Farewell To The East End

ON THE SHELF

A knock at the door. Sister Monica Joan was in the hallway. I was just coming downstairs. She opened the door, then banged it shut and started to draw the bolts across. I went up to her.

‘Sister, what’s the matter?’

She did not answer coherently, but muttered and clucked to herself as she fumbled with the bolts; but they were large and heavy, and her bony fingers had not the strength with which to draw them.

‘See here, child, pull this one, pull it hard. We must firm up the battlements, lower the portcullis.’

Another knock at the door.

‘But Sister, dear, there’s someone at the door. We can’t keep them out. It might be important.’

She continued fussing.

‘Oh, drat this thing! Why won’t you help me?’

‘I’m going to open the door, Sister. We can’t keep people out. There might be someone in labour.’

I opened the door. A policeman stood there. But Sister was in readiness. She had her crucifix in her hand and held it forward with an outspread arm, thrusting it in his face.

‘Stand back, stand back, I adjure you. In the name of Christ, retreat!’

Her voice was quavering with passion, and her poor old arm was trembling, so that the crucifix was rocking and shaking a few inches from his nose.

‘You shall not enter. You see before you a Soldier of Christ, girt with the Armour of Salvation, ’gainst which the Jaws of Hell shall not prevail.’

The policeman’s face was a study. I tried to intervene.

‘But Sister, dear, it’s not ...’

‘Get thee behind me, Satan. Like Horatio I stand alone on the bridge to face the Midian hordes. Lay down thy sword. Desist, thou Scourge of Israel.’

With that, she shut the door, then turned to me and gave me one of her naughty winks.

‘That will see them off. They won’t try again.’

Poor Sister. I understood her aversion to policemen and sympathised. But perhaps the policeman had called about something to do with our work. It would not have been the first time that a Bobby on the beat had been asked to ‘go an’ call ve midwife, deary. I reckons I’m in labour’.

‘I’ll go and see what he wants. But I won’t let him in. I promise you, Sister.’

I opened the door a few inches and slipped out. Sister Monica Joan banged it shut behind me, nearly catching my ankle.

The policeman was standing in the street, looking as though he did not quite know what to do next. A bicycle was propped against the railings.

‘You must excuse her. She does not like ...’

Then I recognised him. It was the copper whom Chummy had knocked over when she was learning to ride her bicycle and who had also accompanied the police sergeant in his investigations about the stolen jewellery. I burst out laughing.

‘Oh, it’s you. We seem to meet a lot. What do you want this time?’

‘I’m not here on police business. You can tell Sister and calm her fears. I’ve brought a bicycle back, that is all. I told the nurse I would.’

‘Which nurse?’

‘I don’t know her name. The very tall one.’

‘Chummy. What are you doing with her bike?’

‘I sent her back by taxi, because I did not think she was in a fit condition to ride.’

‘What?’ I exclaimed, thinking he meant that she was drunk. ‘When?’

‘This morning at about six o’clock.’

‘Good God! Where did you find her?’

‘In the Docks.’

‘In the Docks! Drunk and incapable in the Docks, at six o’clock in the morning! My God! This is a side of Chummy we knew nothing about. She’s a dark horse. You wait till I tell the girls. Was it a wild party, or something?’

He was smiling. He was an interesting-looking man who was probably younger than he appeared. He had an ugly-attractive sort of face, and a scar ran up the side of his cheek almost to the cheekbone. This might have made him look grim, but as he smiled his dark eyes danced with humour.

‘No. It was no party, and she was not drunk. I am not sure of the details, but apparently a baby was born on one of the ships, and your nurse Chummy went to deliver it.’

I knew nothing about the drama of the night and stared at him in amazement.

‘I saw the nurse staggering along the quayside as my colleague and I were talking with the nightwatchman. It had been a stormy night, and he said that she had climbed up the rope ladder. So presumably she had to climb down again. When I saw her, she looked as if she were on the verge of collapse. She hardly knew where she was going. So I told her not to ride the bike and ordered a taxi. I am now returning the bike,’ he added more formally, ‘and would like you to sign for it.’

I signed, and he thanked me and turned to go. But then he hesitated and half turned back.

‘I was wondering ...’ And then he stopped. Silence.

‘Yes? Wondering what?’

‘Oh, just thinking ...’ Another silence.

‘Well, unless I know what you are thinking, I can’t help you, can I?’

‘No, of course not.’ More silence. ‘How is she?’

‘Who? Chummy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with her.’

‘I’m not sure. I hope not. She looked all in when I saw her, and ...’ His voice trailed off.

‘Oh, that’s nothing, I assure you. We are frequently “all in”. Sometimes the work gets very heavy, and we are often out for long hours. It can be quite exhausting, sometimes. But we get over it. Chummy will, you’ll see.’

‘I hope so.’ Another long silence, in which he looked as if he wanted to say more. I waited.

‘Look, tell her I brought back the bike ...’ He stopped again;

‘...I felt responsible for her in a way this morning, when I saw her staggering along the quayside. She hardly knew where she was going and would have killed herself on a bike in the East India Dock Road. I suppose I just wanted to reassure myself that she is all right now.’

‘Well, I honestly don’t know. And if you will excuse me, I have to go. I have the morning visits to make, and it’s getting late. If you want to know how she is, you had better come back later.’ He nodded. ‘But come back when you are not on duty, and not in uniform. You might meet Sister Monica Joan again!’

A few days later we were relaxing in our sitting room. The pressure of work had subsided. Then there was a knock at the door. Trixie groaned.

‘Here comes trouble. Someone in labour. Who’s on call?’

She came back a few minutes later with a wicked grin on her face.

‘There’s a young man to see you, Chummy.’

‘Oh whoopee! It must be my brother, Wizard Prang ! He’s on leave from the RAF. Pilot, you know. Commissioned officer and all that. Don’t know what he does, actually, now that the war is over, but he seems to enjoy it. Ask him to come up, old girl. Not too fast. We’d better tidy up, eh, girls?’

Cynthia, Chummy and I set about clearing away the dirty mugs, plates, papers, magazines, shoes and bits of uniform that were lying around the place. If Chummy’s brother, Wizard Prang, was anything like his sister, and from the name it sounded as if he would be, this was going to be a rare treat.

A tall man entered the room. I recognised him at once as the policeman, in plain clothes. Chummy, who couldn’t handle men, instantly went bright red and started spluttering. Trixie, who always liked to stir things up, said innocently, ‘This is David, and he wants to see you, Chummy.’

‘Oh, great Scott! Me? There must be some mistake. It can’t be me.’

She swallowed hard, and her arm jerked sideways, knocking over a table lamp, which fell onto the record player, where our favourite 78 was spinning round. There was a ghastly screeching sound as the needle dragged across the record.

‘Oh, clumsy clot! Oh silly me! Now what have I done?’ Chummy’s voice was distressed.

‘You’ve ruined the Eartha Kitt, that’s what you’ve done, you chump.’ Trixie sounded cross. ‘That was “Take It Easy”, something you need to learn to do, you idiot.’

‘Oh, sorry girls. Frightfully sorry and all that. I know I’m a liability. Here, I’ll stop the dratted thing.’

Chummy moved, and there was another crash as she knocked over a table of coffee mugs.

‘Lawks! What next?’ was her anguished cry.

There was a guffaw of masculine laughter.

‘David is the policeman you knocked over last year,’ said Trixie wickedly. ‘He wants to see you.’

‘Oh, crikey! Not that again! I didn’t mean ...’

Chummy’s voice trailed away into nothingness. Her embarrassment was all-consuming. David looked abashed, in the presence of four girls and a chaotic situation that somehow – he did not know how – he seemed to have provoked. Cynthia came to the rescue, her low voice easing the tension. She picked up the coffee mugs and scooped up the instant coffee from the carpet.

‘Nonsense. Of course David hasn’t come about last year’s accident. Would you like a cup of coffee? There may be some bits of fluff in it, but you can pick them off when they float to the top.’ With a few words she put everyone at their ease. ‘We were talking about Chummy’s extraordinary adventure in the Dock the other night.’

‘That is why I came.’ He turned to Chummy. ‘It was a very brave thing you did. Are you all right now?’

‘Lawks, yes. Nothing wrong with me. Bounce up like a cork, I do. But how did you know about it, actually?’

‘I was there. I saw you coming along the quayside. Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’ Chummy looked vague.

‘Well, I do. I think I will always remember the way you looked when you got off that boat. You deserve a medal.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘For all that you did that night.’

‘Oh, fiddlesticks. That was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.’

‘I do not think so. I really don’t.’

Chummy could not be induced to say anything more. She sat on the edge of her chair, stiff and awkward, looking as though she wished herself a thousand miles away.

The evening passed pleasantly. Policemen and nurses always have a lot in common. I had found from previous experience, living in nurses’ homes, that if we wanted to throw an impromptu party, we only had to send an invitation round to the nearest police station, and we would be flooded with healthy young coppers, eager to try their chances. David certainly enjoyed himself, being the centre of the attention among four young girls, even though one of them was too shy to talk.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to Chummy’s experience in the Docks, and in particular to the ship’s woman, who held a morbid fascination for us. We were agog to hear more about the life of such a woman and tried to get Chummy to talk about her. But it was no use. Poor Chummy might have been able to be expansive with us girls, but in mixed company she was speechless with discomfort. In those days, it must be remembered, even amongst midwives who saw just about everything, sexual matters were either unmentionable, or referred to obliquely and with exaggerated delicacy. And the life of a ship’s woman was in no way delicate!

We asked David if he had heard of such a character. He assured us that, although every crew might wish to have one, a ship’s woman was pretty rare, because of the strict controls on trading vessels. ‘But they do exist, as you have found out.’ He looked sideways at Chummy with an amused grin. She persisted in looking at the carpet, biting her lips and chewing her fingernails.

The clock struck eleven. David stood up to leave. Cynthia said, ‘This has been so nice. We do hope you will come again. Chummy, would you show David out, while we tidy up?’

Chummy reluctantly stood up and cast an appealing glance at Cynthia, who refused to notice her distress. In silence they left the room, and a few minutes later we heard the front door close.

Chummy reappeared, looking pink, giggly and bewildered.

‘Well?’ we all said in chorus.

‘He has asked me to go out with him.’

‘Of course. What did you expect?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Well why do you think he came here, all dressed up in his best suit with a clean shirt and a new tie?’

‘Was he? I didn’t notice.’

‘Of course he was. Anyone could see that.’

‘But why? I don’t understand.’

‘Because he likes you. That’s why.’

‘He can’t do. Not in that way, anyway. I’m not pretty. I’m not even attractive. I’m too big, and I’m clumsy and awkward. My feet are too big. I fall over things. I never know what to say to anyone. My mater can’t take me anywhere. She says I’m on the shelf.’

‘Well, your mater is an ass.’

David had been in the Arnhem debacle during the war. He had been in the Paratroop Regiment, which was a crack division. In the autumn of 1944, 30,000 troops were flown behind the enemy lines to capture the bridges spanning the canals and rivers on the Dutch/German border. At the same time, British tanks and infantry were mobilised to push through from the Allied front in Normandy to relieve the airborne troops. But things did not turn out as planned, and consequently the advance airborne divisions were cut off in enemy territory without supplies or reinforcements. David was one of the lucky ones who survived. Exhausted, filthy and half-starved, he and a handful of men had made their way through the woods to the British and American occupied territory. He had been in the war only for two years, from age eighteen to twenty, but the experience had left a lasting mark on his mind and character, as well as giving him the scar on his face.

After the war, he couldn’t settle down in civilian life. He had scarcely had time before call-up to decide what he wanted to do, and after the danger and drama of the war everything seemed rather tame at home. He tried factory work, and a milk round, he worked in a garage and in a pub, but found satisfaction in none of these. His mother was worried, and his father impatient. ‘Chopping and changing jobs all the time won’t get you anywhere. You want to settle down. A nice steady job with a pension, that’s what you want.’ David privately thought that a steady job with a pension would be worse than death, so he changed his job again.

He had always been a quiet boy who read a lot. He was not particularly good at school, because none of the things the school taught seemed important to him. But he read voraciously, and his young mind and soul thrilled to tales of faraway places with strange-sounding names. He wanted to go to them all and learn about the people and their customs. The army had given him the chance to get away, but the horrors of war had shattered many of his romantic dreams.

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.