Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  The boys were enjoying themselves and wanted to stay, but for me, the noise was getting a bit too ear-splitting for comfort, so I left early. As I walked back to the convent, the memory of the woman’s face, and the look in her eyes, haunted me.

  A few weeks later I saw her again, but it was a very different person from the woman I had seen in the pub. I was in All Saints Church with Sister Julienne. It was mid-afternoon, and the church was empty but for Sister and me. Then a woman staggered in. I did not recognise her at first, her hair was dishevelled, her eyes so red from weeping that she could hardly see, and her legs seemed barely able to support her. She looked wildly around her and clung to one of the pews for support. Sister Julienne went up to her to ask if she could help, but the woman did not answer. She took a couple of faltering steps forward and croaked, rather than spoke.

  ‘Yes, this is the place. Six years ago it was. Here, in this church.’

  She let out a low moan and staggered forward a few more steps.

  ‘They stopped here, right here where I am standing. This is where they rested it, the little, little coffin. Six years ago to this day.’

  She sank on to a seat and sobbed.

  Sister asked if she could do anything to help.

  ‘No. No one can help me. Nothing can bring her back. I just want to light a candle, and then I’ll go.’

  Sister helped her to the altar, and they lit a candle together and prayed. Then they sat quietly talking for a minute or two. Finally the woman stood up. She did not say anything, but she looked slightly more composed. She walked towards the spot where she had stopped before, where she said the coffin had rested. She stood silently for a few minutes and then with a firmer step walked out of the church.

  I asked Sister if she knew the woman, and she told me it was Miss Masterton, owner of the Master’s Arms. And then she told me the tragic story of the tuberculosis which had claimed nearly all her family, and lastly her little girl, aged six. The mother had nearly gone mad with grief, she had doted so on the child.

  I told Sister Julienne that I had seen Miss Masterton in the pub, and something about her had caught my attention, perhaps the look in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, there is something in the eyes of a woman who has lost a child that sets her apart from others. The grief and pain never go away. And for Miss Masterton it was all the more terrible because she was advised to be tested for the tubercle bacillus herself. Blood tests were taken showing that she was a carrier of the bacillus, and had been for a long time, but had never shown any signs or symptoms and had never succumbed to the disease herself. It is probable that she had infected her own daughter.’

  THE ANGELS

  While she could vividly remember things from long past, Sister Monica Joan’s short-term memory seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. She appeared to have forgotten completely the unpalatable fact that she had been before the Court of the London Quarter Sessions on a charge of larceny only a few months previously. The prosecution had alleged that she had stolen jewels from Hatton Garden and initially all the evidence had pointed to her guilt. But a surprise witness proved her innocence. The trial had been a shock, to say the very least, for the convent, but for Sister Monica Joan it was as though it had never happened. She was her old self, delightful and entertaining, in her conversation, but in her behaviour she was becoming increasingly eccentric and unpredictable.

  Sister had a niece, more accurately a great great niece, living in Sonning, Berkshire. They had not met or communicated for many years. One day Sister decided to visit her niece, and what is more she determined that a pair of fine Chippendale chairs which she had in her room should be presented to the woman as a gift. Accordingly, she left Nonnatus House early one morning while the Sisters were at prayer, and before Mrs B the cook or Fred the boiler man arrived. How she carried two chairs downstairs is impossible to conjecture, but she did.

  Out in the street, she carried one chair to the corner and then came back for the other. She proceeded in this fashion to the East India Dock Road, where a policeman approached and asked her if he could help. Sister Monica Joan did not like policemen. She exclaimed, ‘Tush, out of my way, fellow,’ and rammed the chair leg into his stomach. The policeman decided to let her get on with it.

  Sister reached the bus stop and sat down to regain her breath. A bus came, and the conductor, being a kindly soul, helped her on with her two chairs and put them in the luggage hold. When they reached Aldgate, he helped her off and pointed to where she could catch a bus to Euston, where she would have to change onto another for Paddington Station.

  It was approaching rush hour when the bus trundled into Paddington. The bus stop was some distance from the railway station, so Sister left one of the chairs (Chippendale, of enormous value) at the bus stop whilst she carried the other to the station. Then she left that one in the station forecourt, and returned for the second. Once in the station things became easier for Sister Monica Joan, because she found a porter who loaded the chairs onto his trolley and took them to the train bound for Reading, were she would have to change onto a branch line for Sonning.

  Meanwhile at Nonnatus House the alarm was raised. Sister Monica Joan was missing, and no one had a clue where she had got to. Mrs B was in tears. The police were informed but could offer no help. At lunchtime a phone call was received stating that a policeman had reported seeing a nun at six o’clock in the morning in the East India Dock Road, and that she had rammed a chair leg into his stomach.

  ‘A chair leg!’ cried Sister Julienne incredulously. ‘What was she doing with a chair leg?’

  ‘She was carrying a chair,’ replied the duty policeman.

  ‘But that’s impossible. She is ninety, and it was in the East India Dock Road, you tell me.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what the constable reported, ma’am. I’m not making anything up. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. We’ll keep an eye open for this missing nun, and if we have any more reports of her activities, you will be informed. Good day to you, ma’am.’

  Sister went hastily to Sister Monica Joan’s room and observed that not only one chair was missing, but two! Lunchtime conversation around the big dining table focused on nothing else, and prayers were said for Sister Monica Joan’s safety.

  The train reached Sonning station at about midday, and Sister Monica Joan telephoned her niece. There was no reply. So she decided to go with God and sat down on one of the chairs to have a little doze. A kindly porteress gave her a cup of tea. At about four o’clock she telephoned again, and this time she was lucky. Her niece was at home. Her astonishment at hearing from her great aunt after so many years, especially as she was waiting at the station with two chairs, can only be imagined. The niece came in her car to collect her aunt. Only one chair could be fitted into the boot, so the other had to be left on the pavement outside the station. It was still there when she returned a couple of hours later.

  They telephoned the convent at about five o’clock. The niece said her aunt was tired but happy, and was welcome to stay for a few days if she wanted to. She added that she had received no warning of the intended visit, and that it was only by chance that she was at home at all, as her work often took her away for several days at a time. What would have happened to her aunt had she been away, she could not imagine. The telephone was passed to Sister Monica Joan, who in reply to Sister Julienne’s anxious enquiries said, ‘Of course I’m all right. Don’t fuss so. Why should I not be all right? The angels look after me.’

  The angels certainly had a heavy responsibility looking after Sister Monica Joan, and they could never relax their vigilance for a moment. Take the occasion when she nearly set fire to herself, for example. She had complained that the light in her room was insufficient, and that she could not see to read in bed; it was not good enough, something must be done. Obligingly, Fred, our odd-job man, ran a small cable up the wall and fixed a light just above her head. It was nothing fancy – just a bulb over which a small, fringed shade was
placed. Sister Monica Joan was delighted. So simple; dear Fred – she could always rely on him, and now she could read in bed all night, if she wanted to.

  She did want to, with alarming consequences. Since her bout of pneumonia, caused by wandering down the East India Dock Road in her nightie on a cold November morning, Sister Monica Joan had been favoured by being allowed to have her breakfast in bed. Mrs B usually took it up around 9 a.m., after we midwives and nurses had gone out on our morning visits. But the angels must have seen to it that Mrs B needed to be at the market by 9 a.m. that particular morning, and so she took Sister’s breakfast up at 8 a.m. We were all in the kitchen having our breakfast, and the nuns were still in chapel. The house was quiet, except for the scratch-scratch of Fred raking out the boiler. A piercing scream, followed by louder repeated screams, shattered the calm. We girls and Fred rushed into the hallway, all shouting, ‘What is it, where did it come from?’ The chapel door opened, and the nuns ran out. (Nuns have been known to run, when the occasion demands!) The screams had stopped, but we could hear someone rushing about on the first floor. ‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Sister Julienne. ‘Fred, come with me.’ Disappointed at missing the drama, I waited with the others in the hallway. A smell of burning now filled the air. More running feet, more muffled voices, and smoke billowed along the corridor. Someone went to the bathroom, taps were turned on, windows were closed, banging and stamping was heard, and then Sister Julienne’s calm voice: ‘I think we have got it under control now. Thank God you came up when you did, Mrs B, otherwise I tremble to think of the outcome.’

  Sister Monica Joan, protesting about being disturbed, was led out of her room and away from the smoke to the safety of the ground floor. Mrs B was in a very much worse state. She was pale and shaking, and needed several cups of strong tea fortified with whisky before she could tell us what had happened. Sister had had her new light on, with the pillows arranged so that she could sit up. The topmost pillow was touching the light bulb, and she must have fallen asleep. As Mrs B entered the room, a tiny flicker of flame no more than an inch high had leaped from the pillow. Mrs B screamed and dragged it from under the sleeping head. The open door and the movement had caused the pillow, which must have been smouldering for some time, to burst into flames. Her repeated screams brought help, and a rug thrown over the burning pillow and heavy stamping had controlled the fire. But the smoke was terrible, and they were lucky not to have been overcome by fumes. In the meantime Sister Monica Joan had sat on the bed saying, ‘Gracious heaven! What are you doing?’

  No one was hurt. The hem of Sister Julienne’s habit was badly scorched, but she was not burned. They were all black with smoke and soot. But Sister Monica Joan was the least troubled of anyone. Either she genuinely forgot about it or decided that it would be expedient to do so (I could never be quite sure), but she did not refer to the incident again. When the light was removed from above her bed she said nothing, but she put on her hard-done-by look.

  Then there was the occasion when Sister Monica Joan got stuck in the bath.

  We girls first became aware that something was amiss when we heard movements and voices from the Sisters’ floor during the period of the Greater Silence. This is the time after Compline, the last office of the day, and before Mass, the first of the new day, during which hours complete silence is normally observed in the monastic tradition. But on this occasion the Sisters were by no means observing the rule. First we heard one or two whispered words, then more, then a gaggle of anxious voices all talking at once, accompanied by banging on a door, and calls of ‘Sister, can you hear us? Open the door.’

  What was going on? We looked enquiringly at each other. Novice Ruth came running downstairs.

  ‘Is Fred still here? Has he gone yet?’ she called as she ran towards the kitchen. We didn’t know, but then heard ‘Fred, thank goodness you are still here. Come quickly to the second floor. We think you’ll have to break down a door.’

  Mysterious! Exciting! Thrilling! We girls looked at each other expecting more.

  We heard more voices upstairs but didn’t know what was going on. Fred came back down and passed us as we stood expectantly on the landing.

  ‘What is it, Fred? What’s up?’

  ‘I’m goin’ outside to see if ve winder’s open.’

  ‘The window? We thought it was a door.’

  ‘It’ll be easier.’

  ‘Than what?’

  ‘Than breaking ve door.’

  And off he ran.

  At this point Sister Julienne came downstairs and met Fred coming in.

  ‘Yes, Sister. Winder’s open. I reckons as ’ow I can do it.’

  ‘Oh, Fred, you’re wonderful. But do be careful.’

  Fred assumed an heroic air.

  ‘Don’ choo worry ’bout me, Sister. I’m OK. We gotter ge’ the ’ol lady safe, like. I’ll get ve ladders.’

  And off he ran.

  Cynthia spoke. ‘Sister, please tell us what is going on.’

  ‘Well, the bathroom door is locked. It seems that Sister Monica Joan is in the bath and can’t get out, but no one can get in to help her.’

  Eager to get a slice of the action, I said, ‘Fred’s getting on a bit. I’m more agile than he is. Couldn’t I go up the ladder?’

  Sister looked at me knowingly.

  ‘I have no doubt that you are more agile. But if you suggested to Fred that he was getting on and was no longer capable of going up a ladder he would be highly offended. We’ll leave it to him.’

  Twenty minutes later Fred came downstairs looking, unusually for him, abashed. The fag that normally hung from his lower lip was not there. He looked different without it.

  ‘What happened, Fred?’ we chorused.

  Knowing that we were agog with anticipation and that he was the only source of information, just to tease us he took out a battered tobacco tin from his pocket and started rolling another thin fag.

  ‘Oh, Fred. Don’t provoke. Tell us what happened.’

  He lit his fag, scratched his head and looked at us with his south-west eye, before saying, ‘Well, I reckon as ’ow I must be ve only bloke in England wot’s seen a nun stark naked.’

  ‘Oooh!’

  He was warmed to his story by our reaction.

  ‘Well, I gets up ve ladder to ve winder, like, an’ pokes me ’ead in. “Be off with you, fellow,” she calls out. ‘I gotta ge’ in, Sister,’ I says. “Come back another day, if you must; it’s not convenient at the moment.” And she splashes water in me face. Well, I wasn’t expectin’ it, an’ I nearly lost me balance.’

  ‘Oooh, Fred. Poor Fred.’

  He was really enjoying himself.

  ‘But I grabs ve sides of ve winder an’ hangs on, and says, “I’m sorry, Sister, but I gotta get in. You can’t stay in ’ere all night. You’ll catch yer death o’ cold.” Nah, tricky bit is ve bath’s under the winder, so I ’as ter get in an’ over the bath, wiv ’er in it an’ not fall in meself.’

  ‘How did you manage that, Fred?’

  ‘Wiv difficulty ’an injinuity. Jest bein’ smart, like.’

  ‘Fred, you are so clever.’

  ‘Nah, nah, jest smart like,’ he said modestly. ‘Worse fing was I drops me fag some’ow, an it floats around ve ole lady. Then I unlocks ve door, and Sisters come in, an’ now I’m goin’ a put me ladders away.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go, Fred?’

  ‘Well now, vat’s an invitation I can’t resist, if you girls will ’ave one wiv me.’

  Of course we would. We would like nothing better. So we all sat down in the big kitchen for a cup of tea and some of Mrs B’s cake and a good old natter.

  Upstairs we heard further sounds of movement and voices, then splashing of water and the gurgling of a waste pipe. Then no more. The Greater Silence had begun.

  Sister Monica Joan was found in the bicycle shed one winter’s night by Chummy who had been called out at about two o’clock. Again, the angels must have arranged i
t. If Sister had remained in the shed until morning she would probably have died of hypothermia; she was very thin, having no protective reserves of fat to cover her old bones. Chummy was getting her bicycle out when she heard a movement in the corner of the shed and thought it was a rat – we were all nervous of rats in dark places. She shone her torch over the area and was horrified, and indeed terrified, to see an arm move. Then an imperious voice, accustomed to being obeyed, ordered, ‘Don’t shine the light in my eyes like that! Fetch me a pillow if you want to be useful, but turn the light off.’

  Sister Monica Joan was curled up in some old camping equipment, probably dating back to someone’s Girl Guide endeavours. She was very cold and very sleepy, which is a dangerous combination. She resented being disturbed and tried to push Chummy away. ‘Go away with your nasty lights and bothersome noise. Why can’t I be left in peace?’ Chummy carried her into the house and alerted the Sisters as she had to go out to a labouring mother. The Sisters covered the old lady with warm blankets and hot-water bottles and gave her hot drinks. Astonishingly she came to no harm, not even a cold in the nose.

  I was in her room a few days later and referred to the night’s adventure. She dismissed it as ‘a lot of fuss about nothing’.