When I next visited Mr Collett, a social worker was just leaving. She looked harassed, poor soul, and was besieged by women as she stepped across the courtyard. I felt sorry for her. What a job! You are on a hiding to nothing, I thought as I watched her go.
Mr Collett’s legs were almost better now, and as he was quite capable of dressing the superficial wounds himself, I called only once a fortnight to check that there was no deterioration. His walking was much better and he was able to get about easily, which was entirely due to simple, regular treatment. Nursing is one of the most satisfying jobs in the world.
He was silent and thoughtful as I undid the bandages. I think we were both wondering what the other was thinking.
He was the first to break the silence. “You’ve heard, I suppose, that the Buildings are being closed? Yes, Of course you know all about it. I don’t understand why. These buildings are sound. They were still here after the Blitz, when thousands of terraces went down like packs of cards. The Canada Buildings will last for centuries, yet they want to pull them down. All my ghosts will be cleared away with the rubble. Will they be laid to rest, I wonder? Will I?” His words sounded like a premonition.
“What are they offering you?” I asked.
He started, as though I had interrupted a dream. “Offering me? Oh, I don’t know. Several things: a flat in Harlow; another in somewhere called Hemel Hempstead. I’ve got to think about it. I must say, it’s very good of them to offer me anything at all. When I was a boy, if a landlord gave notice to quit, he was not obliged to offer you anything else. So I’m grateful for that, and I told the lady social worker so.”
I smiled at his generous disposition. There can’t have been many social workers at that troubled time who heard an expression of gratitude. “How long have you got to decide?” I asked.
“A few weeks. Perhaps a month. No longer. It’s all very sudden.”
It was indeed sudden. The sound of children playing was the first thing to go. Flats were vacated, and removal men were in and out of the courtyards; windows were boarded up; the stairways were left dirty and increasingly derelict; dustbins rolled across the cobbles. The constant hum of human activity was replaced by empty echoes as the courts picked up the sound of a single voice and threw it backwards and forwards, till it fell silent in the still air.
I wondered how much more I would see of Mr Collett. If he was going miles away to the countryside of Hertfordshire or Essex, how often would I be able to visit him? Our cosy evenings of sherry and chocolates and chats seemed to be coming to an end.
I popped in on him about a week later to ask if he had come to a decision. He had.
“I’m going to St Mark’s in Mile End,” he said. “When I was young, it used to be a workhouse. But that was a long time ago. Now it is a residential home for old codgers like myself. I think it will be for the best. The lady social worker tells me I will be well looked after. I’m going next week.”
I was shocked and alarmed by the news. The shadow of the workhouse had darkened the lives of countless people for more than a century. Although officially closed in 1930 by Acts of Parliament, workhouses had merely lingered on under another name. I feared for Mr Collett, but I did not like to express my doubts, or even to sound negative, so I simply said: “I’ll come and see you, I promise.”
Back at Nonnatus House, I poured out my misgivings to Sister Julienne. She was thoughtful and looked grave, but said: “You must understand that this is his decision. He is intelligent, and I think he probably realises that he will not be able to manage to look after himself, alone, in a new place.”
I was young and passionate, and argued the case. “But he’s so much better now. He can get around without any trouble. Although his eyesight is dim, he’s not blind, and he can find everything he needs.”
Sister Julienne smiled her sweet, beautiful smile. “Yes, my dear, I know, but that is only because he knows where everything is, and habit makes it possible for him to continue living alone. In other surroundings he would be lost. It is the same for most old people.”
My unease persisted, but I knew there was nothing I could do.
A few days later, when I was in the area, I thought I would pop in to arrange a final evening with my old friend. To my astonishment, the flat was empty. I peered through the curtainless window. Everything was the same – but different. Inanimate objects have a life of their own, especially when they are the daily companions of a living soul. Without that life, they take on a bleak, desolate appearance, like furniture piled up in a warehouse. I knew he was gone, and didn’t need anyone to confirm it, although the woman next door stepped out, or rather shuffled out. Gone was her self-righteous aggression; gone, her busy-body ways and manners. Instead she exuded a dull, helpless apathy and despair. Her voice was subdued. ’E’s gorn. Vey took ’im vis mornin’ wiv ’is case. Vey’ll take me an’ all, vey will.” She shuffled back into her flat, and bolted the door. Poplar people never bolted their doors in daytime, unless they were afraid of someone.
At Nonnatus House, I felt a heavy sense of loss as I climbed the stairs. It had all been so sudden. My first thought was to go and see him at once, but then I dithered around, thinking that he needed time to settle in and get to know other people. Perhaps it was all for the best. If a thing has to be, it’s best to do it quickly. He was a wise old man; he would not have agreed to go so soon if he had thought there was anything to be gained by delay.
It was about a fortnight later, after lunch, when I cycled up to Mile End to find St Mark’s. I entered by the huge iron gate, and looked at the bleak grey buildings. I was accustomed to the old workhouse buildings, because most of them had been converted into hospitals or isolation units. I knew that they all had a particularly grim appearance, but I had never seen anything as forbidding as St Mark’s. My heart sank as I looked around.
I enquired after Mr Collett. Perhaps I had imagined that some helpful, pretty young nurse in a natty little uniform would take me straight to him. Not so. The only person I saw was a rather dirty-looking porter pushing a trolley of bins. He spoke no English, but pointed to a door. Inside was a sort of office area with no one around. It was cold and high-ceilinged, with plaster cracking and crumbling off the walls. I called, and my voice echoed up the stairwell. Still no one came.
I wandered out, and through another door. A wide, empty corridor stretched ahead, with doors going off it. I opened one, and entered a large, square room, where a lot of old men were sitting around Formica-topped tables. For a room so full of humanity it was eerily quiet. Faces looked up at me, all blank and expressionless. I looked round, but could not see Mr Collett. Nor could I see anyone to ask about him. Some plates rattled, which indicated a kitchen, and I went towards the sound. Two young men were inside, but neither of them spoke English. They repeated the name “Collett” several times, but shook their heads. One of them indicated another building. I followed the advice, and was fortunate to meet a porter, who said, “You need Reception, dear, over there,” pointing to the first door I had entered.
Back in the hall with the echoing stairwell I hung around, and “hello-ed” for about twenty minutes. Eventually a middle-aged man entered, carrying a sheaf of papers. I gave him my request.
He looked at me in astonishment. “You want to see a Mr Collett? Is that what you are saying?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Are you a social worker?”
“No. I just want to see him. Have I come at the wrong time, then? Am I out of visiting hours?”
“No. We don’t have any visiting hours. We generally don’t get any visitors. I’ll have to open the office and find out where this Mr Collett is.”
In the office, he thumbed through piles of papers. “I think I’ve found him. Mr Joseph Collett. Is that the name you want? Block E, Fifth Floor. Go up that staircase you see opposite.”
He pointed to a stone staircase. I climbed five flights and pushed open the heavy door, entering a room similar to the one I had seen on th
e ground floor. It was large, with about twenty Formica-topped tables and four hard-backed chairs at each table. Old men were sitting on most of the chairs, their arms on the table, staring at the man opposite. Some had their heads down, resting on their arms. No one spoke. The room smelt acrid with urine and body odour. The high windows let in light, but they were too high for anyone to see out.
I looked around until I saw Mr Collett at the far end of the room. He was looking down at the table at which he was sitting, and did not see me approach. I went straight up to him and kissed him.
He gasped, looked up, and tears filled his eyes. His lips trembled, and the tears fell. He whispered, “My maiden, my Jenny, you’ve come, then.” He was too overwhelmed to say anything more.
The chair opposite was empty, so I sat down and we held hands across the table.
“I would have come sooner, only I thought you should have a chance to settle in, and get to know your companions. I’m so sorry if you thought I wasn’t coming.”
He muttered, “Yes . . . no . . . I mean, that’s all right, my pet, that’s all right. You’re here, and I love you for it. I’m so grateful.” He squeezed my hand.
I bit my lip, close to tears myself, and looked round at the cheerless room, filled with lethargic old men saying nothing. I didn’t know what to say myself. We had never had any difficulty with conversation before; in fact, time had always seemed too short for all that we had to say. But now I was tongue-tied. I asked empty questions like: “Are you all right, then?” “What’s the food like?” “Are you comfortable here?” to all of which he replied, bleakly, “Yes, I’m doing very nicely, thank you. You don’t want to worry your head about me.”
Minutes ticked by, and there were long silences. I knew I would have to go, because I had my evening visits to start at 4 p.m. It had taken me at least forty-five minutes to find him, and time was short. It had been only the briefest of visits, and I hated leaving him, as I tried, haltingly, to explain.
He said, simply, “You go, my maid, and don’t mind me.”
I kissed him again, and fled from the room. At the door, I turned. He was stroking the cheek where my lips had touched him, and his tears were falling fast onto the table.
I don’t know how it was I didn’t have an accident as I cycled back to Nonnatus House. I was filled with sorrow.
After supper, I spoke to Sister Julienne. She listened in silence to what I had to say, and didn’t speak for a long time. Thinking she hadn’t taken it in, I said. “You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you? It is simply dreadful. He shouldn’t be there.”
“Oh yes, my dear, I understand all right. I was thinking of Our Lord’s words to Peter, as recorded in St John’s Gospel: ‘When you are young, you go where you wish, but when you are old, others will take you where you do not wish to go.’ This was taken to indicate the manner in which St Peter would die, but I have always thought that it is a general reflection about us all. For we all grow old, and very few of us retain our health and strength to the last. Most of us become helpless and completely dependent on others, whether we like it or not. Old age is a time when we learn the virtue of humility.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had often found myself in a similar position with Sister Julienne. She had a purity of thought and a simplicity of expression that were quite unanswerable.
She continued: “Mr Collett’s tragedy is that all his family were killed in the wars. The tragedy is loneliness, not the surroundings, which I doubt he notices. What you see as intolerable living conditions may be all par for the course to him. If he were living in luxury in a palace, he would be just as lonely. You are his only friend, Jenny, and he loves you. You must stay with him.”
I said that I had pledged myself to do that, and then I started to rail against the folly and inhumanity of turning him out of the flat where he had been comfortable and independent.
She stopped me in mid-sentence. “Yes, I know all that. But you must understand that the Canada Buildings have long been due for demolition. People are not going to put up with a bug-infested environment and insanitary conditions today. The Buildings must go, so the people must go. I am well aware of the fact that most of the old people who are being moved will not be able to adjust to new surroundings, and that many of them will die as a consequence. Which brings me back to the words of Jesus: ‘When you are old, men will take you where you do not want to go.’”
She smiled at me, because I must have looked so sad, and said: “Now I must go and take Compline. Why not join us this evening?”
The beauty and timelessness of the monastic office of Compline eased my troubled soul.
“The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.”
I thought of Mr Collett and all the other old men, isolated – even from each other – by loneliness.
“In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust. Let me never be put to confusion.”
The candles lighting the altar were reflected on the windows, shutting the dark without, and enclosing the nuns within.
“Be thou my strong rock and house of defence.”
Jews and Christians have drawn strength and wisdom from these psalms for two to three thousand years.
“Thou shalt not be afraid of any terror by night.”
All those sad old men – were they afraid? Afraid of living, yet more afraid of dying?
“For He shall give his angels charge over thee.”
Did they know any joy, in their joyless surroundings?
“Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord.”
Just hold them in your prayers, as Sister Julienne will in hers.
“Protect us through the silent hours of the night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this fleeting world may repose upon Thy eternal changelessness.”
The Sisters left the chapel quietly. The Greater Silence had begun.
I saw Mr Collett as much as I could after that. I never stayed very long – half an hour perhaps, not more, and this was mainly because we both found it difficult to know what to say. The circumstances were just not right for cosy chats, and we were no good at small talk. Also the inertia, I think, was dulling the mind that had once been so alert. Knowing how much he used to enjoy radio documentary programmes and plays, I asked him if he listened to his wireless. He looked at me blankly, so I repeated the question.
“No, I haven’t got my wireless. I don’t know what they did with it. I don’t think I could have it here, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
I asked what had happened to his things.
“I don’t know. The lady social worker said she would look after all that. I suppose they were sold, and the money put into my account. I’ve got a bank account, you know. I gave her the number.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“Oh yes, she came here. She is very pleasant. She gave me this.”
He fumbled in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and produced a bit of paper. It was a receipt for £96 14s. 6d. for the sale of furniture. I thought of the grandfather clock, the fine old table, and his high wooden armchair. Now all that was left was a piece of paper.
The big room with its high windows was oppressive, and the all-pervading smell of urine nauseating, but I doubt if the old men noticed this (after all, the sense of smell fades along with the other senses as age advances). The worst thing for them, I could see, was the boredom of having absolutely nothing to do, hour after hour, day after day. One or two got up and shuffled off to the lavatory, or to another room, which I was later to discover was the dormitory. But apart from that, they did nothing. A few played cards or dominoes, but the games never seemed to excite much interest. The Daily Mirror and the Express were passed around, and some of the men glanced at them but, from what I observed, most of them just sat at the tables, looking at each other. I never saw any other visitor, and I wondered how it was possible that so many old men could have no one at all who wanted to visit them. I saw only Block E, Fifth Floor, and I did not k
now how many other blocks and floors there were, filled with old men, seemingly abandoned, each day killing the time, until time killed them.
One day I asked Mr Collett where his pipe was and if he smoked it. He said, “We are only allowed to smoke on the balcony.”
“Well, do you do so, then?”
“No, I don’t know where the balcony is.”
I felt very cross at such thoughtlessness on the part of the staff. They were not unkind, as far as I could see, but they were mostly Filipino or Indonesian young men, who spoke little or no English, and it obviously had not occurred to any of them to take a nearly blind man to the balcony and make sure that he knew how to find his way there and back.
“Well, let’s go out to the balcony, then, and you can have a smoke, and we can get some fresh air at the same time. Have you got your pipe, your twist, and some matches?”
“Not on me. They are in my locker. I’ll go and get them. You can come with me. I don’t suppose anyone would mind.”
He stood up, and felt his way along the tables to a short corridor at the end of which was a wide double door leading into the dormitory. My experienced eye saw at once that it was the size of the average hospital ward, designed for twenty-eight or thirty beds. It held, at a rough guess, sixty or seventy. They lined each wall, and the far end wall also. They were small two-foot-six-inch iron bedsteads, with thin mattresses over sagging springs. Beside each was a tiny locker about twelve inches wide, and the beds touched the lockers on either side. I looked down towards the far end of the dormitory. There were no lockers, and the beds were so close to each other that, presumably, the only way the occupant could get in and out was by climbing over the end. Some were occupied by old men, who just lay there, sleeping or staring at the ceiling. My critical nurse’s eye looked at the bed linen and blankets. All were filthy, and the stench of urine and faeces was evidence that fresh linen was a rarity. A ward sister would have had a team of cleaners in there in seconds. But I saw no staff at all that day.
Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 28
