Farewell To The East End

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.’
    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,