Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  ‘Well yes, sir. I was staff orderly to the officers of the Third Riflemens’ Division, East Sussex, in the First World War.’

  ‘Staff orderly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How interesting. How frightfully interesting.’

  The colonel did not look at all interested. Soon he crossed the room to join his wife.

  ‘Not a pukka sahib in the whole room. No one worth talking to.’

  ‘She’s really let us down. We never could take her anywhere, and I’m quite sure we never will. I suppose I must go round and “mix” with her friends as she puts it, but it will be the last time, I assure you. I think I will talk to that old lady sitting by herself over there.’

  The old lady was Sister Monica Joan, who was fully absorbed with a dish of jelly and blancmange. Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne approached her graciously.

  ‘Can I introduce myself?’

  Sister Monica Joan looked up sharply.

  ‘Induce yourself? What! Induce yourself? My good woman, let it be known that I do not at all approve of inducing. A baby should come naturally, and the vast majority will, without the need for all these inductions. And what is a woman of your age doing being pregnant? It’s indecent. And now you are asking me if you can induce yourself. Are you planning an abortion? Is that what? I tell you, it’s illegal, and I’ll have nothing to do with it. Be off with you.’

  Poor Mater, shaken to the core, returned to her husband’s side.

  ‘I’m never going to get over this, never,’ she murmured.

  ‘Stiff upper lip, old girl,’ retorted the colonel. ‘This can’t last for long, and then they’re going to Sierra Leone, I understand.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Best place for her,’ said Mater emphatically.

  Sister Julienne was quietly thrilled at the way Chummy had developed. Many girls had come to Nonnatus House aspiring to be medical missionaries, but somehow Chummy would always stand out in her mind. She gazed at the tall, happy girl standing at the other side of the room and fondly remembered her awkwardness when she first came to the convent, falling over things or walking into stationary objects. Above all she remembered Chummy learning to ride a bike with that nice boy Jack helping her. That was when the girl’s true mettle first became apparent – she was indomitable. Sister Julienne chuckled to herself as she looked across the room at David, the policeman Chummy had somehow managed to run into and almost knock unconscious. So this was how the good Lord had planned it!

  Sister Julienne was a deeply romantic soul, and she smiled to herself again as she remembered Jane and the Reverend Thornton Applebee-Thornton. Perhaps God had needed a bit of help there! She had never tried matchmaking before, but when the reverend gentleman had come from his mission in Sierra Leone to study the midwifery practice of the Sisters as a model for the medical services he wanted to introduce into his mission, she had shamelessly thrust Jane into his company. The success of her little plan had been spectacular. And now Chummy was going out to join them in Sierra Leone as the first trained midwife, while David had applied to the police force there.

  Sister Julienne smiled around her at the happy faces, at Mrs B, in her element amid all the catering, Fred ambling around, moving chairs, clearing up, and obviously making wisecracks for the benefit of all. She looked across at the nurses from St Tommy’s, who were roaring with laughter at the policemen, and thought how delightful it was to see young people enjoying themselves. And then her gaze fell on the frigid face of Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne. This isn’t right, she thought. I must go over and have a word with her.

  After the usual pleasantries, Sister Julienne went straight to the point.

  ‘Mothers and daughters seldom understand each other.’

  ‘What makes you say a thing like that?’ said Mrs Browne guardedly.

  ‘Experience.’

  ‘Experience? You have no children.’

  ‘No, but I have a family. I am one of a family of nine, and I saw the tension between my mother and her five daughters. None of us lived up to her expectations. She did not attend any of their weddings. Not one! And when I took religious vows, she was outraged. I was embarrassing the family, she said. So you see, I know all about misunderstandings between mothers and daughters.’

  Mrs Browne sat silent. She was not going to be drawn. After a moment’s pause, Sister went on.

  ‘Camilla is a fine young woman. You can be very proud of her. She has the makings of nobility in her. She has strength of character, steadfast pursuit of her goal and above all mental and physical courage. These are the qualities that built the British Empire.’

  Sister Julienne had scored a goal. Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne came from a colonial family. Her father had been official adviser to the Raj and administrator of Bengal. Her husband, the Governor of Rajastan. She knew all about the qualities that had built the British Empire. After a pause, she said, ‘Well, I wish I could see it.’

  ‘You will, I assure you. Mothers and daughters always draw closer to each other as the years pass. Camilla and David ...’

  Mrs Browne butted in: ‘This David! This fellow she is marrying. A common policeman. I ask you! What sort of marriage is that?’

  ‘He may be a common policeman, but I have every reason to believe he is a fine young man and will make a good husband. He has a heroic war record. He flew and landed behind the German lines at Arnhem, you know, and not only survived, but helped others to survive.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ The lady’s face softened.

  ‘No. Probably not. It is not the sort of thing he talks about.’

  The time for speeches was drawing near. Sister Julienne felt she had no more than a few minutes alone with the mother of the bride, and must introduce some humour into the situation.

  ‘Another thing. For years after he was demobbed from the army David’s father (she pointed to Mr Thompson) strongly disapproved of his son. Nothing the boy could do was good enough for Mr T. So you see, the same misunderstandings and tensions can arise between fathers and sons. Often worse. The son does not live up to the father’s expectations and earns his reproaches. And when he does succeed very often masculine rivalry can set in as the father desperately tries to beat his son at the very game he has initiated.’

  For the first time that day Mrs Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne burst out laughing. Chummy, who had been watching her mother apprehensively, looked across the room with amazement.

  ‘Oh, how true. I know that syndrome all too well. My own husband shows a deadly rivalry with our son over sculling. The boy’s far better than him, but he can’t or won’t see it. He is taking extra training courses and comes back exhausted, hardly able to move a muscle, and needs physiotherapy. He’ll injure his back, or something, before he will admit defeat. I can’t tell you what the atmosphere is like in our house sometimes with these two men competing against each other.’

  The two ladies looked at each other, nearly creasing themselves with laughter but suppressing their giggles because the speeches were just about to start. Sister managed to whisper, ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  The wedding speeches were predictable and charming. The colonel spoke with affection of his only daughter and said he was proud of her nursing career. We girls clapped and shouted, ‘Hear, hear!’ The best man said that David was a credit to the force, and Sierra Leone would be lucky to get him, and the policemen stamped and cheered.

  The boys from the South Poplar Youth club band arrived and with them came a wedding guest who had been invited to the church, but had not come. We had all wondered why. This was Jack, a local lad of about thirteen who had been instrumental in teaching Chummy to ride a bicycle when she first came to Nonnatus House. He had turned up early and late, guiding her around the roads, helping her to steer and balance, shouting instructions as he ran along beside her until she had mastered the art. Then he had appointed himself to the position of bodyguard to keep away the local kids who teased her. As a ‘thank you’ the Colonel had
given the boy a bicycle.

  A close bond had developed between Chummy and Jack, and she had been surprised and a little sad that he had not come to her wedding. When he walked in, slightly behind the other boys, she shouted out, ‘Jack! You’ve come – I’m so glad,’ and rushed over to him. In her exuberance she would probably have taken him in her arms, but he quickly backed off with a ‘Steady on, miss, steady on.’ So she shook hands in the manner that boys of that age prefer. It would not do to shame him in front of the other lads.

  Mrs B had held back a substantial part of the feast for the boys from the SPY club, knowing that it would be necessary, and while they were all tucking in, Chummy managed a few words with Jack.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t miss your weddin’, miss, but I didn’t wanna come wiv all them toffs, like, so I comes wiv the lads, like, an’ I gotta presen’ for yer, miss. I made it in metalwork at school.’

  He pulled a brown-paper package from his pocket and thrust it furtively into her hands, making sure that his back was turned to the others so that they couldn’t see. ‘It’s fer you, miss.’

  Then he turned quickly and blended in with the other lads.

  Chummy returned to her husband and opened the parcel. It was a tiny bicycle, carefully constructed out of wire and metal.

  The SPY club band started up, somewhat out of tune but with plenty of rhythm, and the happy couple led the dancing. At seven o’clock they left to get the night train to Cornwall, where they were spending their honeymoon. A taxi came to take them to Paddington station, and a big crowd gathered outside the church hall to wish them well and see them off. Jack didn’t stand waving with the rest of us. He ran round to the back of the hall, grabbed his bicycle and gave chase to the taxi, with Chummy and David looking out of the rear window in astonishment. He was a strong boy and a fast cyclist. He followed the taxi all the way and was on the platform to wave them off as the train steamed out of Paddington station.

  TAXI!

  Sister Monica Joan had recovered from pneumonia caused by wandering down the East India Dock Road on a raw November morning wearing only her nightie; had lived triumphantly through the shock, trauma and humiliation of having been accused of shop-lifting; had survived the ordeal of prosecution and a court case before judge and jury; and now, at the age of ninety-two, looked set for another decade.

  It was a fine summer, and Sister Monica Joan had a number of relatives whom she decided she must visit. I have described earlier the niece living in Sonning-on-Thames, to whom she bequeathed two fine Chippendale chairs. Another niece and nephew with their three children lived nearer, in Richmond, which was still a tidy distance for a very old lady to travel alone by bus. But, undaunted, she set out.

  I am not sure whether she told anyone where she was going (probably not), but once again there was general anxiety in the convent, because Sister Monica Joan was missing, it was eight o’clock and time for Compline. No doubt prayers were said for her safety, which must have caught the ear of the Almighty, or whoever oversees these small matters, because at that moment the telephone rang, and the niece in Richmond said that her aunt was with them, enjoying the company of the three children. Asked whether she could stay the night, the niece said it would be difficult, because they had only a small house, and there wasn’t a spare bed, but her aunt was welcome to sleep on the sofa. At this point Sister Julienne made a tactical error, which she freely admitted later. A night on a sofa would have done Sister Monica Joan no harm whatsoever, but Sister Julienne hesitated and said she really ought to come back to the convent.

  Thinking that it was too late in the evening to ask them to put her on a bus, Sister told them to put her in a taxi, which would be paid for on arrival.

  It was a grave mistake, which in subsequent days and weeks led to a series of incidents that spun out of control. Sister Monica Joan had probably not been in a London taxi-cab since they were horse-drawn. As a professed nun she was vowed to a life of poverty, and if she travelled anywhere she took the bus or train, the cheapest available route. A modern taxi was a new and delightful experience.

  At lunch the next day, Sister was full of her niece and nephew in Richmond, and their three delightful daughters. ‘Such pretty gels, don’t you know, so engaging.’ She couldn’t remember their names, but one of them, poor child, had spots. Such an affliction at that age. She would go that very afternoon to Chrisp Street market, to find something suitable for the one with spots.

  She sailed around the market, oblivious to sideways glances and whispered warnings that went before her from the costers, who all kept a wary eye on her since they had been frustrated in their charge of petty theft.

  She homed in on a new stall run by a woman with beads and flowers around her neck and in her hair, who sold herb and flower remedies and potions in pretty pots with exotic sounding names, guaranteed to cure anything. Ingrown toenails, gastric ulcers, piles, failing eyesight, toothache – all could be cured by her remedies. Sister Monica Joan was in a delirium of delight. This was what she had been looking for, all her life, she assured the woman behind the stall – an essence of marigold, a tincture of dog daisy, an infusion of dandelion, and all so simply explained in the little booklet. She poured over the booklet and compared it with her notes on astrology and life forces and earth centres and came to the happy conclusion that all had been revealed. Not only would the one with the spots, sweet child, be cured, but her future would be luminous.

  The next day Sister Julienne had a rather nasty telephone call from the nephew, who said that his aunt had woken the whole house at three o’clock in the morning with a garbled story about flower essence, and if you have a bad toe rub it on your toe and it will get better, and if you have a tummy ache rub it on your tummy and the ache will go away, and if the one with the spots rubs it on her spots they will go away, and wasn’t it wonderful? The nephew had replied that it was not at all wonderful. He and his wife had to go to work the next day, and the children had to go to school, and did she realise what time of the night it was? Sister Monica Joan had replied that yes, she thought she knew, but she was so sure the one with the spots ought to hear the good news straight away, so could she speak to her? The nephew had replied certainly not, it was ten past three, and the girl had to go to school. She was doing her O-levels and needed her sleep.

  Sister Julienne was apologising and saying that she had no idea Sister Monica Joan was active in the middle of the night, when the nephew interrupted to say that that was not the end of the story by any means. About an hour later they were all woken again, and Sister Monica Joan explained that she didn’t want the one with the spots to think she was being specially favoured, but spots were such an affliction at that age, didn’t he know, nor did she want the two younger gels to feel left out, so she had a little present for them also, which she would give to them personally.

  After that, the nephew said, he had disconnected the telephone, and Sister Julienne agreed that under the circumstances it was the best thing he could have done.

  The following Saturday Sister Monica Joan decided to go to Richmond again. She discussed it fully with everyone around the big dining table. She must be sure to see those dear gels again, and how exciting to discover you have young and pretty great-nieces that you didn’t know you had, and it reminded her of her own young days with her sisters in the big house and all the fun they used to have.

  Sister Julienne was glad to know at least where she was going on this occasion, and telephoned the nephew to tell him to expect his aunt. She made quite sure that Sister Monica Joan had enough money for the bus fare.

  But a humble London double-decker was not part of Sister Monica Joan’s plans. Having once experienced the delights of a London taxi-cab, buses were out of the question. Oh, the pleasure and the grandeur of sitting alone in the spacious interior while a competent driver weaves his way through the streets. None of the awful business of having to get off one bus and wait anxiously for another. No standing around – just go straight from Poplar to
Richmond (about fifteen miles through Central London). Sister Monica Joan was delighted with her new-found ease of transport. No fussing, looking for your bus pass. No fumbling for pennies and shillings to pay the bus conductor. And it didn’t seem to cost anything. You just had to say, ‘Payment will be met on arrival,’ and off he went, dear man.

  The nephew did not complain the first two times he was expected to finance the taxi-fare, but after the third occasion he put through a gentle phone call to Sister Julienne asking her, as tactfully as he could, if she could provide his aunt with sufficient money to pay for her own taxi. Sister, who with mounting alarm at the depletion of the convent’s petty cash had paid for four return taxis, agreed that things were getting out of hand, and that she would have to do something, although she was not sure what. The nephew was particular to say that they were all delighted with his aunt’s visits, and the girls adored her and would sit listening to her for hours. She was enchanting. It was just the taxi fares ...

  There was considerable discussion amongst the nuns as to how best to control the mounting problem. Sister Julienne had a very serious discussion with Sister Monica Joan about the vows of poverty, the need to economise for the sake of running the convent, the expense of taxi fares, and the need to take the bus wherever possible. Sister Monica Joan was very amenable and fully understood that she had been extravagant, so she agreed to take the bus in future. But perhaps she forgot. Or perhaps she could not resist the temptation when she saw a shiny black taxi-cab in the street. Or perhaps her intentions were good, but it was raining, and Sister Monica Joan could not abide the rain. Whatever the reason, the situation continued as before. Sister Julienne felt obliged to refund to the nephew all the taxi fares incurred to date, because a nun is the responsibility of the convent, and not of her family.

  The Sisters had further discussions. At the start of her next journey Novice Ruth took Sister Monica Joan to the bus stop, put her on the correct bus, paid the bus conductor, and told him where she was to get off. But Sister Monica Joan was crafty, and she always got what she wanted. She thanked Novice Ruth kindly for her assistance, sweetly waved goodbye and quite simply got off at the next stop and took a taxi.