Cold Sunflowers

by Mark Sippings

  I returned to the farmhouse a couple of days later but it was a blackened pile of rubble. I searched the gardens for Bill but there was no sign of him.

  Over the past week I have wondered why Bill thanked me that night, but as I write these words it is clear – he loved Ernest. He loved him as much as I did. He always looked after him, wanted the best for him, wanted him to experience all that life offered. I know now that he must have followed his young friend into the farmhouse and perished with him in the flames.

  Raymond looked at Aimee. He felt a strange mixture of excitement and sadness.

  ‘So the photographs are from that camera?’ he asked, nodding towards the black box on the table.

  ‘Yes. After the war my grandmother discovered the undeveloped film still in the camera. She got it processed and these,’ – Aimee pointed to the photo album – ‘were the only two photographs on the roll.’

  Raymond sighed and shook his head in disbelief and wonder. He picked up the album.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ he said quietly. ‘Just think …’ He looked more closely at the first picture, marvelling at Mira and Aimee’s likeness. He wondered how many sunflowers must have grown in that garden and how feeble his own attempts to cultivate them had been. Despite Mira’s tiny smile, there was a sadness about the picture. Then he remembered the news of her father’s death the day before.

  His eyes moved to the second photograph. He tilted the page so Ernest stood upright. There was no mistaking his proud, beaming smile of accomplishment, and Raymond couldn’t help from smiling with him. The beer was working its magic, and he mellowed at the sight of his old friend, then so young, at the start of his life.

  He sighed. ‘Things change so fast. In this picture Ernest looks so happy, but the farmhouse must have been bombed soon after it was taken.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Aimee.

  ‘And Mira was so right about Bill,’ said Raymond. ‘Ernest told me they were both knocked off their feet by the first blast but Bill got up and raced into the farmhouse to rescue Mira. He did it without a thought for his own safety and told Ernest to stay where he was. Ernest said there were more explosions, and he was sent flying into a tree. When he woke and went back to the farmhouse, he discovered Bill’s body next to Mira’s. She was still clutching the wicker basket.’

  ‘But it was Mira’s mother,’ said Aimee quietly.

  ‘God.’ And then realising what he’d said, Raymond quickly whispered, ‘Sorry, Lord.’

  They sat in silence for a while. He felt helpless, wishing the world were different.

  ‘But what would have happened if they’d known?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that too, ever since I found out that Ernest didn’t die in the farmhouse. So many lives would be different now. For a start, I might not have been born. My mother would have lived a completely different life.’

  ‘Oh, yes … Goodness, I didn’t even think of that,’ said Raymond.

  ‘And, actually, Mira had an amazing life. She and Ernest were so different in age and cultures – who knows what might have happened?’

  ‘I know, and Ernest had a wonderful life too. He was happily married for fifty years. But, oh, I so wish he’d known,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Me too.’ Aimee smiled. ‘Let me read the last two entries.’

  I am on my last page. There is little left of my pencil or myself, and each individual letter, let alone word, has become a titanic act of will. I have not eaten for days. I am sure I have only stayed alive this long by licking the dew from the leaves each morning. My father always said to never give up. It was our family motto and I haven’t. I am sure we will get through this and the world will become better, but I am too tired now. I think the time has come for me to lie still and wait for sleep to take me to a happier place. If you read this, please don’t think badly of me. I tried

  Raymond felt tears well heavy behind his eyelids. He looked down and concentrated on the journal, swallowing hard. Aimee continued.

  I may not survive but there is hope. A young German soldier found me lying in my badger’s hole. I was delirious but conscious enough to know this was the end and I prepared myself for some final, hideous torture before death. Instead, I felt him lift me gently. He dripped water between my parched lips, then took bread from his bag and broke it into tiny pieces and fed me as if I were the most precious person on the planet. His name is Oscar. He says he will return tomorrow and

  Aimee gently closed the book. ‘That’s all there is. Mira didn’t keep another journal.’

  ‘But …’ Raymond looked down at the closed cover. ‘But there must be.’

  ‘My grandfather, Oscar, came back to France after the war. He found Mirabelle living at a cousin’s house with her little girl, my mother. He told everyone that the girl was his. You can imagine … an illegitimate child in those days would have been frowned upon. He took them back to Germany, where he played violin in the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. They travelled all over the world and eventually settled in France. They lived a very happy life.’ Aimee sipped wine. She looked thoughtful, as if she needed to explain something.

  ‘My grandfather said that in the war he’d been saved by a young British soldier who’d thrown him across a trench just before a rocket exploded where he’d been standing. The soldier saved his life and he thought it honourable and fair that he should now help the child of a British soldier. He never did this begrudgingly, nor was he ever resentful. It was as it should be, he said. And my mother would often say that he was the most marvellous father anyone could have ever wished for.’

  Raymond rose half out of his seat. ‘You ... you won’t believe this.’ And then to Ernest he whispered, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Oh nothing. It’s just that Ernest told me he’d rescued a German soldier once. And then the German soldier saved him. Wouldn’t it be amazing if that man was your grandfather?’

  Raymond and Aimee held each other’s gaze, their smiles widening as the thought nestled and grew.

  ‘How do you know for sure that Ernest had a daughter?’ Raymond asked.

  She laughed. ‘Ah, well, this is the skeleton in our family closet. I am sure all families have at least one. I don’t think my mother wanted to tell me and she’d have been quite happy if the secret had remained buried by the years. But once I’d read the journal and started doing some research, she could see how interested I was. One day she sat me down and said she had something to tell me. I wondered what on earth it was going to be, but that afternoon she told me Mira’s story. She painted a far more romantic picture of events though. She hadn’t read the journal!’ Aimee giggled, a wonderful joyous sound that warmed Raymond. ‘Mirabelle and Oscar told her that same story when she was eighteen.’

  ‘So your mum knew that Ernest was her real father.’

  ‘Yes, but she thought him dead. And in any case, Oscar had raised my mother as his own and in her eyes he was always her real dad … and my wonderful grandfather, of course.’ Aimee laughed again. ‘My mother was so shocked when she found out that Ernest was alive. She didn’t know what to do with herself and I am sure she’d have preferred things to end there. But when she realised how determined I was to visit, she gave me her blessing, even though she didn’t want to come with me.’

  They sat in silence, sipping their drinks as if the world around them no longer existed. Cosy in the corner, the alcohol warming them, their thoughts soared. All those possibilities, dead-ends and new beginnings.

  Did everything really happen for a reason?

  Raymond found it difficult to remember the twists and turns of the last hour. He wanted to run his fingers over the journal, hold the photographs close to his face and breathe them in. But most of all he wanted to embrace the old Kodak camera and feel the essence of Ernest’s touch on his most loved possession.

  He looked at Aimee and broke the spell.

  ‘You said you went to Bailleul before you came to the UK. Did
you visit the farmhouse?’

  ‘Non, there is nothing left of it. I went to visit the cemetery to say thank you to Bill.’

  ‘Did you find his grave?’

  ‘Yes, there are rows and rows of white headstones and I realised each one of those plaques was for a young soldier like Bill and Ernest. It made me sad, but it was a beautiful crisp winter’s day and the yellow roses were still in bloom. It struck me as a peaceful place to rest, shoulder to shoulder with your brave companions. I found Bill’s grave. It was well kept and his headstone had a crest carved on to it, probably from his regiment. I laid some tiny purple, red and yellow winter flowers on it and thanked him for my life with all the love in my heart.’

  Aimee stared out of the window. For the first time she looked sad. She swallowed and a tiny stuttered sniff escaped her nose. Raymond touched her arm.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Put your coat on. One last thing. It’s something Ernest showed me,’

  ‘I don’t know – it’s late. I should go. I have to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Please,’ said Raymond. ‘When I met Ernest, he asked me to take a chance on him. My life has never been better since I did. Now I’m asking you to do the same with me – one small chance.’ He closed his eyes, feeling the moment. ‘Please.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Learning to Fly (Part Two)

  The street lights flickered, shrouded in the mist that swirled around them.

  There was a hum in the air, a crackle of electricity.

  Aimee and Raymond stood at the top of the gently sloping hill. The snow was falling heavily now, though for the moment the road remained clear. The snow caught in the curls of Aimee’s hair, tiny white flakes in a sea of black.

  Raymond looked up into the night sky. It was hard to distinguish between the stars and the snow but in that moment everything seemed right. And though the snowflakes melted on his face, icy in the light breeze, he felt warm and content. He glanced at Aimee illuminated in the pale golden streetlight. She turned, somehow sensing his gaze, and out of the darkness he heard Ernest’s voice – words that must have circled the planet a million times before they chose this moment to settle on him.

  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.

  Aimee tilted her head and mouthed What? but Raymond couldn’t reply. He just shook his head and watched in awe as a shooting star soared towards her, briefly lighting up the night sky before disappearing behind the waves of her hair.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he whispered. ‘It’s the closest you’ll get to flying without leaving the ground.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Aimee smiled uncertainly.

  Raymond reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the franc.

  ‘This is the franc Mira gave Ernest in the town square when he photographed the general.’

  Aimee reached for it.

  ‘No. Not yet. I’m going to roll it,’ said Raymond, moving away from Aimee’s outstretched hand. ‘Follow it down the hill. Go as quickly as your legs will take you. Leap whenever you can. Don’t stop even if you overtake it.’

  Aimee shook her head, puzzled, but stood prepared, one foot slightly in front of the other, her knees bent – a reluctant competitor at a children’s sports day.

  Raymond swung his arm and sent the coin, in a perfect arc, rolling and bouncing down the hill.

  Aimee rocked back on her heels, startled by Raymond’s movement, then set off in pursuit of the franc.

  Numbed by the cold air, her legs were reluctant companions but as her momentum increased, helped by the hill’s gentle incline, her movements became more natural. And down the slope she went, running and leaping, as one with the snow and the stars.

  Raymond watched, smiling.

  A moment that would soar forever in the hallways of his heart nudged him and stung his eyes.

  An old man, a friend. And how, in an act of grace and wonder, he leapt ...

  Epilogue

  A seagull flew over the rocky promontory using the thermals to glide and hover. Far below, canoeists paddled through a large natural arch as the waves washed against the rocks.

  The seagull was old now, the matriarch of the flock. As a young bird she’d raced through the clouds, diving close to the rock face for no other reason than the sheer thrill of it and to taste the essence of being alive. But now she left the excitement to the youngsters and was content to glide on the warm air with only the slightest movement of her slate-grey wing tips to adjust her position.

  It had been a beautiful day with a perfect blue sky, and the warmth of the sun had eased the ache of her tired old muscles.

  Holidaymakers had packed the beach all day long, and she’d only ventured a couple of times to the rocks to forage for discarded chips, which over the years had become her favourite meal.

  There were fewer people now, and the sun was low in the sky, sending shadows across the sand. But the breeze still whispered warm against her feathers.

  She saw a family running across the beach and she glided above them to see closer. A man, slight of build, clasped a woman’s hand. Her curly black hair flowed behind her as she ran. The adults held the hands of two small girls, one with long strawberry-blonde hair tied at the back, the other with shorter red hair that seemed to glow in the sun.

  The seagull looked again at the man. Some far distant memory infused her wings with happiness and she swooped around them. The children laughed and pointed at her. Then the four of them, hand in hand, charged across the sand, taking a moment to wave at a man and woman sitting in deckchairs by the cliff.

  The seagull used the thermals from the rock face to glide above the other couple. They were elderly and sat close to each other, their shoulders touching. They smiled and waved at the family. Strangely, they were reading the same book, his held closely to his chest as he waved, hers lying on the sand so she could use both hands to signal her delight.

  The book on the beach caught in the light breeze and the pages fanned until it closed. The seagull could just make out some sunflowers on the front cover, their beautiful yellow heads entwined with many others in a sea of green and gold.

  Had the seagull been able to read she would have made out the words bold against the yellow,

  Cold Sunflowers by Dougal Hyland.

  But, of course, she could not, and she flew into the blue sky, happy to have spent another day on this wonderful planet full of endless possibilities.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to Eleanor, Louise and Averill. All my old work colleagues especially those in my teams – you kept me sane during difficult times. Everyone at Design for Writers, especially Andrew, who put up with my 3.00am changes of heart without complaint. My mum Barbara, who has helped me during the worst of times. Jean and Harry for always being in my corner. The Stanway gang (plus honourary additions) – you have no idea. Psycho Dehlia. Poppy for being Poppy. Eleanor for always smiling and always being positive and above all Penny – I could not have done it without you.

  The poem read by Mira is Surprised by Joy by William Wordsworth, one of my favourites.

  A Note on the Author

  Mark Sippings was born in Walthamstow in 1959. He now lives in Essex. He has two daughters and would like a puppy.

  Cold Sunflowers is his first novel.

  www.coldsunflowers.co.uk

  @marksipps