Hungry ghosts, p.13
Hungry Ghosts, page 13
‘How’s she doing?’ asked Vic after they stepped into the kitchen.
‘Not so good. It won’t be long now. At least she’s not in too much pain. She’s full of morphine. But that means she drifts in and out of awareness. She may be slow to respond or drop off to sleep at any time.’
‘Wouldn’t she be better off in hospital?’ said Ruth.
‘She insisted on staying at home. And as you know, when Amelia decides on something, that’s the end of the discussion. Luckily, the RAF doctor you put us onto, Vic, has been brilliant and enabled her to stay at home. He calls by every day. We can’t thank him, or you, enough, Vic.’
‘Ah yes, Flight Lieutenant Cowper. Henry to his mates. Of which I count myself lucky to be one. A good ’un. I’m so pleased he’s helping you both. Can we see Amelia now?’
Vic and Ruth sat either side of the old-fashioned four-poster bed in which Amelia lay sleeping. Her skin was pale and grey, her breathing shallow and irregular. She appeared frail and gaunt, so changed from the last time he had seen her that she might have been a ghost. He felt his anxiety rising like a submarine surfacing from the depths. How could this be happening? How much more could he take? He tried to breathe deeply and slowly to calm his nerves, just as Dr Wright had taught him. He felt like the imaginary boy with his finger in the dyke of sorrow.
After half an hour, Amelia stirred a little and opened her eyes.
‘Vic,’ she whispered. ‘And Ruth, how wonderful.’
Vic reached out and squeezed her hand softly. ‘Aunty, we’re here.’
Ruth leant forward and kissed Amelia on the forehead. ‘Your life’s an inspiration to me, Amelia,’ she said.
‘Thank you, darlings. Thank you both. I’m so happy to see you.’
Ten minutes later, Amelia was sleeping again.
Vic and Ruth left her bedside and went for a walk along a nearby lane. He stopped, turned towards Ruth and wrapped his arms around her midriff.
‘Thank you for being here. You’re my rock and my love.’
‘I wouldn’t of missed coming for anything. I’m here for you. And for Amelia. And for myself. She is the most extraordinary woman, and I am so glad that you introduced her to me.’
They remained in Amelia’s cottage for the weekend, until Ruth had to return to duty at Medmenham. Vic stayed with Amelia, anticipating her last breath, and when she died the following weekend, he was by her side, which gave him comfort. Three days later, he was seated on an oak-stained pine bench at the local crematorium (Amelia had expressly refused a church service). When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a shop full of brand-new hats bobbing up and down in the pews behind him.
Vic had been to so many funerals that he had no expectation of wonder and wisdom about death and God and the meaning of life. There was nothing awe-inspiring about a red-brick crematorium with plain glass windows and pine seating, and he didn’t feel wonder; he felt as if he was not really there, as if he was watching the scene through an invisible soap bubble that held him captive at an incalculable distance from the solidity of objects; even the beautiful lilies that adorned the podium were not enough to make him accept that Amelia was really dead.
After the Bach violin concerto in A minor drifted away into the morning, Jonny meandered to the front of the crematorium. He spoke soft words in praise of Amelia’s life and of his irredeemable loss. When he had finished, Vic watched the plain wooden coffin poke its nose out from a hole in the wall like a timid mouse, before it crawled along a conveyor belt as slowly as a factory clock on a Friday afternoon. He knew that Amelia was lying in that box, and he knew that there was a white-hot fire waiting for her behind the curtain that would scorch her body to a cinder. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There was a big full stop at the end of that sentence. He knew this, and yet he couldn’t make sense of it. He kept imagining that the coffin lid would spring wide open and that she would jump out and shout: ‘Surprise! Surprise! It was all a big joke.’ And then he heard Jonny sobbing, and he knew that it was all for real and that there could be no God whose cruelty was so vast.
A month later, Vic’s demob came through, and he and Ruth rented a little flat in Marlow. After Amelia’s death, he had lost the will to make plans and took the path of least resistance. Perhaps they would go down under in a few years’ time when Ruth had achieved her dream, and then they could have a family in Australia. In the meantime, he would just have to muddle through. He found a part-time job as a gardener with the local council and found that he enjoyed working outside in the fresh air on his own.
When he was working, and his mind was busy, he was undisturbed by the past and lived a quiet village life. But as soon as he downed tools, the visions returned and filled his consciousness with fire and smoke. Not all the time, not every day, not even every week, but enough to keep him permanently on edge. One Friday afternoon, he was walking home from work along the footpath by the river when Amelia appeared before him as clear as a spring day. She was sitting on a stool fifty yards away, painting the weeping willows that hung over the water. For a moment, in an act of convenient forgetting, he believed her to be alive and his spirit lifted.
‘Milly,’ he called, and ran towards her.
Just as he opened his arms to embrace her, she burst into flames. He could see her skin peel away from her body, and her mouth opened to form a silent scream. She was in the most unbearable pain, and there was nothing he could do to help. He wished her suffering to end, and as he did so, she disappeared. He slumped to the ground in shock and relief. It took him an hour to recover his composure and walk slowly home.
Ruth, meanwhile, continued to work at RAF Medmenham where she was mentored by Dorothy with a view to officer training. Once they were available, Ruth hoped to attend educational courses offered by the government’s promised Educational and Technical Scheme.
‘I’d love to go to university one day, if I ever could,’ she said to Vic. ‘And them courses will help me prepare for that. In the meantime, I’m on track to be an officer; no mean feat for a poor girl from Bethnal Green.’
‘That’s great for you,’ said Vic. ‘But what about me? I’ll be stuck at home being a little housewife.’
‘Darling, you’ve got your gardening job, and it ain’t forever. Just until you get back on your feet.’
‘I’m not a bloody invalid, Ruth.’
‘No, my love, but you took a funny turn, and you need to rest and settle down a bit. That’s all.’
‘It doesn’t feel right to me, you being the breadwinner and me just pottering about being a part-time council gardener and a housebound husband. I’m tempted to say houseboy, cos that’s what it feels like. I’m not a man anymore.’
‘Vic, darling, you’re a man to me. You ain’t got nothing to prove. After what you did in the war, no one can question your manhood. You did your duty and more. “With outstanding courage and devotion,” ain’t that what the RAF said? And it’s true.’
‘They said that because I was being invalidated out. If I’d gone mad during the war, they would have said I lacked moral fibre and court-marshalled me.’
‘You just need a little peace and quiet, then you’ll find your way again, I know it.’
‘And what about kids? I thought a newly married woman would want to stay at home and have children.’
‘One day, love. We’ve plenty of time. But first I want to get the education I’ve always wanted.’
‘Won’t you be too old if you wait?’ he said.
‘Don’t be daft, I’m young. And I’ll still be young in a couple of years.’
‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘Now the war’s over, you don’t have to work.’
‘Vic, I want to work. And I want to study. If you can, why can’t I?’
‘But… it doesn’t feel right. It feels like I won’t be a proper husband.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft, course you will. Things are changing, Vic. Women have done their bit for the war, and there ain’t no putting us back in a box.’
He shrugged his shoulders. He was done with fighting.
‘Okay, if you’re happy to wait for children, love, that’s what we’ll do.’
While he was recovering from his collapse, Vic faced a gaping hole of empty time in Marlow. He struggled to stay engaged with anything: nothing seemed important anymore once the war was over and his purpose snatched away. It was a surprise to him that he was even alive, and now he wondered what he should do with his life. It was a long, vacant road to nowhere that stretched out in front of him.
His part-time gardening job filled his mornings but left his afternoons barren and purposeless. He found housework unappealing, and he had never been much of a reader, other than science. He needed a challenge and a goal to prevent his mind wandering to the dark place where he didn’t want to live anymore.
Some afternoons, after Ruth had left for work and he had returned from his gardening job, he climbed onto his bed, curled into a foetal position and stayed there for the rest of the day until Ruth returned. Other days he would sit in the kitchen flicking the lucky coin he’d inherited from his father up with his right hand before catching it with his left and then flipping it back over to his right again. He spun the coin over and, with each revolution, the magic of compulsion quelled his anxieties for a moment. The coin lay silver-grey in his palm, the surface worn smooth from being tossed from hand to hand, for years and years, by his father and himself, through two world wars. He lived when mates had died. Was it luck? Was it destiny? Who knew? Not him. Better to live or to die? He didn’t know. Perhaps his lucky coin had saved him; it was as good an explanation as any. And now, imagining that all the good luck in the world was wrapped up in this coin, he kept it close, and while his mind knew these thoughts to be crazy, his body felt them to be true.
His psyche cleaved in two: one side of his mind was ecstatic that the war was over; the other wished he was still with his mates flying over Germany. He believed they had fought for freedom; well, he was free now, he could choose any path, and yet no path meant anything. Freedom was empty, without purpose.
Chapter 17
Ruth encouraged him to develop his interest in photography while recovering from his “turn” and asked Bill, her colleague at Medmenham who had taken their wedding pictures, if he would help Vic polish his skills.
Bill, who never seemed short of enthusiasm and energy, had been delighted to share his passion with a new friend and they spent hour upon hour together, when they weren’t working, taking pictures and experimenting with shutter speeds and degrees of exposure. Bill was surprised by how much Vic had already learned from Angus and told Vic that he had a God-given talent for framing a picture and judging the light.
‘You’re a natural, mate,’ said Bill. ‘It’s a pity you’ve left the RAF. We could have made use of your talent.’
‘I’ve a love affair with photography,’ said Vic.
‘Me too. Do you have a favourite photographer?’
‘Not really. I don’t know enough. Do you?’
‘All things French. Henri Cartier-Bresson. The humanism of his street photography especially. Did you know he was at Cambridge for a while?’
‘No, I know nothing about him.’
Bill smiled. ‘I’ll show you some of his work.’
Vic hoped to document life in post-war Britain. The good and the bad. The destruction and the love. To that end, he listened, and he learned, and he practised.
Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, a modicum of enthusiasm for life returned to Vic. He settled into village life and even found pleasure in his small job maintaining public parks and gardens. Tending plants, watching them grow and contributing to new life was better than being the bearer of death and destruction. And he wasn’t obliged to talk to people, which was just fine with him because he had nothing to say. He was unable to speak about the past, or the future, only the present experience of shrubs and grass and flowers. Nobody wanted to hear about what he had been through. They only wanted to remember the victory. The dead could not remember the suffering, and the living wanted to forget. He was an in-betweener: neither dead, nor able to forget.
After a while, villagers greeted him when he walked down the high street or visited the grocer’s shop and the post office. He steeled himself to return the salutations and even chat, briefly, to people he liked, though he never stopped for long. He had no wish to be interrogated about who he was and why he was there.
One sunny Monday morning, a woman in her early forties hailed him in the street. For a split second, he saw Amelia standing before him and his heart soared.
‘Good morning, Mr Woods, could I have a word?’ said Mrs Carruthers, the vicar’s wife and a leading light of the local Women’s Institute.
‘Vic, please. What can I do for you?’ he said as he struggled to contain his disappointment that banal reality had returned with all its monochrome hues.
‘Well now, as you may know, every year before the war, we had a summer fete in August. Now the war is over, we’re going to start it up again. We’ve been planning it all for quite a while. And it looks as if we might be celebrating the end of the war with Japan too. Finally, the end of the war. We want our fete to celebrate that. Now that ghastly Mr Attlee is in power, we need to keep the old traditions going more than ever. People around here want life to go on as before, like it’s always done. Family values and the old traditions.’
Vic winced inside. Her voice reminded him of all those Oxford-educated officers who’d sent him to kill so many, so often, for such little reward. He was in enemy territory again.
‘We could do with any help we can get, and since you’re an RAF chap, we wondered if you might be willing to dress up in the uniform and open our fete for us.’
‘That’s very kind of you to ask, Mrs Carruthers, but I am not in the RAF anymore and I really can’t make speeches.’
‘No need to make a speech, just a couple of sentences will suffice. We really want a serviceman, someone who fought in the war, to cut the ribbon. And it would be great if that someone lived locally. Will you please consider it?’
Vic recoiled from a public show, though something in him didn’t want to disappoint Mrs Carruthers, as if she really were Amelia returned from the underworld. Besides, he knew that he needed to fit in in the village now that this tiny part of rural England was his home.
‘Okay. I’ll consider it and give you an answer in a day or two.’
‘Thank you so much. And one more thing. Could you ask your wife to spread the word at Danesfield House? We’d love some RAF people to come down. I’d ask her myself, but I see her so seldom. She must be a very busy woman.’
‘She is, yes. I’ll certainly mention it to her.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr Woods.’
Ruth agreed to tell everyone at Danesfield about the fete and pin up a poster or two when they were available.
‘Would any of the top brass come down and cut the ribbon?’ asked Vic.
‘You oughta cut the ribbon, darling. They asked you.’
‘I don’t know if I’m up to it. And even if I cut the ribbon, I’m not making any speeches.’
‘I’ll ask. But it would be better coming from Mrs Carruthers. The brass will see that as community liaison with the WI and the village. Then someone will do it. Is that the phone ringing?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Vic.
He shuffled into the hall and picked up the telephone receiver from its resting place on a small table just inside the front door.
‘Hello, Vic speaking.’
‘Hey, Vic. How you going, mate? It’s Charlie.’
‘Charlie! How wonderful. Great to hear from you. What can I do you for?’
‘Well, my old mucker, thing is, I’m back off to Oz, got myself a nice little flying gig out there, wanted to say hi and bye before I left.’
Vic was dumbstruck: just as he had begun to recover his sanity, he felt a rush of anxiety sweep through his body. Charlie had been a rock to him. He had visited him in hospital and kept his spirits up. He had even made the long trip to Marlow once. But then there was the law of entropy – things fall apart: family, career, friendships, everything. They all exploded in his face eventually.
Charlie was confident, assured and ever optimistic, qualities that Vic felt he lacked. He’d been like a big brother to Vic, and he would be terribly, terribly sad to see him leave. He tried to stay calm in the face of another calamity. His mother. Amelia. And now Charlie. At least his mate was still alive. And he had Ruth. Thank God for Ruth.
‘Oh, congratulations. With the Australian Air Force?’
‘No chance, mate. I’ve had enough of the forces. It’s with the Flying Doctors. I’ll be based in Broken Hill and flying all over the outback. It’s tremendously exciting, Vic. I’ll be saving people instead of killing them, and I can’t ask for better than that. And the country out there is just magnificent.’
‘Well done, mate. I’m really pleased for you. When do you go?’
‘That’s the thing. I’m heading home in a week. I was wondering if you could make it up to London before I go. I’m organising a bit of a reunion with the boys, and I want you to come.’
‘Where? When?’
‘London, Saturday.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it. Give me an address.’
The roller coaster of Vic’s emotions lifted him up again, and as the early morning train to London heaved slowly out of Marlow Station, and the steam blew back across the windowpane, he was excited to see his old comrades again. He was sad to think that this might be the last time he saw Charlie, but in a moment of elation, he imagined that he could still persuade Ruth to one day emigrate to Australia.
