Farewell To The East End

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.