Sisters of the East End

by Helen Batten

  So we started digging. Six hours a day. It was dirty, hard work and it wasn’t long before the old question was popping out of my mouth.

  ‘But why? Why are we doing this? Why are we spending our time digging up perfectly good bushes?’

  ‘Ours is not to question, Catherine Mary,’ Sister Rachel said wryly.

  ‘But this is ridiculous. There’s a nursing home up there filled with people whom we could really help.’

  ‘Obedience, Catherine Mary, obedience. This is where we are required to start doing things that are asked of us with a gracious spirit, even if we can’t see a logical reason behind it. These are the first steps towards giving ourselves to God and one another.’

  I looked at her to see if she was being serious. She looked like she was. Sister Rachel continued.

  ‘Yes, I think you may find obedience the most challenging of the three vows. It certainly has been in my experience anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was a little surprised.

  ‘Have you ever heard the stories about how the Benedictines used to ask their novices to water twigs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, they did; to teach them obedience over rational thought, I presume; something about releasing the soul from the ego. They might still do it actually.’

  I had to stop and think for a moment.

  ‘Gosh!’ I said, ‘that’s extraordinary. But surely they run the risk of turning us into unthinking children. What about individual choice and responsibility and our own relationship with God?’

  ‘Catherine Mary, I am going to ask you a question and I want you to think hard before you answer it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘If you are looking for the truth, what do you think you have to have above all else?’

  I thought, but in the absence of anything more profound I said, ‘An absolute determination to find it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. To find truth you have to have the ability and willingness to admit you may be wrong. Truth is based on listening to those around you, this is the only way to grow closer to God.’

  That set me thinking, and gradually, as the days went by, I began to wonder whether there was method in the Reverend Mother’s madness. By putting me in such close proximity to Sister Rachel and making us share such an arduous task, we were bonding. Sisters come in all psychological shapes and sizes, but Sister Rachel was a clever choice for me. She was fun, open and genuine. I wanted to know her story and she was happy to tell me, and suddenly the days of hard labour started to fly past.

  Sister Rachel had spent the Second World War working in the East End, firstly at the London Hospital in Whitechapel and then at the Mission House in Poplar. Her stories were painted against a background of fear. She told me how when she thought of Whitechapel, she tasted dust.

  ‘It used to get in my mouth, in my ears, up my nose. It was all the debris from the bombing, I think. I was very lucky I was on my day off the day the hospital was hit. My best friend was a nurse on the same ward and one minute she was tucking up the men in bed and the next minute there was an enormous explosion. She said it was followed by a strange silence. Then a patient said, “Hold on, Sister. Don’t move until I’ve found a light.”

  ‘He found a torch, she turned round and there was the most enormous hole in the wall. Just a gaping hole, where seconds before there’d been two beds. Imagine. A terrible thing for two of your patients to be there one minute and poof, gone the next!’

  She paused, then went on, ‘Actually I had the only cigarette I’ve ever had just a few weeks later during another bombing raid.’

  Sister Rachel had a day off and went to visit an old aunt in South London. On her way back she got caught in a bombing raid while on the Tube somewhere around St Paul’s. The packed Tube train stopped at the station and the doors opened. Rachel started to get anxious. She was due back at the Mission House at 10 p.m. If she got out and ran, she might just make it back in time. If she waited for the train service to start again she could be there all night. She was standing next to two rather attractive naval officers. ‘Excuse me, I wonder whether you could be so kind? I really need to get out of here,’ she said. They grinned and picked her up and carried her over the heads of the passengers, out of the train, and pushed passed the wardens, shouting ‘Sorry, emergency!’. The wardens were so stunned they waved them past and suddenly the three of them were standing in the street, with bombs falling all around. ‘We watched as the planes flew low over London and the fires burned around St Paul’s Cathedral. We even shared a cigarette. It was the most destructive and yet the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I knew God had a lot more He wanted me to do.’

  I was impressed by Sister Rachel’s quiet faith and yet puzzled by how such a feisty young woman came to find herself tucked away in the cloisters, so one day I asked her about her vocation.

  ‘I felt God calling me to the Community when I was quite young,’ she said, ‘really, it was all to do with my mother’s death.’

  Sister Rachel’s mother had been fragile for as long as she could remember. One day, walking home from visiting her in hospital, Rachel’s father stopped on the corner of their road and said, ‘This is it for your mum. She’s never going to get any better. You’ve got to be brave and face it: Mum is going to die.’

  For the next few years, with her father at work, and being an only child, Sister Rachel had to work hard at school as well as nurse her fading mother. The district nurse taught her how to wash her, measure out her medicine and prepare her for injections. It was hard watching her mother get weaker but Rachel’s grief was tempered by the fact that she could help her mother. In those precious last years together, Rachel and her mum grew very close. Then, when Rachel was 13, her mother finally died. Again the wise district nurse helped Rachel by letting her help lay out her mother’s body. Rachel helped wash and dress her. It was an experience that left a deep impression on her.

  That summer she was sent to stay with her penfriend in Sweden. When Rachel got back, her father greeted her with the news that he had remarried. For Rachel, this marriage came completely out of the blue and seemed so soon after her mother’s death. Indeed, she felt she was no longer welcome in her own home.

  Touched by her plight, Rachel’s head teacher paid a visit to the local hospital and managed to get Rachel accepted to train as a cadet nurse much earlier than usual. It was while she was training that she found herself working alongside a woman who regularly visited the Community and she took Rachel first to church and eventually to visit the Mother House.

  ‘From the moment I arrived, I knew I had found my new home, I had found the right place.’

  Sister Rachel smiled at me.

  ‘I hope it will come to feel that way for you too, Katie.’

  I was touched. I hadn’t heard my Christian name spoken for a long time and I didn’t know quite what to do with myself. So I dug just a little bit harder at the rhododendron roots and watched my tears fall into the hole.

  At the end of the six weeks I was called back to Mother Sarah Grace’s office.

  ‘Catherine Mary, I have decided it is time you were introduced to the nursing home.’

  I was delighted. Ever since the day I helped Sister Dorothy make Old Sue comfortable, I had thought I would like to join the nursing profession in some capacity (while not being convinced about the vision of myself as a Sister).

  The nursing home was in a house further up the drive. There were three floors, with a kitchen in the basement, a long refectory, an office and a communal visiting room on the ground floor. Upstairs there were two wards and then on the top floor there were some private rooms. We had about 30 patients. They were mainly elderly people who needed nursing care but did not have much money, but there were also a few younger patients who needed respite care, and then a few who were chronically or terminally ill. The Community wanted to provide good-quality care for
people who otherwise could not have afforded it.

  The first thing that struck me was how hard the work was. The hours were long – we started with early prayers at 6 a.m., and then had a Communion followed by breakfast. The day shift at the nursing home lasted from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., with a couple of hours off duty either in the morning or the afternoon. A period of night duty would involve 14 nights in a row working from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. There was, though, some recognition that this was tough. After my first night shift, I was enormously touched to find a full kettle and some biscuits left outside my room. Mother Sarah Grace had put them out for me when she got up. Unlike most of the others, I’d had no nursing training and so I was given the most basic jobs – cleaning the equipment, making the beds, washing the commodes. After six weeks on commode duty, Mother Sarah Grace called me into her study.

  ‘Catherine Mary, I know you have been working very hard on the commodes. It’s time to give you something different … from now on you will be in charge of washing the dentures.’

  I really didn’t find this an improvement. In fact it took me a while to get used to the intimacy of nursing. We had a very high standard of care towards our patients. Much of my time was spent clipping nails, brushing hair and cleaning teeth. Our incontinent patients were kept scrupulously clean. We gave bed baths every day. All the patients had little bells beside their beds that we answered immediately. One old patient, an old Sister of St John’s, just used to tap her wedding ring on the metal side of her bed to get attention; the sound lives with me to this day. Then there was Miss Wittering. She was a sweet old lady who loved her cups of tea, but she always spoke in code. The novice’s habits at that time were bright blue and she used to beckon me over and whisper in my ear, ‘Hyacinth, darling.’

  I was confused until one day I realised that this was her way of asking for the bedpan. She always used to wake up in the middle of the night and ring her bell and shout ‘Hyacinth, darling’, disturbing all the rest of the patients. I worked out that I could stop her from waking up the rest of the ward by creeping over and whispering in her ear, ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea, Miss Wittering, would you like one?’ She’d be instantly awake and nod vigorously. ‘I’ll bring you a hyacinth first, shall I?’ Again there would be a vigorous nod. In this way the other patients got a good night’s sleep.

  Miss Wittering was also very useful because of her crossword skills. Sister Joan was in charge of the night wards at the time. She was a lovely gentle soul, but definitely a creature of habit. One of our patients had worked for the News of the World and was sent a complimentary copy every Sunday. Once he’d read it, the newspaper would be laid on the floor downstairs to stop people slipping. Sister Joan could be seen peering down at the copy, with her hands on her hips, tutting and giggling, totally engrossed. She absolutely refused to do the rounds until she’d had three cups of tea and finished the crossword. This was fine if the crossword was easy, but sometimes she got stuck and sometimes I got stuck too; and then we all got behind, which wasn’t good, not least because the patients were late having their medicines. All was resolved when I realised I could take Miss Wittering a cup of tea and ask to have a look at her paper. She’d invariably have completed the crossword and I could go back to Sister Joan and miraculously suggest the answers.

  ‘My child, you are a genius!’ Sister Joan would chuckle.

  Working in the home I also saw a different side to our Reverend Mother. There was a woman in one of the top rooms whom I dreaded visiting. Mrs Gidding made me nervous; the flesh was weak but the spirit still fearsome. She watched me closely, and of course the more she watched, the more nervous I became, and the more I fumbled about. One day I was struggling with her bed, when Mother Sarah Grace walked in and said, ‘Hello, Mother, and how are you feeling today?’

  ‘Well, it took you long enough to come and ask,’ Mrs Gidding replied.

  I looked up, confused. Had I imagined it or had she just called her ‘Mother’?

  Mother Sarah Grace turned to me and said, ‘Catherine Mary, have you been introduced to my mother?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have, Reverend Mother.’

  I felt myself blushing and tried to make myself invisible as the conversation continued.

  ‘And why didn’t you come and see me last night?’ Mrs Giddings demanded.

  ‘I was in London visiting the Mission House and the train got back late.’

  ‘Well, what makes you think I want to see you now? I don’t. Go away.’

  Mother Sarah Grace bowed her head and with an air of resignation, rolled her eyes at me and walked out. This strong, disciplined, authoritative woman could also be a chastened, humble daughter.

  As I got to know the patients, and overcame my inhibitions, I began to really enjoy the work. There seemed to be something special about caring for these people who, at the end of their lives, were vulnerable. It felt like God’s work and I felt a humility and a wave of love for them – they had been somebody’s child, survived wars, and had lived long and full lives. I felt they should be treated with respect.

  There were some heartbreaking moments too. A few of our patients were younger and were staying with us because they were chronically ill. Cathy was in her thirties and crippled with multiple sclerosis. A ‘healing’ woman used to visit her and eventually persuaded her that she should go to a special healing service in a church close by. As the day approached Cathy got very excited. She kept talking about what she was going to do once she had been healed. I was concerned that she was putting too much faith on the service working a miracle. It’s not that I thought that the service couldn’t work or that miracles don’t sometimes happen, but I believe they don’t always happen. It’s an important distinction and I felt the healer was raising Cathy’s hopes too high. Anyway, the day arrived and she went off in a special ambulance in great spirits. We all went out to wave her goodbye and wish her luck. But when she arrived back in the evening, she was still in her wheelchair. The healer, who was pushing her, was bright and breezy but I didn’t like the look on Cathy’s face.

  ‘I’ve told Cathy that these things can take time. All you need is faith, isn’t that right, Sister?’ the healer said.

  I didn’t know what to reply. I felt as if I had been put on the spot and if I agreed and Cathy didn’t get better she’d think that it was because she didn’t have enough faith. I just didn’t know whether God worked in that way or, indeed, whether anyone had the right to claim that was the way God worked. So although Cathy was looking up at me imploringly, I felt I had to be honest.

  ‘I’m just at the beginning of my journey towards God,’ I said. ‘I believe he does indeed move in mysterious ways and I cannot claim to know how miracles work and indeed I’m not sure I will ever be able to claim that I do. But I hope with all my heart that you improve and find a greater peace, Cathy.’

  Cathy looked crestfallen and that day marked the start of a rapid decline in her health. It was as if she gave up hope and lost the will to live. She died just a year later. It upset all of us greatly and was terrible to witness. No matter how much I know that if there was a mistake anywhere it was more likely to do with the faith invested in the healing service, I still couldn’t help but blame myself a little for Cathy’s decline.

  There was also a man in his early sixties who had multiple sclerosis and was paralysed from the neck down. He had the mind of a grown man in the body of a baby; we changed his nappy, fed him with a spoon and wiped his nose. He had fixed ideas how he wanted everything done, and however way I did it, it was never to his satisfaction. As I leaned over him I had to brace myself for a running barrage of criticism. Sometimes I walked off the ward in tears. After a particularly difficult day I was walking back to the Mother House, trying to hide my tears, when I was spotted by Sister Rachel. She saw my distress and I had to explain. She paused for a minute, then took my arm and, walking me slowly back to the Mother House, told me a story.

  ‘At the time of the Second World War, Whitechapel had a lar
ge Jewish community and the London Hospital had a special Jewish ward. We even had a kosher kitchen. There was a young rabbi in the ward who was dying from cancer. In those days there was no treatment, just some pain relief given every four hours that involved a lot of morphine. One night I was on duty and the rabbi kept asking for a bedpan. In those days we didn’t just hand them the pan and leave them to do the job. We had to silently move the screens around their bed to give them privacy, and then we had to hold the pan for them and clean them up afterwards. Poor man! He had to ask me for the pan over and over again. But just as morning came and I went to him one last time, as I knelt at his bedside, he put his hands on my head and said, “Dear Sister, I have asked you to come how many times tonight? And every time you have come with a smile. Bless you, my child.”

  ‘A few weeks later he was dead, but I realised how important the way you behave is, to come with a smile, to have compassion. This is the work, the test, our vocation. This is truly what God is asking from us.’

  She put her arm around me and reached into the pocket of her habit.

  ‘Here, have a humbug,’ she said and handed me a sweet. That afternoon I felt her compassion towards me too.

  Later on that month my difficult patient went on his annual pilgrimage to Lourdes. A specially prepared ambulance, known as the ‘jumbulance’ arrived to drive him all the way through France. When he came back he seemed much better, at peace with himself. I realised it was his own terrible inner demons that had been attacking me and I was glad that God had given me the inner strength to carry on nursing him.

  In my novitiate classes, learning about the history of the Community, I realised that this question of obedience is a constant tension in the religious life. When is God calling us to obey and when is He calling on us to stand firm? It is a question of judgement and I was struck that when I was taught about the early history of the Community how Mother Superiors themselves could be rather disobedient. Indeed, Sister Mary Jones was anything but obedient. Right from the start she objected to the interference of the male Master, the Reverend Gipps. As happens in many families, Mother kept trying to overrule Father and vice versa, but unlike in a real family, there was a governing body that both could run to in order to adjudicate. Mary Jones found that she couldn’t dismiss the nurses whom she felt were proving unsuitable, without Reverend Gipps’s permission. Anyone whom she tried to ‘let go’, Reverend Gipps supported.