Farewell to the East End (36 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Worth

BOOK: Farewell to the East End
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I have said that Chummy had cleared up the mess as best she could under the circumstances. But resources were minimal, and the deck of the cabin was still slippery in patches.
The two men lifting Kirsty nodded to each other, took a deep breath and heaved. Her bottom lifted about six inches from the deck. Olaf, on her left, moved his foot and trod on a slippery patch. He hurtled forward across Kirsty’s body and Bjorg was thrown backwards. In his fall he flung his arm upwards and hit the hurricane lamp with such force that it shattered, plunging the cabin into darkness.
In the meantime Kirsty had acted. A desperate mother can do anything in defence of her child. As the lamp shattered she screamed, ‘My baby,’ pushed Olaf, who was lying sprawled over her, to one side, scrambled to her feet, and ran over to the corner where Chummy was sitting. She took the baby, enfolding her protectively to her bosom. When another hurricane lamp was brought in she could be seen by all the men sitting quietly on a chair, rocking her baby, with a sheet modestly draped around her.
 
When the cabin was cleared of men, Chummy set about making it into a suitable lying-in room for mother and baby. The bed was not broken, the legs had merely folded in on themselves so she fixed it up again for Kirsty. But there was no clean linen left after delivery, and her patient had no nightie. There was no cot for the baby, no means of bathing her, and no clothes for her. She explained her needs to Kirsty, who was not really listening, so she went to the door, opened it, and shouted, ‘Olaf!’ The biggest of the bruisers entered and stood to attention, looking ill at ease.
‘Tell him I need more clean linen, two more pillows, some nightdresses and a dressing gown for you. Also I need some more hot water and more clean towels for me to bath the baby; a box or basket which I can make into a cot, and some soft linen or cloth that I can tear up and make into cot blankets.’ She considered there was no point in asking for baby clothes.
Kirsty translated, and Olaf looked mesmerised. She repeated the instructions two or three times, and Chummy could see him desperately trying to activate his brain and memorise the list, which he was counting off on his fingers. He left the cabin, and Chummy set about clearing things up a little more and packing her delivery bag. She was beginning to feel tired. The drama of the night had kept the adrenalin pumping through her body, but now that all danger for mother and baby had passed, her limbs felt heavy and slow.
Olaf reappeared with an armful of stuff, and a second man brought in a jug of hot water. Chummy was able to bath the baby, with Kirsty eagerly watching and commenting at every stage. A basket, which smelled of fish, had been provided, and this Chummy transformed into a crib. She made up the bed with clean linen – but still there was no nightie. Chummy could not allow her patient to remain naked, so summoned Olaf again.
Kirsty explained what was wanted, and the man turned bright red. How very extraordinary, thought Chummy, that this man, who has regularly been having intercourse with this woman, should be embarrassed to have to fetch her a nightie!
He went away and came back with a bag full of women’s clothing which he handed to Chummy without looking at her.
Breastfeeding was the next thing for Chummy to think about. One really wants to establish breastfeeding immediately after delivery and ensure that the colostrum is flowing and that the mother has, at least, a vague idea of what she should do. Kirsty’s breasts were so huge that they rested on the bed on either side of her. The baby could easily be suffocated by these mammoth mammaries, Chummy thought, as she expressed some colostrum. She tried the baby at the breast, and the child, surprisingly, opened her mouth, latched on and sucked vigorously a few times. Kirsty was in an ecstasy of delight. Flushed, with sparkling eyes and radiant features, she looked quite different. She must have been a pretty young girl, thought Chummy, before she became the inert, sexually active queen bee in this hive of males.
By now, Chummy was so tired that she could scarcely stand. She sat down on a chair beside Kirsty, who was examining the baby’s fingers and toes.
‘Look. She has little fingernails. Aren’t they sweet? Like little shells. And I think she’s going to have dark hair – her eyelashes are dark, have you noticed?’ Kirsty looked up. ‘Are you all right, nurse? You don’t look too good.’
Chummy muttered, ‘I’ll be all right. Do you think someone might bring us a cup of tea? You could do with a cup also.’
Kirsty called out, and Olaf entered. She gave her instructions, and five minutes later he reappeared carrying a tray laden with good food and fresh coffee. He placed it on the captain’s desk and then, rather sheepishly, took a quick look at the baby and sidled out.
‘Did you see that?’ said Kirsty incredulously. ‘They’re treating me like a lady.’
Chummy poured the coffee. The caffeine perked her up a bit, and she began to feel stronger. She knew that she would need to, because one more task faced her. She had to get down the rope ladder. She had another cup of coffee and a sweet pastry, which gave her some energy. She left, telling Kirsty that she would return later in the morning.
Up on deck the dawn was breaking. The wind had dropped, and thin shafts of red-gold sunlight filtered through the grey clouds. Seagulls were swooping and squawking. The docks looked beautiful in the half light, and the fresh, cold air stung her cheeks. One of the men was carrying her bag, and they all clustered around, cheering and clapping. Chummy walked to the side and looked over the edge. It looked a long, long way down, and the rope ladder looked flimsy. If I can do it once, I can do it again, she said to herself, putting her foot on the rail. Then she remembered her skirt, and the danger it presented. So without any inhibition – she who was chronically inhibited in the presence of men – she pulled it up, tucked it into her knickers and climbed over the side. Her main anxiety was the missing rung, but she knew roughly where it was, and was prepared for the gap. When it came it was not as hard to negotiate as she had expected, and with a sigh of relief she continued to the quayside. One of the men tied her bag to a rope and let it down for her. She untied it, released her skirt, waved to the men above, and set out for the dock gates, her body tired, but her whole being exhilarated with the joy of having successfully delivered a healthy baby to an eager and loving mother.
 
The nightwatchman was preparing to go home for the day. He collected his supper box, put away his frying pan, doused his fire and was sorting out the key to lock his hut, when two policemen approached the dock gates.
‘Morning, nightwatch. Fair morning after the storm.’
The watchman turned. His fingers were stiff, and he was fumbling with the key, unable to find the keyhole.
‘Dratted key,’ he muttered. ‘Fair morning? Fair enough. Don’t like the wind.’
‘Quiet night for you?’
‘Quiet enough. Would ’ave been quiet, ’cept for bloody women gettin’ in the way.’
‘Women?’
‘Yes, women. Shouldn’t be ’ere, I say.’
The policemen looked at each other. They knew that the Port of London Authority was very strict on women entering the docks, especially since the previous year when a prostitute had slipped in the dark from a gangplank and drowned.
‘Which vessel?’ The policeman took out his notebook and pencil.
‘The
Katrina
. Swedish timber merchant.’
‘Did you see the women?’
‘Saw one of ’em. A nurse. Her bicycle’s over there. Don’t know what to do wiv it. An’ ’er coat an’ all. Don’t know what to do wiv it, neither.’
‘A nurse?’
‘Yes. Woman ill on the
Katrina
, so I calls ve Sisters, and a nurse comes.’
‘You had better tell us what happened.’
‘About eleven thirty. A deck hand, ’e comes to me, saying, “Woman, woman,” rollin’ his eyes an’ rubbin’ ’is stomach, an’ groanin’. So I calls a doctor, but ’e’s out, so I calls ve Sisters, an’ a big lanky nurse comes, an’ I takes her to the
Katrina
, South Quay. Right plucky girl, she was. Climbs up ve rope ladder an’ all.’
‘What! A nurse climbed the ship’s ladder in that wind?’
‘I’m tellin’ yer. Big plucky girl. Climbed up, she did. And a rung was missing near the top, an’ all. I saw it wiv me own eyes, I did.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m bleedin’ sure. Think I’m bloody daft?’ The nightwatchman was offended.
‘No, of course not. What happened next?’
‘Search me. She climbed on board, an’ she’s still there, for all I knows. Leastways she hasn’t collected ’er bike, nor ’er coat, neiver.’
The two policemen conferred. This was a matter for the Port of London Police. The Metropolitan had no authority inside the ports. But was it true? Nightwatchmen, due perhaps to their solitary calling in the darkest hours, were known to fantasise.
The man was fumbling with his key again. He turned and glanced down the quay. ‘There she is. That’s ’er. Told yer, didn’t I? Big lanky girl.’
The two policemen saw a female figure wandering towards them. Her footsteps were uncertain, and she staggered rather than walked. The ordeal of climbing down the rope ladder had taken the last reserve of Chummy’s strength. One of the policemen stepped forward to meet her and took her arm. She leaned on him heavily, murmuring, ‘Thank you.’ He said, ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ She looked at him vaguely.
‘I’m not sure. Have we?’
He smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She walked towards her bike. He said, ‘I don’t wish to be rude, nurse, but are you fit to ride a bike?’
She looked round and slowly gathered her thoughts.
‘I’ll be all right. I must admit I feel a bit queer, but I’ll be all right.’
The bike was a big, heavy Raleigh, iron framed and ancient.
She took hold of the handlebars, but it felt so heavy she could barely move it. The policeman said ‘Nurse, I really do not think you should ride that cycle, especially down the East India Dock Road just as the ports are opening and the lorries are coming in. In fact, in the name of the Law, I am telling you
not
to ride it. I am going to call a taxi.’
‘What about my bike?’ she protested. ‘It can’t stay here.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I will ride it back for you. You are going to Nonnatus House, I think. I know where it is.’
 
In the snug comfort of a London taxi Chummy fell sound asleep. She was confused and barely articulate on waking, so the driver had to help her out and then rang the bell for her. The Sisters were just leaving the chapel when it sounded. Novice Ruth opened the door to see a cab driver supporting Chummy and holding her bag. Her first reaction was to think that the nurse was drunk. ‘Sit down here,’ she said to Chummy. ‘I’ll fetch Sister Julienne.’
Sister Julienne came quickly, paid the cab driver and turned her attention to Chummy, who seemed unable to move.
‘What is the matter, my dear?’ She did not smell of drink. ‘What has happened to you?’ Perhaps she had been beaten up.
Chummy mumbled, ‘I’m all right. Just feel a bit funny, that’s all. Don’t worry about me.’
‘But what happened?’
‘A baby.’
‘But we deliver babies all the time. What else happened?’
‘On a ship.’
‘A ship! Where?’
‘In the docks.’
‘But we never go into the docks.’
‘I did. I had to.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The baby was born there.’
‘You mean that a baby was born on a merchant vessel?’
‘Yes.’
‘How extraordinary,’ exclaimed Sister Julienne. ‘This requires further investigation. Do you know the name of the ship?’
‘Yes. The
Katrina
.’
‘I think you had better go to bed, nurse. You don’t look yourself. Someone else can clean and sterilise your equipment. I must take your record of the delivery and look into this.’
Chummy was helped upstairs to her room, and Sister Julienne took the midwife’s record to her office to study. She could scarcely believe what she read. She rang the doctor, and they agreed that they must examine the mother and baby on board the ship, and have them transferred to a maternity hospital for proper post-natal care.

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