Farewell to the East End (3 page)

Authors: Jennifer Worth

BOOK: Farewell to the East End

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It was only a ten minute ride to the Jessops, and on the way I thought about this curious business of Churching. I had never heard of it before my stay at Nonnatus House. My grandmother, mother and aunts had never gone in for it, as far as I was aware, but many of the Poplar ladies would not go out after a child was born until they had been properly ‘Churched’ by the vicar. Perhaps it was a service of thanksgiving for a new baby, or more likely thanks for having survived the ordeal of childbirth, dating back to a time when giving birth was frequently attended by death. It occurred to me, though, that the origins of Churching could be even more ancient, stemming from the times when women were considered to be unclean after childbirth and needed to be ritually cleansed. As with many other pagan rituals the Church had merely adopted the practice and incorporated it into the liturgy.

There certainly was a party going on at the Jessop household – screams of female laughter could be heard all the way down the street (men were excluded from these occasions), and it took me some time to make myself heard. When the door finally opened I was all but dragged in and a glass was forced into my hand. I had to extricate myself and make my enquiry. Cynthia was not there. She had visited at 6.30 but, in spite of being pressed to stay, she had left at 6.45.

The Sisters were leaving the chapel after Compline as I arrived back at Nonnatus House. Normally this is the time of the Greater Silence, which is the monastic observance of quiet until after the Eucharist the following morning. But there would be no Silence that evening. Sister Julienne immediately rang the police, but no accident had been reported, and a nurse had not requested help for any other reason. She then instructed each of us, including three nuns, to go out on our bikes searching the streets. She marked out which areas, relating to the addresses of Cynthia’s evening visits we were to search, on a plan and instructed us to enquire at each house what time Cynthia had arrived and left. Sister Evangelina, who was well over sixty, and had had a long working day, got her bike out and doggedly pedalled against the wind, searching for the missing girl. Fred, who couldn’t ride a bike, went out on foot to search the streets nearest to Nonnatus House. Only Sister Julienne remained behind, along with Sister Monica Joan, because the House could not be left empty. We were a midwifery practice, and someone had to be on call at all times.

Subdued and anxious, we left Nonnatus House, each going in different directions, with instructions to ring Sister Julienne if we had any positive news. I do not know what was going through the minds of the others as we went around; I only know that I was fearful for Cynthia. The streets were narrow and unlit, filled with half-destroyed, boarded-up houses and areas marked for demolition. Bomb sites, in which the meths drinkers slept, were round every other corner. The possibility of danger was everywhere, yet I doubt if any one of us had ever felt under threat. Fred’s reminder of the Cockney saying ‘A nurse is safe among us’ was perfectly true. We all knew that we were protected by our uniform, and that the Sisters were respected and even revered for their dedication to three generations of Cockney women. No man would attack a nurse – if he did it would be the worse for him, because the other men would make him pay for it.

And yet ... and yet ... Cynthia was missing, and as I cycled around looking for her the knowledge that this was a rough district which, in some areas, had been made virtually lawless by the Kray brothers, could not be shifted from my mind. A couple of policemen were approaching. Now why, I thought, do the police always go around in pairs, whilst we nurses go out alone, even in the middle of the night? I stopped and spoke to them, but no, they had not seen another nurse that evening, nor heard of one in trouble, but they would keep their eyes open. I called at a couple of houses that had been on Cynthia’s list, but she had left them some three hours before.

The ride back to Nonnatus House was not pleasant. I went through many side roads and back streets, even calling her name from time to time. But she was not to be found.

It was nearly ten o’clock and I was returning to the convent when I saw coming from the approach way to the Blackwall Tunnel two figures – a man with a distinctive hobble-de-hoi gait pushing a bicycle, and a female figure walking beside him. My heart leaped, and I quickened my pace, calling out, ‘Cynthia, Cynthia, is that you?’ It was, and I almost cried with joy.

‘Oh, thank God you are safe. Where have you been?’

Fred answered for her.

‘She’s been froo ve Blackwall Tunnel – twice. Vat’s where she’s bin.’

‘Through the Tunnel? On a bike? You can’t have.’ Cynthia nodded dumbly.

‘But you could have been run over.’

‘I know,’ she gasped, ‘I nearly was.’

‘How did you get there?’

She couldn’t answer, so Fred did.

‘I dunno as ’ow she got in. All I knows is I found ’er comin’ out lookin’ ’alf done for.’

‘Oh Fred, I’m so glad you found her.’

‘I ain’t done much, really, all I done was push ’er bike.’

‘Thank you, Fred,’ murmured Cynthia gratefully.

We got her back to the convent. Most of the others had already returned with the bad news that she had not been found, so when she emerged the relief was almost overwhelming. In the light, we could see the state she was in. She was filthy, covered in oil and thick, greasy mud, and she stank of petrol.

When she had had a cup of tea she was able to answer some questions.

‘I don’t know how it happened, but somehow I got in the wrong lane of traffic, and then was forced into the entrance to the tunnel, and once I was there I couldn’t stop and turn round, and then the tunnel closed over me, and started to go downhill, and I just went faster and faster, because the lorries kept me going on.’

Fred, who saw himself as the hero of the hour, finished off the story. None of us had been through the tunnel, but he told us that it was a mile long and zig-zagged all the way under the Thames from Poplar to Greenwich. It was narrow, having been built for Victorian traffic, and was far too narrow for twentieth-century freight vehicles. Two lorries going in opposite directions could only just pass each other if each of them drove as close as possible to the wall, sometimes scraping it. Cynthia could easily have been crushed. She could not have got off her bike because there was nowhere to stand; a concrete barrier about twelve inches high and the same deep was all that separated the road from the tunnel wall. She just had to keep cycling amid the noise, the dazzle of headlights, and the exhaust fumes. As she approached the other side, the tunnel started to ascend, and so she had to pedal uphill. To make matters worse, with the wind in a certain direction, the Blackwall acted as a wind funnel, as it had on that night. So poor Cynthia was forced to cycle uphill against a strong head wind – the worst possible combination.

And then, of course, she had to come back ...

It is often surprising how quickly the young can recover from a nasty experience. Cynthia was not injured – she had been badly frightened and was physically exhausted, but she was not hurt. We made a big fuss of her. We sat her down near the stove, and Fred opened the vent and raked some hot coals onto the hearth to warm her. Novice Ruth boiled some water and poured it into a tin bowl, into which she put a spoonful of mustard, and instructed Cynthia to take off her shoes and stockings and soak her feet. The heat brought the colour back into her cheeks. Chummy cut the crust off the other end of the loaf and added a wedge of cheese with the last of Mrs B’s chutney. Trixie brought out the cake. Sister Julienne made a large mug of steaming cocoa.

Cynthia leaned back in her chair and sighed.

‘I don’t know how it happened, I really don’t, but once I had got into the situation I couldn’t get out of it. It was a nightmare. But it’s all over now, thank God, and Mrs B’s bread is delicious.’

She sank her teeth into the buttered crust and giggled.

‘I don’t know if the police knew I was there. I’m sure I shouldn’t have been.’

Sister Julienne said, ‘It is probably illegal. I don’t think even motor bikes are allowed through the tunnel, never mind a bicycle! I will have to inform the police you have been found, but I won’t tell them where you have been.’

Fred interrupted. ‘Best not tell the police nuffink. Wha’ vey don’t know vey can’t do nuffink abaht.’

Cynthia looked steadily at him. ‘Fred,’ she said, ‘I’ve been thinking on and off all day about that story you told us at breakfast and I can’t work it out. Three men went into a restaurant ...’

‘Oh no, not that again,’ wailed Sister Julienne. ‘I’m going to bed.’

TRUST A SAILOR

Novice Ruth had the face of a Botticelli angel. None of the men of Poplar had the courage to speak to her as she passed by; they seemed to be in awe of her beauty, her clear white skin, her wide grey eyes, her perfect teeth and gentle smile. It wasn’t that they were afraid of talking to a nun – they talked to the others. Perhaps it was her distinction, her quiet lady-like ways and above all her loveliness that left them tongue-tied. If any of them thought, ‘a nun! What a pity, what a waste!’ they would never have dared to say so.

She was about twenty-five, closer to the age of us young girls than to the other Sisters, but she was not one of us. No, she was firmly of the monastic order and, as she was still in her Noviciate, the rule was probably stricter for her than it was for her fully professed Sisters. Her profession filled her with a joy that was well-nigh tangible, and this happiness lent radiance to her beauty. She was also a fully trained nurse and midwife. After her training she had tested her calling to the religious life as an Aspirant and then a Postulant, before going on to the two years of her Noviciate. Yet still the monastic rule would require three more years of training, with solemn vows to be taken at the end of the first and second years, and final vows at the end of the third year. It was not a path to embark upon lightly, yet it seemed no burden to Novice Ruth. Holiness appeared to be her natural milieu.

But there was another side to Novice Ruth that I am not sure anyone, apart from we girls, knew about. Certainly the people of Poplar never saw it, and I doubt if her older Sisters did. She had a tendency to a giggly girlishness that was most unexpected and therefore all the more endearing. She would laugh at almost anything. This side of her came out mostly around the big kitchen table when we were sorting out our supper, especially if two or three of us were there before the Sisters came in. This was the time when we swapped yarns about the doings of the day. Anything would set Novice Ruth off: the simplest thing like a chain or a pedal coming off a bike, or losing your cap in the wind. She would literally curl up giggling and have to hold her sides as tears streamed from her eyes. Her laughter was most infectious, and we all enjoyed supper when Novice Ruth was around.

She was also a serious mimic and could take off anyone to perfection. Sister Monica Joan was one of her favourites: ‘I see the shifting shades of the etheric ether descending into the slime of Planet Earth and illuminating ... oooh, jam
and
butter on these scones, how delicious.’ And she’d have us all in stitches.

One evening we were in the kitchen enjoying cheese and chutney sandwiches with crumpets and honey to follow when the heavy tread of Sister Evangelina was heard. I was always nervous of Sister Evangelina as she had made it quite clear that she did not approve of me and, for her, I could do nothing right. The characteristic ‘humph’ assailed my ears, then the humourless voice: ‘Nurse Lee, Nurse Scatterbrain, I want a word with you.’ Every muscle in my body tensed, and I leaped to my feet, knocking over a pot of runny honey. ‘Yes, Sister,’ I said smartly and turned round, to find Novice Ruth. I got nasty indigestion from that one.

No one could mimic the Cockney dialect and accent better than Novice Ruth. Whether it was the whining of a child or the scolding of a mother or the raucous shout of a coster, she had them all down to perfection. After a hard day she was particularly fond of ‘Nah ven, nah ven, le’s ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ a bi’ o’ cake, ducky. Nice bi’ o’ sailor’s cake, eh ducks?’ And we would split our sides with laughter, though I am not at all sure that, if Novice Ruth knew what the last phrase meant, she would have repeated it so often. We had heard that remark many times in the homes around the docks, and I doubt that any of us knew what it meant. I suspect we all thought sailor’s cake was a rich fruit cake with rum in it.
³

The telephone rang at 1.30 a.m. Novice Ruth answered it.

‘Nonnatus House. Can I help you?’

A soft Irish voice replied.

‘I was given your number, and told to call you when I was in labour.’

‘What is your name and address, please?’

‘Kathleen O’Brian, 144 Mellish Street, the Isle of Dogs.’

Ruth did not recognise either the name or the address from antenatal visits. Neither could she recall any expectant mother with an Irish accent.

‘Are you booked with us?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, you must be booked with someone.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that you have registered for antenatal care and delivery of the baby, and for postnatal care.’