Hungry ghosts, p.20
Hungry Ghosts, page 20
During his stay in the monastery, he learned the concept of “hungry ghosts”: mythic creatures who are pictured in the Buddhist tradition with extended bellies, long, thin necks and distorted, angry faces. They are always ravenously hungry, but because their necks are so thin that even a needle can barely pass down their throats, no matter how much they eat, it is never enough, and they cannot be satisfied. Hungry ghosts chase after what they think they need, but they can never find peace, even when they acquire what they thought they wanted. They’re always hungry and never happy. What they already have is never enough.
‘Listen, Vic,’ said one of the monks who spoke English. ‘Hungry ghosts long to be loved, and we must love and care for them even though they may find it difficult to receive our love. Because they find life to be painful and unsatisfying, they want only to forget life, and so they turn to alcohol, drugs or power to help them forget. What they need is something to believe in, something that proves to them that life is meaningful. To help a hungry ghost, we must listen to them and help them experience something good and beautiful to believe in.’ As Vic listened to the old monk, he said to himself, oh, I too am a hungry ghost, chasing, chasing, chasing after what I thought I wanted: the buzz of success. Chasing, chasing after something, anything, to fill the void – booze most of all – without knowing what it was I really needed. The monks taught him that peace starts in the mind. Peace in the heart and peace in the world are ultimately the same thing, they said.
When the fog of exhaustion and confusion finally lifted from Vic’s mind, and his body had recovered from all that drinking, he felt better than he had for many, many years. He began to look at his problems and think, okay, this will pass; in the great scheme of things, it’s not that important. He felt as if he were sitting on a riverbank watching his thoughts go floating by, for the monks had taught him that thoughts are just thoughts, and feelings are just feelings; they’re not all that we are. They’re just clouds in a windy sky.
He believed that those few months living in the monastery changed his life. He had no wish to become a monk, and no intention of stepping away from his ordinary world; he did, however, leave that place a calmer, wiser person and vowed to do better in the future than he had done in the past. He never took another drink.
Chapter 25
Towards the end of May 1967, Ruth received an unscheduled call from Vic; he was in the country, and could he come and see her?
‘Yeah, I guess so. It’s been a while,’ she said, unable to conceal the surprise in her voice.
What was it that he wanted? Why, after all this time, would he turn up out of the blue?
He arrived on her doorstep the next day and they sat silently in the kitchen. Behind them, the sound of the old grandfather clock marked the passing time.
‘So, what are you doing here?’ she said.
She watched his gaze go down and his mouth droop.
‘Can I make a pot of tea?’ he said.
‘I suppose so.’
He walked over to the sink, filled the kettle and lifted down the red teapot from the shelf before spooning in three scoops of black tea.
‘How’s James?’ he asked when he returned to the table.
She looked at him and sighed. ‘Really, Vic? What’s going on?’
‘I’ve been such a fool. I’ve been thinking over my life, and I know I treated you badly. I’m so sorry. You deserved much better. And I wanted to apologise and see if… maybe… at least if we could be friends.’
‘Oh, Vic, if that wasn’t so sick it would be funny. You’ve been running around the world, chasing after… what? I loved you so much, it makes me angry.’
He stood up, walked to the sideboard and poured the water into the teapot, which he carried to the table, along with two china cups.
‘I needed to say that, before… look… there’s something I must tell you. I’m back for medical treatment. It is not up to much in Vietnam, so I needed to come back to England. I had some preliminary tests in India and that was enough for me to come home.’
‘What kind of tests?’ she asked.
‘I’d been having a lot of headaches,’ he said as he poured them each a cup of tea. ‘I ignored them at first and then I put them down to tension. My job can be pretty damn stressful. But really, I just tried to ignore the whole thing and hoped they’d just go away.’
‘But they didn’t?’ she said.
‘No, they didn’t.’
‘And where are we going with this?’
He paused for a moment to watch a red London bus pass by the window.
‘You’re scaring me, Vic,’ she said.
‘In fact, they got worse. Then, one day, I had some kind of seizure, like an epileptic fit. Well, that’s what people said who saw it. I can’t remember a damn thing,’ he said.
He leant forward and took her hand in his, something he’d not done for years, and yet it felt so familiar and comforting to her that she curled her fingers around his and squeezed tenderly.
‘I’m sorry, Ruth. I don’t mean to scare you, but I can’t just brush it under the carpet. There’s James to consider and, you know, despite all the years, we are still married. We never did get around to a divorce, did we?’
‘No, we didn’t,’ she whispered.
‘You would have had every reason, Ruth, I was never able to settle.’
‘What are you trying to say, Vic?’
He squeezed her hand and pressed on.
‘I flew to a hospital in India, and it turned out I had some kind of mass in the brain, so then I came home to England, and it turns out I have a tumour, and they tell me it is inoperable because of where it is, somewhere near the stem, and it’s large, four and half centimetres. Not much they can do, apparently. It seems my luck has finally run out. They can perhaps slow it down with radiation treatment and drugs, but, well, I don’t see the point. So now I just want to make sure you and James are alright when I am gone. It’s the least I can do.’
She froze, as if a bucket of ice water had been tipped over her head, or as if she had been shot in the leg, or as if, well, as if she had just been told that her husband was going to die. She felt her defences crumble and her anger subside. Damn it, she still loved him despite his failings.
‘Oh, Vic, I am so sorry,’ she said as she leant forward and wrapped her arms around him. She felt tears fill her eyes as she hugged him with all her might and all her love.
‘How long, my darling, how long?’ she whispered.
‘A year perhaps, maybe less, maybe a bit more. We’re talking palliative care now, no cure.’
‘Oh, God, I’m… I don’t know what I am… but I want you to know that I’ll be with you. You won’t be alone. Where are you staying? You must come and live here with me.’
‘You are so very kind and generous, Ruth, as always, but I couldn’t possibly. I really don’t deserve it. I just wanted you to know what’s happening, so that we could talk about James and plan for his future. I have money saved, and I want you to have it now, because it will be yours soon anyway.’
‘Money? Now is not the time to talk about money, Vic. Now is the time to fight this thing. You’re a fighter, Vic Woods, and fight it you will, or else, I will give you such a bleedin’ ear bashing.’
He laughed and, for a moment, she believed that everything would turn out right.
‘Get your bags,’ she said. ‘You are moving in here. No arguments.’
‘And James? Is he here?’
‘No, no, he’s in Cambridge.’
‘He won’t like it.’
‘You leave him to me.’
A week later, at Ruth’s insistence, Vic moved into the guest house. Their relationship did not simply fall back into the exact same place it had inhabited twenty years previously. Too much water had flowed under the bridge for Ruth to welcome him into her bed. The feeling between them, though, was warm and loving.
For the next month, she worked in the guest house while he read newspapers and cut out the reviews of his autobiography, World on Fire.
‘Let’s go to the seaside and have a picnic,’ she said one Sunday morning over breakfast.
‘Yeah. Great idea,’ exclaimed Vic.
Ruth made a picnic and Vic put it in the boot of the Morris Minor that she had borrowed from Trevor for the day.
On the drive to Margate, they belted out the old songs from their wartime days and bathed in the golden glow of nostalgia.
When they arrived at Margate Pier, the car park was full to the brim. They finally got lucky, though, when a brand-new Ford Cortina backed out of a space just as Vic approached. They breathed a sigh of relief before unfolding themselves, one rusted body part at a time, out of the car and into the warm sunshine.
‘Let’s get ice creams?’ said Ruth, who signalled towards the café across the road from the beach where wooden tables and chairs sheltered under a red-and-green-striped awning.
They stood at the edge of the beach licking their cones.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘For this day with you at the seaside. It feels like a proper British day out. It may be my last, and there is no one I would rather spend it with than you.’
She smiled at him and took his hand. ‘You’re welcome.’
In that moment, standing at his side, hand in hand, she believed with all her heart that human beings were not just monkeys with guns. They could cultivate their better nature, and that better nature was love. A love that joined her to him for all time.
Ruth and Vic’s sunset reunion was short-lived. He experienced blinding headaches with increasing frequency, and there were days when he simply couldn’t get out of bed. She fed him and nursed him and cared for him as best she could, but as his health deteriorated, it became clear that he needed more attention than she could give. A month after the trip to Margate, he was languishing in the Royal Free Hospital.
‘Mr Woods is on the third floor,’ said Nurse Katrina. ‘The lift is over there in the corner if you need it,’ she said, pointing across the foyer to the far corner.
Ruth felt weary and dispirited as she made her way across the concourse one tired footstep after another. She had had a busy week and now it was sweltering, a rarity in England.
She found Vic resting in a room that was mercifully cool. He was propped up against two large hospital pillows with his eyes closed. She lowered herself into an uncomfortable grey plastic chair and dug her fingers deep into the edge of the mattress. Vic opened his eyes and smiled weakly as she took his hand.
‘Hey, good to see you. Thanks for coming,’ he whispered.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she said.
‘I’m good. They say I’ll be moved soon. There is nothing more to be done. No more tests, thank God, and no more treatment.’
‘Nothing? Are you sure?’ she said.
‘Nothing I want to endure. Nothing worth the suffering. I just want to make the best of what time is left by spending it with my family.’
‘But surely…’
‘No, Ruth, please, we must accept it. I don’t want to fill my final days with any more suffering. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you, but that’s my decision. Have you any news of James? I really want to see him. There are things I need to say, before it’s too late. Can you try and get him to come?’
‘I’ve tried, really, I have, but I can’t get through to him. He won’t come.’
Vic nodded and stroked her bony hand.
‘You’re doing your best, I know. And to be fair, I wasn’t much of a father to him. Really, what else should I expect? I want to say sorry to him if I can. But maybe it’s not that easy,’ he said.
She leant forward and stroked his hair. ‘It’s not just you,’ she said. ‘He needs to step up too.’
‘Me first, though,’ he said. ‘Now I’m done in, my family comes first.’
‘Shhhh,’ she said. ‘Not now. Just concentrate on being as well as you can for as long as you can. That’s your job now. Leave James to me.’
His eyes misted as he smiled at her.
‘I’m so sorry, Ruth. I let you down.’
‘You’re back now,’ she said.
‘Too late perhaps.’
‘Never too late,’ she said, touching his arm lightly with her fingertips. ‘Never too late for love. Let’s not waste what time we have with regrets and recriminations.’
‘You are a wonderful woman, Ruth, wonderful and wise.’
She laughed.
‘And you’re a silly old fool. But still, flattery will get you everywhere, which I guess makes me a fool too.’
Part 3
The Times They Are A-Changing
Colour photograph, London. May 1967. “The Great Refusal”. A rock band plays on a makeshift stage in the middle of a grassy meadow in summer. The drum kit announces the name of the band: The Insurrection. The female singer is wearing multicoloured “flower power” bell-bottom trousers dominated by pink and yellow swirls over an azure background and a plain navy T-shirt, with deep pink double rings dancing from her ears, like a modern-day pre-Raphaelite. The rest of the band, the men, all sport shoulder-length hair.
~ Vic Woods – World on Fire
Dear James,
As your mother has told you, I am ill. I have a brain tumour, and they tell me it’s inoperable due to its location near the stem. I am advised that I do not have much longer to live.
You would have had every reason not to care about my condition. I had a wonderful wife and son, but I didn’t appreciate them. I am so very sorry. There were reasons, or what I thought were reasons, but they will only sound like feeble excuses.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for not being the father you wanted, or needed, me to be, and to ask for your forgiveness. It would mean a lot to me if I could say sorry and goodbye to you in person. I understand from Ruth that you are not comfortable with this idea, but please reflect on the possibility. It would mean a great deal to a dying man if you would visit me. It may not seem like it to you, but I love you, and I have always loved you.
Warm wishes,
Vic
Chapter 26
James folded the letter in half and ripped it into shreds. The pieces fell to the floor like confetti with its good wishes maliciously inverted. He had no intention of meeting his father, even if the old bastard was dying. They hadn’t seen each other for years, and he wasn’t about to change that now. Not even in the face of his mother’s impassioned pleading. He was off to San Francisco tomorrow, and his father probably wasn’t that sick anyway. Vic, after all, was an expert at spinning tall tales.
His mother had phoned the night before he was due to leave Cambridge.
‘Come on, darling. Forgive and forget,’ she said.
‘I’m trying to forget,’ he said.
‘It’s all a long time ago now, and if I can, you can.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘He is family,’ she said. ‘He’s your father.’
James still remembered the day that Vic had fled through the front door of their London home, gripping a battered grey suitcase in one hand while flipping his lucky silver coin with the other. In the background, their old transistor radio was playing a Perry Como ballad as his mother stared out of the front room window, gin and tonic in hand, her back to Vic with an expression of studied nonchalance on her face. James stood stunned and silent, a five-year-old boy feeling homeless at home.
‘Anyway, isn’t he the man that said I was just a bloody accident anyway? And now he wants to see me again. What a friggin’ cheek!’
‘Your father’s not well,’ said Ruth. ‘He wants to see you and make up before it’s too late.’
James was astonished that his mother was pleading Vic’s case after all that he had put them through. He didn’t want to embrace his father; he wanted to punch him.
‘He just took bloody pictures, you know,’ said James. ‘That’s a thousand and one ways to tell lies if you ask me. Always the bystander and never the doer. He stands on the sidelines while others take the fall. Oh, he says the right things, of course, but when it comes to action, he goes AWOL. I’ve never let on that the famous war photographer Vic Woods is my father. Well, he’s not as far as I’m concerned. Don’t forget, he left us high and dry. Watch out, Mum, Vic is out for Vic, you can bet your damn life on it.’
‘James, please, open your eyes. He needs our help.’
‘Mum, the man left us in the lurch and buggered off around the world. And don’t you remember all those drunken nights? And days for that matter.’
‘He’s sober now. And he’s still my husband and your father.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve taken him back.’
‘I can’t abandon him. He’s a very sick man.’
‘Oh, Jesus, you have!’
‘He’s in hospital right now. But I’m trying to support him. Life’s too short for resentments, darling.’
‘Sorry, I can’t deal with this at the moment, Mum. I’m off to a conference in the States tomorrow.’
‘When you come back then.’
‘Okay. Gotta go now. Talk soon.’
