Hungry ghosts, p.10
Hungry Ghosts, page 10
Ruth could hear the clanging pots and pans drift up from the kitchen where Ethel would be conducting the process like the commander of her fleet. The time for quiet reflection had ended as her straining bladder forced her out of bed and into the makeshift blue siren suit that had seen her through many a long underground night.
As Ruth strolled into the kitchen, Ethel glanced up at her from her seat at the timber utility table, her hands buried deep in a bowl of sticky dough, her body overflowing the boundaries of her chair. Ethel had always been a sturdy woman, but since she’d read the letter about Jim, she had barely stopped eating and her appearance had gone to the dogs. She munched on the National Loaf; she scoffed mountains of mashed potato; she downed bowls of oats when she could get them; and if anybody was foolish enough to leave food on their plate, she wolfed that down too.
As her figure swelled, like a slowly inflating barrage balloon, Ethel’s appearance became increasingly dishevelled. On this momentous morning, she was wearing a long, grubby-yellow smock, an oversized, grey skirt and ancient, knee-length tartan socks that could not obscure the greying flesh and blue varicose veins that peeped through the accumulating array of holes. Her clothes reflected her moods, which had grown progressively erratic: explosive one day, repentant the next, mean and cruel on Friday, full of compassion on Saturday.
‘So glad you could join us, Ruth,’ said Ethel with a sprinkle of barb glinting on her tongue.
‘Shall I open the curtains? No more blackouts. And no more bombs. We can go back to life,’ said Ruth.
‘Some of us,’ said Ethel.
‘What are you making?’ asked Ruth.
‘Scones for the reception.’
Ethel had been hoarding butter and jam for weeks to give them something to spread on the scones. As for the thinly iced fruitcake that she had toiled over – a bride must have a wedding cake – well, only good old Trevor could have conjured up all the right ingredients. Ruth didn’t know how he had managed it, and she had learned never to ask. It was better to turn a blind eye in case her dad’s crafty ways tested her scruples. She would hazard a guess that a man in a flat cap driving a lorry with a dodgy back door was involved. Things fall out, you know.
Ruth sat quietly at the kitchen table opposite her mother. ‘So, what needs to be done?’
‘All the food for starters. The potatoes. The carrots. The chicken when Trevor brings it. Where the heck is he anyway? He’ll need to sort drinks out too. And someone will have to gather up all the plates and glasses and give them a good rinse. I’ll need to go to the church and sort the flowers at some point. Mary across the road said she’d do it, but you can’t trust that girl. The cake’s done, thank heaven, but we’ve still got to arrange the table and chairs. And then we all need to get dressed up in our finest. You’ll need help with that. And then… and then… my, my, it goes on and on. It don’t seem like it’ll ever be sorted.’
‘I need to have a bath and change my underwear first,’ said Ruth.
‘I put the water on an hour ago, should be hot by now,’ said Ethel.
Ruth wanted to take advantage of her last chance to be alone, not simply for today, but forever, and looked forward to relaxing in the bath until the water cooled. She would have Vic in her life now, every day, day after day: from now on, he would always have a claim on her time. This was, of course, what she hoped for and expected; he was a good man. But, oh, “till death us do part” was a very long time. The war had been a runaway train that had hurtled them down the track to marriage, and now that peace prevailed, she wondered if they should have taken more time to get to know each other. It was a big step, this marriage thing. A huge stride into a brave new world: a name given up and a life not fully her own anymore. But when you’re born into a humble family, with a mother like Ethel, your life is never really your own anyway.
She washed herself with the bar of yellowing Palmolive soap that she’d saved for the occasion, then stepped out of the bath and dried herself before returning to her bedroom.
‘I’m ready now,’ she called.
Ethel and Carol laboured up the stairs to the bedroom, where Ruth was waiting in her underwear. She lifted the dress out of the wardrobe and laid it carefully on the bed where they could admire Ethel’s glorious handiwork. It was a miracle the way a parachute supplied by Vic had been transformed into a wedding dress. There was no escape, no bailing out from marriage now.
Ruth had watched her mother carefully cut away the damage sustained during Vic’s wing-crawl and then sew the delicate silk into a simple but elegant dress with puff shoulders and a line of cream buttons stretching down the back from neck to waist. Ethel had used the parachute cords to raise the dress a little at the front, lending it a slight train at the back. And there was even enough silk remaining to create a short veil. By focusing on her dressmaking, Ethel’s mind had been deflected from doleful contemplation of Jim as she laboured for hours each evening despite the blackout. Ruth was delighted that her dress was crafted from material designed to save Vic’s life.
Carol helped Ruth ease into the dress and button up the back before wrapping her right arm around Ruth’s waist and tapping her twice on the stomach.
‘It’s a snug fit,’ she said.
‘It fits just fine,’ said Ruth. ‘It fitted last week, and it fits today. It’s perfect. Thanks so much, Mum.’
‘Our Ruth has never had a jot of spare flesh on her, ever. She’s always been as thin as a rake. The dress looks great on you, Ruth, and you’ll look dead set fabulous in the photographs, you always do. I’m so proud of you, darling. You have a lovely man, and we’ll hear the patter of tiny feet soon, I hope,’ said Ethel.
Roused by repeated knocking, Ethel eased herself down the stairs and Ruth heard her unlock the front door.
‘Excuse me, but do you know a Vic Woods?’ said a man’s voice.
‘Yes. I’m Ruth’s mother.’
‘Is he here?’
Ethel called Ruth, who appeared a minute later in her full wedding gear.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Ruth.
‘They’ve come about Vic.’
‘Is he okay? Is he alright? Is he hurt?’ she said, her voice quivering.
‘He jumped off the train at Harlow and it left without him. His bag was still in the carriage with us,’ said the corporal.
‘It had a label with this address on, so we brought it here. I’m Val by the way,’ said the woman beside him.
‘Oh, thanks so much. Do you have any idea where he is? Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, but no. We need to get along. We’ve some celebrating to do,’ said the corporal.
‘Congratulations on your big day. We hope you and Vic will be very happy together,’ said Val.
‘If he turns up,’ said Ruth, wistfully.
Ruth lugged Vic’s bag into the house and dropped it onto the floor in the front room before collapsing onto the sofa. The vibrations of alarm swept through her body, until, stunned and confused, she plunged, unusually for her, into despondency. Whatever had happened to him? Perhaps he had been robbed on the station platform. If not robbed, then murdered? The corporal had said he’d leapt off the train at Harlow and hadn’t returned. But if he’d been attacked at the station, someone would surely have reported it? That left only one explanation. He’d got cold feet and bolted over the horizon like a wild stallion escaping the corral.
She glanced forlornly at Vic’s abandoned bag. There would be no grand white wedding; instead, she would run up the white flag. Oh well, she didn’t deserve a white wedding anyway. But how could Vic have the courage to fly face down in a Lancaster over Germany but lack the backbone to turn up for his own marriage? At least he could have saved her the shame of being jilted on her wedding day. Ethel threw petrol on the flames of her agitation.
‘What’ve you done to scare him off?’ she said.
Ethel mouthed off that men were feckless, useless creatures who dumped all the work on women. And yet, Ruth observed, when it came to the crunch, she always delivered excuses for them.
‘He might still turn up, let’s wait and see,’ said Carol, who had followed Ethel into the living room. ‘Give him another hour, eh, love.’
Ethel, though, was in a flap and had decided the wedding was off.
‘I suppose I’ll have to try and contact all the guests now,’ she said with a heavy sigh. ‘And what about the food? I guess we can join the party outside now. What a mess. I never expected this from Vic. I thought he was a decent sort of bloke. Oh heck… what will you do now, love?’
‘Wait a little longer,’ said Carol.
‘I’m going to get changed,’ said Ruth, whose customary optimism had taken a direct hit.
She stared at herself in the mirror all dressed up for a wedding that wasn’t to be. Ruth wasn’t one to panic or throw a tantrum, but now she had to battle hard to hold back the tears as she slipped out of her dress and laid it carefully on the bed. It looked pitiful lying there without a purpose, like an abandoned corpse. She eased herself down beside the dress and the levee broke. Damn. She didn’t want to cry. Ethel, who had followed her up the stairs, sat next to Ruth and put her arm around her shoulder.
‘We’re gonna get through it together, Ruthy. We’re here for you. The family will stick by you. That’s what we do. Through thick and thin. We’ve been through much worse during the Blitz. And after Jim.’ She paused. ‘Vic couldn’t have been…?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘There were no more missions, I’m sure.’
‘Well, then, he is a very stupid man who doesn’t appreciate what he’s losing.’
Ruth wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Put some clothes on and come down and help me out in the kitchen. No point in letting food go to waste. We’ll take some of it out to the street.’
Ruth trailed Ethel downstairs to the kitchen. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. She just wanted to curl up on her bed and weep. But what good would that do? She would carry on. She always carried on. That was her nature.
Chapter 13
Vic was hugely relieved to arrive in Bethnal Green in time for the ceremony. The shock of potentially missing his wedding had banished all his doubts about the marriage and now he realised how much he loved Ruth. His first joyful impulse was to rush into her house and tell her that he was here. He had, however, been firmly instructed by Ethel that he must not, on pain of death, see the bride in her dress before the ceremony. He was desperate to reassure Ruth, but curbed his enthusiasm and knocked on Carol’s door, as previously agreed, to check the lay of the land.
Carol opened the door dressed in her baggy grey siren suit, with curlers embedded in her dark, usually straight, hair.
‘Blimey, look what the cat dragged in. Where’ve you been? I’ve just got back from Ruthy’s. She’s worried, Vic, thinks maybe you’ve got cold feet or something,’ said Carol.
‘No, no. I can’t wait to marry Ruth. I love her madly. I was just stupid and got held up.’
‘We reckoned you must have done a runner cos an army geezer turned up with your bag. Said you just vanished off the train and never come back. Just as well you had a label with Ruth’s address on it. At least that was smart. Lucky that bloke went out of his way to help. His girlfriend said they knew it was your wedding day.’
‘Phew. Thank God. It’s got my dress uniform in it. Did they leave an address or phone number or anything, so I can thank them?’
‘Nope. Just left the bag and buggered off. They said you’d know who they were from the train.’
‘I’m so sorry. Ruth must be bloody angry with me. I’ll pop around, get my bag, tell her I’m here and apologise.’
‘No way, that ain’t allowed on your wedding day. I’ll go and deliver your apology and bring your bag back here.’
After a hell of a day, Vic was exhausted, and his nerves were jangling like an out-of-tune piano. He dropped onto the sofa and shut his eyes in search of a moment’s rest.
Indistinct red and orange dots appeared and disappeared in front of his eyes. They grew larger and larger until they merged into a stream, like lava flowing down the slopes of a volcano. The surface of the earth was bubbling now, as if it were a living thing lying over the face of the planet. A powerful odour penetrated his nostrils. It was the stench of cooked flesh and boiling fat. He saw a river of melted bodies flow down the streets of Dresden.
It was becoming hotter and hotter inside the fuselage, and he could feel the sweat running down his face and dripping onto his thighs.
‘Get us out of here, Charlie!’ he cried.
The Lancaster wheeled away from its target and banked to the left. As it straightened up, Vic noticed a silver American B-29 Superfortress flying in front of them. It was daytime and the plane shone like a shooting star as the sunlight struck its fuselage. He could see the number “82” and the words “Enola Gay” inscribed on its side.
They were cruising over a different city now, no longer Dresden, but a low-lying sprawling conurbation nesting in a gentle bowl. He looked down at a mixture of tall, sturdy buildings and shorter, lighter workshops, ringed by a handful of industrial plants and a dense collection of small wooden houses.
A tremendous flash of white light burst across the sky like an exploding star. It was followed by a colossal purple mushroom cloud that reached far beyond their own altitude. Vic feared that they would be swallowed up in the turbulent mass of smoke that appeared like bubbling tar. Below, he could see only a blanket of smoke and fire covering the earth, and he was filled with dread – for today and for the future. Nothing living on the surface could survive, and he asked himself the question he had asked himself so many times before: after you have seen the horror, how do you go on?
You shut down your mind. You cut out your heart.
And how could he, an empty man, a hollow man, how could he marry Ruth?
Vic was jerked back into the present when Carol returned with his best man Charlie in tow, who had stayed in London overnight.
‘Are you ready to go to the church, Vic? Ruth says I’m not to let you out of my sight, mate. No escape now.’
‘You’re a lucky man, Vic. She still wants to marry you. You owe her big time for this,’ said Carol.
‘I’ll make it up to her, I promise.’
While Ruth would be driven to the church by Trevor in a borrowed Humber Hawk, Vic and Charlie set off to walk the half mile to St Stephen’s with plenty of time to spare for the midday start, expecting that the streets would be chocker with celebrating partygoers. Vic could not face being late again. He had survived the war and cheated death, now he had the chance to embrace a rosy future with Ruth by his side. She was his rock. A haven from the storms of war.
En route to the church, Vic felt energised by the revellers celebrating the coming peace. The lively crowd heaved and rolled and laughed and jumped in the air as one body. They waited patiently in line for cups of water and stared cheerfully skywards as half a dozen spitfires flew in a V for Victory formation. A young woman wearing a purple dress threw her arms around Vic’s neck.
‘Hello, handsome, come have some fun with me,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s happy today.’
‘Sorry, love, I’ve a wedding to get to.’
The groom and his best man wove their way through the throng, until Vic realised that he had lost his bearings. He had thought he knew the way, but now he didn’t recognise the street names, and he didn’t have a map to guide him.
‘Shit! I think I’m lost,’ he said.
‘Well, I sure as hell don’t know where we are, mate. Where’s our bloody navigator when we need him,’ said Charlie.
Vic paused beside a red pillbox and breathed deeply to calm himself. It was okay. He would find the way. There was still time. No need to panic. Just stay calm, Vic, stay calm. He scanned his surroundings for pointers. The tobacconists on the corner looked familiar. He was sure that the church was somewhere in that direction.
‘Okay. Let’s go. It’s up here, I reckon,’ he said.
As they fought their way through the thickening crowd, Vic tripped over a stray foot and tumbled onto his backside. Charlie laughed and offered him his hand.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure,’ he said as he pulled himself upright and brushed the dirt off the seat of his trousers. ‘I hope I haven’t messed up my uniform.’
Charlie appraised the damage.
‘No problem. Barely a mark. But we should ask someone the way. Time’s ticking on.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Vic to a young soldier standing beside him. ‘Do you know the way to St Stephen’s Church? It’s round here somewhere.’
‘Sorry, mate. I don’t live in these parts.’
‘What do you want?’ said a young woman wearing a WAAF uniform and waving a Union Jack.
‘St Stephen’s Church. Do you know it?’
‘What do you want that for? We don’t need to pray for victory no more. We’ve already won.’
‘A wedding.’
‘A good day for it. Family or friend?’
‘Mine.’
She leant forward and kissed him forcefully on the lips.
‘Well, congratulations, darling,’ she said. ‘Go to the end of the street. Turn right. And you’ll see it at the bottom of the road.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good luck. And if she doesn’t turn up, come back. This is some party.’
When they reached the church at ten minutes to twelve, Ruth had not yet arrived, as befits the bride, while Ethel, Carol and half a dozen other family members were milling about on the church steps. Ethel was dressed in her very best dark-blue dress, with a colourful hat that made Vic think that a peacock had landed on her head, a thought that made him smile and lowered his anxiety. Vic was afraid of Ethel; she had a fierce tongue and a mean eye. He had not yet seen the loving side of her nature that Ruth claimed was hidden under the brash surface. She had spotted him now and his goose was cooked.
