Sisters of the East End

by Helen Batten

  Everyone laughed and from then on the party went swimmingly. Charlie’s terrible indiscretion had broken the ice and everyone wanted to talk to us, especially the women. They loved the opportunity to get a blow-by-blow account from the horse’s mouth of the dramatic arrival of both Jackie and her baby son.

  As I was introduced to the different guests I was struck by how inter-related they were. I was in the midst of a huge extended family, some of them related in different ways several times over. At one point Flossy grabbed my arm. She was a regular at church and I knew her well, in fact everyone knew Flossy well. She was William Drake’s sister-in-law, but she was also Bertha’s great-aunt, such was the complicated web of ties. Flossy was a force to be reckoned with. Only that year the Queen Mother had come to the rehallowing of St Botolph’s Church in Aldgate. Outside wartime it was rare for royalty to come to the East End and everyone was talking about it. The service was to be a real event, with the Lord Mayor and the Bishop of London presiding, and attendance by special invitation only. For some reason Flossy had been expecting to be invited, but when an invitation failed to arrive, she got the hump and decided that she was going anyway. She turned up at St Boltoph’s and managed to push her way past the stewards and curtsey just as the Queen Mother processed out, apparently saying, ‘I do likes your ’ats, Your Majesty, but I don’t thinks you should wear green.’

  The first time I ever met her she was standing gazing at a new box, which had appeared at the back of the church. She pointed at it.

  ‘’ere, read this.’

  It said, ‘Donations for the discretion of the vicar’.

  ‘What about his bleedin’ indiscretions then?’ she cackled.

  The next week the vicar’s mother came to the service. Flossy pulled my sleeve and gestured at her.

  ‘She’s all right but she ain’t no oil painting, is she?’ she said.

  So Flossy was a bit of a handful, but I was impressed with however offensive she was (and she was), she was treated with love and respect. Her only children, her two sons, had been killed fighting in the war. Then during an air raid, Flossy went to the shelter but her husband stayed in the house. She got back to the house to find it had been bombed and her husband killed. But Flossy remained stoical and cheerful, and as I got to know her I noticed how her friends and family looked after her. Someone would always be sent to bring her to church and someone would always take her home. Whenever I called round, there was a visitor who had brought a piece of cake. She was a feature at any happening that involved a member of her large extended family. And Flossy wasn’t unusual. The backbone of the area were the large extended families who had been there for generations and looked after each other.

  Flossy looked me in the eye and asked somewhat slyly, ‘So, Sister, I hears the stork brought you a special package this week.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Flossy.’

  ‘I hears it’s a little boy.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And he’s healthy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was beginning to wonder why she was so interested. Then again Flossy was interested in everything going on.

  ‘And has you found Mum yet?’

  ‘No. The police are looking but absolutely no leads as yet.’

  I paused and looked her in the eye.

  ‘Flossy, do you know anything about the little boy?’

  ‘I can’t say as I do.’

  ‘Come on, you know everything that goes on around here! This is your patch and don’t pretend it isn’t.’

  ‘Well, yes, Sister, you can bleedin’ well say that again.’

  ‘So if there was anyone about to have a baby, or had had a baby or maybe even was a baby missing, you’d know about it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, Sister, puts it this way, I know everything that goes on with us.’ She gestured around the hall. ‘But I don’t know everything what goes on with them, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Um … not really.’

  ‘Well, it’s not just us, is it? There is peoples what pass through, if you gets me drift. Boats come, people gets off, they go about their business and then people gets back on again, and the boats go. Do ya’ get what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand. So you think baby John must have been left by someone passing through?’

  ‘Well, puts it this way, we looks after our own.’

  She nodded towards one of Bertha’s nieces, young Molly, although that wasn’t her real name. Just the year before, Brenda, the pupil midwife, had been called out to a room for what she thought was going to be a first antenatal visit. What she found was 18-year-old Molly in the final stages of labour. Brenda had only been with us a month and had never delivered a baby on the district before. Moreover, Molly was lying in a bare room on a mattress with nothing else, not even a sheet on it. Brenda ran out into the street, looking desperately for a public telephone, so she called the Sisters for help. What she found instead was Mrs Hardy.

  ‘Get back in there, luv. I’ll sort it.’

  Within minutes Mrs Hardy had managed to swing the Poplar matriarchy into action. Someone called the Mission House, someone else had managed to drag out of retirement what used to be known as the ‘lying-in lady’, who, in the days before midwives, would be called upon to deliver the local babies, and the others came flocking, bringing supplies of blankets and baby clothes and tea in a flask.

  Back in the room, Brenda was putting on a brave face but clearly didn’t have a clue what to do. The lying-in lady pushed past and took over. Soon a new baby was emerging into the world. There were gasps and claps all round. But Brenda, having recovered from the shock and relief of the birth, realised there were some serious questions to be asked. She took Mrs Hardy aside.

  ‘Why was no one told about this baby? She’s had no antenatal visits, no preparations have been made. I mean, there’s not even any furniture here.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, it’s placin’ House to Lets on the bloody ’orses.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’s new round her, aren’t ya’, treacle? Gamblin’.’

  ‘Gambling?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s ’er problem. She’s been foolin’ around trying to pay her debts and now she’s got a lifetime one round her Gregory Peck. Daffy Girl! I’m gonna fetch her Mum. She’s gonna ’ave something to say.’

  Gambling was absolutely rife in the East End at the time. Everyone was at it and they bet on everything. Of course horses and cards were popular but the big thing was the dogs. To pay for it they would beg, borrow and steal. Whole houses’ worth of furniture would end up at the pawnbrokers. Tragically, it was not unknown for young girls to try and pay back debts by sleeping with someone. It was never clear that this is what had happened to young Molly but that was certainly the rumour that went around. However, the reason Flossy had pointed at Molly was because the story had a relatively happy ending. While Molly received a good shouting at by her parents, her baby was immediately welcomed and absorbed into the family. Molly’s Mum did most of the looking after but Molly’s big sisters and aunts and Gran also joined in, and he became just another of the next generation. Molly went on to get a job and get married and start a new family. So Flossy was right – East Enders did look after their own.

  Hurrying back with Sister Alice after the party, one part of my mind was anxious about being late for Compline, but the other part was thinking about baby John Divine. I came to the conclusion that the fact that he was the only baby that had ever been left with us was a reflection on the nature of the Community. I decided I felt a bit like a guest spider (small, not furry) in a large interlocking web. It was a web which covered the whole area and had lots and lots of threads, which were not neatly arranged in circles but messy – lots of threads connected to lots of other threads in illogical ways. Some threads were long, some short, but they were all connected lots of times. This meant that although the web looked fragile, it was actually very strong. If you landed in it, you would be held. If o
ne thread broke there was always another one to pick you up. It meant that unexpected babies would not fall through the net. They would be caught and held in the web, the burden of their care usually being spread.

  Thoughts about East End families put me in mind of my own family. They were only 30 minutes’ bus ride away and yet I hadn’t been to see them. Of course I wrote at least once a week and telephoned on birthdays and occasions, but I’d been in Poplar for over a year and I hadn’t been home. I was avoiding it, but I wasn’t sure why, although I thought it might have had something to do with that looming decision about taking my life vows.

  Once I had become a novice I had to spend some years testing my vocation. We were supposed to live the life and see whether it was right for us, and truly find out whether God was calling us. These years of testing are seen as an opportunity to explore what each of the vows of poverty, chastity (or more rightly, consecrated celibacy) and obedience might mean for you personally and whether they felt right for you. People think that they mean no money, no sex and do as you’re told. But in the years I had been with the Community I had come to see that consecrated celibacy is the most central vow. It is a consecrated celibacy where you give yourself to God in His service. It’s about learning to love and it affects every level of your being. I had come to see that for me poverty was about stewardship and simplicity. It was about sharing God’s gifts evenly and fairly, and living a simple life, of having only what is necessary in order to serve God. For me it was the easiest vow – a blessing, really – giving me freedom to concentrate on the things that are most important. Obedience was of course more difficult but I began to see it as being about listening to God and listening to those around me in order to find the common mind. The more time I spent living the religious life, the more it felt right and I was deeply grateful that I was able to express this in the world through my work as a midwife. I had a growing sense that I was in the right place, but I still didn’t want to face taking the next irrevocable step.

  However the week after the Drakes’ party, the matter was taken out of my hands on a quick trip to the Mother House and a meeting with Mother Sarah Grace. Completely out of the blue she threw one simple question at me.

  ‘Sister Catherine Mary, do you feel ready?’

  The shock. I jolly well knew what she meant but I still asked.

  ‘Ready for what, Mother?’

  ‘You know what. So are you?’

  I physically felt all a-quiver, but I managed to stammer out, ‘Yes, Mother, I believe I am.’

  ‘In which case, child, take your time but the next step is to write your application.’

  I walked out, confused as to why, when faced with the question whether I was ready, I’d said ‘Yes’ when clearly ‘No’ would have been closer to where I was.

  So I was sent away and expected to work on my application. Over the next few months, when I retired to my room ‘Endurance’, I sat at my little desk and looked at the empty page. I had to write a couple of sides of A4 charting my journey through faith and the reasons why I felt it was right for me now to take the next step. I prayed hard but nothing really came. I wondered whether going to see my family might clear my writer’s block so I asked for a week’s leave, which Sister Ruth happily granted, and climbed on the bus to Camden Town.

  Coming back to Camden Town, I was struck by how it was rather mixed. Poplar was all just poverty, but Camden Town had pockets of prosperity and swagger. Some bits had grown rather fashionable – the large, beautiful Georgian houses had been done up while other bits had become more rundown and tatty. My road was looking tattier.

  When I walked in the smell and colours of my home assaulted me in an unsettling way. In a way nothing had changed and then in another way everything had changed. There was the familiar smell of Mum’s oil paints (she always had a picture on the go). Her other hobby – dressmaking – was also still very much in evidence. Dressmaking tools were scattered about, the tailor’s dummy was in the corner of the kitchen with cloth draped over it; it made me smile. Mother gave me a peck on the cheek. It felt good to see her, but I felt a bit awkward; I didn’t know where to put myself, or quite what to do. I didn’t have a role or a routine. I had a cup of tea and a chat (again difficult, where to start? How to talk about a life that was so alien and based on a belief she didn’t share?). In the end I excused myself, and went up to my old bedroom and put the battered old communal suitcase that all the Sisters shared on the bed. The bedroom seemed overcrowded. There wasn’t that much furniture, but compared to the convent it seemed fussy, overblown, a bit extravagant. The flowery wallpaper gaudy, the trinkets wasteful. Coming back home put my present life in sharp relief.

  Everyone was pleased to see me, but behind their smiles I could see a wariness, a slight hanging back when they hugged me. It revealed itself as I walked into the sitting room. My sister snapped, ‘Walk properly, don’t just glide.’ The noise of the house assaulted me. There were people coming in and out, shouting and laughing. Did they have to talk so loudly? It seemed unnecessary and selfish, and yet it wasn’t. I had just got used to a contemplative life, where sound was seen as something to be used only where necessary. The radio was always on and the sound of the television filled the house in the evening and interfered with my prayers. I couldn’t get used to the late nights as the family stayed up watching television or the late mornings. I used to be an owl but as a Sister you had to be a lark, up with the dawn chorus. My internal clock had readjusted. As a result after the first couple of nights at home, I felt tired with frazzled nerves and longed for a break and some order.

  The next day I went down to breakfast and my little brother Harry (I say little, but by now he must have been 24) was sitting at the kitchen table with a friend. The friend looked aghast when I entered. Of course I was wearing my habit. Harry immediately clocked the look on his friend’s face and said, ‘Oh, meet my sister. You can kiss her, just don’t get into the habit.’

  They both burst out laughing. I could feel myself blushing. I knew that behind the joke Harry was embarrassed by me and I really didn’t want to sit down and eat with them. I managed a quick cup of tea and piece of toast, and then I made my excuses and exited stage left, upstairs to the bedroom. I sat on the bed, tears of shame pricked my eyes, and then I felt guilty for being ashamed: I was only doing what I believed in. Why was that so embarrassing?

  I closed my eyes and prayed. A picture of the disciple Peter came to mind and the cock crowing three times. The path to God was never easy for anyone. It wasn’t supposed to be – we had to be tested. I thought of the early Christian martyrs and the fear, persecution and ostracising they had experienced. Was I so weak that a thoughtless joke could rattle me? I went to my wardrobe and from right at the back took out my old clothes – the best dress and two-piece suit I had saved in case I wanted to escape. I took off my habit and struggled into the dress. With its full skirt and tight bodice, it was hopelessly out of date. Everything in the streets was short and loose. It was also too tight and I could only get the zip done halfway up my back. I looked in the mirror: I looked ridiculous. I couldn’t go back now. I was out of date, the world had moved on and the clothes didn’t fit. The girl who had worn that dress to harmlessly flirt and drink a few glasses of something slightly alcoholic no longer existed. I had grown up and beyond. Then Mother walked in and I was mortified.

  ‘Oh, Katie, what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Mother. Um … I’m just trying my old dress on. I don’t know, really.’

  ‘You funny thing! That’s your party dress, isn’t it? You used to look beautiful in it.’

  ‘Mmmm. I look kind of ridiculous now.’

  ‘Mmmmm. Yes.’

  We both laughed and then I burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Katie. Come here.’

  She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. I sat down and she put her arm round me.

  ‘Don’t be upset by Harry. He doesn’t mean it. He just doesn’t know how to handle it.
It’s quite unusual to have a sister who’s a nun.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We all love you and we are all proud of you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I think we find it difficult to show. We’re still getting used to it.’

  ‘It’s been more than seven years.’

  ‘Yes, but we never see you. It’s like you’ve died. We all miss you terribly.’

  ‘But in a way I have died. And I’ve been reborn.’

  She drew back from me and took her arm away from my waist.

  ‘Katie Crisp, don’t start talking to me about resurrection.’

  ‘But I’m not Katie Crisp, I’m Sister Catherine Mary.’

  Mother started to cry. She never cried, not even when Father died.

  ‘There’s no going back. I can’t go back,’ I said.

  ‘I know. It’s just I miss you.’

  ‘You have to let me go. I’ve started on a journey I couldn’t help and there’s no going back.’

  And before I knew it, I was saying it.

  ‘I’m going to take my life vows.’

  ‘I know. I had hoped you might come back but I can see now that you’ve already gone. Katie, I love you, we all do, and if it’s what you want, we will support you.’

  ‘It is, Mother, it is.’

  We finished the conversation with a hug and the rest of the week was much easier.

  When I got back to the Mission House I was told I needed to go straight out to visit old Flossy. While I had been away she’d had a heart attack and had been sent home from hospital because there was nothing more they could do for her. I was told she was comfortable but her end was very near, and I needed to go and sit with her. I wasn’t surprised: she frequently had blackouts. In fact, only the Christmas before she had come to have dinner with us and just as we were about to go in and eat she fell down as if dead. As we peered anxiously over her face she opened an eye and said, ‘Oh, you spoilt it!’

  I arrived to find Flossy had already zipped herself up in a shroud, which she had purchased a couple of years before. It was a bit of a shock – I wondered whether I had arrived too late, but she opened one eye and said with a grin, ‘Saves you havin’ to do it, Sister,’ and closed her eye again.