Farewell To The East End

by Jennifer Worth

  Things were going too far. Sister Julienne was obliged to inform the Reverend Mother Jesu Emanuel. Large sums of money were regularly leaking out of the convent funds, and she could not seem to control it. A Chapter meeting of all the Sisters at the Mother House in Chichester was convened, and the financial adviser was requested to be present. Thirty-two Sisters who worked in the Mother House attended, and many of them were very critical of Sister Monica Joan. Her behaviour was outrageous. She had first brought scandal to the Order through a court case for alleged theft, and now, instead of being humble and contrite as any other nun would be, she was spending money with reckless abandon. Why should they have to skimp and save and live a life of poverty while she was riding around London like a duchess?

  The Reverend Mother pointed out to the younger Sisters that Sister Monica Joan had given over fifty years of dedicated service to the poorest of the poor, in conditions of unimaginable squalor, and it was the policy of the Order to allow privileges and comforts to elderly Sisters who had retired from nursing. Two or three of the elderly Sisters spoke up to say that they had also given lives of dedicated service to the poor and needy, and that they defined ‘comforts and privileges’ as jam on Sundays, or an occasional cup of tea in bed. They could not approve of taxis all over the place. It was a question of what was reasonable.

  The Reverend Mother sighed; Sister Monica Joan had never been reasonable. She asked the financial adviser, an independent auditor and accountant, for his opinion.

  The accountant said that he had carefully studied the finances of the Order, and had observed that Sister Monica Joan’s dowry to the Order in 1906, when she made her life vows, was greater than that of all the other Sisters put together. In addition, a very large inheritance which she had received in 1922 on the death of her mother had immediately gone into the convent funds. Had it not been for these two large deposits of money, the accountant questioned whether the Sisters would have been able to continue their work at all.

  That settled it. The Chapter ruled that finances should be made available to Sister Julienne to use at her discretion. There were still a few sour faces and mutters of ‘not fair’, which the Reverend Mother dispelled by saying that she was sure that all the Sisters would be relieved by the decision, as many would be anxious at the thought of an old lady roaming alone around London by bus – especially as her mind was wandering, as had been made clear by the recent scandal. ‘Let’s face it. She’s senile and shouldn’t be let out,’ muttered one of the younger Sisters. To this the Reverend Mother replied sharply that the remark was uncharitable, and she would not countenance the thought of Sister Monica Joan being confined to the house like a prisoner.

  Sister Julienne was relieved by the decision of the Chapter and was able to finance several more taxi fares to and from Richmond with no further anxiety. Nonetheless, she had another little talk with Sister Monica Joan about limiting the number of visits, the need for economy and the vows of poverty. Sister Monica Joan must have taken this to heart; perhaps her conscience had been pricked by the reminder of her life vows, or perhaps she just wanted a bit of diversion. After all, she had always been an adventurous soul, seeking out a challenge. The next thing we heard was that she had been seen by many witnesses standing at the traffic lights by the Blackwall Tunnel. When the lights turned red and the traffic stopped, she would totter into the road, round the front of the cars and lorries, tap on the window of a car, and ask the astonished driver to take her to Richmond.

  Whatever might be said of nuns, thumbing lifts from strange men is not the way they are expected to behave. The reaction of the drivers can only be imagined. Sister Monica Joan would have been wearing the full monastic habit of her Order. If you were a businessman going to your next appointment, such an apparition weaving its way unsteadily into the road must have looked like a visitation from God – or perhaps the devil. When the apparition tapped on your window and started a long, convoluted yarn about pretty nieces in Richmond, and how she had got a new lotion from the woman in the market for the one with spots, but she suspected blackheads really, guaranteed to make them go away, and that was why she needed to get to Richmond, but buses were so difficult, you would probably have thought you were going a bit mad, particularly if the business lunch had been of the liquid variety.

  Without exception the drivers refused, but Sister Monica Joan persisted in what to her mind was a perfectly reasonable request. The man had a car, and she did not, she would point out. It would surely be no inconvenience to him to make a small detour to Richmond? She knew the address – what was the difficulty? She was a lady inclined to become extremely cross and snappish if she did not get her own way, and many of the conversations ended in acrimony.

  Several times, while she was still talking, the lights turned green, and the traffic started up again. Lorries in the free-moving lane passed alarmingly close as she stood in the road. The car driver, who would still be trying to reason with her, could not start, and there would be honking and hooting and shouts from frustrated motorists piled up behind. Eventually (and this happened several times) she would accept that the car driver was not going to Richmond and would not divert his journey to take her, and she would totter back to the pavement, only to try again when the lights turned red and another car stopped on the nearside lane.

  After half a dozen such attempts she was caught in the act by two policemen, who observed her actions for a few minutes and then apprehended her for causing an obstruction to the traffic and for endangering her life and that of others. Sister Monica Joan was very sensitive about policemen and protested violently at finding herself between two of them, and being escorted back to the convent.

  After this little escapade, Sister Julienne begged her to take taxis, and hang the expense.

  A printed letter arrived for Sister Monica Joan from Wandsworth Borough Council, stating that a lady’s hand bag containing a little money, a prayer book, a pair of spectacles and a set of false teeth had been found and awaited her collection at a lost property office in West London. Sister Julienne was taking no chances. A taxi was ordered to collect Sister Monica Joan, to take her to the address on the letter and to return her to the convent.

  Four hours later the taxi returned. The driver said that when he reached West London, she said that she had forgotten or lost the piece of paper giving the address. She knew she should be going to a lost property office but she was not sure which one. So she had instructed him to drive to all the lost property offices in the area, which amounted to fifteen throughout Fulham, Putney, Chelsea, Wimbledon, Kingston, Twickenham and as far west as Hampton Court. No handbag was reclaimed. He must have missed the one where it was, he said. Anyway, the old lady seemed to have enjoyed herself. She’d had a nice day out. She had enjoyed going over Hammersmith Bridge so much that she had instructed him to go back, and then to go over it again, he said. He had looked after her and brought her home safely. The cost was so astronomical that Sister Julienne thought she would have to consult the Reverend Mother again. Where would it all end?

  Novice Ruth was the first person up that morning. She was approaching her first year professional vows and wanted an hour of private devotion alone in the chapel before her Sisters joined her. The time was four a.m., and it being summer, the dawn was breaking and light was returning to the world. She walked quietly along the passage, turned the corner and found Sister Monica Joan lying on the floor. She was breathing, but her eyes were wide open and staring, her pulse was bounding and she was twitching intermittently. She had wet herself and could not be roused. Novice Ruth fetched a pillow and placed it under her head and wrapped a warm blanket around her. Then she telephoned the doctor and woke Sister Julienne. Together they carried the unconscious figure back to her room and laid her on the bed. Twenty minutes later the doctor arrived, examined the patient and confirmed what they had both suspected: Sister Monica Joan had had a stroke. She did not regain consciousness and died that evening, at the hour of Compline. The last words of t
he last office of the day are: ‘Lord, grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.’

  Peace at the hour of death is one of the greatest blessings that God can give. Death can be very terrible, but peace can transform it. Sister Monica Joan received no intrusive medical treatment, no drugs, no investigations into the cause of the stroke, no attempts to prolong her life or to delay her death. She received loving nursing care from her Sisters and was able to die in peace. This is the perfect end.

  Her body lay at rest for two days in the convent chapel, and local people came to pay their respects. Then she was taken to the Mother House in Chichester for the funeral service.

  The death of Sister Monica Joan affected me deeply. I had not expected her to die; I had somehow believed that she was indestructible. I could not reconcile myself to the loss. The magic and mystery of that extraordinary woman haunted me. Suddenly, all the beauty and fun and bewitchment that she encapsulated was gone, leaving me utterly bereft.

  Aware of my state of mind, Sister Julienne said to me one day, with her usual twinkle, ‘I was thinking about Sister Monica Joan this morning in chapel. Perhaps it was rather naughty of me, but the Old Testament reading about Elijah going up to Heaven in a fiery chariot prompted the thought. Don’t you think perhaps that Sister Monica Joan went straight to Heaven by taxi?’

  ADIEU

  David and Chummy went to Sierra Leone. Chummy opened the first midwifery service at the mission station and ran the small hospital. David joined the police and became a senior officer in the force. They found the work harder and more demanding than they could ever have imagined, but they had the strength of youth and idealism to carry them through. Above all, they had the love to support and sustain each other in times of crisis. They stayed in Africa throughout their lives, and Chummy and I corresponded for a few years. They had a family, but she continued her work in a teaching capacity. She must have been desperately busy, and in the circumstances it is not easy to continue writing letters indefinitely to an old nursing colleague. We exchanged Christmas cards for a few years, but eventually they petered out. She was a unique character, and it was a happiness and a privilege to have known her.

  Trixie was the only one of our small circle who did not continue nursing. She married a young man who had both feet firmly planted on the civil service ladder. He entered the diplomatic service, and Trixie went with him. I have often wondered how she managed, because diplomacy had never been her strong suit! I just could not imagine her in one of Her Majesty’s Embassies. When I knew her, she was fun, quick-minded and clever, but sharp-tongued and brutally blunt. Perhaps she introduced a breath of fresh air into the unctuous atmosphere of the diplomatic service. She travelled with her husband to many of the big capitals of the world and became quite sophisticated, but cutting comments delivered with lightning rapidity remained her trademark.

  I did not see much of Trixie during these years. It was not until the couple had retired to Essex, by which time we were both grandmothers, that we met again. I noticed a small grand-daughter who looked exactly like Trixie when she was young. The little girl was about ten years old and had an answer to everything. She was an experienced manager already and bossed her three younger brothers around with consummate skill.

  Trixie took me to the street market in Basildon, where we witnessed the daughters of Megan’mave at work selling their fruit and vegetables. Later, her comment was ‘We never change, do we? And what is more, our children and grandchildren don’t change.’

  Trixie had certainly mellowed with the years.

  Cynthia felt called to the religious life and was accepted as a Postulant and Novice in the order. She was a working Novice, as she was already a trained nurse and midwife. But the religious life is hard, and much is demanded spiritually and physically of any Novice. Cynthia’s goodness and purity had always impressed me and had influenced me more than she ever knew, but perhaps her mind could not stand the strain. She had shown signs of clinical depression around the time of puberty, and this was a state of mind that beset her for many years. She left the order and became a hospital staff nurse, then returned to the convent to resume her life vows, but left again. Why does God so often cause good people to suffer so greatly? It is a question I have often asked myself. Sister Julienne turned the question the other way, and said, ‘God loves greatly those whom he requires to suffer greatly.’ This is a riddle wrapped in a mystery we cannot comprehend.

  Cynthia limped through life for many years, in and out of psychiatric hospitals. Many drugs were prescribed, and also electric shock therapy. A true depressive lives a life of inner hell, which little or sometimes nothing can alleviate. My heart bled for gentle Cynthia, but there was nothing I could do to help.

  At the age of thirty-nine she met a clergyman who was a widower and had a son. They married, and his needs, mentally, were even greater than her own. Somehow the necessity to look after him and organise his life became the focus of her existence and cured her. We none of us can understand the complexities of the human mind. She became a very happy and successful vicar’s wife and a health visitor. Her husband Roger was also a classical scholar. At the age of sixty-five he retired from the ministry, and for several years they lived like a couple of hippy teenagers. With no more than a rucksack each, and a budget of £3 a day, they roamed hundreds of miles across Greece, Israel, Jordan and Turkey, examining the architectural ruins of ancient civilisations. They slept in little caf’s, on buses, under the stars on beaches, in fields, in olive groves and lemon orchards. They planned nothing, but simply went where the fancy took them.

  After retirement, Cynthia’s husband joined the Church of England World Mission Association. This meant that he could be asked to act as a locum for any church, at home or overseas, which was temporarily without a priest.

  The couple were both about seventy years of age when the telephone rang one evening.

  ‘This is the World Mission Association. Could you go to Lima? The vicar has just been shot.’

  ‘Sounds nasty. Well yes, certainly. When do you want me?’

  ‘The week after next.’

  ‘I dare say we could go. I must ask my wife.’

  Aside: ‘Cynthia, could we go to Lima the week after next? The vicar has been shot.’

  ‘Where’s Lima?’

  ‘Peru. South America.’

  ‘Well, yes, I should think we could. A fortnight is enough time to pack things up here. For how long?’

  To the telephone: ‘Yes, we could go. For how long?’

  ‘Three months. Six, perhaps. Not really sure.’

  ‘That’s all right. Send us details, flight tickets, etc., and we’ll go.’

  Cynthia – quiet, sensitive, depressive – led a life of high romance and breathtaking adventure in her old age that few of us would have dared contemplate, still less had the courage to carry out.

  Some people have described my first book Call the Midwife as a spiritual journey, and they are correct – it is. I owe to the Sisters more than I could possibly repay. Probably they do not know how great is my debt. The words ‘if God really does exist, then that must have implications for the whole of life’ could not be dismissed. Sister Julienne and I spent many hours discussing these subjects, and the influence of her goodness has shaped my development. We corresponded, and I visited her all through my life, and I took my own children with me to the Mother House; we stayed in the caravan in the grounds of the convent.

  I remained very close to her and always sought her prayers and wisdom at any difficult point in my life. She always guided me well. In 1991 Sister Julienne developed a brain tumour, and for the last three months of her life I visited her every Friday. It was an enriching experience, even though, or perhaps because, she was deteriorating week by week. Time was short, and getting shorter, in which to convey, if not in words, then in silent empathy, my love and gratitude. On the last Friday she was deeply unconscious, and it was obvious that her life was drawing to its end. She died two days later on Sunday
morning – a beautiful day in June at the hour when her Sisters were saying Lauds, the first monastic office to greet the dawn.

  It was a singular honour to be invited to attend her funeral at the Mother House. The service was the Requiem Mass for the dead as ordained by the Book of Common Prayer. The funeral of a nun is very quiet and reverent. Her Sisters do not mourn and grieve; they are more likely to express joy that a life given in the service of God is fulfilled. For them death is not an enemy. Death is seen as a friend.

  At the end of the service, while plainsong was being chanted, one of the Sisters took up a pile of folded garments that had been lying on the altar throughout. The Reverend Mother came towards her with hands outstretched, palms facing upwards. The Sister placed the garments on the hands of the Reverend Mother, who turned and walked slowly towards the coffin. She placed the small burden on the centre of the coffin and turned and bowed to the altar. It was the folded habit, surmounted by the gold cross and rosary that Sister Julienne had worn all her professed life, and they went with her to her grave in the Sisters’ cemetery in the convent garden.

  Rest eternal, rest in peace, beloved Sister Julienne.

  Sister Evangelina died some years ago. At her own request she was buried in Poplar, and not in the Sisters’ cemetery at the convent. She had always been one of the people, and that is how she wished to be remembered.