The Midwife Trilogy (38 page)

Win went back to work part-time at the paper shop after about six weeks. Ted had longer each day with the baby and assumed most of the parenting. He bathed and fed him, and proudly took him out in the pram, greeting passersby and inviting them all to look at “my son Ted”. As the baby grew older, he played with him all the time, inventing learning games and toys. In consequence, by the age of eighteen months, little Ted was very bright and advanced for his age. The relationship between father and son was lovely to see.

By the time the child reached school age, his features were noticeably black. Yet still Ted did not appear to notice. He had made a wider circle of friends than he had ever had in his life before, largely due to the fact that he took the child everywhere, and people responded to this bright, handsome little boy, whom Ted introduced proudly as “my son Ted”. The child was just as proud, in his own way, of his father and as he clung to his big protective hand, gazed up adoringly with his huge black eyes. At school he always spoke of “my dad” as though he were the king himself.

Ted, approaching seventy, had no inhibitions about waiting outside the school gates along with young mothers nearly half a century his junior. Only two or three little black or mixed race children would come running out of school, to black mothers, but one of them would fling himself into Ted’s arms with the cry, “Daddy.”

“Lets go down the docks today, son,” he would say, kissing him. “There’s a big German vessel jes’ come in vis mornin’ wiv three funnels. Yer don’ see ’em very often. An’ yer mum will ’ave tea ready when we gits back.”

Yet still he didn’t seem to notice.

Of course there were whisperings and gossip amongst neighbours and acquaintances, but none of them actually said anything to Ted. The more unkind would snigger and say, “There’s no fool like an old fool.” And the rest would laugh and agree, “Yer can say tha’ again”.

I have a different theory.

In the Russian Orthodox Church there is the concept of the Holy Fool. It means someone who is a fool to the ways of the world, but wise to the ways of God.

I think that Ted, from the moment he saw the baby, knew that he could not possibly be the father. It must have been a shock, but he had controlled himself, and sat thinking for a long time as he held the baby. Perhaps he saw ahead.

Perhaps he understood in that moment that if he so much as questioned the baby’s fatherhood, it would mean humiliation for the child, and might jeopardise his entire future. Perhaps, as he held the baby, he realised that any such suggestion could shatter his whole happiness. Perhaps he understood that he could not reasonably expect an independent and energetic spirit like Winnie to find him sexually exciting and fulfilling. Perhaps an angel’s voice told him that any questions were best left unasked and unanswered.

And so he decided upon the most unexpected, and yet the simplest course of all. He chose to be such a Fool that he couldn’t see the obvious.

THE LUNCHEON PARTY

“No Jimmy, not this time. You and Mike are
not
camping out in the boiler room at Nonnatus House. I may have deceived the Home Sister at the Hospital, but I am not going to deceive Sister Julienne. Besides, I don’t trust you. I don’t believe for a moment that there is
another
emergency. I think you just want to be able to boast to the boys that you have slept in a convent!”

Jimmy and Mike looked a trifle crestfallen. They had been plying me with beer and soft talk, in the confident expectation that I would swallow a load of rubbish about them being down on their luck and out of their digs, and would I smuggle them in the back door of Nonnatus House? The male of the species is sweetly naive.

The evening had been fun - a change and relaxation from the rigours of daily work. The beer had been pleasant, and the conversation exuberant, but it was time to go. It was a long way back to the East End, buses were not plentiful after 11 p.m., and I would have to be up at 6.30 a.m. the next morning for a full day’s work. I stood up. An idea had come to mind. It seemed a pity to disappoint them altogether.

“But how would you like to come to lunch one Sunday?”

Their enthusiastic agreement was immediate.

“OK. I will ask Sister Julienne, and will ring you to fix a date. I must be off now.”

I spoke to Sister Julienne next day. She had heard about Jimmy before, on the occasion when I had taken a 3 a.m. swim in the sea at Brighton and arrived for work at ten in the morning. She agreed at once to a luncheon party for the boys.

“It would be delightful. We usually entertain retired missionaries, or visiting preachers. A couple of lively young men would be a pleasure for us all.”

She fixed a date for three weeks ahead, when there were no other guests for Sunday lunch, and I telephoned Jimmy to firm up the arrangements.

“Do you think the nuns could run to three of us for lunch? Alan wants to come. He thinks he might get a story.”

Alan was a reporter, scraping a modest living on his first job in Fleet Street. I thought it highly likely that Sister Julienne could find one more chair at the refectory table, but was not at all sure that Alan would get much of a story out of the lunch. However, hope always runs high in a young reporter’s heart - until the iron enters his soul, that is.

The girls were in a flutter of excitement about three young men coming to Sunday lunch. We were all single nurses with a seemingly endless working week and were often hard put to meet eligible young men. Expectations ran high.

I wondered, with a good deal of amusement, how the meal would go. What would the boys make of us? How would they react to the nuns, particularly to Sister Monica Joan? And it would be interesting to see Alan’s “story”.

The day arrived, warm and bright, and none of our patients was expected to go into labour, which would have disrupted the luncheon party. Everyone was in a flurry of excitement. Had the boys known the flutter they were causing in so many female hearts, they would have been deeply flattered. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would have regarded it as no more than their devastating charms were due.

They arrived at about 12.30 p.m., just after the Sisters had entered chapel for Tierce, the midday Office.

I opened the door. They certainly looked very spruce, in grey suits, newly washed shirts, and highly polished shoes. I had never before seen them look like that on a Sunday morning. Obviously lunch in a convent was a novel experience for such dedicated young men-about-town. They looked a little unsure of themselves, though.

We kissed, but slightly more formally than usual - no hugs, no laughter, no badinage about nothing much - just a formal kiss, a polite “How are you?”, and “Did you have a good journey?”

I felt a trifle uncomfortable, having never found conversation easy. We all know people in a certain context, and outside the familiar, often find them to be completely different. I had known Jimmy since childhood, but normally met up with the others in London pubs. I didn’t know what to say, and just stood around looking awkward, thinking the whole thing was not such a good idea after all. The boys could find nothing to say either.

Cynthia saved the day. She always did, without knowing how or what she had done. She stepped forward, her soft smile dispelling the tension and filling the rather strained atmosphere with warmth. When she spoke, the slow sexy voice just knocked them over. All she said was: “You must be Jimmy and Mike and Alan. How lovely - we’ve been looking forward to this. Now which of you is which?”

Was it the way she said it, or the wide smiling eyes, or the unaffected warmth of her welcome? The boys must have met scores of girls who were more beautiful, with more self-conscious allure, but they could seldom, if ever, have met a girl with a voice quite like that. They were absolutely bowled over and all three stepped forward at the same time, crashing into each other. She laughed. The ice was broken.

“The Sisters will be here soon, but come into the kitchen and have a coffee, and we can have a chat.”

Coffee, nectar, ambrosia? They followed eagerly; anything with this glorious girl would be heaven. I, thankfully, was forgotten and I breathed a sigh of relief. The luncheon would be a success.

Mrs B. had neither sex appeal nor an alluring voice, “Now don’ you make a mess in ’ere. I’ve got lunch to serve.”

Jimmy smiled confidently at her. “Don’t you worry, madam; we won’t mess up this beautiful kitchen, will we boys? What a magnificent kitchen, and what glorious smells! All your own home cooking, I take it, madam?”

Mrs B. sniffed, and eyed him suspiciously. She had grown-up sons of her own, and was not susceptible to their particular charms. “You jes’ watch it, tha’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Oh, watch it we certainly will,” said Mike, whose eyes had not left Cynthia as she filled the kettle. The water pipes all around the kitchen rattled and shook as she opened the tap. She laughed and said, “That’s just our plumbing system. You’ll get used to it.”

“Oh, I’d like to get used to it”, said Mike with enthusiasm.

Cynthia laughed and blushed a little, brushing back the hair that had fallen over her face.

“Allow me,” said Mike gallantly, taking the kettle from her and carrying it over to the gas stove.

Chummy appeared in the doorway, her head buried in
The Times
.

“I say, gels, did you know that Binkie Bingham-Binghouse is getting spliced at last? Jolly good show, what? Actually, her Mater will be frightfully chuffed, don’t you know. They thought she was on the shelf. Good old Binkie, haw haw!”

She looked up and saw the boys. At once she went red, and jerked the arm holding the newspaper. It crashed into the dresser, setting the cups rattling and shaking. The paper caught behind a couple of plates and sent them crashing to the floor, smashing them into a dozen pieces.

Mrs B. rushed forward, snarling:

“You clumsy great ... you - you - jest get out o’ my kitchen, you clumsy ... you!”

Poor Chummy! It always happened that way. Social situations were a nightmare for her, particularly when men were around. She just didn’t know what to say to a man, nor how to behave.

Cynthia again saved the day. She grabbed a dustpan and brush, saying, “Never mind, Mrs B. Luckily it was the plate with the crack in it. It needed throwing out, anyway.”

Deftly she swept up the bits, Mike appreciatively studying her neat little bottom as she bent down.

Chummy stood in the doorway, abashed and tongue-tied. I tried to get her to come over and join us for a cup of coffee, but she flushed scarlet and muttered something about going upstairs to wash her hands before lunch.

The boys looked at each other in wonder. Lunch in a convent was an unknown, but a female giant hurling plates around was the last thing they had expected. Alan took out his notebook and started scribbling furiously.

We heard the bell sound from the chapel and a little later the Sisters’ footsteps. Sister Julienne walked briskly into the kitchen, small, plump, and motherly. She looked at the boys with true affection, and held out both hands.

“I’ve heard so much about you, and this is a real treat for us all to have you here. Mrs B. has prepared roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie. Will you like that, do you think?”

Three cool, sophisticated young men responded like three small boys taking sweets from a favourite auntie.

We entered the refectory. After grace, during which the boys eyed each other with amusement, and muttered a self-conscious “Amen”, we sat at the large square table and Mrs B. brought in the luncheon trolley. Sister Julienne served as usual, and Trixie took around the plates.

Alan was outrageously handsome. He had perfect, regular features, clear skin, dark curly hair, and soft dark eyes fringed with eyelashes that any girl would kill for. I had met him a couple of times, and when the girls flocked around him in droves, trying to win a glance from his bright eyes, I had noticed that he treated them as pleasing but inconsequential toys. He regarded himself as a “leader of opinion”. With a degree in philosophy from Cambridge University, he had already formed conclusions about life which he had picked up secondhand, without having lived much of it himself. The troubles and turmoils that befall most of us had yet to disturb his assumption of superiority. He had a huge regard for his own intelligence which, I had concluded, was adequate but not outstanding. He placed his notebook and pencil beside him on the dining table, which was rude, but Alan was not troubled by propriety; he was on a job, not a guest at a luncheon party.

He had been placed next to Sister Monica Joan and was slightly annoyed about this, probably regarding her as being too old to be of interest to his readership. He had wanted to sit next to Sister Bernadette and talk about the impact of the new National Health Service upon the older style of medicine. However, he was not one to be deflected from his purpose and called across the table to Sister Bernadette.

“As nuns are the servants of God, and the State has now taken over your midwifery service, do you now see your role as servants of the State?”

He had planned this carefully, as he wanted to portray the futility of religion in his story. This would appeal to his editor.

Sister Bernadette was contemplating her Yorkshire pudding with pleasure, and was unprepared such a question. In the ten seconds that it took for her to think of a suitable reply, Sister Monica Joan addressed him.

“In the puny compass of our wit the Silver Cord is loosed. The State is the servant of the Orb. The servant is wiser than the organic process of growth differentiated by truth at the fountain head. Do you see your role as one of the forty-two Assessors of the Dead?”

“What?”

Alan stopped eating, mouth open, fork raised.

“Eh, that is ... I mean ... pardon?”

“Kindly don’t wave your fork at me like that, young man. Put it down,” said Sister Monica Joan sharply. She eyed him imperiously. “We were discussing the role of the free spirit, released by the confluence of the several centres, until you so rudely poked your fork in my ear. But what is that to me? Let us go with God, and accept the unacceptable. It is a lonely walk into the mind’s retreat. Is there another roast potato? A soft one, and a little more onion gravy, if you please.”