Hungry ghosts, p.9
Hungry Ghosts, page 9
He had expressed his doubts to his beloved Amelia, the wisest person in the world.
‘It’s doing my head in, Aunty,’ he said.
She told him that he was suffering from normal, everyday misgivings. ‘Do you love Ruth?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And does she love you?’
‘She does, yes. I’m sure she does.’
‘Well, then. What’s the problem, la? There are no guarantees in this life; we’re not in control. Surely the war has taught you that. Get what happiness you can, while you can. That’s my advice, Vic.’
There was a steadfast quality in Ruth that reminded Vic of Amelia and bolstered his faith that all would be well. The similarity didn’t lie in their looks, but in their attitudes. They were women with minds of their own.
His aunt had said that she was too tired to attend the wedding.
‘I’m so sorry, Vic. It’s nothing really, but I don’t think I’m up to the journey. Please come and see me when you can. And bring your lovely new bride. I thought she was great. I’ll be bright as a button soon. I just need to rest for a few days. Bad timing, I’m afraid.’
Vic was crushed by disappointment. Amelia was his only family, and there was no one he wanted to be at his wedding more than her.
‘Don’t be fooled, Vic. You know Amelia, she’ll suffer in silence and not burden others with her troubles. But it’s bad. Very bad. She’s in a lot of pain, and we just can’t get proper treatment for her,’ said Jonny when they were seated in the front of his van on the way to the station.
‘What is it? What’s she not telling me?’
‘Cancer.’
‘Jeez! What can we do?’
‘I don’t know. We can’t get any sense out of our local doctor. She needs specialist treatment, but how can we pay for that? Can you help?’
‘Oh, Jonny, I wish I could, but I don’t have any money either.’
‘RAF doctors?’
‘Hmm… perhaps… I do know a good one. I’ll ask him if he can have a look.’
‘Thanks, Vic. I’m desperate for any help I can get.’
He fell silent for the rest of the drive to the station as he ruminated on Amelia’s sickness. She had been like a mother to him, and he couldn’t stand the idea of her suffering terrible pain, let alone dying. Life could be so cruel; it didn’t seem fair that a bright star like his aunt could be cut down in her prime. A river of images flowed through his mind: Amelia painting in her front garden; Amelia reading science books with him on the kitchen table; Amelia posing for a photograph, her smile as bright as the North Star. The “C” word was terrifying; he would rather have been flying over Dresden.
‘We’re here. Better get a move on, Vic,’ said Jonny.
‘Thanks. Let me know how it’s going with Milly.’
‘I will. But don’t let Amelia’s illness drag you down. You know that’s the last thing she would want.’
Though he was wearing a workaday uniform, Vic still brushed a layer of dust off the seat before he took his place in the railway carriage. His RAF dress uniform had been cleaned and pressed for the wedding and he had packed it carefully in his overnight bag, along with his toiletries and a set of civvies. He wanted to look his very best. He wanted Ruth to know that she had made the right choice.
The train sped through the grassy flatlands of eastern England en route to London, the wheels clanking, the steam blowing back over the carriage windows. Vic gazed at the transient landscape, which shone like an emerald in the stark beauty of early May. The sun was bright and yet a wintry chill still prevailed in the empty carriage. He could see the mist of his breath float before him as he watched a long, thin, white-walled farmhouse flash across his vision. Here was a thatched cottage and a yard full of chickens, and there was a dull, red tractor ploughing the fields. England’s green and pleasant land. An ancient hallucination spun from the visions of a dead poet. A myth that had sustained him and all those like him who had witnessed blackening fires sweep across Europe and still dreamed of green shoots.
Could they really build Jerusalem here amongst the ashes of war?
Trevor believed that they would.
He was a committed socialist and Labour Party member.
‘My dad was on first name terms with Kier Hardie, you know. That’s proper historic that is, ain’t many can say that. It’s time ordinary men and women like us had their say in running the country, our country,’ declared Trevor.
‘Do we get extra rations if Labour wins?’ said Ethel, rolling her eyes.
‘We will win,’ said Trev. ‘And then we’ll make some changes around here. We’re gonna get a Labour government, and we’re gonna make a socialist England. Better schools. Better hospitals. A helping hand when you’re down, cradle to the grave.’
Vic had no wish to be embroiled in family politics. For him, England, or at least East Anglia, had become a giant aircraft carrier littered with runways and rubble. He was familiar with the Nissen huts and landing strips of his base. He was intimate with the night sky over Germany and the tracer bullets that sped towards him like a stream of malicious fireflies. His homeland, though, felt like another country, alien to his memories, like a long-lost relative with whom he hoped to be reunited, only to find that they had grown apart during the missing years. And yet this ashen graveyard – this England – this was the place where he hoped that justice would sprout like crocuses in spring.
Vic’s peace and quiet was disturbed when two young soldiers and their girlfriends invaded his carriage at Royston Station. The two men, a private and a corporal, sat in the seats opposite Vic, while the women crammed in beside him. The girls were dressed up in their Sunday best: smart, square-shouldered pleated dresses, one pale blue and the other a bright yellow, with matching jackets and large brown leather handbags.
‘’Scuse us,’ said the corporal, ‘but these are the only seats left.’
Vic nodded without speaking. The lively, outgoing nineteen-year-old who had joined the RAF had now retreated from the world into his walled self.
‘You off to London?’ said the young woman beside him.
‘Yes,’ he said, politely, without enthusiasm, hoping to quell further conversation.
‘Us too. It’s going to be some party, eh. I’m Val, by the way. And this is Joy.’
‘Vic,’ he said.
‘Nice to meet you, Vic. You can tag along with us if you’re on your own.’
‘We’re off to Piccadilly Circus for a party,’ said Joy.
‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’ve other plans today,’ said Vic.
‘I don’t make plans no more,’ said the corporal. ‘It ain’t worth it. Just in case it hits the fan.’
Vic was growing hungry now, and although he had planned to hang onto his sandwich until later in the journey, he opened his lunch box and grabbed his cheese and ham butty. The cheddar, such as it was, consisted of crumbs left over from a block Jonny had given him a week ago, and the slice of ham was a mere two square inches. To Vic, though, this was luxury. Anything beyond basic food was in short supply right across the country: bread, meat, cheese, butter, tea, cakes and biscuits were all rationed.
He bit into the sandwich and chewed slowly, savouring every morsel. The temptation was to wolf it down, he was that hungry, but he wanted the bread – real bread made by Amelia, not the hotch-potch National Loaf – to dissolve and linger on his tongue, and he wanted to relish the tangy taste of real cheese. With the war in Europe over, he looked forward to the delights of bread and cheese and butter and ham free from the fear that had dogged his every moment.
‘You must be glad it’s all over,’ bellowed Val, over the rattle and hum of the rolling stock.
‘I’m glad enough the fighting’s over,’ he said, ‘but I’ll miss my crew. Such great blokes.’
‘Will you catch up with them today?’ asked Teddy.
‘I will, yeah. They’re coming to my wedding.’
‘You’re getting married?’ said Joy.
‘Yes. Today.’
‘Congratulations!’ said Val. ‘Double celebrations. You picked the right day for it without a doubt.’
Vic’s hunger had not been assuaged by his sandwich, and when the train stopped at Harlow Town, he jumped off the train to grab a bite from the station café. It wouldn’t take long. Now where was the café? Though he knew he ought to return to the train, his itching hunger persuaded him to keep hunting. He would surely have time to ask the porter who was standing near the ticket office. He trotted down the platform and arrived slightly breathless at the railwayman’s side.
‘Excuse me, is there somewhere I can get a bit to eat?’ said Vic.
‘No. Sorry, sir. This station doesn’t have a cafeteria. Your best bet would be Liverpool Street, or on a train.’
‘This train?’
‘Yes, sir. Though it’s leaving now.’
Vic glanced over his shoulder as the train rumbled down the track and out of the station.
Oh hell.
‘Stop the train!’
Vic belted down the platform waving his arms in vain; the train had left. Shit! Now what was he going to do?
‘When’s the next train to London?’ he asked the porter on his return.
‘Two hours, sir.’
Oh no! Catastrophe! He would be late, and Ruth would kill him. She would worry that he didn’t want to marry her, and Ethel would say that he had done it on purpose. Typical man, she would say, and give him a tongue lashing. He couldn’t call Ruth to warn her that he might be late. The Wolfes didn’t have a telephone. And bloody hell! He’d left his bag on the train with his dress uniform neatly folded inside. He sat down on a bench and shut his eyes to calm his nerves.
The vision began in a velvety darkness, sprinkled with stars, like the moment before sleep takes hold. Then red and orange spots danced before his eyes as they arose and died, arose and died, pulsing like coded messages from a distant galaxy. With each pulse, the spots expanded, until they joined up to fill the space behind his eyes with a scarlet glow, as if he had been facing the sun on a bright summer’s day in the countryside. But there was no birdsong, no gentle breeze, nor the sound of a soothing brook. Instead, he heard the crackle and rustle of a burning bush, followed by the acrid stench of smoke scratching his nostrils. He sniffed and sniffed again. His throat burned, and he coughed.
He heard shouting penetrate the fire’s roar, and he felt the heat of the flames scold his cheeks. The image of a child alone in a burning house appeared before him. He couldn’t see the child’s face pressed against a windowpane. He saw only a shadowy outline as she banged on the glass. Vic knew that the child was crying out; he could see her lips move and he felt the vibrations of her voice in his chest, though he heard no sound. The girl picked up a perfume bottle and threw it at the window. The pane cracked but did not shatter. Vic sensed panic rise within him as the house went up in smoke.
He saw only fire, and he heard only the crackle of flames. He felt his breath crushed from his lungs as if he were Harry Houdini trapped in a padlocked box at the bottom of the Hudson River.
Since his teens, since the Mill Road Hospital bombing, Vic had disturbed himself with images of fire and smoke and clouds of dust. The more missions he flew, the more frequent the visions became, until he believed that he anticipated the world to come. He saw things that he didn’t want to see, and he woke up in a cold sweat. Tomorrow looked bright alright. Bright like an exploding sun. Bright like a shower of incendiaries. Bright like Dresden in the darkness of a February night. The future would arrive red hot.
When he opened his eyes, he stared at a goods train rattling through the station. He hadn’t been asleep; it wasn’t a dream. He must get home to Ruth and leave the terror behind.
Having recovered his equilibrium, Vic hopped on a bus from the station to the edge of town, where he set up beside the main road to London and stuck out his thumb. Today of all days, someone would surely stop for a serviceman in uniform.
Just his luck! There was very little traffic heading south to London. Perhaps the population of Harlow were partying at home. Was it fate? Was it a message from beyond that he was not equipped to be married? Well then, if he was destined to marry Ruth, he would be granted a lift, if not, then fate had spoken. Since Dresden, he could not shake off the feeling that the future had already been settled.
Vic had been so caught up in the firestorm of his mind that he hadn’t noticed a black Ford GPW “standard flying 14” staff car pull onto the grass verge fifty yards down the road. A man leant out of the driver’s window.
‘Hey, come on, buddy. If you want a lift, jump in,’ he called.
Vic trotted down the edge of the road towards the car. Destiny then.
‘So, where you off to?’ asked the driver, a US air force captain.
‘London.’
‘Yeah. Me too. You’re in luck. I’m Ray by the way.’
‘Vic.’
‘Welcome to the party, Vic. Are you a pilot?’
‘A bomb aimer.’
‘Oh, man, that’s something else. I admire your guts, buddy. Really, I do. You RAF guys are just the best. How many missions?’
‘Forty, all up.’
‘Hats off to you. Nerves of steel and the luck of the Irish. I was a desk job guy myself, what people call a penguin. I envied you flyers the action, but I was glad I wasn’t being shot at.’
Vic had lost the will to engage wholeheartedly in conversation. Back in the day, he had believed the world to be a puzzling, but knowable, place. It was exciting to ask questions and unveil mysteries. These days, he had only questions for which he knew there were no answers.
‘So, where’re you headed, buddy?’ asked Ray.
‘Bethnal Green.’
‘Bethnal Green? I don’t know it. I heard Trafalgar Square was the place to go. Do you want to head there with me?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve a wedding to go to.’
‘A friend?’
‘Mine, actually.’
‘Oh wow, why didn’t you say? That’s brilliant. But, hmm… how come you’re hitching a ride to your own wedding?’
‘I missed my train.’
‘Oh, really? That was careless. Big night, huh? Well, how about we give you a ride right into Bethnal Green. Wherever that is. You may need to point me in the right direction.’
They drove on towards the city, and though Ray endeavoured to keep the conversation going, an uneasy silence descended upon them.
‘Let’s have some music,’ he said as he turned on the radio. ‘Get us all in the party mood.’
As they cruised into London, accompanied by the vocal harmonies of The Andrews Sisters, Vic prayed that he would make it in time for the wedding.
Chapter 12
Ruth lay under the covers readying her mind for the big day ahead, her head resting on a pillow beneath the bedroom window. She could hear the neighbours chatting excitedly below as they attached red, white and blue bunting to the front of their homes and erected picnic tables in preparation for the afternoon party. She could hardly believe that after years of darkness, the people of London were emerging into the light of a new dawn.
She switched on the radio.
Ruth listened expectantly to the weather forecast that followed Vera Lynn’s familiar morale-boosting song “The White Cliffs of Dover”. The day threatened rain but promised sunny intervals. Amazing! Nobody in the country had heard a public weather forecast for six years. She was only twenty-two years old, and yet she had witnessed so much, and done so much. She had experienced air raids in London, stepped over dead bodies in the street and studied photographs of cities flattened by bombers.
Now the future whispered in their ears once more. Calling them. Tempting them. Believe again. Love again. Ruth found the very act of forecasting to be a comfort. Imagining a tomorrow gave her confidence that life could go on, would go on. There was no harm in hoping for sunshine now that the tempest had passed. They all craved a tomorrow that would be different from yesterday. A tomorrow to which they could be wedded with joy. And what was a marriage, if not an act of faith in a brighter outlook?
She listened to the chatter emanating from the street as busy neighbours prepared for a community party. She heard tables being unfolded and the scraping of chairs as they were dragged across the road. She eavesdropped on friends greeting friends and the occasional cuss when a finger was trapped, or a plate smashed on the rough pavement. It had been too late to change plans when they realised that their wedding day would coincide with the end of the war in Europe. But why not have a double celebration? It would truly be a day to remember.
Ruth dreamed of living a normal life again. But not her mother’s normal, not poverty and struggle and sorrow, not simply paddling like mad just to keep your head above water in an old man’s world. No. Ruth wanted a new normal, a life where she could have a home, a husband and an education. And why not a job too? Life would be different for women of her class now. Doors that had slammed in her face would be opened wide at last. She had witnessed the achievements of women during the war and was determined to act with optimism, even when it was hard, even when life screamed blue murder in your face, even when, each 11 November on her birthday, she pinned a red poppy to her coat in melancholy remembrance.
After years of working at Danesfield House, Ruth had no intention of being pushed down into a black box of domesticity. Vic was champing at the bit to be demobbed, but she reckoned that remaining in the armed forces was the best way forward. The WAAF had promised her an education and a job, while out there in civvy street, she heard talk of women being returned to the home where they “belonged”.
