Farewell To The East End

nurse had not requested help for any other reason. She then instructed each of us, including three nuns, to go out on our bikes searching the streets. She marked out which areas, relating to the addresses of Cynthia’s evening visits we were to search, on a plan and instructed us to enquire at each house what time Cynthia had arrived and left. Sister Evangelina, who was well over sixty, and had had a long working day, got her bike out and doggedly pedalled against the wind, searching for the missing girl. Fred, who couldn’t ride a bike, went out on foot to search the streets nearest to Nonnatus House. Only Sister Julienne remained behind, along with Sister Monica Joan, because the House could not be left empty. We were a midwifery practice, and someone had to be on call at all times.
    Subdued and anxious, we left Nonnatus House, each going in different directions, with instructions to ring Sister Julienne if we had any positive news. I do not know what was going through the minds of the others as we went around; I only know that I was fearful for Cynthia. The streets were narrow and unlit, filled with half-destroyed, boarded-up houses and areas marked for demolition. Bomb sites, in which the meths drinkers slept, were round every other corner. The possibility of danger was everywhere, yet I doubt if any one of us had ever felt under threat. Fred’s reminder of the Cockney saying ‘A nurse is safe among us’ was perfectly true. We all knew that we were protected by our uniform, and that the Sisters were respected and even revered for their dedication to three generations of Cockney women. No man would attack a nurse – if he did it would be the worse for him, because the other men would make him pay for it.
    And yet … and yet … Cynthia was missing, and as I cycled around looking for her the knowledge that this was a rough district which, in some areas, had been made virtually lawless by the Kray brothers, could not be shifted from my mind. A couple of policemen were approaching. Now why, I thought, do the police always go around in pairs, whilst we nurses go out alone, even in the middle of the night? I stopped and spoke to them, but no, they had not seen another nurse that evening, nor heard of one in trouble, but they would keep their eyes open. I called at a couple of houses that had been on Cynthia’s list, but she had left them some three hours before.
    The ride back to Nonnatus House was not pleasant. I went through many side roads and back streets, even calling her name from time to time. But she was not to be found.

    It was nearly ten o’clock and I was returning to the convent when I saw coming from the approach way to the Blackwall Tunnel two figures – a man with a distinctive hobble-de-hoi gait pushing a bicycle, and a female figure walking beside him. My heart leaped, and I quickened my pace, calling out, ‘Cynthia, Cynthia, is that you?’ It was, and I almost cried with joy.
    ‘Oh, thank God you are safe. Where have you been?’
    Fred answered for her.
    ‘She’s been froo ve Blackwall Tunnel – twice. Vat’s where she’s bin.’
    ‘Through the Tunnel? On a bike? You can’t have.’ Cynthia nodded dumbly.
    ‘But you could have been run over.’
    ‘I know,’ she gasped, ‘I nearly was.’
    ‘How did you get there?’
    She couldn’t answer, so Fred did.
    ‘I dunno as ’ow she got in. All I knows is I found ’er comin’ out lookin’ ’alf done for.’
    ‘Oh Fred, I’m so glad you found her.’
    ‘I ain’t done much, really, all I done was push ’er bike.’
    ‘Thank you, Fred,’ murmured Cynthia gratefully.
    We got her back to the convent. Most of the others had already returned with the bad news that she had not been found, so when she emerged the relief was almost overwhelming. In the light, we could see the state she was in. She was filthy, covered in oil and thick, greasy mud, and she stank of petrol.
    When she had had a cup of tea she was able to answer some questions.
    ‘I don’t know how it happened, but somehow I got in the wrong lane of traffic, and then was forced into the entrance to the tunnel, and once I was there I couldn’t stop and turn round, and then the tunnel closed over me, and started to go downhill, and I just went faster and faster, because the lorries kept me going on.’
    Fred, who saw himself as the hero of the hour, finished off the story. None of us had been through the tunnel, but he told us that it was a mile long and zig-zagged