Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  But he did not like peacetime either, and the new job – assistant in a hardware shop – was worse than all the others. His father said, ‘Stick to it, boy, you’ve got to learn to stick with things. When I was your age ...’

  But David was not a boy. He was twenty-five and more disturbed than he or anyone else had realised. One of the older men in the shop, a man who had been through the First World War, gave him the help he needed. They were sitting in the back of the shop eating their packed lunches, and David must have looked particularly down that day. They started talking and reminiscing. David spoke of the perilous crawl through the forest after Arnhem, and the man said, ‘It’s funny how times like that can be the best times of your life, in a twisted sort of way. It’s the excitement, the adrenalin rush, the danger, the uncertainty. All these things make for intense living. You can’t carry on here like this, weighing half a pound of six-inch nails and sharpening a chisel. You need more activity, or you’ll go bonkers. Why not try the police? The Metropolitan are looking for recruits.’

  David was twenty-seven when he entered Police Training College, and it was the best thing he could have done. He left home, leaving his mother fussing and worrying and his father criticising, and lived in the police hostel, where there were other young men who had been through the war. The training was harder than he could ever have imagined. There were hours of lectures on every aspect of crime, including assault, larceny, forgery, bribery, traffic offences, drink driving, rape, sodomy, buggery and much, much more. He had to be familiar with the Betting and Gambling Act, the Licensing Act and the Prostitution Act, to mention but a few. His head was spinning as he tried to take it all in. But an indifferent schoolboy who didn’t find his lessons important turned into a police cadet who found everything meaningful, and he passed top of the examination. He then had two years on the beat as a probationer, during which time he was always with another constable, assigned to a section or a division. He found life on the streets even more fascinating than the college. It was a tough period, but he revelled in the challenge and determined to become a sergeant and inspector, with his ultimate sights set on chief inspector.

  His parents were delighted. His father commented, with a chortle, that he not only had a steady job, but also a good pension. His mother started getting broody, and coyly mentioned that a ‘nice girl’ was what he needed.

  But girls were as big a failure for him as all the dead-end jobs he had undertaken. He was quiet and rather shy and always conscious of the scar on his face. ‘No girl will want me,’ he thought. Also, a few unsatisfactory affairs had convinced him that girls were basically silly and self-obsessed. He wasn’t interested in their preoccupations, and they weren’t interested in the things that absorbed him. A few of the policewomen seemed interesting, but they were either married or going steady with someone else. He wanted a girl who could get her mind off her fingernails or her hair. One girl said to him archly, ‘Do you like the way I have plucked my eyebrows?’ He was aghast. Eyebrows? He had never noticed them. The girl was offended and provoked a quarrel. He wasn’t really cross or disappointed. The incident confirmed in his mind that girls were a bit empty, and a man couldn’t expect anything else.

  That was until he saw Chummy staggering along the quayside. He had met her a few times before and he recalled with amusement the day she had propelled her bicycle into him and knocked him over, knocking herself out at the same time. She was a big, strong girl, but, as she weaved her way uncertainly towards the three men standing at the dock gates, he could see she hardly had the strength to carry her bag. His protective instincts were aroused. He had heard the extraordinary, garbled story from the nightwatchman about her going to see a woman on a boat and climbing the rope ladder, and he hadn’t known what to make of it. At the time he knew nothing of a baby being born, nor of the perilous circumstances of the birth. He just thought, this is a girl who is different, whose main preoccupation is not her eyebrows or her fingernails, and after he had put her in a taxi, he determined to see her again.

  His first visit left the convent in a flurry of excitement. Even the sisters were twittering with interest. It was the last thing anyone had expected. The evening of Chummy’s first date was the occasion for unsolicited advice and useless assistance. First, what should she wear? She produced a few clothes from her wardrobe, none of them very attractive.

  ‘You must have something new.’

  ‘But what?’

  We all borrowed and swapped each other’s clothes, but nothing that we wore fitted Chummy, so in the end we sighed hopelessly and loaned her a pretty scarf. She was also in a dither over what she should talk about.

  ‘I’m no good with boys. I have never been dated by a boy before. What am I going to say?’

  ‘Look, don’t be daft. He’s not a boy, he’s a grown man, and he wouldn’t have asked you out if he hadn’t any reason to think you are interesting.’

  ‘Oh lawks! This is going to be a disaster, I know it. What if I fall over, or say something bally silly? My mater says you can’t take me anywhere.’

  ‘Well, your mater’s not taking you out, is she? Forget “mater”. Think of David.’

  The doorbell rang, and Chummy fell over the doormat, crashing into the door.

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ we all whispered in chorus, but she didn’t look as though she would.

  We didn’t see her when she came in, but after that first evening David’s visits to the convent became more frequent, and Chummy went out more. She didn’t say anything, to our keen disappointment, but became quieter and less of a good-old-chum, jolly-old-chum type of girl. We tried probing, of course, but the most we could get out of her was that ‘Police work is very interesting. Much wider and more varied and interesting than you would think.’

  ‘Anything else?’ we asked, eagerly.

  ‘What else?’ she enquired innocently.

  ‘Well ... anything ... sort of ... interesting?’

  ‘I’ve told him about my plans to be a missionary, if that’s what you mean.’

  We sighed deeply. It was hopeless. If all they ever talked about was the Metropolitan Police and missionaries, what future could there be? Poor old Chummy. Perhaps her mater was right, and she really was on the shelf.

  It was another of those rush times. We were flying about. Eleven deliveries in two days and nights, post-natal visits, an ante-natal clinic, lectures to attend, and the telephone constantly ringing.

  I was on first call, and thankful to be resting after a hectic night and day with no sleep. The phone rang. Wearily I picked it up.

  ‘My wife’s in labour. She told me to call the midwife.’

  Hastily I collected my bag and looked at the duty rota to see who would now be on first call. Chummy’s name was at the top of the list. I ran to her room and banged on the door.

  ‘Chummy! I’m going out. You’re on first call.’

  There was no response. I banged again and burst into the room.

  ‘You’re on first ...’

  My voice trailed away, and I backed off, abashed, guilty of an unforgivable intrusion – it was one of those things you should never, ever do. Chummy was in bed with her policeman.

  THE WEDDING

  Chummy married her policeman and she also became a missionary. Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne, her mater, tried to organise a society wedding, with a reception at the Savoy Hotel, but Chummy refused. ‘You owe it to your family dear,’ she said applying the pressure. Still she refused. She wanted a simple wedding in our local church, All Saints, to be conducted by our local rector, with a reception in the church hall. ‘But we cannot announce in the Times that the reception will be in a church hall in the East India Dock Road!’ Mater exclaimed in alarm. ‘And what about photographs? I will have to inform Tatlers and Society News. The family expect it. We can’t have the reporters and photographers coming to a church hall, of all things.’

  But Chummy was adamant: no announcements, no photographers.

  Next came the i
ssue of a wedding dress. Mater wanted to take her to Norman Hartnell, the Queen’s dressmaker, for a wedding gown. Chummy refused, even more emphatically. She wasn’t going to be dressed up like a Christmas tree fairy. ‘But you must, dear. We are all dressed by Hartnell.’ No, she wouldn’t budge. She would wear a tailored suit. ‘But you must wear white, dear. Virginal white for a wedding.’ ‘I’m not entitled to,’ replied Chummy wickedly. That put a stop to any further entreaties.

  The wedding party left from Nonnatus House, and I am not at all sure that the Reverend Mother would have approved of the disruption it caused had she seen it. But she was far away in Chichester, so it did not matter. The Sisters were in a real flutter of excitement because nothing like this had ever happened in the convent, and we girls were in a state bordering on panic trying to get ready. Mrs B had been baking all week and was putting the finishing touches to delectable dishes on the last morning, but Fred the boiler man had to go into her kitchen to attend to the boiler, which nearly drove her wild, and we all thought she would walk out. Sister Julienne sorted them out and calmed the cook, which was just as well, because without her the reception would have been a flop.

  Amid all the flurry of preparation the routine work had to be dealt with. We each had our usual list of ante- or post-natal visits, babies to bath, feeding to be supervised, and so on. In addition the general district nursing, especially the insulin injections, had to be attended to.

  The day started badly for Trixie because she had washed and set her hair first thing and had then gone out on her bike to do her visits, so her hair was blown about, and when she got back it looked a mess. She kept wailing, ‘What am I going to do with my hair? It’s all over the place, and I can’t do a thing with it!’ Cynthia advised Vitapointe and gave her a tube, but Trixie in her hurry picked up a tube of foundation cream, which she smothered all over her hair. So then her hair was covered in grease, which looked a great deal worse. Cynthia advised washing it again.

  ‘But it’s too late. I can’t go to a wedding with wet hair,’ Trixie cried.

  ‘Well, you certainly can’t go to a wedding with pink face cream on your hair!’

  Preparations started in earnest. A face pack was essential, then toning lotion; nails buffed and polished. Stockings were missing, or not matching, or laddered. A skirt had to be ironed.

  ‘Be careful. It’s too hot.’

  ‘But I can’t turn it down.’

  ‘You’ll have to leave it to get cooler.’

  ‘I haven’t time.’

  ‘You’ll have to. It will ruin the skirt if it’s too hot.’

  ‘Stupid thing. Why don’t we get a better one?’

  Hair clips had to be found, curlers taken out, lipsticks swapped, perfumes sniffed.

  ‘I think I like the Musk.’

  ‘The Freesia is more suitable for a wedding.’

  ‘It’s too light.’

  ‘Well, the Musk is too heavy.’

  ‘No it’s not. Don’t be such a misery.’

  Eyes are the window to the soul, they tell us. But that was not good enough for us girls. Eyes needed serious embellishment. Eyebrows had to be plucked, eyelashes curled, eyeshadow blended, eyeliner drawn with trembling haste, mascara ...

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘This mascara’s dried out.’

  ‘Spit on it, then.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘No it’s not. Keeps it moist. Here have some of mine.’

  ‘Not if you’ve been spitting on it, thank you very much.’

  ‘Please youself.’

  Trixie had decided that the only thing to do was to wash her hair again, and now she was frantically trying to dry it.

  ‘This stupid dryer is useless. Haven’t we got a better one?’

  ‘I’ll get mine.’

  ‘Yours blows too hard. I tried it before.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Accessories required careful thought. A brooch was pinned on, then taken off, a necklace tried, earrings swapped, bracelets considered. Scarves had to be compared.

  ‘That one matches your dress, you know.’

  ‘I think I prefer this one. It’s a contrast.’

  ‘No. Bit too dominant. Try that one over there.’

  ‘How does that look?’

  ‘Better, much better. I like it.’

  ‘OK, then I’ll wear it. No I won’t. The silly thing will only get in the way. I won’t wear a scarf at all.’

  The only person who wasn’t rushing wildly around preparing for the wedding was the bride herself. Chummy was perfectly calm and composed, and quietly smiling at the rest of us in our excitement.

  ‘You sort yourselves out,’ she said. ‘I’m all ready. I will just go along the corridor and spend half an hour by myself in the chapel until it’s time to go across the road to the church.’

  One thing that had to be resolved was who should remain behind to be on call. Sister Julienne was adamant that we girls should all attend the wedding ceremony and the reception, so then came the discussion about which of the Sisters should remain at Nonnatus House.

  ‘Weddings are for the young,’ said Sister Evangelina. ‘I’ll stay behind.’

  ‘No, no. That wouldn’t be fair,’ chorused her Sisters. ‘We know you would like to go. We’ll do a rota, and take it in turns.’

  So that is what they did.

  We left for the church, walked down the war-damaged road, past the bomb site that had been St Frideswide’s church, round the corner, across the East India Dock Road to All Saints church on the south side of the road. No cars, no flowers, no bridesmaids – nothing like that. We could have been going out for an afternoon stroll. Chummy was wearing a simple grey suit, flat shoes, no make-up, no hat. She looked her usual self, but somehow more than herself, more than the Chummy we had grown to love.

  The social division in the church was conspicuous. The Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes, oozing class, sat on one side of the aisle, and the Thompsons, shouting suburbia, sat on the other. We sat on Chummy’s side with the nuns and several nurses from St Thomas’s Hospital. On David’s were half a dozen strapping young policemen. The policemen only came because David was popular, and for the chance of free beer. Also, they were intrigued. What on earth was a girl who wanted to be a missionary going to be like? And what, in the name of all that was holy, could they expect of a wedding party put on by a group of nuns.

  They entered the church and were directed to David’s side, where they sat self-consciously among the Thompson relatives. But when a crowd of young nurses entered in their wide skirts, their tight waists and high-heeled shoes, and sat down on Chummy’s side, their spirits soared. They couldn’t believe their luck and tried leaning sideways in the pews to make eye contact with nods and grins. But the girls ignored them, of course.

  The nurses from St Thomas’s had come because they found it hard to believe that Chummy was getting married at all. They had been convinced that she was firmly on the shelf, destined for a worthy spinsterhood. They were also, I’m sorry to say, condescending. ‘Is it true that she’s marrying a policeman, my dear? With all her connections, surely she could have done better than that? She must have been desperate, that’s all I can say.’ They sat demurely among the Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes, aware that a group of young men on the other side were trying to attract their attention, but deliberately turning their pretty heads to study the Stations of the Cross adjoining the opposite wall. The air was charged with testosterone, but the flirting had to be suppressed when Chummy entered on the arm of her father.

  The wedding ceremony was beautiful, the love between these two like-minded young people filling the church with a golden light. Before God, and the present congregation, they pledged their life-long vows to each other and stepped out into the sunshine as man and wife.

  At the reception the policemen made straight for the young nurses, who rapidly forgot their hoity-toity airs and graces. Everything look
ed set fair for a good old party. The Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes lined up for the ceremonial hand-shaking and introductions, but the Thompsons didn’t know what to do and stood around looking sheepish, until Chummy rescued them with ‘Oh come on, Mater, let’s not bother with all that. Let’s just mix. It will be much nicer.’

  Mater’s face, half-hidden by an exquisite hat, looked a trifle sour. She approached Mrs Thompson, David’s mother.

  ‘Are you related to the Baily-Thompsons of Wiltshire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah! Well-er-perhaps to the Thompson-Bretts of India?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you might be, you know. It was a large family.’

  ‘I couldn’t rightly say, madam. I don’t know that any of my relations has been abroad. We come from Battersea, and we were all in trade.’

  ‘Oh, really? How very interesting.’

  ‘Yes. We have a nice little place, with a nice garden. Just right for a little child to run around in. You must come and have tea with me some day.’

  ‘Enchanted.’ With a pained smile, the lady inclined her head.

  ‘And when we have grandchildren, we’ll see a lot more of each other, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Delightful talking to you, Mrs Thompson.’

  And the poor lady crossed the social divide to talk with her own set about the shortcomings of the other side.

  Colonel Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne, in grey tails and topper, opened conversation with Mr Thompson, in Moss Bros wedding hire and trilby.

  ‘I say, old chap, let’s have a snort together.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. You’re paying for it.’

  ‘Well, er, yes. Customary, you know. Noblesse oblige. Father of the bride, and all that.’

  ‘And I’m father of the groom, so that makes us related, in a way.’

  ‘Related!’

  ‘Well, in a way.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, I must say. Tell me a bit about yourself. I’m India, ex-army. Were you in the services?’