Read Farewell to the East End Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
Farewell to the East End (39 page)
‘But it’s too late. I can’t go to a wedding with wet hair,’ Trixie cried.
‘Well, you certainly can’t go to a wedding with pink face cream on your hair!’
Preparations started in earnest. A face pack was essential, then toning lotion; nails buffed and polished. Stockings were missing, or not matching, or laddered. A skirt had to be ironed.
‘Be careful. It’s too hot.’
‘But I can’t turn it down.’
‘You’ll have to leave it to get cooler.’
‘I haven’t time.’
‘You’ll have to. It will ruin the skirt if it’s too hot.’
‘Stupid thing. Why don’t we get a better one?’
Hair clips had to be found, curlers taken out, lipsticks swapped, perfumes sniffed.
‘I think I like the Musk.’
‘The Freesia is more suitable for a wedding.’
‘It’s too light.’
‘Well, the Musk is too heavy.’
‘No it’s not. Don’t be such a misery.’
Eyes are the window to the soul, they tell us. But that was not good enough for us girls. Eyes needed serious embellishment. Eyebrows had to be plucked, eyelashes curled, eyeshadow blended, eyeliner drawn with trembling haste, mascara ...
‘Damn!’
‘What’s up?’
‘This mascara’s dried out.’
‘Spit on it, then.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘No it’s not. Keeps it moist. Here have some of mine.’
‘Not if you’ve been spitting on it, thank you very much.’
‘Please youself.’
Trixie had decided that the only thing to do was to wash her hair again, and now she was frantically trying to dry it.
‘This stupid dryer is useless. Haven’t we got a better one?’
‘I’ll get mine.’
‘Yours blows too hard. I tried it before.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
Accessories required careful thought. A brooch was pinned on, then taken off, a necklace tried, earrings swapped, bracelets considered. Scarves had to be compared.
‘That one matches your dress, you know.’
‘I think I prefer this one. It’s a contrast.’
‘No. Bit too dominant. Try that one over there.’
‘How does that look?’
‘Better, much better. I like it.’
‘OK, then I’ll wear it. No I won’t. The silly thing will only get in the way. I won’t wear a scarf at all.’
The only person who wasn’t rushing wildly around preparing for the wedding was the bride herself. Chummy was perfectly calm and composed, and quietly smiling at the rest of us in our excitement.
‘You sort yourselves out,’ she said. ‘I’m all ready. I will just go along the corridor and spend half an hour by myself in the chapel until it’s time to go across the road to the church.’
One thing that had to be resolved was who should remain behind to be on call. Sister Julienne was adamant that we girls should all attend the wedding ceremony
and
the reception, so then came the discussion about which of the Sisters should remain at Nonnatus House.
and
the reception, so then came the discussion about which of the Sisters should remain at Nonnatus House.
‘Weddings are for the young,’ said Sister Evangelina. ‘I’ll stay behind.’
‘No, no. That wouldn’t be fair,’ chorused her Sisters. ‘We know you would like to go. We’ll do a rota, and take it in turns.’
So that is what they did.
We left for the church, walked down the war-damaged road, past the bomb site that had been St Frideswide’s church, round the corner, across the East India Dock Road to All Saints church on the south side of the road. No cars, no flowers, no bridesmaids – nothing like that. We could have been going out for an afternoon stroll. Chummy was wearing a simple grey suit, flat shoes, no make-up, no hat. She looked her usual self, but somehow more than herself, more than the Chummy we had grown to love.
The social division in the church was conspicuous. The Fortescue-Cholmeley-Brownes, oozing class, sat on one side of the aisle, and the Thompsons, shouting suburbia, sat on the other. We sat on Chummy’s side with the nuns and several nurses from St Thomas’s Hospital. On David’s were half a dozen strapping young policemen. The policemen only came because David was popular, and for the chance of free beer. Also, they were intrigued. What on 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 was fully absorbed with a dish of jelly and blancmange. Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne approached her graciously.
‘Can I introduce myself?’
Sister Monica Joan looked up sharply.
‘Induce yourself? What! Induce yourself? My good woman, let it be known that I do not at all approve of inducing. A baby should come naturally, and the vast majority will, without the need for all these inductions. And what is a woman of your age doing being pregnant? It’s indecent. And now you are asking me if you can induce yourself. Are you planning an abortion? Is that what? I tell you, it’s illegal, and I’ll have nothing to do with it. Be off with you.’
Poor Mater, shaken to the core, returned to her husband’s side.
‘I’m never going to get over this, never,’ she murmured.
‘Stiff upper lip, old girl,’ retorted the colonel. ‘This can’t last for long, and then they’re going to Sierra Leone, I understand.’
‘Thank God for that. Best place for her,’ said Mater emphatically.
Sister Julienne was quietly thrilled at the way Chummy had developed. Many girls had come to Nonnatus House aspiring to be medical missionaries, but somehow Chummy would always stand out in her mind. She gazed at the tall, happy girl standing at the other side of the room and fondly remembered her awkwardness when she first came to the convent, falling over things or walking into stationary objects. Above all she remembered Chummy learning to ride a bike with that nice boy Jack helping her. That was when the girl’s true mettle first became apparent – she was indomitable. Sister Julienne chuckled to herself as she looked across the room at David, the policeman Chummy had somehow managed to run into and almost knock unconscious. So this was how the good Lord had planned it!
Sister Julienne was a deeply romantic soul, and she smiled to herself again as she remembered Jane and the Reverend Thornton Applebee-Thornton. Perhaps God had needed a bit of help there! She had never tried matchmaking before, but when the reverend gentleman had come from his mission in Sierra Leone to study the midwifery practice of the Sisters as a model for the medical services he wanted to introduce into his mission, she had shamelessly thrust Jane into his company. The success of her little plan had been spectacular. And now Chummy was going out to join them in Sierra Leone as the first trained midwife, while David had applied to the police force there.
Sister Julienne smiled around her at the happy faces, at Mrs B, in her element amid all the catering, Fred ambling around, moving chairs, clearing up, and obviously making wisecracks for the benefit of all. She looked across at the nurses from St Tommy’s, who were roaring with laughter at the policemen, and thought how delightful it was to see young people enjoying themselves. And then her gaze fell on the frigid face of Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne. This isn’t right, she thought. I must go over and have a word with her.
After the usual pleasantries, Sister Julienne went straight to the point.
‘Mothers and daughters seldom understand each other.’
‘What makes you say a thing like that?’ said Mrs Browne guardedly.
‘Experience.’
‘Experience? You have no children.’
‘No, but I have a family. I am one of a family of nine, and I saw the tension between my mother and her five daughters. None of us lived up to her expectations. She did not attend any of their weddings. Not one! And when I took religious vows, she was outraged. I was embarrassing the family, she said. So you see, I know all about misunderstandings between mothers and daughters.’
Mrs Browne sat silent. She was not going to be drawn. After a moment’s pause, Sister went on.
‘Camilla is a fine young woman. You can be very proud of her. She has the makings of nobility in her. She has strength of character, steadfast pursuit of her goal and above all mental and physical courage. These are the qualities that built the British Empire.’
Sister Julienne had scored a goal. Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne came from a colonial family. Her father had been official adviser to the Raj and administrator of Bengal. Her husband, the Governor of Rajastan. She knew all about the qualities that had built the British Empire. After a pause, she said, ‘Well, I wish I could see it.’
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