Farewell To The East End

tendency to a giggly girlishness that was most unexpected and therefore all the more endearing. She would laugh at almost anything. This side of her came out mostly around the big kitchen table when we were sorting out our supper, especially if two or three of us were there before the Sisters came in. This was the time when we swapped yarns about the doings of the day. Anything would set Novice Ruth off: the simplest thing like a chain or a pedal coming off a bike, or losing your cap in the wind. She would literally curl up giggling and have to hold her sides as tears streamed from her eyes. Her laughter was most infectious, and we all enjoyed supper when Novice Ruth was around.
    She was also a serious mimic and could take off anyone to perfection. Sister Monica Joan was one of her favourites: ‘I see the shifting shades of the etheric ether descending into the slime of Planet Earth and illuminating … oooh, jam and butter on these scones, how delicious.’ And she’d have us all in stitches.
    One evening we were in the kitchen enjoying cheese and chutney sandwiches with crumpets and honey to follow when the heavy tread of Sister Evangelina was heard. I was always nervous of Sister Evangelina as she had made it quite clear that she did not approve of me and, for her, I could do nothing right. The characteristic ‘humph’ assailed my ears, then the humourless voice: ‘Nurse Lee, Nurse Scatterbrain, I want a word with you.’ Every muscle in my body tensed, and I leaped to my feet, knocking over a pot of runny honey. ‘Yes, Sister,’ I said smartly and turned round, to find Novice Ruth. I got nasty indigestion from that one.
    No one could mimic the Cockney dialect and accent better than Novice Ruth. Whether it was the whining of a child or the scolding of a mother or the raucous shout of a coster, she had them all down to perfection. After a hard day she was particularly fond of ‘Nah ven, nah ven, le’s ’ave a cup o’ tea an’ a bi’ o’ cake, ducky. Nice bi’ o’ sailor’s cake, eh ducks?’ And we would split our sides with laughter, though I am not at all sure that, if Novice Ruth knew what the last phrase meant, she would have repeated it so often. We had heard that remark many times in the homes around the docks, and I doubt that any of us knew what it meant. I suspect we all thought sailor’s cake was a rich fruit cake with rum in it. 3

    The telephone rang at 1.30 a.m. Novice Ruth answered it.
    ‘Nonnatus House. Can I help you?’
    A soft Irish voice replied.
    ‘I was given your number, and told to call you when I was in labour.’
    ‘What is your name and address, please?’
    ‘Kathleen O’Brian, 144 Mellish Street, the Isle of Dogs.’
    Ruth did not recognise either the name or the address from antenatal visits. Neither could she recall any expectant mother with an Irish accent.
    ‘Are you booked with us?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Well, you must be booked with someone.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It means that you have registered for antenatal care and delivery of the baby, and for postnatal care.’
    ‘Oh.’
    There was a long pause.
    ‘Well, I’m not sure what that means, but I think I’m in labour, and I was told to call you. Can you come? The pains are getting quite strong, an’ all.’
    ‘How often are they?’
    ‘Well. I don’t rightly know, I don’t have a clock, but quite often, and quite strong, and … oh, there’s the click. The pennies are running out and I don’t have any more … 144 Mellish Street, Isle of Dogs …’
    The phone went dead.
    Ruth put on her habit and went to the office to search through the antenatal notes. She could find no Kathleen O’Brian. The woman must have booked elsewhere, but she would have to go to Mellish Street to see the woman and get the address of the correct midwifery service before she could refer her on. Ruth went to the shed and got out her bicycle. She was just about to cycle off, when she paused. Perhaps she ought to take her delivery bag. You never knew! She went back to the clinical room and fetched it.
    The cold night air woke her up as she cycled through the quiet streets. She found Mellish Street without any trouble; it ran at right angles to the river. The houses were drab and tall, the street unlit, and she could see no house numbers. So she got off her bike and detached the lamp, shining it on the buildings in the hope that it would illuminate a number. It shone on number 20. She pedalled on, the