Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London

by Jennifer Worth

  The memories of people like Sister Monica Joan should be cherished. I sat on the edge of her bed, my legs drawn up underneath me, and tried to interpret from her sensitive features what was in her mind. I did not want Queenie to fade from her memory, so I asked about the children going to the workhouse, but she became irritable and snappy.

  “Questions. Always questions. You give me no peace, child. Can I not expect a little repose in my old age?”

  She threw her head to one side with an affected sigh. At that moment the bell sounded for Compline. “There now. See what you have done. You’ve made me late for my religious duties.”

  She swept past me without a further glance and made her way to the chapel.

  That evening I attended Compline. The lay staff at Nonnatus House were not bound to do so – we were not professed religious – but we could attend any offices if we wished to. I particularly loved the words of Compline, the last office of the day, and had been very affected by the story of Queenie, so I followed Sister Monica Joan into the chapel. Her behaviour was atrocious! She entered without so much as looking at anyone else, and did not take her usual pew but went straight to the visitors’ seats, took a chair and sat with her back to her Sisters and the altar. Sister Julienne quietly came up to her and gently tried to draw her into the group around the altar, but Sister Monica Joan rudely pushed her aside and even drew her chair further away so that she was looking directly at the wall. Compline proceeded in this fashion.

  Sister Julienne was obviously saddened, and the love and pity in her eyes showed that she knew something strange was going on in the mind of the old lady, which she was trying to understand. Perhaps it was advancing senility, or perhaps one of those mental illnesses that make people turn away from, and become aggressive towards, the people who have been closest and most dear to them. Quietly the Sisters left the chapel. The Greater Silence had begun. After that evening Sister Monica Joan always sat with her back to her Sisters, even at Mass.

  The following afternoon I went to Sister Monica Joan’s room after lunch, hoping that she would not turn against me as she had against her Sisters. She had enriched my life so much with her friendship, and I knew it would be greatly impoverished if that friendship were suddenly withdrawn.

  She was sitting at her desk, alert and busy with her notebooks and pencil. She turned. “Come in, my dear, come in. This will interest you. The hexagon meets the parallel” – she was drawing a diagram again – “and the rays combine here . . . Oh bother!” Her pencil broke. “Fetch me my pencil-sharpener, will you, dear? The second drawer down in my bedside cabinet.” She continued tracing the lines across the paper with her forefinger.

  I went across the room to her bedside cabinet, happy that she was not excluding me from her affections. What made me pull open the third drawer down? It was not intentional, but it almost paralysed me, and for several seconds I thought I would choke. The open drawer revealed several gold bangles, two or three rings (one of the stones looked like a sapphire), a small diamond watch, a pearl necklace, a ruby pendant on a gold chain, a gold cigarette case, a couple of gold cigarette holders studded with stones, and several tiny gold or platinum charms. The drawer was only about two inches deep and no more than ten inches wide, but it must have contained a small fortune in jewellery.

  Sudden silence can attract immediate attention. She turned round and saw me transfixed, looking into the drawer. At first she did not say anything, and the silence developed an ominous quality that was broken by her hissing: “You wicked girl, prying into my affairs. How dare you? Leave the room immediately. Do you hear? Withdraw, at once.”

  It was so shocking, I had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Our eyes met, mine full of grief and hers flashing with anger. Gradually the defiance crumbled away, and her old, old face assumed a tired, almost pathetic quality. She whimpered, “All my pretty things. Don’t take them away. Don’t tell anyone. They will take them all. Then they’ll take me away, like they took Aunt Anne. All my pretty things. No one knows about them. Why shouldn’t I have them? Don’t tell anyone, will you, child?” Her beautiful hooded eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and the toll of ninety years descended on her as she crumpled into a sobbing wreck.

  It took only a second to cross the room and hold her in my arms. “Of course I won’t tell anyone. No one will ever know. It’s a secret, and we won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

  Gradually her tears dried, and she blew her nose and gave me one of her saucy winks. “Those great clod-hopping policemen. They’ll never know, will they?” She raised one eyebrow and chuckled conspiratorially. “I think I will take my tea now. Go, child, and tell Mrs B that I will have some of that delicious China tea.”

  “But you didn’t like the China tea.”

  “Of course I liked it. Don’t be silly. You are getting muddled up, I fear!”

  Laughing, I kissed her goodbye and made my way down to the kitchen to deliver the message to Mrs B.

  It was not until later that evening that the awfulness of the dilemma hit me. What on earth was I going to do?

  MONOPOLY

  A promise is a promise, but theft is a criminal offence, and my pledge to Sister Monica Joan that I would not tell anyone about the stolen jewellery weighed upon me so heavily that I could hardly keep my mind on my work. Purloining a few pairs of silk stockings and handkerchiefs was naughty, but stealing jewels, some of them very valuable, is a serious offence. Normally nothing disturbs my sleep, but this did. If I told Sister Julienne, she would call the police again, and they would search Sister Monica Joan’s room a second time, more thoroughly than before. Perhaps there would be other things hidden away, in a box maybe, or in the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet. The gravity of the offence might be more than doubled. They might arrest her on the spot, old as she was. I blocked out such a thought. Sister Monica Joan must be protected at all costs. I would not tell anyone.

  Antenatal clinic was particularly trying that week. There were too many women, it was too hot, and there were too many small children running around. I felt like screaming. We were clearing up afterwards. Cynthia was cleaning the urine-testing equipment, I was scrubbing the work surfaces.

  She said: “What’s up? You’ve not been yourself lately.”

  Relief swept over me. Her deep slow voice acted like a balm to my troubled spirits. “How do you know? Is it that obvious?”

  “Of course it is. I can read you like a book. Now come on, out with it. What’s up?”

  Two of the Sisters were still in the clinic, packing up the antenatal notes and filing them away. I whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”

  After Compline, when the Sisters had gone to bed, Cynthia and I sat in her room with an extra helping of pudding left over from lunch. Briefly I told her about the jewellery.

  She whistled. “Phew! No wonder you have been quiet recently. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone in authority. I’m only telling you because you guessed something was up.”

  “But you can’t keep it to yourself. You’ve got to tell Sister Julienne.”

  “If I do, she’ll tell the police and they might arrest Sister Monica.”

  “You’re not being rational. They won’t arrest her. She’s too old.”

  “How do you know? This is big stuff, I tell you. It’s not just pinching a few crayoning books.”

  Cynthia was quiet for a while. “Well, I don’t think they will arrest her.”

  “There you are, you don’t know. You only think, and you might be wrong. If they arrested her it would kill her.”

  There was a bang on the door. “I say, you chaps, how about a game of Monopoly, what? No one in labour. All the babies tucked up in bed. What say you, eh?”

  “Come in, Chummy.”

  Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne. Descended from generations of High Commissioners of India, educated at Roedean and polished by a Swiss finishing school, Chummy represented the upper crust in our small circle. Sh
e had a voice that sounded like something straight out of a comedy and she was excessively tall, which caused her to suffer much ragging. But she took it all with sweet good nature.

  Chummy tried the handle. “But the door’s locked, old bean. What’s going on? Something rummy’s afoot, or I’m a brass monkey.”

  Cynthia laughed and opened the door. “We’ve got some pudding in here. If you want some go and get a dish, and while you’re about it, tell Trixie.”

  When she had gone, Cynthia said to me, “I think we had better tell the girls. Neither of them is in authority so the police won’t be called, and they might help. Chummy’s father was a District Commissioner or something in India and Trixie’s cousin is a solicitor, so they might know something about the law.”

  I agreed. It was a relief to be sharing the responsibility after all my silent anguish.

  Both girls came in with a dish and a spoon, Chummy bearing the Monopoly board. We shared out the pudding. Cynthia sat on the only chair and three of us sat on the bed. The Monopoly board was laid out on the bed, supported by books to stop it sagging. I had been against playing Monopoly, but Cynthia said it would help relieve the tension, and she was right.

  We sorted out our money and tucked it in piles under our knees while Cynthia told them the story.

  Trixie burst out laughing. “What a scream! So the old girl’s been pinching things left, right and centre. Tucking them under her scapular and no one would ever suspect. The cunning old vixen.” She roared with laughter.

  “You cat. Don’t you call Sister Monica Joan names or I’ll—”

  Cynthia intervened. “I won’t have you two squabbling in my room. If you want to start a row you can go elsewhere.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered reluctantly.

  “I’ll be good,” added Trixie; “I won’t even call her a female fox. But you must admit it’s a scream. I can just see the headlines: ‘The Secret Life of a Naughty Nun’.”

  Trixie threw the dice. “Two sixes. I start.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing I’m not going to allow to happen,” I snarled. “The police are not going to be told.” I moved my piece. “Liverpool Street. I’ll buy that.” I laid down my money with determination and took the card.

  Chummy threw her dice. “This is a Council of War, and I’m with you, old horse. The important thing is to protect Sister Monica Joan from the machinations of the Constabulary, what? Mum’s the word, I say. What ho! Not a syllable. Lips sealed.”

  Cynthia shook the cup slowly and thoughtfully, and rattled the dice. “Well, someone’s going to find out, even if we don’t say anything. The police will search her room again; they are not fools, you know.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” I said. “Perhaps we could take the jewels out of her room and hide them.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Trixie was always too sharp for my liking. “Then you’d be an accessory.”

  “What’s that? I thought accessories were things like gloves and handbags.”

  “Accessories are the law. You can be an accessory before the fact, or an accessory after the fact. It doesn’t matter if it’s before or after; either way you’d be in for it.” Trixie pushed the dice to her neighbour as she spoke.

  Chummy shook the dice. “I’d say she’s got to the root of the matter. If the jewels were in your possession, the Robert Peelers would say you’d egged the old lady on. Bally awkward situation, and you’d be as sore as a gumboil. No. We’ve got to prove that she didn’t know what she was doing.” Chummy moved her piece, but decided not to buy.

  Trixie jumped on it in a flash. “I’ll buy that. Come off it. That old girl’s as sharp as a razor. She’s got it all weighed up. No one suspects a nun, so she’s in the clear – that’s what she thinks.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Cynthia moved her piece. “The Angel Islington. I’ll buy that. I like the blue properties. I think her mind is definitely disturbed.”

  “Don’t give me that one,” Trixie snapped. “She’s as crafty as they come. Look how she manipulates everyone to get her own way. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Another visit from the police would do her good. I’ll put a house on each of my properties please, Bank.”

  Chummy was Bank and sorted out the high finance. “Well, I can’t agree, old sport. I think another visit from the police would give her a stroke.”

  “Of course it would.” I threw the dice so hard they overshot the board and landed on the floor. “The police will never know. I’ll see to that.”

  Cynthia, who, as the room-owner, had the right to sit on the only chair, retrieved the dice. “I have a feeling it’s not as easy as that. You have to tell ‘the whole truth and nothing but the truth’.”

  “That’s only in court,” I said, “and we’re not in court . . . yet. Park Lane – I’ll buy that.”

  “You’re not thinking straight, idiot, I’ve already got Mayfair. It won’t do you any good. Anyway, if you end up in court giving evidence, you’ll have to tell the whole truth.”

  I decided not to buy Park Lane and Trixie gleefully snapped it up.

  “If you don’t, it’s called ‘obstructing the course of justice’. I’ve heard my cousin talk about that.”

  It was Chummy’s throw. “I’ve heard of that one, too. It’s the same sort of thing as ‘withholding evidence’, which is a serious offence. I say, this pudding’s no end good. Is there any more, madam hostess?”

  “No, but I’ve got some biscuits here in my wardrobe. Just let me move the chair and I’ll get them. How about a coffee?”

  Trixie shook her head. “I’ve got a much better idea. My brother bought me a couple of bottles of sherry for Christmas; he thought I needed cheering up, stuck in a dreary hole like a convent. We’ll have them now. It will help the discussion. We’ve got to come to a sensible decision about this. Get your tooth mugs, girls.”

  Trixie slid off the bed and Chummy remembered some chocolates and crystallised ginger left over from a previous occasion. I ran down the passage to get my tooth mug and some figs and dates, to which I was partial.

  We settled down again around the Monopoly board, which had wobbled with all the movement on and off the bed. After some argument about whose piece was where, and which houses were on whose properties, we poured the sherry, took handfuls of food, and continued the game.

  Trixie was clearly winning. She had houses on Park Lane and Mayfair, and the dice fell in her favour. Everyone seemed to stop there and had to pay rent. Groans all round. The sherry slid down nicely, assisted by all the sweet food. Chummy made a general point that had been in all of our minds.

  “Where do you think, the old lady got all those sparklers from? I say, this sherry’s going down a treat. I always say sherry tastes so much better out of a tooth mug than one of those bally little glasses, what? Perhaps the dregs of toothpaste in the bottom of the mug give it that special flavour. I did a cordon bleu course, you know, but the teacher never mentioned that. If I ever go back there, I’ll recommend it. Hell’s bells! Go back five places – that puts me in jail!”

  Trixie giggled. “We’ll get Sister Monica Joan in jail before the night’s out. Sorry! Sorry! Don’t take on so. Just stirring it up. Have another sherry!”

  Cynthia filled my mug. “Yes, where did she get it from? There’s nowhere in Poplar that sells expensive jewellery.”

  Trixie had the answer – inevitably. “I reckon she’s been going to Hatton Garden. It’s not far from here, only a short bus ride. A pious-looking old nun going around the shops and warehouses. Easy. No one would think to suspect her, the wicked old thing.”

  “She’s not wicked,” I shouted. “Don’t you dare. She’s—”

  “Now, now, you two. My turn and I collect £200 for passing Go. Come on, Bank. Wake up. I want my money.”

  Chummy jerked herself upright. “I’m beginning to think the police have to be told because of this business of withholding the course.”

  “The what?”

  “The course of ev
idence, of course.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “Yes I am. You’re not listening.”

  Cynthia was carefully tucking her £200 down her bra. “I think you mean the course of justice.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No you didn’t. You said the course of evidence.”

  “Well, same thing, and it’s an offence.”

  “What is?”

  “Holding the evidence, old bean. And it’s not allowed.”

  “You mean withholding the evidence.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No you didn’t. You said holding it.”

  “Look here, this is going round in circles. Anyway it’s my turn.” Trixie picked up a card from the pack. “So you reckon we’ve got to get the police in again?”

  “Yes, because of obstructing, old thing.”

  “No you don’t. You want to get the police in again because you fancy that policeman.”

  “I don’t. Don’t you dare.” Chummy gulped down her sherry and went bright red.

  “Yes you do. You’re sweet on him. I’ve seen you go all coy and giggly when he comes to the house.”

  “You’re a regular shower. You’ve no right to come out with whoppers like that, you gumboil, you.”

  Poor Chummy looked as if she were on the verge of tears, so Cynthia came to her rescue.

  “You’re just stirring it up again, Trixie. You haven’t looked at your card yet. Turn it over.”

  Trixie did so, and gave a howl of anguish. “I’m ruined. I’m bankrupt. This isn’t fair. Make repairs on all your houses. I shall have to sell. Give me another drink. I’ve got to think about this one.” She took another mug of sherry and another chocolate.

  “I’ll take Mayfair and Park Lane off you at half-price,” I said magnanimously.

  “No you won’t. I’m not selling at half-price.”