Jennifer Worth - Shadows Of The Workhouse - The Drama Of Life In Postwar London

Minutes ticked by, and there were long silences. I knew I would have to go, because I had my evening visits to start at 4 p.m. It had taken me at least forty-five minutes to find him, and time was short. It had been only the briefest of visits, and I hated leaving him, as I tried, haltingly, to explain.

He said, simply, “You go, my maid, and don’t mind me.”

I kissed him again, and fled from the room. At the door, I turned. He was stroking the cheek where my lips had touched him, and his tears were falling fast onto the table.

I don’t know how it was I didn’t have an accident as I cycled back to Nonnatus House. I was filled with sorrow.

After supper, I spoke to Sister Julienne. She listened in silence to what I had to say, and didn’t speak for a long time. Thinking she hadn’t taken it in, I said. “You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you? It is simply dreadful. He shouldn’t be there.”

“Oh yes, my dear, I understand all right. I was thinking of Our Lord’s words to Peter, as recorded in St John’s Gospel: ‘When you are young, you go where you wish, but when you are old, others will take you where you do not wish to go.’ This was taken to indicate the manner in which St Peter would die, but I have always thought that it is a general reflection about us all. For we all grow old, and very few of us retain our health and strength to the last. Most of us become helpless and completely dependent on others, whether we like it or not. Old age is a time when we learn the virtue of humility.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had often found myself in a similar position with Sister Julienne. She had a purity of thought and a simplicity of expression that were quite unanswerable.

She continued: “Mr Collett’s tragedy is that all his family were killed in the wars. The tragedy is loneliness, not the surroundings, which I doubt he notices. What you see as intolerable living conditions may be all par for the course to him. If he were living in luxury in a palace, he would be just as lonely. You are his only friend, Jenny, and he loves you. You must stay with him.”

I said that I had pledged myself to do that, and then I started to rail against the folly and inhumanity of turning him out of the flat where he had been comfortable and independent.

She stopped me in mid-sentence. “Yes, I know all that. But you must understand that the Canada Buildings have long been due for demolition. People are not going to put up with a bug-infested environment and insanitary conditions today. The Buildings must go, so the people must go. I am well aware of the fact that most of the old people who are being moved will not be able to adjust to new surroundings, and that many of them will die as a consequence. Which brings me back to the words of Jesus: ‘When you are old, men will take you where you do not want to go.’”

She smiled at me, because I must have looked so sad, and said: “Now I must go and take Compline. Why not join us this evening?”

The beauty and timelessness of the monastic office of Compline eased my troubled soul.

“The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.”

I thought of Mr Collett and all the other old men, isolated – even from each other – by loneliness.

“In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust. Let me never be put to confusion.”

The candles lighting the altar were reflected on the windows, shutting the dark without, and enclosing the nuns within.

“Be thou my strong rock and house of defence.”

Jews and Christians have drawn strength and wisdom from these psalms for two to three thousand years.

“Thou shalt not be afraid of any terror by night.”

All those sad old men – were they afraid? Afraid of living, yet more afraid of dying?

“For He shall give his angels charge over thee.”

Did they know any joy, in their joyless surroundings?

“Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord.”

Just hold them in your prayers, as Sister Julienne will in hers.

“Protect us through the silent hours of the night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this fleeting world may repose upon Thy eternal changelessness.”

The Sisters left the chapel quietly. The Greater Silence had begun.

I saw Mr Collett as much as I could after that. I never stayed very long – half an hour perhaps, not more, and this was mainly because we both found it difficult to know what to say. The circumstances were just not right for cosy chats, and we were no good at small talk. Also the inertia, I think, was dulling the mind that had once been so alert. Knowing how much he used to enjoy radio documentary programmes and plays, I asked him if he listened to his wireless. He looked at me blankly, so I repeated the question.

“No, I haven’t got my wireless. I don’t know what they did with it. I don’t think I could have it here, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

I asked what had happened to his things.

“I don’t know. The lady social worker said she would look after all that. I suppose they were sold, and the money put into my account. I’ve got a bank account, you know. I gave her the number.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“Oh yes, she came here. She is very pleasant. She gave me this.”

He fumbled in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and produced a bit of paper. It was a receipt for £96 14s. 6d. for the sale of furniture. I thought of the grandfather clock, the fine old table, and his high wooden armchair. Now all that was left was a piece of paper.

The big room with its high windows was oppressive, and the all-pervading smell of urine nauseating, but I doubt if the old men noticed this (after all, the sense of smell fades along with the other senses as age advances). The worst thing for them, I could see, was the boredom of having absolutely nothing to do, hour after hour, day after day. One or two got up and shuffled off to the lavatory, or to another room, which I was later to discover was the dormitory. But apart from that, they did nothing. A few played cards or dominoes, but the games never seemed to excite much interest. The Daily Mirror and the Express were passed around, and some of the men glanced at them but, from what I observed, most of them just sat at the tables, looking at each other. I never saw any other visitor, and I wondered how it was possible that so many old men could have no one at all who wanted to visit them. I saw only Block E, Fifth Floor, and I did not know how many other blocks and floors there were, filled with old men, seemingly abandoned, each day killing the time, until time killed them.

One day I asked Mr Collett where his pipe was and if he smoked it. He said, “We are only allowed to smoke on the balcony.”

“Well, do you do so, then?”

“No, I don’t know where the balcony is.”

I felt very cross at such thoughtlessness on the part of the staff. They were not unkind, as far as I could see, but they were mostly Filipino or Indonesian young men, who spoke little or no English, and it obviously had not occurred to any of them to take a nearly blind man to the balcony and make sure that he knew how to find his way there and back.

“Well, let’s go out to the balcony, then, and you can have a smoke, and we can get some fresh air at the same time. Have you got your pipe, your twist, and some matches?”

“Not on me. They are in my locker. I’ll go and get them. You can come with me. I don’t suppose anyone would mind.”

He stood up, and felt his way along the tables to a short corridor at the end of which was a wide double door leading into the dormitory. My experienced eye saw at once that it was the size of the average hospital ward, designed for twenty-eight or thirty beds. It held, at a rough guess, sixty or seventy. They lined each wall, and the far end wall also. They were small two-foot-six-inch iron bedsteads, with thin mattresses over sagging springs. Beside each was a tiny locker about twelve inches wide, and the beds touched the lockers on either side. I looked down towards the far end of the dormitory. There were no lockers, and the beds were so close to each other that, presumably, the only way the occupant could get in and out was by climbing over the end. Some were occupied by old men, who just lay there, sleeping or staring at the ceiling. My critical nurse’s eye looked at the bed linen and blankets. All were filthy, and the stench of urine and faeces was evidence that fresh linen was a rarity. A ward sister would have had a team of cleaners in there in seconds. But I saw no staff at all that day.