We washed him all over, and I said, “We will leave him in a shirt, put on back to front. The undertakers will bring a shroud.”
She replied, “I’ve got one. I got it several weeks ago. I couldn’t have left him indecent could I?”
She fetched a chair and climbed up to a small cupboard high above the gas meter. There was a box in it from which she extracted a shroud. We put it on him. I asked her if she would like me to contact the undertakers. She thanked me, and said she would be grateful. “But tell them not to come till tomorrow morning, will you, please?”
That was perfectly normal. In those days the deceased often lay in the house for a day or two as a mark of respect for the dead. Family and neighbours would come in to “pay their respects”.
Throughout, Peggy was completely calm and tranquil. Her face and voice betrayed no sign of sorrow or loss. In fact I would have said she had an almost ethereal quality about her. I left her with a feeling of admiration.
At the door, she said, “If you see anyone, any neighbours, don’t tell them Frank’s died, will you? I’ll tell them tomorrow. I want to tell them myself.”
“Of course not,” I reassured her, although I would have to report it at Nonnatus House.
Her anxiety passed.
“That’s all right. It’s just the neighbours, I don’t want them to know yet. They can come tomorrow to pay their respects. But not tonight.”
We smiled at each other, and I squeezed her hand. No one would come barging in tonight, not the undertakers, nor the neighbours, nor anyone. She could be alone with her thoughts and her memories. Would she like a couple of sleeping tablets?
She thought for a second. Yes, that would be a very good idea. I opened my bag and handed her a couple of Soneryl.
Peggy shut and locked the door when I left. She sat for many hours on the edge of the bed, unable to take her eyes off Frank, their life together tumbling through her mind. Her happiness had been perfect and complete, she had always known that, and now she was not going to be parted from him.
She pulled up a chair and climbed again to the cupboard above the gas meter and took out two more boxes, one very small, the other larger. She undressed and brushed her hair. She opened the larger of the two boxes and took out a white shroud, which she put on, tying the ribbons carefully at the back. She opened the small box and tipped out fifteen grains of morphine, to which she added the two Soneryl. She took a bottle of brandy and a glass from the bedside cabinet, and swallowed all the tablets in two or three gulps. She continued drinking brandy until she could no longer sit up.
When the undertakers arrived the next morning they could not get in. They broke the window and saw her dead, her arms around her brother.
AND THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
The Reverend Thornton Applebee-Thornton had been a missionary in Sierra Leone for twenty-five years. He was enjoying a six-month furlough home in England, which he tried to spend mostly at the Applebee-Thorntons’ country house in Herefordshire. This was not always easy, because his father, a widower of ninety who was looked after by two ladies from the village, was a retired Indian Army colonel who had never been able to understand his only son’s priestly persuasion. In fact, he despised it, despised his wet and wimpish ways, and secretly felt aggrieved that he should be afflicted with such offspring. His only son, he grumbled to himself, might have had the decency to turn out to be more of a man than that poor thing with his dog collar and his sermons, a missionary pandering to the blasted natives.
“Bah!” he would shout, “kick hell out of the blasted wogs. That’s the only way they will respect you. It’s the only language they understand.”
At which point his reverend son decided that perhaps it was time to visit his cousin Jack at his farm in Dorset; but cousin Jack had just retired to the South of France, leaving his son Courtney in charge of the farm and yes, of course, (the letter read) cousin Thornton would be more than welcome to stay if he could accommodate Fiona’s busy programme at the riding school that they had just opened. A week at the farm convinced the Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton that all this horsey stuff was not for him. Equally, the young couple decided between themselves that the poor old boy was really a frightful bore and they couldn’t be expected to introduce him to their circle; perhaps Africa was the best place for him.
So he visited old school friends, and students from his days at theological college. They were delighted to see him, but sadly, after they had exhausted the shared experiences of thirty to forty years ago, found they had little to say to each other.
Perhaps a couple of weeks in Brightlingsea – or did they call it Brighton these days? – would be pleasant. The Metropole was comfortable and he enjoyed the sea breezes, but, as he sat on the front watching life pass by, he was forced to conclude that he had spent so long in Africa and given so much of his mind and energy to the mission that he had lost touch with the changes in England. Expecting the customs and manners, dress and behaviour of the 1920s, he was a little shocked, and more than a little pained by what he saw.
The Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton was a bachelor – not, he was quick to assure his friends, by choice. He greatly admired, indeed revered, the fair and gentle sex, and would very much have wished the solace and companionship of a loving wife, joined in the felicity of holy matrimony as vouchsafed to his more fortunate friends and colleagues; but the fair ideal had not come his way. The truth is that the reverend gentleman was essentially a one-woman man, and the only woman he had ever fancied was, unfortunately, a nun. He had never spoken to her, beyond the sacramental words: “This is the body of Christ, take this . . . ” as he gave her the consecrated bread; but she was enshrined in his heart and when he was moved to another mission her memory went with him. But that was all a long time ago, he mused, as he watched the boys and girls flaunting themselves half-naked on Brighton beach, and times had changed. Perhaps one was out of touch?
He pulled a letter from his pocket. One of his old friends from theological college was the rector of All Saints’, Poplar. The Rector would be delighted to see him, the letter read, and to show him around the parish. Would a couple of weeks be sufficient?
This was how the Reverend Thornton Applebee-Thornton came to be in Poplar at the time of which I write. As the mission in Sierra Leone was planning to introduce a midwifery service, the Rector suggested that his old friend might like to study the work of the Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus. It seemed like an invitation not to be missed. Accordingly, the Rector contacted Sister Julienne, and arranged that conducted tours of our practice would start the following day, with visits, by arrangement, to some of our patients.
The Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton came to lunch at Nonnatus House. We were about twelve at table that day. We were accustomed to luncheon visitors, mostly clergymen and sometimes retired missionaries, and it was always a pleasant change. The Reverend was a tall, distinguished man of around fifty. He was good-looking, with fine, slightly sharp features and a sensitive mouth. He had a full head of pure white hair and sun-weathered skin. He was very thin and I thought this was probably due to repeated bouts of dysentery and other intestinal infections. He ate heartily of the lamb stew provided by Mrs B, our cook, complimenting her with loquacious courtesy upon its excellence. He had a deep, kindly voice and kindly eyes that looked at each person around the table with intelligent understanding. If he spoke directly to anyone his attention was so focused, and so penetrating, that he seemed to be able to read the mind and character of the person he was speaking to.
Conversation was general. Sister Julienne asked him to tell us about the mission at Sierra Leone and he expounded on the size of the Christian community, the dire poverty of the natives and the work being done to found schools and hospitals. He spoke with fluency and charm, with not a trace of self-aggrandisement, to which he would have been entitled, having been a pioneer in a challenging and hostile environment.
He was fascinating. We all hung on his words, especially Chummy, our
nursing colleague, whose burning ambition – in fact her only reason for training as a nurse – was to be a missionary. Eagerly she asked him about the plans to start a midwifery service, to which he smilingly replied that he hoped she would honour the mission by being their first trained midwife. Chummy’s huge shoulders expanded with pride and joy. She closed her eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, I will, I will. You can rely on me.”
He looked at her quietly and carefully, his pleasant eyes taking in her youthful enthusiasm. Many people reacted to Chummy’s massive size and awkward gestures with ill-concealed humour, but not this gentleman. He leaned towards her and said softly, “I am quite, quite sure that we can rely on you.”
Chummy’s breath quivered out of her in a series of happy gasps and she could bring herself to say no more.
The Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton turned to Sister Julienne. “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit today. What with the charm of the company and the excellence of the luncheon, I had almost forgotten that I was here to be shown around your district nursing and midwifery practice.”
Was it an accident? Was it coincidence? Was it a mistake? Or was it devilish cunning? With a perfectly straight face, saucy Sister Julienne, whose eyes never missed a trick and whose mind was everywhere, looked coolly at him and lied through her teeth, without so much as a blush.
“I very much regret that none of the Sisters will be available to escort you on a tour of the district. I cannot express my regret too strongly, but we all have other duties this afternoon.”
He looked disappointed and everyone else looked surprised. “It is a busy time for us,” she continued, “and unfortunately none of my trained nurses can be spared for the purpose either.”
The poor man looked uncomfortable, as though he were superfluous to requirements, and ought to be going.
“However, Jane is available this afternoon . . . ”
At this poor Jane nearly fell off her chair, knocking over a salt pot and a dish of mint sauce, which slid greenly across the table. Sister Julienne appeared not to notice.
“. . . And Jane, who knows the district well – perhaps better than any of us – would be delighted to accompany you.”
She rose to her feet, and we all got up with her and stood behind our chairs as she said grace. My eyes were lowered, but I glanced up and looked across the table at Jane. Her hands were not folded; they were clinging to the back of her chair and she was panting. Little beads of perspiration had broken out on her forehead and all in all she looked as if she were on the point of collapse. What on earth was Sister doing, I wondered. This was sheer cruelty.
In the hallway I heard Sister suggesting to Jane that she could take the Reverend to the Manchester Road and the Dockland areas first. Then they could look at Bow, Limehouse and the other parts of the district another day.
Jane went to fetch her coat and her legs were shaking. I saw the Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton watch her closely as she walked in front of him. His face was thoughtful. Jane reached to take down her coat, but her hands twitched so convulsively that she could not take it off the peg.
“Allow me,” he said courteously, and helped her to put it on. He put his hand on her arm and led her to the door. He turned and thanked Sister for allowing him such an excellent guide, who he was quite sure would be most helpful and informative. He opened the door for Jane with a slightly old-fashioned bow and murmured: “After you, madam.”
They returned at tea time and he was full of praise, saying how informative Jane had been, and how greatly he valued the time she had so graciously spared him. Asked if he would like more conducted tours of the district, he said that there was no limit to his thirst for knowledge. Asked if he was quite happy with Jane as his escort – would he prefer a trained midwife on another occasion – he became profuse in stating his preference for Jane, who, he declared, was the perfect guide. Her erudition and encyclopedic knowledge of the topography and sociology of the area were more than he had dared hope for.
Jane appeared to accept her new role as guide for the Reverend Mr Applebee-Thornton, and carried out her duties with her customary attention to detail. Sister Julienne advised her to take a map, and to keep notes of what they had seen.
A week or two later, at lunch, Sister enquired how things were going. Jane replied eagerly, “Well, Pippin wants . . . ”
She turned a deep red and her hands flew to her mouth. Stuttering, she tried to excuse herself. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, Sister, but he asked me to call him Pippin. I said I couldn’t presume to be so familiar, but he said that all his friends call him Pippin, and he would be hurt if I didn’t.”
To this. Sister replied, with exaggerated solemnity, that Jane had done the right thing, and must certainly call him Pippin, if that was his wish.
That same evening we were in the bicycle shed. Sister Julienne was mending a puncture, and I was tightening my brakes. To my great surprise, she said, “Where do you get your clothes from, Jennifer?” With the tyre lever grasped firmly in her small hand, Sister ripped off the outer tube.
“Well, I have a dressmaker. I don’t usually go for off-the-peg stuff.”
“But what store would you recommend for good clothes?”
I thought for a while. Sister plunged the inner tube into a bowl of water. “Liberty’s, I suppose, in Regent Street.”
“Ah yes, Liberty’s. That sounds most suitable.” She was turning the inner tube thoughtfully in the water, looking for bubbles.
“Jane needs some new clothes. I am going to tell her to get some. I wonder, Jenny, would it be too much to ask you to go with her? I’m sure she would value your advice. You need spare no expense, because Jane earns money but she never spends it.”
No one could ever resist an appeal from Sister Julienne – certainly not me. More surprises were in store.
“And who is your hairdresser?”
“I always go to Chez Jacques in Regent Street, which just happens to be opposite Liberty’s.”
Her eyes lit up. She had found the puncture now; the water was bubbling. But her real interest seemed to be in my hairdresser.
“Just opposite! Now, that’s marvellous. It couldn’t be more convenient. If you are in the area, could you take Jane to the hairdresser? She always cuts her hair herself, but I am sure she would look prettier if a good hairdresser attended to her.”
Now, none of my nearest and dearest would suggest that I am quick off the mark when it comes to matchmaking. My poor mind doesn’t work that way. Slow, they call me. But on that occasion the penny dropped. “It would be a pleasure, Sister. Just leave Jane in my hands.”
Jane was dingy, drab and plain. Her clothes were about the worst I have ever seen. Her shoes were heavy, black lace-ups. Her stockings – tea-coloured lisle – were baggy. Her hair always looked a mess, and her skin was grey and deeply lined. To smarten her up would be quite a job.
After breakfast the next morning, Sister Julienne said: “Jane, you need some new clothes. Go with Jennifer this afternoon and she will choose some for you. You also need a haircut.”
Jane meekly replied: “Yes, Sister.”
It may seem extraordinary to speak to an adult in such a manner, but there was no other way of dealing with Jane. She was incapable of making even the smallest decision for herself and had to be directed in everything. I took my cue from Sister. I had thought carefully, and decided that a new look for Jane would have to be subtle. If I tried to dress her up like a fashion plate, the result might be disastrous. But first, the hairdresser.
Jane had never before been inside a West End hairdresser’s and she hung back timidly at the door. But I only had to say, “I’ve made an appointment for you; you’ve got to come in,” and she obeyed meekly.
I had a quiet word with Monsieur Jacques: “A gentle style, to frame the face, nothing exaggerated, no backcombing, something to suit a mature lady of quiet habits.”
Monsieur Jacques nodded gravely, and took up his scissors.
As every
woman knows, it’s the cut that counts, and Jacques was a master-cutter. Had he ever achieved anything as spectacular as his reinvention of Jane? Perhaps the enormity of the challenge inspired him, for the result was little short of a miracle. Her natural curls moved in all the right places, her dingy greyness was now a confident iron-grey, with a softening of white at the temples. Jane looked at herself with astonishment in the huge mirrors, and as he flicked a wayward curl with his tail-comb, she actually smiled. Some of the worry left her face and she giggled. “Ooh, is that me?”
At Liberty’s I looked out for a sales assistant who would not intimidate Jane. Some of them can be so smart and sharp they set the teeth on edge. A languid young woman with a drainpipe figure and a contemptuous eye shimmied across the carpet, but I steered Jane towards a homely-looking soul with a tape measure round her neck.
I explained the requirements, and she murmured reassuringly, “The unconscious elegance of a Hebe-Sports, with a little blouse or two. Leave everything to me.” She deftly applied the tape measure to Jane’s bony frame.
As promised, Jane emerged from the changing room transformed by a tailored suit in elegant grey. The tape measure breathed, “The iconic statement of the suit is in keeping with modom’s splendid height. The subtle moulding of the skirt lends softness to the hips. Observe the detail of the pockets, rounding and moulding the line of the hips. Notice how the curve of the collar flatters modom’s superb shoulders.”
All of which was another way of saying that Jane’s gaunt figure and prominent bones had somehow been concealed by the cut of the suit. She stood, meek and silent, passively allowing the collar to be adjusted a fraction of an inch.
Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 12