Hungry ghosts, p.12
Hungry Ghosts, page 12
Ruth yanked her hand away from his grip.
‘What’s got into you, Vic! Have you lost your marbles?’
He felt the heat scald his face, and he smelt the acrid smoke that was filling the hall and obscuring the exit. He gazed across the room at the wedding cake which sat proudly on a table in front of the stage. The model bride and groom standing tall at the centre of the cake were melting, their faces dissolving, the icing flowing over the table and onto the floor, forming pools of the Dresden dead. They needed to get away. Right now. If nobody else could see the danger, he must at least save himself and Ruth. He grabbed her arm and began to pull hard.
‘It’s getting too strong,’ he said. ‘We must get out. You can’t appease a firestorm.’
‘Stop it, Vic. You’re hurting me,’ she said.
Charlie, who was standing nearby chatting to Jack, placed his hand on Vic’s chest.
‘You to need calm down, Vic,’ he said. ‘Have you had too much to drink?’
Vic had not had too much to drink, he knew that. What puzzled him hugely was why no one else could see the flames that he could see, plain as day, right in front of his eyes.
‘Let’s get you some fresh air, mate,’ said Jack.
Charlie and Jack grabbed Vic by the arms and frogmarched him across the hall towards the exit. He struggled at first, but then he surrendered to the inevitable and allowed them to escort him outside. As soon as they stepped between the jambs into the night, he felt the cool evening air sting his red-hot cheeks. When he looked around, he could see for miles and miles, as if he were suspended in space. The whole city was a bonfire: the sky was glowing pink and orange like a menacing sunset, and flames were pouring through the roof of St Paul’s. He watched the Thames burn as if a match had been tossed into a petrol river by a careless smoker. The Houses of Parliament were cinder and ashes, and tigers and lions were fleeing along the road away from London Zoo.
The next moment, he was flying, and a voice was shouting: ‘We’ve been hit! We’ve been hit! Bail now.’ He felt a hand push on his spine and out of the door he went, over the precipice and into the void. He was falling, falling… down, down, into the flames.
He saw the earth below him as if it were a living atlas, or a child’s glowing globe.
World on fire.
He landed gently on the ground and watched a wall of fire move relentlessly towards him. Trees burned like flaming totem poles, and now and again a colossal oak tree exploded and crashed to the earth, sending sparks flying towards a blackened sun, its light obscured by smoke and ash. The bodies of dead birds piled up as a stream of rats and mice made their desperate escape and the sky rained glowing embers.
He watched firefighters in yellow uniforms and black face masks directing their hoses at a burning home. He ran towards them.
‘What can I do?’ he said.
No one responded. They could not see him. He gazed at a bedroom window where the terrified face of the young girl he somehow knew was pressed against the glass. Her lips parted and she cried out. In her left hand she held a red poppy. He heard the crackle of flames and the drumming of raised voices. He felt the heat of the fire as it enveloped the room. She tried to open the bedroom window, but it was stuck fast. She banged on the glass and screamed for help, then she picked up a toy train and threw it at the window. The pane cracked but did not shatter.
‘Help me, help me, Grandad,’ she screamed.
He stood helpless as the house exploded.
She was gone. They were all gone.
He stood on the church hall steps and cried.
Part 2
Things Fall Apart
Black-and-white photograph. London, 1947. Ruth is cradling baby James in her arms. Her smile is warm and wide, her dark eyes alive with love. Trevor and Ethel are standing upright behind her, shining with pride. Lying on the table in front of them, the Daily Mirror declares, “Cradle to Grave: Labour gets on with the job.” On the wall behind Ruth’s head hangs a photograph of Charlie, leaning against a Lancaster, and another of Vic and Ruth standing in front of St Stephen’s Church on their wedding day.
~ Vic Woods – World on Fire
Chapter 15
The East London Psychiatric Hospital was housed in an old Victorian red-brick building, set within expansive manicured gardens. What had once been a workhouse for the poor, was now a home for people who, it was said, had lost their minds. Ruth wondered how a man could lose his mind. You couldn’t just put it down on the kitchen table and walk away.
She was nervous as she walked hesitantly down the gravel driveway towards the hospital, which had a terrible reputation in the area. She had heard tales of patients who, once inside the infirmary, were sucked into quicksand and never reappeared, and of escapees who murdered local children in their beds.
She reported to the reception and asked to see Vic’s treating doctor. The hospital’s pale green walls spoke of institutional blandness, with not a single picture or a vase of flowers on view. And it smelt strange – a hint of urine and disinfectant mingled with the aroma of boiled cabbage that reminded her of primary school.
Ruth followed the receptionist’s directions and walked down the corridor to the office of Doctor Ernest Wright. She knocked on the sturdy oak panel and waited for the call.
‘Come in.’
She stepped tentatively into a claustrophobic pale-green office whose small, square window permitted only a modicum of sunlight into the room, leaving Dr Wright – a short, dumpy man of about forty years, wearing dark brown trousers, a white shirt and a pale-blue tie – hunched over his desk reading a report with the aid of a brass lamp.
‘Excuse me. I’m Ruth Wolfe. Sorry, Ruth Woods. I haven’t got used to that. I am Vic Woods’ wife.’
Dr Wright stroked his tidy, greying beard, adjusted his oval-shaped spectacles and pointed to the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
‘Please, have a seat, Mrs Woods.’
Ruth sat facing Dr Wright, unable to contain her anxious question. ‘What’s the matter with him, Doctor? What can we do?’
Doctor Wright explained that Vic was probably suffering from combat stress. He had flown more missions than most, and it had taken its toll. His mind just couldn’t take it anymore. ‘We’ve had accounts of psychological symptoms following military action dating back to ancient times. They gained traction after the American Civil War and accelerated after the First World War. Things like recurrent, distressing dreams and flashbacks, emotional numbing and an increased prevalence of alcohol abuse. I haven’t come across a case quite like Vic’s before with its vivid hallucinations of an imagined future. But I suspect it’s in the same territory. He’s as much a casualty of war as any of the dead and wounded.’
‘What about them visions?’ she said.
‘The mind can do some strange things when it’s under pressure,’ said the doctor.
‘Was it the wedding?’
‘No, no. It was the war. Perhaps the wedding was the trigger, I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. The main thing now is that Vic needs rest and care and time.’
‘What can I do to help, Doctor?’
‘Listen to him, show him you care. He needs to calm his whole mind, his whole being in fact, and find some stability. Knowing that you are there is the best medicine for him. Just talk to him calmly and gently and reassure him that you’re still with him. Tell him that you love him.’
‘Is that all we can do? Ain’t there no cure?’ asked Ruth.
‘We know so little about this, to be honest. It’s only recently that we’ve come to understand the consequences of combat stress, and frankly, most of my colleagues still don’t get it. In that sense, Vic is lucky; we don’t blame him on this ward, we don’t think he’s a shirker or anything like that. We believe that sometimes the mind can’t cope anymore. Bomber crew like Vic, and soldiers too, they’ve been on constant alert day after day, year after year, and that kind of vigilance is tough on the mind. Then there’s the horror. The death and destruction. When you have seen such unimaginable things, what can you do? We think the mind shuts down to avoid the pain.’
‘People have been talking, Doctor. I’ve heard them say Vic’s mad as a hatter. And other people say that he’s faking it, though God knows why he’d do that. Will he get over it?’ said Ruth, anxiously.
‘He’s not faking it, Mrs Woods. It’s all very real to him. We hope he will recover, but in truth, I don’t know for certain. We’ll sedate him for a while to make sure he gets some rest; after that, we’ll just have to wait and see. Talking may help. Being loved and cared for will certainly help. But I have to say that Vic’s hallucinations are unusual. Only time will tell if he can recover. I’m sorry to be so vague. I would love to reassure you. But I can’t.’
‘Can I see him now?’
‘He’s been lightly sedated, so he may seem a little odd.’
‘I must see him, Doctor. I just must.’
‘Very well. But please don’t expect too much. And don’t let him get agitated. The best thing you can do is hold his hand.’
A nurse escorted Ruth down a long corridor to the communal day lounge where patients who didn’t need to be restrained sat and waited for the day to pass, minute by dull minute, hour after long hour. Vic was resting in an old wicker chair by the French windows wearing a tartan dressing gown over blue stripy pyjamas. The early morning spring sun shone through the glass and danced across Vic’s closed eyelids like a ray of hope. Despite his pale, grey pallor, he appeared almost content. Ruth was desperate to find any grounds for optimism.
For all that Dr Wright had said, Ruth still did not understand precisely what had happened to Vic. He wasn’t the man she had married; the man she’d married was brave and intelligent and warm and hopeful. Had she missed something obvious? He had survived the fighting, and yet he was screaming that the whole world was on fire. Ruth’s future appeared very different now from the one she had imagined only yesterday. She would care for him; she would love him; but she would also return to work. There was no virtue in crying and moping anymore.
She lowered herself onto a wooden stool next to Vic and reached across to touch his clammy hand.
‘Vic, darling, it’s me, Ruth.’
He stirred and his eyes flickered open. ‘Ruth, my love. How wonderful.’
‘Ah, you’re awake. I wasn’t sure.’
‘Just resting my eyes.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh, I’m a little woozy and tired. But I’ll be right as rain soon.’
‘Did you get some sleep?’
He nodded. ‘How are things at home?’
‘Everyone sends their love. Do you remember…?’
‘I remember our wedding and then dinner at Ethel’s. After that it’s all a bit hazy. There was a fire, a big fire, right across London. The doctors say it wasn’t real, but it felt real to me. Can I come home now?’
‘Soon, my love. You just need to rest here a little longer.’
‘Rest, yes. I’m so tired. I’m tired all the time. I can’t think straight.’
‘You’ll be on the mend soon, my darling.’
‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘So very, very sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, my love. We just need to get you well again.’
Vic shut his eyes and soon began to snore gently. Ruth sat with him and held his hand for half an hour, and though he stirred from time to time, he never fully awoke. Everyone said that the war was over, but it wasn’t. Not for Vic. And not for her.
The next day, Ruth cancelled their honeymoon in Brighton and caught the train to Medmenham to talk to Dorothy. If she passed her exams, she could remain in the WAAF as an officer and get an education. She had no wish to return to civilian life as a clerk, or a shop girl, or, when Vic recovered, have a family. One day she might like to be a mother, but not yet. She was not ready. But if she persisted with the WAAF, and then joined the RAF when it became possible, as she had been told it would be, then they would support her further education.
‘We might get the air force to fund your studies at college and then maybe even university,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’ve heard that will happen. If you’ve been in the services, it will be easier to get into university and there will be sponsorship.’
‘I’d love that,’ said Ruth. ‘Could that really happen to someone like me?’
‘Let’s at least have some ambition, reach for the skies, eh. There’s no going back for us women. I’ll do what I can to help you. A word or two in the right ear always helps. You deserve it.’
‘Will there even be a Women’s Auxiliary Air Force? I’ve heard men say they’ll send us back home where we belong.’
‘I’m sure that’s what many of them would like. But Churchill himself said in parliament that the WAAF will be needed for some time yet, and better still, we got a new man at the top last March, Air Marshal John Slessor, and the whisper is that he favours women being integrated into the RAF.’
‘That would be something.’
‘And really, Ruth, how else will you get the chance of an education? You left school at fourteen, you don’t have much in the way of qualifications and to be honest, you… how can I say this, hmm… not many women get a decent education, hardly any go to university and those that do are not from your… hmm… social background.’
Could she really hope to go to university?
What had seemed to be an impossible dream, a figment of her wild imagination, a hallucination, now appeared to her as a rainbow on the horizon.
After a night in Danesfield, she returned to the hospital to be with Vic and wait for his release.
‘He’ll be alright,’ said Doctor Wright, a week later. ‘Keeping him in here will only make it worse. He needs to be at home with people who love him. And I’ll do the paperwork so that he can be released from the RAF a bit faster.’
‘I’ll do the very best I can,’ said Ruth.
Vic was granted indefinite sick leave, and while he waited for his military release, he moved into their Hackney apartment. Ruth procured an extra week’s compassionate leave but would have to return to Medmenham soon. Carol said she would pop round regularly to check on him.
‘I’m worried,’ said Ruth.
‘Trust me, I’ll look after Vic,’ said Carol. ‘I’m your sister.’
Ruth proposed a different solution.
‘Darling, why don’t you come down to Buckinghamshire with me? We can find a little flat in Wycombe or Marlow or somewhere like that and then we can be together.’
‘What’ll I do there? I don’t know anyone.’
‘What’ll you do here? I can look after you better down there.’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ he said. ‘Anyway, why can’t you just get out of the WAAF, and we can live in London?’
‘Vic, darling, I don’t want to jump ship right now.’
‘I’ve been thinking. We could go to Australia. Charlie says it’s a great life and there would be work for someone like me. He reckons I might be able to train as a pilot. They need them for crop spraying and even the flying doctors. I think it would be great, a big adventure and a new life. I need a fresh start, a chance to get back on my feet.’
‘Australia? Why would I want to go to Australia? My family’s in London. My job’s in England. I know you ain’t got no family here except Amelia, but I have, and I’d never see my sister or my mum and dad again. And for what? I’ve the chance of a career here. I can make something of myself. What would I do in Australia? Do you want me to be a little housewife, Vic?’
‘What’s wrong with being a housewife?’
‘No. No. No. It ain’t never going to happen. I’ve a different vision of my life now and I won’t be put back in a box, Vic.’
‘Will you at least think about it? Find out about Australia.’
‘What’s there to think about?’
‘Please.’
‘Okay. I’ll think about it. But don’t get your hopes up. That’s not how I see my life going, Vic. I love you and I care for you, but you ain’t in a fit state to go to Australia right now, and I don’t want to. Wouldn’t it be better if you just came down south with me? You could rest and get back on your feet before you decide what to do with your future. Our future.’
Chapter 16
A week after Vic walked out of the hospital, Jonny phoned the Hackney flat.
‘Amelia’s going downhill fast. She’s not got long now, and she wants to see you. You need to come soon,’ he said.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Ruth.
‘No need, I’ll be fine. I don’t need looking after.’
‘I want to. Amelia is an amazing woman, and I want say goodbye.’
Vic was quiet on the train journey to Cambridge. Calamity… catastrophe… disaster. There were no words adequate to his feeling of immanent loss. First his mother and now Amelia. And in between, a world on fire. He was glad to have Ruth sitting beside him holding his hand but felt unable to talk. She seemed to understand his need for silence and did not press him to speak; she simply squeezed his fingers from time to time or stretched out her hand to stroke his hair.
Jonny needed to stay by Amelia’s side and so Vic and Ruth caught the bus from Cambridge station to her cottage in the countryside. The day was overcast, and though it was the beginning of July, a bitter wind swept across the flat, rural landscape. As they stepped off the bus, he could see the white walls of his former home shrouded in memories of Amelia, recollections both joyous and sad. He inhaled deeply and knocked on the door.
Jonny opened the door, looking pale and tired.
