Farewell to the East End (38 page)
Read Farewell to the East End Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
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.
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.’
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 issue 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.
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