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 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.