Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  And, as I said, it was well that Chummy was on first call that night.

  The telephone rang at 11.30 p.m., getting her out of bed.

  ‘Port-of-London-West-India-Docks-nightwatchman speaking. We needs a nurse, or a doctor.’

  ‘What’s the matter? An accident at the docks?’ asked Chummy.

  ‘No. Woman ill, or somefink.’

  ‘A woman? Are you sure?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure. Think I can’t tell the difference?’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t mean that. No offence, old chap. But women are not allowed in the Docks.’

  ‘Well, this one’s ’ere all right. Captain’s wife or somefink, the mate says. Least, that’s what I think he’s tryin’ ’a say, because he can’t speak no English. Just rolls his eyes and groans and rubs ‘is tummy – vat’s why I called ve midwives.’

  ‘I’ll come. Where do I go to?’

  ‘Main gate. West India.’

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  Chummy dressed in haste and went out into the night. It was windy. Not cold or raining, but a strong head wind made cycling slow, and it took Chummy nearly twenty minutes to reach West India Dock. The nightwatchman was sitting by the burning brazier next to the gate, which he unlocked.

  ‘You bin a long time. Bloody wind, I s’ppose. Don’t like ve wind.’

  Chummy had never been inside the Dock gates before, and the place seemed eerie and alien in the darkness. The stretch of water in the basin looked vast, as she gazed down it, and the hulks of huge cargo boats loomed over the oily water. On the skyline numerous cranes criss-crossed each other. Some of the boats were dimly lit, but others were completely dark. The night watchman’s coke fire glowed on the quay. The wind caused the water to splash and the rigging to tremble, making hollow moaning sounds.

  ‘Swedish timber carrier on South Quay. Woman got a belly ache or somefink. Shouldn’t be there, I told the mate, but I reckons as ’ow he never understood.’

  Reluctantly he hauled himself up, left his comfortable little hut and tipped some more coke onto the fire.

  ‘This way,’ he sighed mournfully. ‘Bloody women. Shouldn’t be ’ere, I says. I’ve go’ enough ’a do, wivout all vis.’

  They made their way to the South Quay.

  ‘’ere we are. The Katrina. Yer rope ladder’s there and yer guiders.’

  He grabbed a rope, pulled it and shouted. A faint sound was heard about forty feet up. The watchman was thinking of his fire, and his cosy hut, and the sausages and fried bread he was going to cook. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered, ‘no offence to you, nurse.’

  A head appeared over the side of the boat.

  ‘Ya?’

  ‘The nurse.’

  ‘Bra. Valkommen. Tack.’

  ‘Yer’ll ’ave to climb ve rope-ladder. It’s leeward o’ the wind, an’ won’t rock too much. You can climb this, can’t yer?’

  Most women would have taken one look at the bulk of the ship towering above, at the slender rope ladder swinging dizzily in the wind, and said ‘No’. But not Chummy.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘Jolly-ho. But I think they will have to haul my bag up separately. I’m not sure I could carry it, and climb the ladder one handed.’

  The watchman groaned, but tied the handle of the bag to a rope and shouted to the men above to start hauling. Somehow they understood him, and Chummy watched it swinging upwards.

  ‘Now for it,’ she said, taking hold of the rope ladder.

  ‘Ever done this afore?’

  ‘We had a tree house when we were children, so I suppose you could say I’ve had some practice.’

  ‘The ’ardest part is when you jumps off, because you’re goin’ to ’it the side of ve boat. But just hold steady and yer’ll be all right. Ven you can start climbing.’

  ‘Good egg. Thanks for the tip.’

  The wind was blowing Chummy’s gabardine raincoat in all directions. It was a heavy garment, and long, as required by nursing uniform standards.

  ‘This bally thing’s going to be a nuisance.’

  She took it off. The nightwatchman looked at her. He was beginning to respect her, and his sausages and fried bread seemed less important.

  ‘Yer skirts too long. You might catch yer foot in ’em.’

  ‘Not to worry.’ Chummy pulled her skirt up above her waist, and tucked it into her knickers. ‘No need for false modesty,’ she said cheerily.

  She took hold of the ladder again and put a foot on the first rung.

  ‘Go up a rung, so you pull ve ladder taut. Grab ’old of a rung above head height. Don’t try holdin’ the sides of ve ladder.’

  ‘Thanks. Any other tips?’

  ‘No. Just keep yer nerve, an’ keep climbing. Don’t look down or up. Keep a steady climb, and whatever yer do, don’t stop. Jes keep it steady, an’ you’ll be all right.’

  Chummy put one foot on a rung. ‘Wizard show. Here we go,’ she said, cheerily, feeling upwards for the next rung. She hauled herself up.

  ‘Only another fifty to go,’ she called out to the man watching as she reached upwards for another rung.

  ‘I only ’ope to Christ them Swedes know ’ow to make a rope ladder,’ he muttered to himself, ‘a weak link could be ve death of ’er.’

  ‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear for the wind,’ she called.

  ‘Nuffink important. Jes’ keep going, one hand, one foot. Keep it steady, and don’t stop or look down.’

  Chummy kept going. The wind was rocking the boat, and every now and then a sudden gust caught Chummy and blew her a few feet to one side. But she kept her nerve. She would have tougher things than this to face when she was a missionary. She remembered Miss Hawkins, a retired missionary and Matron of Queen Charlotte’s, where she had done her early training. Matron Hawkins had taught all her students as though they were going to be up a creek without a paddle. Just keep going, old girl, thought Chummy.

  She reached upwards and there was nothing. She groped around with her fingers, but no, nothing. Then she felt the wood of a broken rung swinging loose against her arm. Panic hit her, and she froze, leaning her head against the side of the ship. To be paralysed with fear can mean death, because the muscles are unable to respond. Chummy listened to her heart pounding and knew her breathing to be shallow and irregular. Her whole body was stiff. She sensed her danger. She was a sensible and highly trained nurse and knew that, if she could control her breathing she would begin to regain control of her muscles. She knew the breathing that she had taught others in ante-natal classes would help. Gradually she felt she could move. She brought her foot up to the next rung, which gave her a longer reach, and was able to grab the one above her head with her outstretched hand.

  ‘That was a close shave,’ she muttered to herself.

  The nightwatchman had seen what had happened, and his heart was in his mouth.

  ‘She’s got guts, vat girl,’ he thought. The men above were commenting in Swedish.

  Chummy did not know it, but she had not far to go. She felt exhilarated now. Having successfully negotiated the danger of the missing rung, she felt she could tackle anything, and she even enjoyed the rest of the climb. Suddenly she heard voices close to her ear, and her hand touched the metal bars of the bulwarks. She climbed over the edge and stood flushed and breathless on the deck. For once in her life she was not confused or embarrassed to be surrounded by men, even though she was standing among them in her knickers.

  ‘Whoops, cover your legs, old girl,’ she said to herself as she let her skirt fall. They all laughed and clapped and cheered.

  One of the men handed her the bag then another took her down to a cabin on the middle deck. He knocked and spoke in Swedish. The door opened, and a tall, bearded man appeared. He spoke rapidly to Chummy in Swedish, as though he expected her to understand him. A female voice from within the cabin called out in English, ‘Don’t try to explain, Dad, I can.’

  Chummy entered the cabin, which was very small. A hurricane l
amp swung from a hook and the atmosphere was suffocatingly hot. The woman, who was lying on a small bunk bed, was positively huge and not only filled the bunk but spilled out over the edge. She was sweating and dry around the mouth. Her eyes looked gratefully at Chummy. ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ she breathed, ‘these men will be the death of me.’

  The woman lay back and closed her eyes. Heavy blonde hair fell over the grey pillow. Beads of sweat covered her fat features, her chin was indistinguishable from her neck, which in its turn blended into a vast and pendulous bosom.

  A small wooden crate in the cabin obviously served as both stool and table. Chummy sat down and took out her note-book.

  ‘I’m glad you can speak English, because I need your case history.’

  ‘My mother was English, my father Swedish. My name is Kirsten Bjorgsen. They call me Kirsty. I am thirty-five.’

  ‘What is your address?’

  ‘The Katrina.’

  ‘No, I mean your permanent address.’

  ‘The Katrina is my permanent address.’

  ‘That is not possible. This is a trading vessel. It cannot be your permanent home. In any case, I’m told women are not allowed on the ships.’

  Kirsty laughed.

  ‘Well, you know, what the eye doesn’t see ...’

  She laughed again.

  ‘How long have you lived on the boat?’

  ‘Since I was fourteen, when my mother died. We had a home in Stockholm, and I went to school there. But when she died my father brought me onto the Katrina. He is the captain.’

  ‘I was informed that you were the captain’s wife.’

  ‘Wife? Who told you that? He’s my dad.’

  Chummy said no more on the subject, but enquired about the woman’s condition.

  ‘Well, I have a pain in my belly. It comes and goes.’ Chummy was beginning to put two and two together. ‘When was your last period?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t really take much notice of that.’

  ‘Can’t you remember at all?’

  ‘Perhaps a few months. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I need to examine your stomach.’

  Chummy palpated the mountainous abdomen, which was all flesh and fat. It was quite impossible for her to tell whether the woman was pregnant or not. She took up her Pinards foetal stethoscope, but it sank about six inches into the abdomen, the flesh virtually covering it, and all that Chummy could hear was the gurgle and swish of intestinal movements.

  The woman groaned – ‘Ooh, you’re hurting me. It’s making the pain come back. Please stop.’

  But the pain got worse. Chummy felt the lower abdomen and felt a hard round sphere beneath the flesh. When the pain had passed she said, ‘Kirsty you are in labour. Didn’t you know you were pregnant?’

  Kirsty raised herself on her elbow. ‘What?’ she demanded, her eyes round and incredulous.

  ‘You are not only pregnant. You are in labour. That’s what your stomach pains are.’

  ‘I can’t be. You’re wrong. I’m always so careful.’

  ‘I’m not wrong.’

  Kirsty lay back on the pillow. ‘Oh no! What’s Dad going to say?’ she murmured.

  ‘Which of the men on board is your husband?’

  ‘None of them. And all of them. They are all my boys, and I love them all – well nearly all, anyway.’

  Chummy was shocked. Kirsty read her thoughts and laughed a great belly laugh, which set all her flesh rippling.

  ‘I’m what you call the “ship’s woman”. I keep the boys happy. My dad always says there’s no fighting on a ship when the boys have a nice woman to go to. That’s why he brought me here when mother died.’

  Chummy was deeply shocked.

  ‘You mean to say your father brought you here when you were only fourteen to be ...’ she hesitated, ‘to be the ship’s woman?’

  Kirsty nodded.

  ‘But that is shocking, disgraceful!’ exclaimed Chummy.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course it’s not. After my mother’s death I couldn’t stay in Stockholm by myself, and Dad was always at sea. So he took me with him. He explained what was expected of me. He couldn’t keep me for himself, because that would cause trouble with the crew – so it had to be fair all round.’

  Chummy felt she was choking.

  ‘Your dad explained to you ...?’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Of course. He was always fair, and he still is. But he’s the captain, and he always goes first. The other boys have to wait their turn.’

  ‘Your dad goes first?’ said Chummy weakly.

  ‘Well, he is the captain. It’s only right.’

  Chummy was thinking about the headmistress of Roedean, and what she would have said about the situation.

  Kirsty continued, ‘And I never have two at once. Dad wouldn’t allow that. He has very high standards.’

  ‘High standards!’ Chummy gasped, and the standards enshrined on the coat of arms at Roedean School flashed through her mind – Honneur aux Dignes, ‘Honour to the Deserving’. But Kirsty was happily babbling on.

  ‘I love my father, I do. He’s a lovely man. He has, how do you say it, the best bugger’s grips you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Bugger’s grips?!’ Chummy felt weak from shock. This was a different world.

  ‘You know, whiskers on his cheek bones. They’re called bugger’s grips. I like to brush them when he’s relaxed, after he’s done with me. Then he goes to sleep, often. It’s like having a baby in my arms.’

  Another contraction came, and Chummy sat with her hand on the lower abdomen until it passed. She could scarcely believe what she had heard and needed a few seconds to adjust. Kirsty chatted on.

  ‘That’s better. I feel all right now. I thought it was stomach cramps. I was eating green apples yesterday.’

  ‘No, I assure you. You are in labour and you’re going to have a baby.’

  ‘But the boys always wear a rubber when they are doing it.’

  ‘A rubber?’ repeated Chummy enquiringly.

  ‘You know – French letters, they call them in England, or capotes anglaises, as they say in France. Anyway, the men always wear one. Dad insists, and they wouldn’t disobey the captain. And anyway, I make them put one on, or I put it on. Dad gets a great box of them. Five hundred at a time, when we come to a port. He’s most particular.’

  Chummy felt light-headed.

  ‘Five hundred?’ she murmured and stared aghast at Kirsty.

  ‘And they are never reused – Dad insists on that – in case one splits, and I wouldn’t know. So you see, I can’t be pregnant. It must have been those green apples.’

  Chummy couldn’t reply to that, but was murmuring, ‘Five hundred! How long does a box last you?’

  ‘Oh, a few weeks. Dad would never let me run out. If it’s a long voyage, he’ll buy in two or three boxes. We always need them.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Well, the boys need me, and I’m always here for them. I’m the most important member of the crew, Dad tells me, because I keep the men happy, and happy men work hard. And that’s what every captain needs – a hardworking crew.’

  Chummy swallowed. She had entered a different world of morality and did not know how to respond. Kirsty must have read her thoughts because she patted her hand kindly.

  ‘There now. Don’t worry. You’re only a young girl, and I can see you come from a different class. But it’s all quite natural, and I’ve had a good life. I’ve travelled the world. Sometimes they can smuggle me ashore and I can have a look round the shops. I like that. I can buy a few pretty things, because Dad gives me money.

  ‘Don’t you do anything else – the cooking, or sewing, or something?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Kirsty squawked with laughter and slapped Chummy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you think I have enough to do with a crew of twenty? Sometimes it’s one after another for hours on end. Do you think I could work after that? In any case, we have a ship’s cook. He is the one who gave me those green
apples yesterday. Oh ...’

  She doubled up with pain. Chummy felt the uterus; it was harder and more prominent. She had timed ten minutes since the last contraction. Labour was progressing.

  Chummy had other things to worry about than Kirsty’s position on the boat. She was alone, in the middle of the night, on board a ship with no telephone and with a woman in labour. Furthermore the woman was a primigravida of thirty-five, who had had no antenatal care. She should go to hospital at once. But how? In the unlikely event of an ambulance arriving, the woman would be in no condition to climb down the rope ladder! If a doctor was called, would he climb up the rope ladder? Chummy remembered her climb, and the missing rung, and knew that she could not expect anyone else to do it. She was alone, and a cold hand gripped her heart. But in the same instant a voice whispered to her that she was going to be a missionary, and that this was just God’s way of testing her. She prayed.

  The contraction passed, and a new, strengthened Chummy spoke.

  ‘You must stop all this nonsense about green apples. You are in labour, and your baby will be born within the next hour or two. I have to examine you vaginally, and I must have clean cotton sheets, cotton wool and something to act as absorbent pads, a cot to put the baby in, and hot water and soap. Now, where can I get all these things?’

  Kirsty looked dumbfounded.

  ‘You must call my father,’ she said.

  Chummy opened the door and called, ‘Hi there!’

  The big, bearded man entered, and Kirsty explained. He let out an oath and looked savagely at Chummy, as though it were her fault. But Chummy was taller than him and looked down on him with new-found confidence. The captain turned to go, but Chummy stopped him with a light touch on the arm. She said to Kirsty, ‘Would you also tell your father that this cabin is quite unsuitable for the delivery of a baby, and that I will need somewhere better.’

  Kirsty translated. The captain no longer looked savage. He looked at Chummy with respect. Then his whole expression changed, and his eyes filled with anguish. He kneeled down beside his daughter, took her huge body in his arms and rubbed his beard into the folds of her neck. He stood up with tears in his eyes and fled from the cabin.