‘Well,’ I remarked, ‘you were lucky that there was some old camping equipment in the shed to cover you, or you might have died of cold.’
‘Camping,’ she said, ‘such fun! We used to love it.’ Her eyes were alight and her voice animated.
‘Camping, Sister?’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t be serious. You’ve been camping?’
She was offended.
‘Certainly, my dear. You don’t imagine I have done nothing in my life, do you? We used to go camping often, my brothers and sisters, and some friends, with the maid and the manservant. It was wonderful.’
‘A maid and manservant? Camping?’
‘It was perfectly proper – a husband and wife in our service.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the propriety of the arrangements But servants! Camping ...’ My voice failed me.
‘We needed them, my dear. We needed the man to put up the tents and fetch the water and light the fires and things like that, and we needed the maid to do the cooking.’
‘Well, if you put it like that, Sister, I suppose you did.’
I chuckled quietly, but I don’t think she saw the joke.
One memorable Sunday afternoon Cynthia and I took Sister Monica Joan for a walk. The weather was beautiful, and we decided to take her up to Victoria Park, where there is a lovely lake, and where East Enders would gather with their children in sunny weather. But when the bus arrived it was full, so on the spur of the moment we changed our plan and took the next bus, which was going to Limehouse, and past the canal known as the Cuts. We thought we could have a walk along the towpath. The canal was dug in the nineteenth century to connect the River Lea to the Limehouse Reach of the Thames and was much used by commercial barges until the closure of the Docks in the 1970s. It was always a pleasant area for walking.
When we got there Sister said unexpectedly, ‘I don’t like the Cuts.’
‘Why not, Sister?’
‘A grim place. Bad associations.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The place of suicides. In the old days, the bad old days, when there was no money, no work for the men, no food for the children, every week a cry would be heard: “Body in the Cuts, body in the Cuts,” and always it was a woman. A poor, ragged, half-starved woman, driven to the limits of despair. Once a woman with a baby strapped to her body was dragged out, I was told.’
‘Sister, how terrible. Shall we go away?’
‘No. I want to go and see it for myself. I haven’t been here for forty years, since Beryl died.’
Cynthia and I glanced at each other. We both wanted to hear the story, but didn’t want to disturb her thoughts, in case they flitted off onto something quite unconnected, and the story was lost. But the dark water, barely moving, seemed to focus her attention, and she continued.
‘They told me she jumped off Stinkhouse Bridge one night, and her body was dragged out the next day. I wasn’t surprised. No one was. She had a brute of a husband, seven children, another expected, no money, and a hovel to live in – the usual story. It is only surprising more women didn’t do it. Every child’s fear, you know, was that one day things would get so bad that mother would jump into the Cuts.’
She raised her hand, took hold of the cross that hung around her neck and held it up over the canal. She called out, ‘Be sanctified, you black and wicked waters. Rest in peace, Beryl, unloved wife, weeping mother. May the lamentations of your children sanctify these turgid deeps.’
What the people around thought of this little exhibition I cannot say, but several of them gave her rather funny looks.
Sister was in good form and continued, ‘Do you know what that brute of a husband said when the vicar informed him that his wife was dead, and how she had died?’
‘No. What?’ we chorused.
‘He said, my dears – the vicar himself told us – the husband said, “Spiteful cat. Spiteful to the last. She knowed as ’ow today’s Newmarket day, and she knowed as ’ow I’m a delicate feelin’ sort o’ chap, so she goes an’ kills ’erself jest to put me out of sorts for the races. I knows ’er nasty ways. Spite it was; pure spite.” Then he walked out. The vicar was left alone in the derelict kitchen, with seven dirty, hungry children around him, for whom he would have to make some sort of provision, if the father wouldn’t. Then the man returned. But he had no thoughts for his children. He walked jauntily up to the vicar, tapped him on the chest and said, “Now you listen ’ere, mate. I wont ’ave no funerals on Friday. Vat’s Epsom day, see? No funerals. I wont ’ave ’er laughin’ twice.”
‘That was the last the vicar saw of him. He didn’t turn up for the funeral, which was on a Tuesday, and he simply abandoned his children. All of them ended up in the Workhouse.’
Sister Monica Joan said no more, and we continued walking. The sun was pleasant, and the ghosts of the past seemed long since asleep. Cynthia and I talked of our plans for the future. She was hoping to test her vocation in the religious life. I knew it was a huge step to take, requiring much thought and prayer, but I had always regarded Cynthia as a saint (or very nearly) and was not surprised. We came to a wooden seat and sat down, and she asked Sister’s opinion.
‘Do you think I am called to be a nun, Sister?’
‘Only God knows. Many are called but few are chosen, my child.’
‘What brought you to the religious life?’
‘The conflict between good and evil. The eternal battle between God and the devil. I tried to resist the call, but it was too strong.’
The nun sat looking at the water. I ventured the question, ‘Was there no other way?’
‘For me, no. For others it is different. You do not have to be a nun to be at war with the devil. To be in the fight, on the side of the angels, is all that matters.’
‘Do you believe in the devil?’ I asked provocatively.
‘Stupid, thoughtless child, of course I do. You only have to look at the record of the Nazis during the war to see the work of the devil.’ The atrocities of the war were vivid in the minds of everyone.
She turned her head away from me scornfully. I had offended her, and she muttered, ‘Thoughtless, empty questions,’ but then said more gently to Cynthia, ‘Test your vocation, my child. Become a Postulant, then a Novice. Time will reveal if you are truly called. It is a hard life, and doubts will always plague you. Just go with God.’
Mention of the Nazis brought to mind what Sister Julienne had told me some time earlier; that there was in Germany a community of Lutheran nuns, started in 1945 or 1946, just after the war, whose vocation was contemplative prayer and repentance for the sins of their fellow countrymen. The women lived a life of extreme privation, as near to concentration camp life as they could get: minimal food (the nuns were all close to starvation), scant clothing, no shoes, no heating in winter, and no beds, just a straw mattress and a thin blanket. And this life they lived in atonement for the sins of others. I had found this story deeply impressive, though I could not really understand the spiritual side of the vocation. I was grappling in my mind with the problems of sin, guilt, atonement, redemption, religious vocation and many unfathomable subjects, when abruptly Sister Monica Joan stood up.
‘The water is not very deep,’ she announced, ‘I don’t see how anyone could drown in it.’
‘It is in the middle,’ I pointed out. ‘It takes cargo barges.’
‘But you can see the bottom. Look, you can see the stones.’
‘That’s only at the edges. Anyway, the water level is low at the moment. I assure you it is deep in the middle.’
‘I don’t believe it. We shall see.’
Before we could stop her, and she was surprisingly nimble, Sister Monica Joan had crossed the few steps to the canal and now stood ankle deep at the water’s edge.
‘There, I told you,’ she cried triumphantly, ‘the stories about people drowning in the Cuts are just fancy.’ And she took another step towards the centre.
‘Come back’ screamed Cynthia and I in alarm. We lea
ped into the water beside her, but Sister was too quick for us.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she called out, taking another step forward. But the Cuts was cut away, and instantly she fell forward into deep water.
Cynthia and I were not the only ones to hurl ourselves in after her. As many as a dozen East Enders dived, fully clothed, into the canal that Sunday afternoon. None of us need have bothered. It was immediately obvious that Sister Monica Joan could swim. Her habit did not absorb the water at once, and it floated around her like the wings of a huge black water-fowl. Her head was held high, and her white veil floated behind her like exotic plumage.
All might have been well, and Sister might have swum back to us, had it not been for the enthusiasm of three local lads who dived in from the other bank. They grabbed hold of her and began swimming back whence they had come.
‘No, not that side!’ I screamed. ‘Come back – this side!’ Everyone around, including those in the water, was screaming instructions. We all knew that if the boys landed Sister on the opposite bank there was no towpath exit to the bridge. But the lads did not or could not understand in all the confusion. They had pulled Sister to the middle of the canal and saw themselves as heroes. A powerful man, with muscles of oak and the speed of an Olympic swimmer, reached them first. He clouted one lad around the ear, pushed the other boy under, took hold of the protesting nun and swam back with her to our side.
Do not ask me how we got Sister Monica Joan to the convent. The whole process was too complicated and confusing. My memories are hazy: getting her clothes off with modesty and decorum; dozens of wet people offering advice; wondering what on earth to put on her; someone donating a raincoat, a cardigan, a baby’s shawl; trying to find her shoes. The swimmer and another man got her to the Commercial Road by giving her a chair-lift. She sat regally on their crossed hands, holding their arms with perfect composure, as though a ducking in the Cuts were a regular experience. Someone must have stopped a lorry in the Commercial Road, because I remember the two men lifting Sister up into the lorry and settling her comfortably. She thanked them with queenly grace, and two tough, strong dockers blushed with pleasure. ‘No trouble at all, ma’am,’ they said. ‘Any time. Good day, ma’am.’
Back at the Convent she was put to bed with hot-water bottles and hot drinks. She slept for twenty-four hours, and when she awoke, she appeared to have no memory at all of what had happened. She suffered no ill. It must have been the angels again.
TOO MANY CHILDREN
‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding. Nothing can be done.’
‘But you says we was top of the housing list.’
‘You are. But there are building delays. Strikes. An electricians’ strike.’
‘We can move in wivout no electricity. We got no electrics where we are, so it don’t matter.’
‘I’m sorry, the Council cannot allow you to move into premises that are incomplete.’
‘But I tells yer, it don’t matter to us. We’re desperate to move, anywhere’ll do. Anywhere’s better’n what we got.’
‘It’s out of the question, Mr Harding. The law is quite clear. Council premises must be adequate and suitable for the family applying for rehousing.’
The Council official shuffled his papers. His was an impossible job. Ten applicants for every house or flat being built. A housing list of thousands, every one of them clamouring for something better than the bomb-damaged buildings, the overcrowded and insanitary conditions in which they lived. But he had to follow the rules.
‘Well, when vis electricians’ strike’s over, how long will it be? How long, eh?’
Bill Harding leaned forward menacingly. The official leaned back defensively.
‘I don’t know.’
Bill thumped the desk with his powerful fist.
‘’ow long? You must have some idea. How long’s the strike gonna last? A week? Two weeks? Then we can move – yes?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Harding. It’s not just building delays. It’s a question of size.’
‘Size? What size?’
‘Family size, Mr Harding. You have too many children. The Council at present is building two- and three-bedroom flats. We cannot allow a family of eight to move into a three-bedroom flat. We would have to provide a four-, or even five-bedroom flat or house for a family of this size. And at present the Council is simply not building five-bedroom flats.’
‘But vat’s daft. Three bedrooms is a luxury. More’n enough. We only gots one bedroom, and we all sleeps in it. We’d give anything for three bedrooms.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding. But we have our standards and our rules. We cannot rent a three-bedroom flat or house to a family of eight. It is simply not allowed.’
Bill had lost all his aggression, and despair overtook him. He sighed deeply and held his head in his hands. He had to get back to work. He had taken an hour off to see the Council, and it was like banging his head against a brick wall.
‘Bloody red tape,’ he groaned.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding, really sorry. But the rules must be obeyed.’
Bill stood up and left without looking at the Council official, who, with a depressed and weary sigh, called, ‘Next please,’ knowing that the next interview would be as bad, or worse, than the last.
Bill slouched down the road towards the shipbuilder’s yard, where he was a welder. He slunk against the wall and kicked a stone, hard. It shot across the pavement and hit a passing lorry. The stone ricocheted off and bounced back onto the pavement. A policeman saw what had happened and came over to Bill. No real damage had been done, but the copper tore a strip off Bill for dangerous and irresponsible behaviour. The incident did nothing to improve his humour – bloody red tape, bloody law. Well, his bloody job could wait; he needed a drink. He went into a pub and drank away his lunch hour until chucking-out time at two o’clock. He arrived back at the yard at 3 p.m., having been away since 11 a.m. The foreman came down on him like a ton of bricks. Bill swore obscenely at him and walked out. He walked around the streets until opening time at five o’clock and then got blind drunk.
Hilda made herself another cup of tea, lit a fag, and sat down at the table with her Daily Mirror propped up against the milk bottle. The two youngest children crawled around the floor, playing – thank God the older ones were at school and off her hands for a few hours. She couldn’t face what she thought she knew. She sipped her tea and stared at the cracked wall and the huge damp stain on the grey-brown ceiling. It’s gettin’ bigger, she thought. When’s the whole damn thing goin’ to fall, that’s what she wanted to know. No good talkin’ to that landlord – you never saw him anyway, couldn’t get past his agent, who only said if you don’t like it get out, get your name on the Council housing list. Well they’d been on the damned list for five years, and look where it’d got them. Nowhere. Nuffink. Sweet Fanny Adams.
She poured herself another cup of tea, and laced it with sugar. Now this. She couldn’t face it. Not another. But all the signs were there. She hadn’t told Bill. Hadn’t dared. Perhaps she should have told him before he went to the Council, but somehow she hadn’t the courage. Wonder how he got on. He’d said he would be firm, wouldn’t leave till he’d got the promise of a place, and a date. A date. That’s what they wanted. A date to look forward to when they could leave this falling-down dump. She could wring that agent’s neck. Last time she had pointed to the damp on the ceiling and asked for repairs, he had smiled and said it was a condemned property and that the Council wouldn’t permit repairs because it was condemned. That’s logic for you! She had heard the dripping last night as she lay awake wondering if she should tell Bill or not before he went to the Council, and the drips seemed to be getting closer.
They knew the roof had gone, but that was two storeys up, and the floors above them kept the rain out. But if the floors went, then there would be no roof over their heads. She must get Bill to go upstairs and lay a tarpaulin over the floor above. That would keep them dry for a bit, and then they might get a Counci
l flat. Bill would be at the Council office now. He’d tell ’em.
The children were playing boats – floating matches on a bucket of water. One of them had an empty match box which the other wanted. He grabbed at it. The child screamed and lunged at his brother. ‘Mind it,’ shouted Hilda. But too late. They had tipped the bucket over, and water streamed across the floor. ‘You little devils,’ she shouted as she jumped up, and walloped them both. ‘Look at the mess. Now I’ve got to clear it up.’ She got a cloth and wiped up the water, wringing it out into the empty bucket. Well at least it’s giving the floor a clean, she thought as she wiped and wrung. ‘Now I’ve gotta go an’ get more water. An’ don’t you touch anyfink while I’m gone,’ she said menacingly. She picked up the bucket of dirty water. Might as well empty the pot while I’m downstairs. She pulled the chamber pot from under the bed and carried it down the creaking and rickety stairs. This stinkin’ stairwell’s worse than our rooms, she thought. At least we’ve made an effort to put a bit of paint on an’ I try to keep them clean. No one’s repaired or decorated this landing or these stairs for years. An’ as for cleanin’. Well you might as well save your effort. She went out into the yard, to the lavatory with its asbestos roof and broken door and emptied the chamber pot. She pulled the chain – well at least it still flushes, but for how long? How long? How long would they have to wait in this hell-hole? She’d murder that landlord if she could get her hands on him.
Might as well do the washin’, now I’ve got some clean water. She filled two saucepans and lit the gas stove on the landing, then went down again for another bucket of cold water. And now, just when the little one was out of nappies. Now this! She shut her mind to the possibility of more – yet more – nappies. She filled the tin bath – the one they all washed and bathed in – with hot water, added some soapflakes and started the daily chore with her dolly-board and a bar of Sunlight. The little ones clung to her skirts and wanted to help, but she pushed them away. A couple of hours later she had finished the washing, wringing, rinsing, mangling and hanging out. Well, at least it’s a fine day. It’ll soon be dry. That’s one comfort. The little ones were clamouring for their dinner, and two of her children, those of primary school age, would be home for their midday meal. Thank God the others get theirs at school now. Saves a bit of trouble, anyhow. She had a small cupboard on the landing where she kept some food. Not too much, or it’d get pinched in this rotten hole. She pulled out a couple of tins of baked beans and some sliced bread. The grill sometimes worked – she tried it. Yes, it was working today. They could have beans on toast. Always enjoy it, they do.
Farewell To The East End Page 20