Farewell To The East End

end of the journey. That was how we midwives felt as we headed home after evening visits.
    A cold but kindly west wind blew me all the way down Commercial Road and the East India Dock Road towards the welcome of Nonnatus House, the warmth of the big kitchen and – most important of all – food. I was young, healthy and hungry, and the day had been long. As I pedalled along, Mrs B’s home-made bread was foremost in my mind. She had a magic touch with bread, that woman, and I knew she had been baking that morning. Also in my mind was the puzzle Fred had presented us with at breakfast. I couldn’t work it out – three nines are twenty-seven, plus two makes twenty-nine – so where was the other shilling? It was nonsense, didn’t make sense, it must be somewhere. A shilling can’t vanish into thin air! I wondered what the girls had made of it. Had they got any closer to solving the riddle? Perhaps Trixie had worked out the answer; Trixie was pretty sharp.
    With the wind behind me the ride was easy, and I arrived at the convent glowing. But Trixie had come from the east, had cycled two miles into a strong head wind, and was consequently a bit ratty. We put our bikes away and carried our bags to the clinical room. The rule was that equipment must be cleaned, sterilised, checked and the bag repacked for immediate use in the middle of the night, should it be needed. Chummy – or Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne – was ahead of us.
    ‘What-ho, you jolly swags,’ she called out cheerily.
    ‘Oh no, spare me!’ groaned Trixie, ‘I really can’t stand it just now. I’m not “jolly”, and I’m not “what-hoing” anyone. I’m cold, my knees ache, and I’m famished. And I’ve got to clean my bag before I get a bite.’
    Chummy was all solicitude.
    ‘Sorry, old bean, didn’t mean to sound a wrong note, what? Here, I’ve just finished folding these swabs. You have them; I can quickly do some more. And the autoclave is at 180 degrees; I put it on twenty minutes ago when I came in. We’ll get these bally bags done in a jiff. Did you see Mrs B making bread this morning?’
    We had. Mrs B not only made the best bread north of the Thames, she made jams and chutneys, cheesy scones and cakes to die for.
    Our bags packed, we emerged from the clinical room and headed towards the kitchen, hungry for supper, which was a casual meal that we prepared ourselves. Lunch was the main meal of the day, when we all gathered around the big dining table, usually about twelve or fifteen people including visitors. Sister Julienne presided, and in the presence of the nuns and, frequently, visiting clergy, it was a more formal affair, and we girls were always on our best behaviour. Supper was different; we all came in at different times, including the Sisters, so we took what we wanted and ate in the kitchen. Standards were relaxed and so was conversation.
    The kitchen was large, probably Victorian, and had been modernised in Edwardian days, with bits and pieces added on later. Two large stone sinks stood against the wall beneath windows that were set so high no one could see out of them, not even Chummy, who was well over six feet tall. The taps were large and stiff, fed by lead pipes that ran all the way round the kitchen and were attached to the wall with metal fixtures. Whenever you turned a tap on, the pipes gurgled and shook as the water made its way along its course, sometimes coming out in a trickle, sometimes in vicious spurts – you had to stand well back to avoid a soaking. Wooden plate racks were fixed above each sink which was flanked on either side by a marble-topped surface. This was where Mrs B did all her mixing and kneading of dough, covering the mixture with a cloth for it to rise, and all the other magic rituals necessary for making bread.
    Against the second outside wall stood a double-sized gas stove, and the coke stove, which had an oven attached and a flue which ran up the wall and disappeared somewhere near the ceiling about fifteen feet above. The hot water for the whole convent was dependent upon this boiler, and so Fred, the boiler-and odd-job man, was a very important person indeed, a fact even Mrs B was obliged to concede. Fred and Mrs B were both Cockneys, and a guarded but fragile truce existed between them, which now and then erupted into a slanging match, usually when Fred had made a mess of Mrs B’s nice clean kitchen, and she would go for him hammer and tongs. She was a large lady of