Farewell To The East End

can’t get up. I tells ya, I got DIE-betes. I’m dying yer see?’
    ‘You’ll do as you’re told, and no arguments. Is there a lavatory in the flat? Right, go and fill a pot of pee. I don’t want the stinking stuff, but I have to test it for sugar. Now off you go, quick. I haven’t got all day.’
    More from astonishment than compliance the man struggled to his feet, pulled the blanket across his middle and shuffled out of the room, his bare buttocks wobbling with every step. When he had gone Sister turned to the woman.
    ‘Is he always like this?’
    ‘Not never no different.’
    ‘Never gets up?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Humph. A good dose of salts and an enema up the arse is what he needs.’
    ‘’e wont like vat, ’e wont.’
    ‘Clear his system, it would. He’s all clogged up, that’s the trouble with him. I don’t hold with all this new-fangled medical clap-trap. Staphluses and coccuses and viruses and what have you. A good strong dose of salts and a good hot soap and water enema is all he needs to clear his system. Then there wouldn’t be any more of this nonsense about being ill and dying.’
    The man shuffled back into the room, groaning and rolling his eyes in a touching affectation of exhaustion. He put the chamber pot on the table and flopped into the bed.
    Sister took the blood-sugar-testing equipment from her bag. With a pipette she counted ten drops of water and five drops of urine into a test tube and dropped a tablet into it. The tablet fizzed and bubbled, and the liquid turned bright orange.
    ‘It’s high in sugar, not surprising. You’ll have to stop the beer and have an injection every day, twice a day.’
    The man gave a howl of anguish.
    ‘Not ve needle, oh no! I couldn’t stand no needle. Never could stomach needles. I shall faint. Faint, I tells yer.’
    ‘Well, you faint, then. Every day if you like.’
    ‘You’re ’ard,’ he murmured, weakly.
    Sister drew up a syringe and came towards him. The man screamed, leaped out of bed with the agility of a mountain goat and stood stark naked in the corner, whimpering. Sister advanced on him, and as he could not retreat any further, she plunged the needle into his leg and the injection was over in a second.
    I heard a stifled sound from the other corner and turned. For the first time the woman’s features relaxed and she giggled. I caught her eye and winked.
    The man was whingeing and rubbing his leg.
    ‘You’re ’ard, I tells yer, ’ard. No pity on a man wha’s never done you no ’arm.’
    Sister Evangelina was unmoved.
    ‘Cover up your balls and bits, get dressed and get on with your work in the pub.’
    ‘I can’t. I’m ill. Annie, get me a beer. I’ve ’ad a nasty shock.’
    ‘Oh no, you don’t. You’ve got to cut out the beer.’
    He gave her a sly, shifty look.
    ‘If I cuts out ve beer, will you cut out ve needle?’
    ‘Perhaps, in time, when your blood sugar is lower.’
    ‘Then p’raps, in time, I’ll cut out ve beer.’
    ‘You old weasle. You may be lazy, but you’re not daft. Have it your own way. Kill yourself, if you want to, but don’t expect any pity from me.’
    With that, Sister stomped out of the room. At the door, she said, ‘Expect the nurse, every morning and evening, for the needle.’

    Bullies are always cowards. Sister Evangelina had, as usual, struck exactly the right note with her patient on the first visit. I had the thankless task of injecting Mr Lacey twice daily with insulin, and although he whined and whinged every time, he did not resist. In fact, after a few days, he assumed a heroic stance, telling me that not many men could bear such pain, and he ought to be in the medical books. With each injection, he screwed up his face into an expression of noble endurance, and when it was done he sank back on the pillows, a heap of exhausted suffering. He took himself absolutely seriously. He was both comic and contemptible.
    Daily visits to the pub enabled me to get to know Mrs Lacey. Whatever time of day I called, she was always working. She did everything necessary to keep the pub running. She received the barrels of beer on delivery days, when they were rolled down the hatch into the cellar, then single-handed she rolled them across the floor and fixed them to the pumps going up to the bar. She carried crates of bottles up and down the narrow stone stairs from cellar to bar, and the crates of empties into the street for collection. She cleaned the bar room, scrubbed the tables,