Farewell To The East End

earth was a girl who wanted to be a missionary going to be like? And what, in the name of all that was holy, could they expect of a wedding party put on by a group of nuns.
    They entered the church and were directed to David’s side, where they sat self-consciously among the Thompson relatives. But when a crowd of young nurses entered in their wide skirts, their tight waists and high-heeled shoes, and sat down on Chummy’s side, their spirits soared. They couldn’t believe their luck and tried leaning sideways in the pews to make eye contact with nods and grins. But the girls ignored them, of course.
    The nurses from St Thomas’s had come because they found it hard to believe that Chummy was getting married at all. They had been convinced that she was firmly on the shelf, destined for a worthy spinsterhood. They were also, I’m sorry to say, condescending. ‘Is it true that she’s marrying a policeman, my dear? With all her connections, surely she could have done better than that? She must have been desperate, that’s all I can say.’ They sat demurely among the Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes, aware that a group of young men on the other side were trying to attract their attention, but deliberately turning their pretty heads to study the Stations of the Cross adjoining the opposite wall. The air was charged with testosterone, but the flirting had to be suppressed when Chummy entered on the arm of her father.
    The wedding ceremony was beautiful, the love between these two like-minded young people filling the church with a golden light. Before God, and the present congregation, they pledged their life-long vows to each other and stepped out into the sunshine as man and wife.

    At the reception the policemen made straight for the young nurses, who rapidly forgot their hoity-toity airs and graces. Everything looked set fair for a good old party. The Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes lined up for the ceremonial hand-shaking and introductions, but the Thompsons didn’t know what to do and stood around looking sheepish, until Chummy rescued them with ‘Oh come on, Mater, let’s not bother with all that. Let’s just mix. It will be much nicer.’
    Mater’s face, half-hidden by an exquisite hat, looked a trifle sour. She approached Mrs Thompson, David’s mother.
    ‘Are you related to the Baily-Thompsons of Wiltshire?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Ah! Well-er-perhaps to the Thompson-Bretts of India?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Well, you might be, you know. It was a large family.’
    ‘I couldn’t rightly say, madam. I don’t know that any of my relations has been abroad. We come from Battersea, and we were all in trade.’
    ‘Oh, really? How very interesting.’
    ‘Yes. We have a nice little place, with a nice garden. Just right for a little child to run around in. You must come and have tea with me some day.’
    ‘Enchanted.’ With a pained smile, the lady inclined her head.
    ‘And when we have grandchildren, we’ll see a lot more of each other, I’m sure.’
    ‘Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Delightful talking to you, Mrs Thompson.’
    And the poor lady crossed the social divide to talk with her own set about the shortcomings of the other side.
    Colonel Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne, in grey tails and topper, opened conversation with Mr Thompson, in Moss Bros wedding hire and trilby.
    ‘I say, old chap, let’s have a snort together.’
    ‘Don’t mind if I do. You’re paying for it.’
    ‘Well, er, yes. Customary, you know. Noblesse oblige. Father of the bride, and all that.’
    ‘And I’m father of the groom, so that makes us related, in a way.’
    ‘Related!’
    ‘Well, in a way.’
    ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, I must say. Tell me a bit about yourself. I’m India, ex-army. Were you in the services?’
    ‘Well yes, sir. I was staff orderly to the officers of the Third Riflemens’ Division, East Sussex, in the First World War.’
    ‘Staff orderly?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘How interesting. How frightfully interesting.’
    The colonel did not look at all interested. Soon he crossed the room to join his wife.
    ‘Not a pukka sahib in the whole room. No one worth talking to.’
    ‘She’s really let us down. We never could take her anywhere, and I’m quite sure we never will. I suppose I must go round and “mix” with her friends as she puts it, but it will be the last time, I assure you. I think I will talk to that old lady sitting by herself over there.’
    The old lady was Sister Monica Joan, who