pushed his way through the tangle of legs and on one knee, like a frenzied butcher he surveyed the scene.

  The trench was chaos, with bodies piled one atop another. Some still gasped for air as blood filled their lungs; others lay, limbs akimbo, the life already snuffed out of them.

  Ernest spotted a movement towards the end of the trench. In the shadows a young German soldier cowered against the muddy wall. Ernest raised his bayonet just as the young man turned and held his gaze.

  Something shimmered on the German’s chest and Ernest saw a small tin whistle in his top pocket, glinting in the dark. The young man raised his shaking hands, palms out, fingers slightly bent, ready for death. But Ernest’s eyes would not be drawn from the whistle. He remembered his camera and his love of photography and wondered what joy that whistle had brought the young German. He lowered the bayonet and closed his eyes, wishing for the war to end, to be taken away from this hell, to be the boy he’d once been and would never be again. A single tear traced a line down his soot-covered cheek and dropped to a bloody puddle. He watched the ripple begin its journey.

  The skies filled once more with colour and noise.

  Aware of the ambush, the British artillery had targeted their position. Mortars crashed around them, sending mud and bodies spiralling into the air like macabre gymnasts. Ernest grabbed the German soldier and flung him to the
end of the trench where a small parapet offered protection. Seconds later a rocket exploded where he’d been lying, lifting Ernest heavenwards. He crashed to the earth, landing awkwardly, his legs buckling under his weight.

  Ernest sank and cried into the mud. Perhaps now was the time to say enough, to lie still and embrace death. His limbs were limp, his soul empty.

  Then, when he had nothing left, he felt the gentlest of touches under his arms, encouraging him to his feet. Ernest felt sure it was the devil, lifting him from the battlefield and taking him home, but as he turned his head he saw the young German cradling him. In that field, they held each other as lovers might have done many years before, when it was still beautiful, and together they staggered towards the British lines.

  The fire crackle blast of machine guns fractured the air. Flares floated to the ground, their eerie light highlighting the zip and zing of bullets as they hit the earth inches from Ernest and his rescuer.

  ‘Don’t shoot. British,’ Ernest rasped. Then louder. ‘DON’T SHOOT ... DON’T SHOOT ... I’M BRITISH.’

  The machine guns halted. The German, caught like a rabbit in a headlight, lowered Ernest to his knees and then gently on to his side. He took five paces backwards, staring straight at the British guns, arms half-raised, then turned and scurried back to his own lines.

  * * *

  Ernest woke in a rickety hospital bed. His legs were in plaster and suspended from a pulley system comprising battered brown weights attached to yellowing, well-used cords. It was a makeshift field hospital, no more than a large tent with two rows of five beds. The thin green canvas failed to keep out the icy wind, and the dull thump of artillery fire could be heard some miles away.

  Ernest looked around the room; a wounded soldier occupied each bed. Some had limbs missing or dark, festering burns open to the air. Bandages covered others and Ernest dared not think what lay hidden beneath those tight white shrouds. The low, wretched groans of hopelessness were unceasing.

  On a small table near his bed a vase of dried sunflowers tried to cheer the forlorn tent. The petals were dry yellow husks, all life sucked from them, and he remembered painfully the vibrant green and gold of Mira’s garden, which was now gone.

  As the weeks passed, Ernest noticed that if he lay low in his bed, he could look between the sunflowers so that their stems and leaves hid the rest of the tent and he could imagine he was somewhere else. He would while away the long hateful hours until a young nurse would appear, as if by magic, to tend him.

  He knew her only as Nurse Fisher. She fluttered efficiently about the ward like a little bird and spoke softly with a faint London accent. Her hair was always tied tightly behind her nurse’s bonnet but Ernest imagined it was long and dark. Above all else, she was kind and he never failed to be charmed by her patience and care.

  He spoke to Nurse Fisher every day. She told him about the night of his injury and how a German soldier had carried him halfway across no man’s land to safety. They talked about England, their old lives and their plans for the future. And Ernest told her about Bill and Mira. Little snippets at first. Then, like the mortars, the words exploded from him.

  He told her about Bill’s restaurant and his unwavering belief that everything happened for a reason; about Mira and her poetry; about Mira’s father and the lucky franc, which he proudly showed her. As he spoke he remembered his friends as alive and vital, and in time, with her help, he found a space in which to laugh again.

  His legs were improving and he was preparing for a few weeks leave when a battered brown parcel arrived, its paper torn and dirty. White padding poked through the rips and a patchwork of inky scrawls covered the front of the parcel – old addresses had been crossed through and new locations added. The latest had finally found him in his hospital bed.

  Curious, Ernest carefully removed the wrapping paper and found, to his surprise, photographic prints. He placed them on his lap and turned the first one over. The general stared back, looking the complete antithesis of the heroic London statues he’d so wanted to emulate. He sat astride the big nervous horse. The next photographs were of the general in various poses, his bayonet poised and his uniform ripped and dusty. Ernest could almost hear the men goading him into more preposterous positions. The last picture lay on his bed. He turned it over slowly and reverently.

  Mira.

  She was beautiful. She stood in the town square in her white shirt; her dark hair tied back, the sunlight igniting her smile so that it shone from the print.

  His hands shook and he dropped the picture. A small, silent intake of breath turned into a sob, then an uncontrollable wail. His shoulders shook through the torrent of tears like a child’s and he covered his face with his hands to hide his embarrassment.

  He wept for Mira and Bill and all those beautiful young men who had once been small boys, who’d played games and felt safe within their mothers’ arms.

  All broken now.

  The pity and injustice of the world splintered him to his core. His sorrow knew no bounds and the flow of tears would not be stemmed until Nurse Fisher held his face tightly in her hands and refused to let it go. She looked into his eyes and implored him to come back to the world, and when Ernest shut them tightly, his skin creasing with the effort, she kissed him hard on the lips.

  His eyes sprung open in surprise. When he’d regained his breath and found the beginning of a smile, he asked her name.

  ‘Violet,’ she said quietly, caressing his face. ‘I’m Violet.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Warm Sunflowers

  1972

  The sitting room had become gloomy as the late-afternoon sun fell beneath the tree line. The two men sat in silence. Ernest rubbed his forehead while Raymond struggled to find the words to comfort his friend.

  ‘So there you have it,’ said Ernest after a while. ‘Not much honour or bravery from me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ernest, I—’

  ‘Shh,’ interrupted Ernest, holding up a defensive palm. ‘There’s nothing more to say. I could have helped Bill and Mira. I didn’t move.’

  ‘You’d been stunned by the bombs – you couldn’t move.’

  ‘It didn’t stop Bill, did it?’

  ‘But ... Ernest, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, but I can’t forget. I’ve tried to live every day for the moment. Tried to be kind and follow a dream or two. Maybe that’s what Bill’s death was meant to teach me, but in my heart I know it’s all rubbish.’ He shook his head slowly, his eyes closed. ‘He was a fine young man with a whole wonderful life ahead of him and he died for nothing. And I didn’t try to save him. And Mira—’ Ernest’s voice broke.

  ‘You couldn’t do anything. Don’t say that – you didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘Everyone has a choice, Raymond.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Raymond sat frustrated, the right words evading him. Ernest stared at the wall, gazing into his old photograph.

  ‘I don’t know, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. And something good did come out of it – you met Violet and spent – how long was it? Fifty years?’ Ernest nodded. ‘Fifty years together. That’s got to be good, hasn’t it?’

  Raymond got up from his armchair and walked over to Ernest.

  ‘I’ve got to go now.’

  Ernest continued to sit rigidly in his chair, lost in thought, his hands gripping the arms. Raymond gently touched Ernest’s white fingers and let himself out.

  ‘See you soon. Bye, Ernest.’

  * * *

  That evening, Raymond watched the night sky through his bedroom window. His view of the world had changed. The same stars shone on the same earth but the reality of life hurt him. He could see the sadness that many endured so stoically and the impossible decisions, made in a moment, which could affect them for the rest of their lives. He felt small; a tiny part of the universe; his life brief and hopelessly insignificant.

  What was the point? What was the fucking point?r />
  He slumped on to his bed and curled into a ball, hedgehog safe. He glanced downwards and there on the floor, golden in the dreary electric night-light, he saw his sunflower book. Ernest’s words, spoken with such sadness came back to him, a flash of colour in a barren and bleak world.

  ‘Be kind and follow a dream or two.’

  In that moment his soul, if he had one, wrapped itself around those words and held them as if they were the most fragile flowers in winter, keeping them warm and safe and ready for the rest of his life. He snuggled under the blankets and put his hands together.

  ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child. Pity my simplicity. Suffer me to come to thee. God bless Mum and Dad, nannies, granddads, aunties, uncles, cousins John and Clive, and all kind friends, and make Ray a good boy, for Jesus’ sake. And, Lord, please look after Ernest and make him happy again. He’s been through an awful lot. Amen.’

  * * *

  The next few days saw the weather change. Black clouds hung in the sky and rain splashed the pavements. Raymond stayed indoors, read his books and attempted to write some poetry. He found a new voice at home and talked to his parents about the news, current affairs and, for the first time, their lives. They enjoyed reliving the past, and Raymond grew to understand that they too had been young, with fears and dreams similar to his own.

  Then, on the Friday, the sun peeked shyly through the clouds, an early-morning apology for the days of dreariness. Raymond ambled down the stairs, feeling happy as the sunlight blazed his way to the kitchen. He would have breakfast and then visit Ernest.

  He sat at the kitchen table, engrossed in a new book, blindly spooning cornflakes into his mouth, the milk splattering back into the bowl. His dad had long since departed for work and his mum washed the crockery left in the sink from the night before.

  ‘What you reading, Ray?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just a poetry book; William Wordsworth. Ernest likes one of the poems.’