Hungry ghosts, p.16
Hungry Ghosts, page 16
She felt herself to be at the centre of a swirling array of pulsing colours, as if she were immersed in the northern lights dancing across the face of the universe. Fatigued though she was, her body possessed a fluidity and freedom that she had never experienced before. She felt that she had dissolved into her environment and no longer existed, except as a part of a wider field of interconnected objects and movements that extended into the limitless beyond. She flowed beyond her body, beyond the city lights and beyond the glittering stars in the night sky. She couldn’t help but smile at everyone, and when they smiled back, she felt as if they truly knew who she was, and to be known and not judged was ecstatic. She wasn’t hungry to explain it, all she wanted to do was to be right here, right now, with her son.
The midwife had informed Ruth that Vic was waiting anxiously in the corridor for news of her and the baby. He had not been allowed in the room to watch the birth: this was women’s business. He was only there to bring flowers and lend moral support.
‘Would you like your husband to come in now?’ asked the midwife.
‘Yes, please.’
Vic slipped into the room, offered Ruth the flowers and sat down in a rickety wooden chair beside the bed.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, look, Vic! Look at our son. Isn’t he beautiful? Just the most perfect baby in the world.’
Vic reached across the bed and touched his son very softly, very tentatively, on the hand as if he were made of the most delicate, expensive cut glass.
‘He’s amazing,’ he said.
‘I want to call him James. Can I call him James?’
They had discussed a variety of names for boys and girls before the birth and left the matter undecided. Vic had not been convinced by the name James; he thought it rather formal and overly royal. Ruth, though, had always wanted to call a son James, after her brother, lost at sea, and she knew that at this moment, with her newborn in her arms, Vic could not refuse her.
‘Welcome to the world, James. It’s tough out there, our kid, but you look like a resilient boy; you’ll need to be,’ he said.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. The nurses told me that you were outside. It was a real help, honestly, just to know that you were there. I could feel your presence,’ she said.
‘It’s wonderful to create new life instead of ending it,’ he said.
‘A new life for us too,’ she said. ‘I feel like I am embracing the future in my arms.’
‘Can I hold him?’
Ruth lifted James towards Vic, who bent down, took his son in his arms and smiled. As he stood gently rocking James in his arms, Ruth saw a tear run down his cheek.
‘He’s beautiful, so soft and delicate,’ he whispered. ‘Our son.’
‘After all we’ve been through, we’ve made it.’
‘I can’t believe it. It’s a bloody miracle.’
A week later, Ruth returned from hospital weary, but elated, with baby James wrapped in the family shawl in which she had once been enfolded by Ethel. James was a restless baby, and she was woken two or three times a night, night after night, to feed him and change his nappy. During the day, he demanded constant attention and was assuaged only by breast feeding, even when Ruth thought that he couldn’t possibly be hungry. But even with her nipples sore and her milk supply limited, she persisted. Nothing was going to stop her nourishing and loving her son. To have and to hold from this day forward. It was as if she was married to him.
When James was settled, at least for an hour, Ruth washed nappies in the kitchen sink, and with no garden washing line available, she hung them to dry on the tiny balcony overlooking the street, or on a rack in front of the living-room fire. And then there was shopping, cooking and cleaning – the list of jobs went on and on without end.
Vic didn’t wash nappies; he didn’t go shopping; he didn’t do housework; he didn’t prepare breakfast, lunch or dinner; and he couldn’t feed James. Ruth was sad and disappointed. Initially, he cooed and rocked James in his arms, but after three months, the initial glow of fatherhood dissipated, and Vic started to behave as if his son had nothing to do with him. He devoted himself to work, leaving the flat early in the morning and returning, at least in winter, after dark.
To begin with, Ruth ignored Vic’s lack of attention to her or James; he was a man and he had lost his mother early in life; no one had taught him about domestic life; no one had expected him to cook or clean or care for babies (but why hadn’t the independent-minded Amelia knocked him into shape?). And of course, men didn’t think it was their duty to care for children or perform domestic tasks: men went to work and earned money to feed and clothe the family. Ruth understood well enough the weight of that tradition, but wasn’t it meant to be different now?
If there was one thing war had taught her, it was that the “way things are” can change. Nothing was immutable or indestructible. Everything that was solid could melt into air. She may have left the WAAF to have a baby, but she had not abandoned her belief that women could do anything and should be given the chance. She had sworn to herself that she was never going to be a domestic slave; she would have a career and independence. Now it seemed that she had, after all, become her mother’s daughter. Ethel was happy, but Amelia would surely be turning in her grave.
She had never been so pleased to see her mother at the door. Ethel was wonderful with James and more than happy to let Ruth rest, or complete a domestic task, while she looked after the baby. She cooked and cleaned and washed nappies, and in between domestic chores, she played with James and cooed over him as if he were her own. It seemed to Ruth that Ethel had been born again with new hope, for new life. From time to time, she even went to the shops for Ruth, though what she brought home often bore scant relation to the list Ruth had given her.
‘It ain’t my fault,’ said Ethel. ‘I can only get what’s in the shops. There’s still rationing you know. The fighting may be over, but some things ain’t changed.’
‘No problem, Mum. You’re a wonder and I’m so glad you’re close at hand. I don’t think I could have managed without you.’
‘That’s what mums are for. I’m so happy to be a grandmother, Ruth. Jimmy here brings joy to my life, and it’s been a while since I could say that.’
Vic’s hours with Paul Dalton had been relatively predictable, even though the job involved a considerable amount of weekend work at weddings and christenings. But once he joined The Times, his working day became increasingly long and irregular. Ruth noticed with increasing frequency the smell of alcohol on his breath when he walked through the front door and leant forward to kiss her on the cheek.
‘Vic, darling, I’m worried about your drinking,’ she said one day. ‘I know you have your reasons, but it’s scary, and we really can’t afford it you know.’
‘I’m fine. What’s wrong with a drink now and again?’ he responded.
‘It ain’t now and again Vic; it’s every day.’
‘It’s the job, love, it’s the way it works. You have to go for a pint with the other journos or you get left out, and that leaves your career dead in the water. I need those guys to get on in my job. We need them. We don’t want to be poor all our lives, do we? I mean, you spend money like water. How much did that vacuum cleaner cost, for heaven’s sake?’
‘We needed it, love,’ said Ruth. ‘And it’s second hand from old Mr Preston’s. It weren’t one of those fancy new Hoovers, so it weren’t that much really.’
‘What’s wrong with a broom? We’re not made of money,’ said Vic.
‘You try looking after a baby, doing all the shopping and cooking and then sweeping and dusting everywhere. I need a bit of help, and it’s not coming from you.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I pay all the bills. I’ve bust a gut at work this week,’ he said. ‘But if I wasn’t busy, there’d be no food on the table, and we wouldn’t be buying a new vacuum either.’
A month later, Ruth asked Vic to come with her for Sunday dinner at her parents’ house.
‘Must we?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We must. They’ve been good to us. Dad’s always finding us stuff and Mum’s been a real help with James. I don’t know what I would have done without her. And don’t try and tell me that you’re working. I told you about this weeks ago.’
‘Okay. Okay. I’m coming.’
They alighted from the tube at Bethnal Green Station, which had only reopened in December 1946, following the largest single death count during a bombing raid. A long delay in reporting the incident – in which 173 people died in March 1943, officially described as a panic-induced crush on the steps down to the platform of the unofficial air raid shelter – had led to rumours of a government cover-up.
‘It gives me the creeps knowing so many people died here,’ said Ruth.
‘Ghosts are everywhere,’ said Vic.
They made their way from the station to the bustling Brick Lane Market, which was open even on a Sunday because of the historically large Jewish population in the area. The array of market stalls sold everything from second-hand clothes to the produce of market gardens. As they strolled through the stalls as best they could – it was tough pushing a pram through the crowd – Ruth was struck by the visible blend of old and new: the new shoots emerging from the soil of the old, both continuous with the past and a rupture with it. She watched a man in his late forties wearing drab, nondescript grey trousers, a brown jumper and a tweed flat cap, selling cabbages, carrots and other fruit and vegetables. At the neighbouring stall, a young woman, aged about eighteen or nineteen, was working her way through a rack of vintage clothes from the 1920s: the antiquated made modern by the vicissitudes of fashion and the creativity of penniless, hopeful youth.
Ruth gripped Vic’s hand as they strolled side by side down the corridor between the stalls, and she felt as if they were a normal, happy couple once again. She stopped to rummage her way through a pile of old clothes and picked up a colourful, flower-patterned summer dress.
‘What do you think of this?’ she said.
‘Lovely,’ he said, obligingly.
‘Would I look good in it?’
‘You’d look great in anything.’
‘Oh, Vic, that’s well intentioned but pathetic. I mean, don’t soft soap me, just tell me how it is. Would I look good in this dress?’
‘You would.’
‘See if there is anything you like.’
‘For me or for you?’
‘Either. Or for James if you see any baby clothes.’
He rummaged through the old clothes and accessories until he came upon a set of red wooden beads strung into a long necklace.
‘You’d look great in these,’ he said.
She observed his discovery.
‘I think you’re right, well done.’ She took the beads from him and placed them around her neck. ‘I like them. They’ll go fine with the dress. Thanks. This is fun, isn’t it?’
The February winter chill still prevailed, and they were freezing by the time they approached Trevor and Ethel’s house. Made in England! Inside, though, it was warm and cosy. Trevor had a roaring fire going in the grate and an equally hospitable embrace ready for his daughter and her husband.
Ethel had lavished her time and attention on cooking Sunday dinner, meaning roast chicken with potatoes, carrots, Brussel sprouts and green peas accompanied by rivers of gravy.
‘You always do us proud,’ said Ruth as she eased herself into an upright wooden dining chair with the support of Vic’s outstretched hand.
‘I’ve got a touch of backache,’ she said, by way of explanation, ‘but no worries, it’s only temporary, I’ll be right as rain soon.’
‘Carrying a baby around will do that,’ said Ethel.
When everyone was seated at the table, and James was asleep in his pram, at least for the moment, Trevor carved the roast and Ethel passed around the chicken-laden plates.
‘Wow, doesn’t this smell great,’ said Ruth. ‘Thank you so much, Mum.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Ethel. ‘We want you all to have a wonderful time. You need a rest from Jimmy and all that housework, Ruth. And the more we get to see you both the better.’
Vic gulped down his beer and then topped up his glass from the bottle that lay strategically close to his right hand.
‘So, what do you think of the new government so far, Trevor? Are they delivering what you expected?’ said Vic.
‘Early days, son. Early days. It takes time. But you know, we’ve made a start. And soon we’ll have a National Health Service and a national railway service. Won’t that be a sight for sore eyes, and a wonderful legacy for the future, something for James and his generation to look forward to.’
‘Do we have to do politics today?’ said Ethel.
‘It’s important, Ethel,’ said Vic. ‘It will shape our future and James’s future.’
‘Vic’s suddenly got all interested in politics since he started working on the newspaper,’ said Ruth.
‘There’s a time and a place,’ said Ethel. ‘It’s Sunday dinner.’
When dinner was finished, and baby James was demanding to be fed, Trevor invited Vic to accompany him to The White Hart for a beer.
‘We’ve got half an hour or so before it shuts. And the girls can have a private chat, which no doubt they want.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Vic, enthusiastically.
Ruth sat at the kitchen table feeding James while Ethel cleared away the plates and started to wash the dishes.
‘You’d think maybe they could have helped out a bit before they went to the pub,’ said Ruth.
‘It don’t even cross their minds, love,’ said Ethel.
‘It should,’ said Ruth.
‘It’s the way of things,’ said Ethel. ‘Always has been. Always will be. I love your dad, but sometimes he can be a right pain. There’s the world of women and the world of men, and sometimes they come together, but not for long. Anyways, how’s things with Vic? He don’t seem quite himself these days.’
Ruth sighed. ‘I don’t know, Mum. He’s working so hard, I don’t see much of him in the week. Or the weekend, for that matter. I know we need the money, but still. I mean we need a life too.’
‘I know, love. I never saw much of Trev neither when we was young. Always at work or down the pub. That’s young men for you. It’ll settle down.’
‘And to be honest, I think he’s drinking too much. And when he drinks, it’s like he’s a different person. He gets all sad, and then he gets angry.’
‘Hmm… have you talked to him about it?’
‘I’ve tried.’
‘But no joy?’
‘He won’t listen.’
‘It’s tough for women with young babies. I know. He doesn’t hit you or nothing?’
‘Oh no. Vic wouldn’t do that. I don’t know, maybe I’m being too touchy. But I’m just exhausted, Mum. I don’t know how much more I can take.’
Vic was swaying gently like bamboo in the breeze when he and Trevor returned from the pub.
‘Jeez, that boy can really put it away,’ whispered Trevor, when Vic had gone to the bathroom. ‘I ain’t seen nothing like it. And that’s saying something.’
Ruth glanced at her father and shrugged her shoulders. She knew that a public discussion would not be helpful.
When Vic and Ruth walked back to the tube station, he remained unsteady on his feet, and when he spoke, he slurred his words. As they turned the corner into Great Eastern Street, Vic wasn’t looking where he was going and walked into a young man coming the other way.
‘Watch out, mate,’ said the man.
‘Watch out yourself,’ said Vic.
‘What you talking about? You walked into me, you friggin’ idiot.’
Vic squared up to the young man. ‘Who are you calling an idiot?’
‘Vic, stop it!’ exclaimed Ruth.
‘Bloody hell! You’re drunk as a skunk,’ said the man. He turned his attention to Ruth. ‘You should get this lunatic home before I deck him. And good luck to you, love. You’ll need it.’
As the young man pushed past Vic, he gave him a nudge, and Vic fell backwards onto the pavement.
Ruth stretched out her hand to help him up. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home.’
‘Bloody bastard, did you see what he did?’ said Vic when he was upright again.
They walked slowly and in silence while Ruth waited for Vic to calm down. As they approached the tube station, she opened the can of worms.
‘Vic, sweetheart, do you think maybe you’ve had a bit too much to drink today?’
‘Not really. Just like normal.’
‘Darling, some nights you don’t seem like yourself.’
‘What do you mean I’m not myself, of course I’m myself! What do you expect me to do? I work hard for this family and I’ve a right to have a drink or two.’
‘I think maybe you could take a break for a while.’
‘I’m not a flippin’ alcoholic, Ruth, if that’s what you mean,’ he retorted.
Chapter 21
Vic worked hard at The Times and his photographs achieved increasing prominence and acclaim, though with that success came longer hours, more demanding assignments and almost daily drinking sessions with his journalist friends. To begin with, he telephoned Ruth to tell her that he would be late home, until his absences became such a commonplace occurrence that, covered by the catch-all claim of “the job”, he didn’t bother to call anymore. Mostly, after work, he stayed in the pub and rolled home unsteady on his feet before falling into bed beside a sleeping Ruth.
