Farewell To The East End

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.
    ‘But it’s too late. I can’t go to a wedding with wet hair,’ Trixie cried.
    ‘Well, you certainly can’t go to a wedding with pink face cream on your hair!’
    Preparations started in earnest. A face pack was essential, then toning lotion; nails buffed and polished. Stockings were missing, or not matching, or laddered. A skirt had to be ironed.
    ‘Be careful. It’s too hot.’
    ‘But I can’t turn it down.’
    ‘You’ll have to leave it to get cooler.’
    ‘I haven’t time.’
    ‘You’ll have to. It will ruin the skirt if it’s too hot.’
    ‘Stupid thing. Why don’t we get a better one?’
    Hair clips had to be found, curlers taken out, lipsticks swapped, perfumes sniffed.
    ‘I think I like the Musk.’
    ‘The Freesia is more suitable for a wedding.’
    ‘It’s too light.’
    ‘Well, the Musk is too heavy.’
    ‘No it’s not. Don’t be such a misery.’
    Eyes are the window to the soul, they tell us. But that was not good enough for us girls. Eyes needed serious embellishment. Eyebrows had to be plucked, eyelashes curled, eyeshadow blended, eyeliner drawn with trembling haste, mascara …
    ‘Damn!’
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘This mascara’s dried out.’
    ‘Spit on it, then.’
    ‘That’s disgusting.’
    ‘No it’s not. Keeps it moist. Here have some of mine.’
    ‘Not if you’ve been spitting on it, thank you very much.’
    ‘Please youself.’
    Trixie had decided that the only thing to do was to wash her hair again, and now she was frantically trying to dry it.
    ‘This stupid dryer is useless. Haven’t we got a better one?’
    ‘I’ll get mine.’
    ‘Yours blows too hard. I tried it before.’
    ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
    Accessories required careful thought. A brooch was pinned on, then taken off, a necklace tried, earrings swapped, bracelets considered. Scarves had to be compared.
    ‘That one matches your dress, you know.’
    ‘I think I prefer this one. It’s a contrast.’
    ‘No. Bit too dominant. Try that one over there.’
    ‘How does that look?’
    ‘Better, much better. I like it.’
    ‘OK, then I’ll wear it. No I won’t. The silly thing will only get in the way. I won’t wear a scarf at all.’
    The only person who wasn’t rushing wildly around preparing for the wedding was the bride herself. Chummy was perfectly calm and composed, and quietly smiling at the rest of us in our excitement.
    ‘You sort yourselves out,’ she said. ‘I’m all ready. I will just go along the corridor and spend half an hour by myself in the chapel until it’s time to go across the road to the church.’
    One thing that had to be resolved was who should remain behind to be on call. Sister Julienne was adamant that we girls should all attend the wedding ceremony and the reception, so then came the discussion about which of the Sisters should remain at Nonnatus House.
    ‘Weddings are for the young,’ said Sister Evangelina. ‘I’ll stay behind.’
    ‘No, no. That wouldn’t be fair,’ chorused her Sisters. ‘We know you would like to go. We’ll do a rota, and take it in turns.’
    So that is what they did.
    We left for the church, walked down the war-damaged road, past the bomb site that had been St Frideswide’s church, round the corner, across the East India Dock Road to All Saints church on the south side of the road. No cars, no flowers, no bridesmaids – nothing like that. We could have been going out for an afternoon stroll. Chummy was wearing a simple grey suit, flat shoes, no make-up, no hat. She looked her usual self, but somehow more than herself, more than the Chummy we had grown to love.
    The social division in the church was conspicuous. The Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes, oozing class, sat on one side of the aisle, and the Thompsons, shouting suburbia, sat on the other. We sat on Chummy’s side with the nuns and several nurses from St Thomas’s Hospital. On David’s were half a dozen strapping young policemen. The policemen only came because David was popular, and for the chance of free beer. Also, they were intrigued. What on