Ruth Harris

SUNFLOWERS

I�m thinking about my sunflowers. It�s what I do. I�d rather be with them than on this stuffy train. I see their heads turning to the sun, their petals drinking in the sunlight. Yellow. Good colour. Heat on the back of my neck.

When it�s cold and the seeds won�t grow, I rake those raised beds until the soil is as fine as sand. I plant the stripy seeds in trays, in dad�s old shed, cover them with a sheet of polythene and wait until I can transfer them to those perfect beds, soft as duck down. I study seed catalogues all winter, wondering which varieties to choose. Pacino did well in the patio pots. How would Earthwalker like it in the corner by the trellis? It needs space, grows to ten feet given the right conditions. Never knew sunflowers could look like that - caramel, clotted cream, ripe apricots. I�m head gardener, feet up on the bench, electric fire glowing in the corner. The smell of creosote oozes from the wood, coaxed out by the heat.
          �You�ll catch pneumonia, Malcolm. Out there till all hours,� mother says, putting her head round the door, her breath hanging in loops. She shakes the moisture from her wire wool hair. She doesn�t bother with it these days. When I don�t answer she stomps away, up the garden path, saggy knitted jacket pulled around her.
          �I�m fine,� I say, when I know she can�t hear.

I�ve been growing sunflowers since I came out of that place. They said I should have a project. I did it to keep them happy at the beginning. You have to be careful, though, working outside. The sun is like an egg yolk in the sky, but if you stay out too long your hands and face go fiery red and then they smoulder. That�s when your thoughts swell and threaten to burst out of your head and those thoughts are deep red. Bad colour. I�m not to think of that. Sometimes, though, I see that pine table, the terracotta floor tiles. There�s an earthenware sink under the window, a jam jar of wild flowers on the sill. Don�t go there, Malcolm. I clench my fist until I feel the hot trickle in the palm of my hand.
          I think of sunflowers and my heart slows. Slow down, son, Dad said when I was small and I�d race round the lawn at warp speed. Dad was there then. We did things together.

I was seven when I first saw sunflowers. We were on holiday in France. I didn't know it was France. It was a magic place - I could listen to everything and understand nothing. Thin straight trees lined thin straight roads, stretching out of sight. Fields of sunflowers. Rows of attentive faces tilted towards me. Dad drove between them. They were the most wonderful thing ever. I couldn't bear to look away. I wanted to get out of the car and walk among the shaggy flowers, brushing my hands on those hairy stems, dodging under the honeycombed heads. The flowers rolled away on the contours of the land, like an embroidered quilt. If only I could dive under it and pull it up to my chin. But dad wouldn't stop the car. I kicked and punched the seat and cried until my throat was sore, but it made no difference, he drove on.
         That wasn't why it happened. Afterwards they shook their heads and said what a temper. I couldn�t tell them what had happened. I couldn�t remember, exactly�

This train is too hot but I only have myself to blame. I would do this. I started to sweat as I got on the train. Mother�s face was all screwed up. I couldn�t tell if she was going to cry or tell me I couldn�t go. I got in and found a seat at the far side of the carriage so I couldn�t see her. She wasn�t going to stop me. It was seeing that poster in the library that made me want to go to London. �Sunflowers� by Van Gogh. Part of an exhibition. Those flowers drew me to them. You could tell he knew sunflowers, Van Gogh, he had reached right in and found their souls. I stared and stared at that vase, at the stiff centres of the flowers, so firm I could imagine how they felt. Then I made Mother tell me where I could see the painting. She hummed and shook her head. But I kept on, I wouldn�t let go.
          �Okay, son! It�s in the National Gallery, now are you satisfied?�
But I wasn�t, not till she�d told me where that was and how I could get there, on the train. I never go on the train but I thought I could manage it for this. This was special.
          Now I�m not so sure. I tug at my sweat shirt and I catch the eye of the man opposite, buttoned up tight in his white shirt and tie. He flicks his newspaper and frowns. Stop fidgeting, Malc. I wipe my palms on my knees. Then a woman, with blonde hair and a short leather skirt, opens the carriage door and pushes past to the seat by the window. She�s carrying flowers. I can't see what they are, they�re wrapped in a cone of brown paper. I�m in the seat next to the door. That way I can keep my eyes on the way out. Just in case.
          Odd to be travelling by train. Usually I�m leaning on my hoe, watching the trains swish past the garden on their way to London or to Brighton, rattling along the top of the embankment. Their wheels make a noise like skates on ice, or the squeal of a pig.

They killed a pig in France that summer. I couldn�t stand the squealing. I tried to blot it out, chanting at the top of my voice. A pig knows, seconds before the first cut. This one set up a shrieking you could hear for miles. The farmer�s man slit its throat and blood ran into a metal bucket. I ran and ran. I had to go back to dad. I�d been told to stay away. You�re not wanted right now. Understand? Don�t come back till lunchtime. But I had to go back. I couldn�t tell mother, she was shopping with Madame. And dad had put on his sternest expression. Paperwork, business to see to, Malc, mustn�t be disturbed. I did understand.
          I burst through the front door into the dark hall. Cold tiles and the smell of damp plaster. My heart was thumping. There was another sound. It wasn�t coming from dad�s study. Not the clicking of the laptop. More a sighing, as if someone had let the wind into the house. The sound of an animal in pain. In the kitchen. No! I ran down the hall and pushed open the door.
          I wasn�t sure what I saw. Dad, his back to the door, his trousers down around his ankles. He was thrusting, grunting like a pig himself. The woman half sat, half stood against the kitchen table, dress up around her waist. I remember red shoes and the tops of her stockings. Her right hand clutched dad�s neck and she held a bunch of red roses, as if she hadn�t had time to put them down. The roses were bruised, the stems were bent and broken and neither she nor dad seemed to have noticed. High-pitched cries came from her mouth with each jolt, as the breath was forced from her.
          �No, no!� I thumped dad�s back. I wrenched the flowers from her hand.
          There was a moment�s silence. I could hear the clock ticking. The tap was dripping in the sink. A bee buzzed on the window. And then the woman looked me in the eye and winked. She winked. To my horror she threw back her head and laughed. This village woman with her pink lips and her short pink dress and her red roses. Dad had tricked us all. I brought the flowers down hard and again�then I couldn�t remember. A red river flooded my eyes and my mind.
          I was in a hospital bed, without the strength to lift my arms or legs, trapped under a white sheet. White, like a field of undisturbed snow, but tight, suffocating. I struggled to throw it back. Mother came to sit, silently, by my bed, she held my hand, but I never saw dad again.

The sweat is beading on my forehead. The carriage walls are bending in. It�s hard to breathe. Why doesn�t anyone open a window? The train squeals to a halt and I can feel the fluttering inside. I want the toilet. I look up and catch the eye of the woman in the red leather. She�s smiling. I wait for that wink, that cackle of laughter. She can see into my head. I stagger to my feet. For the first time I can see the bouquet in the paper cone. Red roses. Doesn�t she know?
          �No!� I snatch the bouquet. Now I�m beating her with it, as she raises her hands to her head. I see the red wash behind my eyes, falling like a curtain. Someone screams.

The carriage is empty. There is blood on the window, the seat, the floor. I look at it and wonder how it got there. Two policemen pin me to the seat. One of them snaps shut the handcuffs.
          �He was with a woman from the village,� I tell them. �In the kitchen. On the kitchen table.� Now I can tell someone.
          �That�s right, mate. You sit until the medics arrive.�
          �Listen! No one knew he was with her.�
          The second officer is speaking on his radio �The secure unit, Phil, they know all about him. Care in the Community��
          �Mother thought it was all my fault.�
          �Won�t be long, sir. Don�t get upset.�
They go into the corridor. One takes out cigarettes and they light up. They�ve closed the door. I can�t get them to understand. It�s like the time in the car with dad. I want to kick my feet against the seat and scream. They look back at me and nod. I frown and shake my head. Then I hang my head as I realise I�ll never see Van Gogh�s sunflowers. And something even worse.
          �My sunflowers! You don�t understand. I have to get back! I can�t leave my sunflowers, they need me.�

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