Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  Peering through the crack I saw a boy in an oversized uniform. I beckoned him in and asked him to sit with me. He was embarrassed; I could see his cheeks turning red. I decided to be cruel and make things worse, so I took his hand in mine and stared at him. All to no avail – he refused to look at me. I recognised him as one of the men who had waved to us from their lorry as we washed our clothes in the river. He seemed so different. In the lorry, with his companions he was full of confidence and bravado, but now I could see he was young and innocent. I asked if his friend was here too but the boy would not talk save only to say that his name was Ernest Gardiner. Then he continued to stare into space. I told him I was troubled about father and as I spoke he turned his head towards me, concerned and worried for me despite all that was happening in his own life. I felt ashamed of my games, but I offended him again when I said that one so young should not see these horrors. In an instant he said more words than during the whole of our meeting, declaring he was not young at all – nearly eighteen! I struggled to keep my laughter inside and had to look away from him into the night. Luckily, at that moment, a shooting star shot across the sky and I was able to distract him. He asked me about my poetry book and wanted me to read to him. It was my turn to feel embarrassed as I read William Wordsworth in my poor English to a well-spoken Englishman, but I did it. And when I finished the words moved me and I felt very sad. I held his hand again, not to mock him but because in that moment I needed to feel a human touch to chase away my loneliness.

  The back door opened and the boy’s friend appeared. I have never seen anyone move so quickly and the boy pulled his hand from mine as if he had placed it in a pot of boiling water! He went red as a beetroot and stuttered a hello to his friend. Once again it took all my willpower to stop myself from laughing. To my surprise, his friend can speak very good French. His name is Bill and he is certainly how I have imagined a soldier would be – rugged and strong – but he is also very funny and he teases the boy.

  I took the two of them into the kitchen and gave them cheese, bread and wine. By then I was feeling very sleepy, and I bade the men good night and left them to their snacks. As I turned my back to leave, I could see the older soldier reflected in the kitchen window, making a voluptuous shape with his hands and laughing at his young friend, who was shaking his head. Rather than making me feel cross, it was nice to be the centre of attention. And for the first time in a long while I felt some happiness and a little bit of hope return to the world.

  Raymond shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s … it’s ... goodness. Ernest told me all about when he first met Mira. It was a beautiful evening and he never forgot it. That poem by William Wordsworth – I can’t remember which one – but it was always his favourite.’

  ‘There’s more. Listen.’ Aimee turned the pages until she reached her next marker near the end of the journal. She swallowed a mouthful of wine and began to read again. Raymond tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the book but he couldn’t resist looking at Aimee. To his embarrassment, she occasionally caught his secret glances when, without warning, she looked up and fleetingly met his gaze with a smile.

  My summer continues and I am so grateful that my two friends have come to stay with us. It is as though the war is somewhere else, far far away. The weather today has been glorious. The heat is intense and the sun seems to spend the whole day high in the sky. There is rarely any shade but it is perfect, though I am sure Ernest finds it difficult with his pale skin.

  Yet again, we spent the day by the river, dipping our feet into the cooling water, the boys sitting shirtless, and me a floozie, my dress high over my thighs and pulled down exposing my shoulders. If anyone could see me I am sure they’d be shocked by my behaviour but I am alive and who knows when I may not be. I am getting to know the boys better each day. Bill is confident, brash and gregarious. He has a joke for every occasion, but he cares deeply for Ernest despite his constant teasing. He tells us about his dreams and how he will involve us in his restaurant when the war is over. There is always a glint of hope when he speaks and I can see Ernest staring ahead into the distance, as I often do, lost in thought, thinking of the future. Bill’s favourite saying is ‘Everything happens for a reason’. Ernest and I can almost predict when he will say it and we mimic him each time. It is funny and Ernest’s chance for revenge.

  Ernest is quiet and kind and shy. He always wears a small camera around his neck and takes endless photographs of us, winding the handle noisily after every shot. He is probably ten years younger than Bill and me and he seems so innocent, little more than a boy in a man’s world. But when I look into his wonderful blue eyes, I see something deep and unfathomable that tempts me to dive in and discover what lies within. Bill took me aside last night and quietly warned me that Ernest is falling in love with me. He asked me to be careful, for I will surely break the boy’s heart. I laughed it off but I know it to be true. I see Ernest’s secret sideways glances, the way he hangs on my every word, and when I look at him he struggles to meet my gaze. My worst behaviour has been to clasp his hand in mine at every opportunity and to watch his cheeks slowly turn red, despite his sunburn! But as the days have gone by I have discovered that it has been nice to feel his fingers or to link arms with him as we walk home, despite Bill’s tiny head shakes of reprimand, which I bat back with an innocent smile.

  Aimee paused and looked at Raymond. ‘If you want another drink, I’d better get it. The next bit is rather long and, well, you’ll probably need a drink by the end of it. What would you like?’ she said.

  ‘Just a pint of lager, please,’ said Raymond. ‘But I can—’

  But Aimee was already out of her seat and on her way to the bar, heads following her as she went.

  Raymond marvelled at the journal. He ran his fingers over the fragile brown pages, trying to feel their history and move back the years to when Ernest was a boy and in love with this wonderful woman, whose words sung from another time. He closed his eyes and lay his hand flat on the paper, wishing that world into existence.

  Aimee coughed.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ said Raymond, embarrassed. ‘I was just trying to imagine what it was like. It’s amazing that Mira held this book all those years ago.’

  ‘I know. And don’t worry – it has the same effect on me,’ said Aimee. ‘The next bit is sad. It’s right at the end of the journal. Look at this page first though. It just has one line.’ Aimee went to another of her markers.

  Today I heard my father died. My life has ended.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if she wrote in her journal for a while after that,’ said Aimee, ‘and then she went back and filled in the days she’d missed. It sounds as if her world had been turned upside down. It was terrible. Listen.’

  I have not written for over a week. How can the world change in such a short space of time? From being so happy I am now at my lowest ebb; I am in hell. My mother, father and young Ernest have all been killed. I have no idea where Bill is. He has almost certainly met the same fate. My heart is broken. There are no more tears left to cry. I have been living in the woods near the farmhouse, and have managed to scavenge some food from abandoned houses. Luckily it is still warm and I have been able to sleep with only a covering of branches and leaves. All is devastation here. The bombing went on and on for days, then soldiers swarmed about the countryside, advancing and retreating. I hid in a badger sett, covered with mud, and watched the battles. Sometimes the soldiers have been so close I could have untied their boot laces. I dread to think what will happen if I am discovered.

  I think the Germans have taken over the town as the bombing has now stopped and there has been no further advance since the last one a couple of days ago. All is chaos and destruction. I have been sleeping when I can during the day and scavenging at night. I am filthy and live like the pigs we kept on the farm, but the mud is my protector. The only comfort I have is this journal. It is the last reminder of the farmhouse and I can look back over the pages to happier times. I
keep it sheltered in a hollow tree together with Ernest’s camera. I hope perhaps it will be found one day when this war is over. Then a little piece of me will remain in the world. I think my own chances of survival are very small.

  I have not felt like writing until today. So much has happened and my mind has been broken, but this morning the sun was shining through the trees and it looked so beautiful. So I thought I would try again only to find that my pencil, like me, is in a sorry state. I will write as much as I can before the lead breaks again.

  On the day I heard my father died we had awoken to a loud knocking on the front door. The horrible soldier who had been so rude to Mother escorted Ernest and Bill into town. They had to go to the square to take photographs of the general on his new horse, something they had been joking about for days but had hoped would never happen. I had breakfast and did my chores, then walked into the town. It was quiet in the normally bustling streets but in the square it was chaos. Soldiers lined every side, three or four deep. I tried to see what was going on, but it was impossible, even standing on tiptoe. I seemed invisible to the men, who ignored my feeble attempts to get to the front. Eventually I spied a statue; remarkably, the large plinth on which it stood was empty and I climbed on top. Over the soldiers’ heads I could see the general wearing a bright-red uniform, sitting astride a large, frightened chestnut mare. Its forelegs were pacing up and down and it seemed about to bolt at any moment. The groom was frantically holding the bridle, trying to keep it still, while the general, who was certainly no horseman, sat precariously in the saddle. His face was as red as his uniform and the sun glinted on the sweat that dripped from his chin. I then saw Ernest and Bill and my heart melted. They both looked so small in that huge square, surrounded by the baying crowd. I was so proud of them. They were performers on a stage. Ernest was looking through his camera, which he had set up on a tripod, and Bill was speaking to the general. Suddenly the crowd were counting in unison – two, three. The chant became louder, almost deafening, and I could see that the horse, her ears pricked backwards, was beginning to panic. Four, five. There was a flash and a puff of smoke from the camera as Ernest took his picture. The horse bolted. How the general did not fall off instantly I will never know, but he was able to grab the horse around the neck and remain in the saddle as it raced round the square, boxed in by the soldiers, who were waving and shouting and making the whole situation worse. Finally, the general slid off the horse and his men raced to lift him to his feet. I could hear angry shouting but couldn’t make out the words. And then I saw Bill leave hurriedly. Eventually the general seemed to calm down and stood in different positions, letting Ernest take some more pictures of him, which seemed to cause even more merriment amongst the men. Finally, the general grew tired of the poses and pushed his way through the crowds, which immediately dispersed. I watched Ernest pack away his equipment and I couldn’t help but smile. His uniform was undoubtedly too big, and he seemed so young, yet he had commanded the arena. I felt so happy and proud that he was my friend. I climbed down from the plinth and walked towards him. He was busy with his boxes but something made him look up. And when he saw me, his smile was enough to warm me in the coldest of winters. It was so radiant that I had to look away. As I did, I noticed a battered old franc, half-buried in the ground. I picked it up, skipped over to Ernest and gave it to him for good luck. He then made me stand in front of him and the few soldiers who remained while he took a photograph of me. I was self-conscious and embarrassed but I felt like a movie star and I laughed as he clicked the shutter.

  We walked back to the farmhouse with Bill, who had been given latrine duty. Ernest and I found that very funny. I think Bill wanted revenge on Ernest for escaping any punishment and he spent the walk home flirting with me. I am ashamed to say that I joined in with the teasing even though I knew how Ernest felt, and I ran ahead, hand in hand with Bill, leaving poor Ernest to carry his heavy camera and glass plates. We reached the farmhouse with Ernest lagging far behind and out of sight. My mother met us at the gate. She was in a terrible state, crying uncontrollably. She gave me a letter that told me father had been killed. As I read it, I felt myself getting hotter. Coloured patches began to obscure my vision. Suddenly I found myself in Bill’s arms, my legs having given way beneath me. I was quietly sobbing on to his shoulder when Ernest arrived. I realise now the poor boy thought we were in an amorous embrace but I had no stomach to explain myself or comfort him and I rushed into the house.

  That evening I stared out of the window at the stars. Nothing would ever be the same again. All was sombre and still aside from my mother’s muffled sobs and the boys’ soft whispers, their heads close together in conversation, both unable to look at me.

  Bill left for his latrine duty and Ernest followed him out of the room. I heard him climbing the stairs to his bedroom. After a while I couldn’t bear the sound of my mother’s tears any longer. I kissed her goodnight and made my way to bed. I pulled the blankets tightly around me and snuggled into my feather pillows. I was exhausted by my grief and could hardly keep my eyes open, but sleep would not come. Images of my father lying dead and lonely in a muddy field circled endlessly in my mind. Then I thought of Ernest, so young and so likely to be killed. Had he ever been loved or felt the joy and closeness of another’s touch?

  When this journal is found, I am sure I will be dead, otherwise I would not have the courage to write these words. But I want the truth to be in the world, scandalous as it is.

  I saw Ernest, young, alone and frightened, with his dazzling blue eyes, always smiling. And I wanted him to experience the intensity of love before it was too late. My passion would be my gift to him. Not one bone in my body will ever regret what I did and in the end my gift that night was Ernest’s last.

  Looking back now, in the cold light of morning, I can see my father’s death had broken me. I wanted Ernest to be happy but I, too, longed to feel alive again, to be held. I would have done anything to wring the last pieces of life out of that barren and bleak world we then found ourselves in.

  I crept into his room, took off my nightshirt and seduced him. I put his shy hands on me and guided him. And for those moments life and love came back to me. We fell asleep in each other’s arms until I was woken by Bill’s gentle touch on my back. I turned to find him smiling. He raised a finger to his lips and mouthed the words – Your mother will be up soon. I knew she mustn’t see me in the boy’s bedroom. She had suffered enough already without thinking her daughter was a harlot. I crept out of the bed and looked at Ernest, peaceful in the half-light of sunrise. He still wore a small smile on his beautiful young face and his eyelids fluttered in a far-off dream. ‘Thank you,’ whispered Bill. ‘You’re wonderful.’ And then he hugged me and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  Raymond sat quietly, slowly digesting the information; he couldn’t bring himself to look at Aimee.

  ‘Ernest told me about the night Mira came to his room and ...’ Suddenly everything clicked into place. ‘So that was when she …?’

  Aimee nodded.

  ‘There was no one else in Mira’s life, so the baby must have been Ernest’s.’ Aimee looked at Raymond. ‘Listen – there is a little more.’

  Aimee turned to the end of the journal.

  I have not written in my journal for a few days but my life has not changed. Food is becoming harder to find, and it is certainly getting colder at night. I am still the mud queen and can now feel the lice crawling inside my clothes. I live like a wild animal and each minute that I survive is both a success and a torment. Every day I become weaker; I can hardly hold my pencil, which is becoming smaller and smaller as I try unsuccessfully to sharpen it. The journal has been my rock. I still look back over the pages; they remind me that life was once good and can surely be good again. I am determined that this journal must tell my story so I will carry on, one word at a time. I pray that one day a young beautiful woman, warm and safe, her hair brushed and tied, will read my words. Not because I want pity or because I want
her to appreciate her lot but because I will know that this hell has ended and that sense and beauty and laughter have returned to the world.

  These next words will be the hardest to write. That last day is still a blur to me even though flashes of memory insist on flitting around my head as I sleep. I remember bringing the boys coffee and bread as they sat on the wooden bench in the front garden. I was still sad, of course, and thoughts of my father would not leave me, but the morning was beautiful and the garden bright with blooms. I cut some sunflowers and lay the stems one on top of the other in my wicker basket. Ernest was in a daze. I think he half-thought he’d dreamt the previous evening, and that made me smile despite everything. He took a photograph of me posing with my basket. Then I went inside to put the flowers in water. My mother was in the kitchen; she took the basket from me and said she would arrange them. I kissed her and went into the back garden with my journal. I needed to be alone with my thoughts and to remember my father.

  It was a beautiful and peaceful morning. I closed my eyes and tilted my head towards the sun, feeling it warm my face. There was not a sound save the breeze and muffled laughter from the front of the house. Then in an instant I was lifted into the air and thrown across the garden in a maelstrom of glass and wood. I must have passed out because when I woke I could see flames flickering from the windows of the farmhouse. I was covered in dirt and my arm was awkwardly pinned behind me. I sat up and to my relief found I could move my arms and legs. I began to half-crawl, half-stagger towards the farmhouse, trying unsuccessfully to stifle my hopeless sobs. It was like moving through deep water; each inch took every bit of my willpower. As I reached the back door, something burst inside me and every sound ever made exploded in my head. I stumbled backwards as the magnitude of the situation sunk in. There were explosions everywhere. Rockets were hissing overhead but worst of all I could hear the farmhouse crackling and burning, turning my childhood to ashes. I pushed the door open and stumbled inside. Those rooms, so familiar throughout my life, were now hard to recognise as they filled with smoke and debris. Ahead of me the stairwell had collapsed and I clambered over the rubble and into the kitchen. I saw my wicker basket first, then my mother’s tiny hand still clutching the handle, her legs bloodied and bent beneath her. She was buried under huge slabs of concrete and wood, and the floor was awash with dark-red blood. I fell to my knees and tried to scrape the bricks off her body but there were too many and every time I removed one, another would slip into its place. I sat and sobbed uncontrollably. Then as I put my hand down on the floor to lever myself up, I touched something soft and leathery. I picked it up and held it close to my face to better see what it was. Through the smoke I made out Ernest’s camera case. I scrambled around in a blind panic and soon found his camera. With horror I touched Ernest’s cold hand and saw his leg bent and twisted at an impossible angle. I could do nothing but scream but even that animal sorrow was taken away from me as more mortars slammed into the house, greedily drowning every sound with their own. I ran, colliding into walls and tripping over fallen beams. How I found my way through the house I will never know but I did, and I crashed through the door into the back garden, retching into the summer air. Explosions continued to shake the ground and once outside I didn’t stop running until I reached the woods, where I collapsed face down in the mud, gasping for breath, choking like a drowning fish. I do not know how long I lay there but when eventually the bombardment ceased, I eased myself up and rested forlornly against a tree. I looked down – I still held Ernest’s camera tightly – my fingers were white and numb with the effort. And in my apron pocket was my journal.