Farewell To The East End

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.
    They met at ten a.m. at the gates of the West India Docks. Sister looked very small and out of place. She explained to the porter that they must go aboard the Katrina , where a baby had been born during the night. He looked at her as though she were mad, but said that he would inform the Harbour Master.
    A short time elapsed, and the Harbour Master arrived with the docking book in his hand. A berth had been reserved for the Katrina for three more days, but she had pulled anchor and sailed at eight a.m.
    Sister was horrified. ‘But they can’t do that. There is a mother and baby on board, just delivered. They will need medical attention. It’s the height of irresponsibility. That poor woman.’
    The Harbour Master gave her a very dubious look, and simply said, ‘Women are not permitted in the docks. Now, excuse me, but I must ask you to leave.’
    Sister would probably have said more, but the doctor led her away.
    ‘There is nothing you can do, Sister. They have gone, and if the captain has done a runner, frankly, I am not surprised. A ship’s woman, as they are called, contravenes all international shipping laws. If a mother and baby were found on board the captain would be arrested. He would certainly be dismissed from service, he would be heavily fined and might have to face a prison sentence. It is no surprise that he left port three days ahead of schedule. By now the Katrina will be well out in the English Channel.’

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