Farewell To The East End

all the way under the Thames from Poplar to Greenwich. It was narrow, having been built for Victorian traffic, and was far too narrow for twentieth-century freight vehicles. Two lorries going in opposite directions could only just pass each other if each of them drove as close as possible to the wall, sometimes scraping it. Cynthia could easily have been crushed. She could not have got off her bike because there was nowhere to stand; a concrete barrier about twelve inches high and the same deep was all that separated the road from the tunnel wall. She just had to keep cycling amid the noise, the dazzle of headlights, and the exhaust fumes. As she approached the other side, the tunnel started to ascend, and so she had to pedal uphill. To make matters worse, with the wind in a certain direction, the Blackwall acted as a wind funnel, as it had on that night. So poor Cynthia was forced to cycle uphill against a strong head wind – the worst possible combination.
    And then, of course, she had to come back …

    It is often surprising how quickly the young can recover from a nasty experience. Cynthia was not injured – she had been badly frightened and was physically exhausted, but she was not hurt. We made a big fuss of her. We sat her down near the stove, and Fred opened the vent and raked some hot coals onto the hearth to warm her. Novice Ruth boiled some water and poured it into a tin bowl, into which she put a spoonful of mustard, and instructed Cynthia to take off her shoes and stockings and soak her feet. The heat brought the colour back into her cheeks. Chummy cut the crust off the other end of the loaf and added a wedge of cheese with the last of Mrs B’s chutney. Trixie brought out the cake. Sister Julienne made a large mug of steaming cocoa.
    Cynthia leaned back in her chair and sighed.
    ‘I don’t know how it happened, I really don’t, but once I had got into the situation I couldn’t get out of it. It was a nightmare. But it’s all over now, thank God, and Mrs B’s bread is delicious.’
    She sank her teeth into the buttered crust and giggled.
    ‘I don’t know if the police knew I was there. I’m sure I shouldn’t have been.’
    Sister Julienne said, ‘It is probably illegal. I don’t think even motor bikes are allowed through the tunnel, never mind a bicycle! I will have to inform the police you have been found, but I won’t tell them where you have been.’
    Fred interrupted. ‘Best not tell the police nuffink. Wha’ vey don’t know vey can’t do nuffink abaht.’
    Cynthia looked steadily at him. ‘Fred,’ she said, ‘I’ve been thinking on and off all day about that story you told us at breakfast and I can’t work it out. Three men went into a restaurant …’
    ‘Oh no, not that again,’ wailed Sister Julienne. ‘I’m going to bed.’

TRUST A SAILOR

    Novice Ruth had the face of a Botticelli angel. None of the men of Poplar had the courage to speak to her as she passed by; they seemed to be in awe of her beauty, her clear white skin, her wide grey eyes, her perfect teeth and gentle smile. It wasn’t that they were afraid of talking to a nun – they talked to the others. Perhaps it was her distinction, her quiet lady-like ways and above all her loveliness that left them tongue-tied. If any of them thought, ‘a nun! What a pity, what a waste!’ they would never have dared to say so.
    She was about twenty-five, closer to the age of us young girls than to the other Sisters, but she was not one of us. No, she was firmly of the monastic order and, as she was still in her Noviciate, the rule was probably stricter for her than it was for her fully professed Sisters. Her profession filled her with a joy that was well-nigh tangible, and this happiness lent radiance to her beauty. She was also a fully trained nurse and midwife. After her training she had tested her calling to the religious life as an Aspirant and then a Postulant, before going on to the two years of her Noviciate. Yet still the monastic rule would require three more years of training, with solemn vows to be taken at the end of the first and second years, and final vows at the end of the third year. It was not a path to embark upon lightly, yet it seemed no burden to Novice Ruth. Holiness appeared to be her natural milieu.
    But there was another side to Novice Ruth that I am not sure anyone, apart from we girls, knew about. Certainly the people of Poplar never saw it, and I doubt if her older Sisters did. She had a