Sisters of the East End

by Helen Batten

  The next day I took the diary back to Sister Alice.

  ‘What did you think of it, my child?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose I was amazed at Nurse Wren’s resilience. The dreadful things she experienced and witnessed never seemed to shake her belief in God and humanity.’

  ‘Or her vocation. What her diary doesn’t tell you is that as soon as she got back she volunteered to go out to the front again and a few months later she was in Corfu.’

  ‘Well, it certainly puts my doubts into perspective.’

  ‘Indeed, child. Sometimes we have to accept our feelings are not relevant compared to what God is calling us to do.’

  I nodded. The next day I went back to work. Whatever doubts Cecilia had had about her vocation, mine had vanished.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL AND AN EXPECTED DEPARTURE

  By 1965 I was approaching the moment where I had to ask to be considered for life profession. If I’m honest, I was avoiding much serious thought about it. I was happy with the status quo, living in the Mission House and working as a midwife in Poplar, and with Cecilia’s abrupt departure soon after taking her life vows in mind, I was anxious about rocking my own vocational boat. However, an unexpected arrival started to rock it anyway.

  At half-past four one morning the doorbell of the Mission House clanged loudly and sent echoes round the House. As usual, one of the pupil midwives was on call. Today it was Brenda’s turn. She opened the heavy Mission House door and looked out – there was no one there. She closed it again. A few minutes later the bell went again. By now I was awake and wondering what was going on; so I put on my dressing gown and slippers and made my way downstairs. Brenda was opening the door. This time she noticed a bundle on the steps and bent down to have a look.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she cried. ‘It’s a baby.’

  I rushed down the stairs. Brenda picked up the bundle and there, wrapped up all snuggly, was a very new, pink, baby.

  ‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed. ‘Someone has left it here. They must still be around. Check the baby, I’m going to find them.’

  I left poor Brenda holding the baby and dashed out into the street. I looked left, right and across the square – there was absolutely no one to be seen. It was peaceful in the early morning light and all I could hear was birdsong. I hurried on, breathless and heart pounding, still in my dressing gown and slippers, and ran round the square. Then I did a crazy circuit of the streets around. I saw no one except for the odd docker or casual labourer, flat caps on, cigarettes in mouths, off to start the day looking for work. I was frustrated. Whoever had left the baby must be close by because they had been watching to make sure we found the baby, otherwise the bell wouldn’t have rung a second time. However, as the streets of Poplar started to fill up with men on their way to work, I began to feel self-conscious about my lack of attire and had to admit defeat.

  When I got back to the Mission House there was no one about. I went into the kitchen to find the entire household staring silently at a baby lying in the middle of the table. Once again I was reminded of the nativity scene; although this time, in the place of the manger, there was a table. Were we the shepherds or the wise men, or just the animals? Sister Dorothy interrupted my reverie.

  ‘Look at us all. A bunch of midwives and none of us has a clue what to do.’

  We giggled. This seemed to spur Sister Ruth into action.

  ‘I suppose, Sister Catherine Mary, the fact that you have returned unaccompanied means that your search for the owner of this child has proved fruitless?’

  I nodded.

  ‘In which case I would like to welcome him to the world.’

  ‘A boy?’ I mouthed to Sister Alice standing next to me. She nodded.

  With her expert midwife hands Sister Ruth picked him up and cradled him close. For once her inscrutable mask slipped and she looked serenely maternal. It was heart-warming to see Our Lady of Mystery transformed into the Virgin Mother.

  ‘We do not know the name your mother would have given you, but as you have been handed into our care I would like to name you John Divine after our patron saint. As with every child, you have come from love and are welcomed with love, God’s love. You may be separated for some time, maybe forever, from the mother who gave birth to you, but the Father who created you is always with you and His love will never fail. This greatest and eternal love will be given to you, John Divine, through us for as long as you stay with us. Sisters, shall we pray?’

  As we bowed our heads, the medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich, came to my mind. One day as she held a hazelnut in the palm of her hand, she asked, ‘What may this be?’ and she received the answer, ‘It is all that is made’. A hazelnut lasts forever because God loves it, ‘And so have all things their beginning by the love of God’. Amen, I thought. And then I wondered whether Sister Ruth was about to grab some water from the sink and splash it over the baby John Divine’s head. She didn’t but I sort of wished she had. Instead she said this prayer, ‘Dear Father, we can never know your plan. However we do trust in Your wisdom. We trust in Your wisdom for little John Divine here and we thank You for bringing him to us so that we can show him Your love. If it is Your will, we pray that John’s mother can be found, but we accept it may not be the path You have chosen for him. Help us to love him and help him in any way we can. We pray that he thrives and is joyful, and that he feels that You are with him on his journey.

  Dear Lord, you gave Jesus a family in Mary and Joseph and a home in Nazareth. We all need a home and a family so we pray that baby John is brought safely to a place that he can call home. Father Almighty, we give You our prayer. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ we all whispered back. I noticed Brenda was wiping a tear away from her eye.

  Suddenly Sister Ruth’s inscrutable face was back on and she was all business. ‘Sister Alice, would you be so kind as to ring the police and then the social services and let them know of baby John’s surprise arrival.’

  ‘Brenda, I believe you have the day off today. I would be grateful if you could spend it tending to John. Of course you should find everything you need – nappies, bottles, blankets in the basement. Any problems myself and Sister Alice will be here. Sister Catherine Mary, could you find a box or a drawer we could use as a cradle for baby John?’

  Sister Ruth handed the baby to Brenda and we all went off on our tasks. I emptied out my underwear drawer and took it downstairs to be Baby John’s cradle. Brenda was tickled to be spending a day nursing a beautiful new baby. The police were called and a visit from social services booked, and the search for baby John Divine’s family began.

  The arrival of baby John Divine got me thinking. The Community of St John the Divine had been given many things over the years, but this was the first time we had ever been given a baby (and in fact the last). Why? It seemed curious. The Community of St John the Divine had first arrived in the East End in 1880 when the parish council of All Saints Church had written asking the Sisters to help nurse the poor of the parish. The Community immediately took over a small house in the square and were soon not only nursing the locals, but also delivering the babies of the 50,000 people who lived there.

  Somewhat surprisingly the Sisters were not given a warm Cockney welcome. They were known locally as ‘The Sisters of Misery’. Rocks were hurled at them by the local youth and there are even reports of rough women shouting rude words at them. I had an image of Sister Julia turning round and giving them an earful back, however there are no reports of any retaliation by the Sisters, so perhaps they were a slightly less feisty breed in those days. However, there was a rather dramatic turning point when the Sisters were sent for in the middle of the night to look after a ‘rough Irish street woman’. She was nursed for five days and five nights until she died. Her friends sent a letter saying that the Sisters had looked after her ‘as if she were your own sister’. To show their gratitude they clubbed together their pence and bought an illuminated card with ‘Go
d Bless this House’ on the front. They presented it to the Sisters, saying it was all they could afford and ‘only wished it was more’. After that the Sisters had no more trouble, indeed they quickly became a much-loved feature of the community.

  By the time I reached the East End in the Sixties, the Sisters had been caring for the local families for four or more generations. The local policemen had to walk in groups of three at night for their own protection, but the Sisters could always travel alone. None of us had ever been assaulted or had anything stolen. I always felt the respect of the local people. Everywhere I went people would call out ‘Hello, Sister’. If I ever needed the lavatory, I could knock on any door and I would be happily waved in. Perhaps, most importantly, in many cases we were delivering our fifth generation of local babies, so if a baby was going to be left anywhere, I would have thought the most obvious place would be on the steps of the Mission House.

  So why was baby John Divine the first baby to be left on the doorstep? I was walking back from Evening Prayer pondering this very question when Sister Alice hurried up behind me (as much as was seemly for a Sister of a certain age to hurry) and, in a slightly conspiratorial fashion, whispered in my ear, ‘Sister Catherine Mary, might I have a word?’

  ‘Of course, Sister.’

  ‘I have received a rather unusual invitation.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘It seems our good church warden,’ she paused and I wondered whether she was being ironic – William Drake had only just been released from a short time inside for minor fraud, ‘our good church warden has invited both of us to a party to celebrate his daughter Jacqueline’s 21st birthday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I didn’t know quite what to say. Although we were loved by the community, we weren’t usually invited to their parties.

  ‘Yes, that was my initial reaction. But on reflection and prayer it seemed to make a certain sort of sense. You see, I delivered Jackie.’

  Sister Alice then proceeded to tell me the story of how Jacqueline Drake had come into the world. Towards the end of the war a newly qualified Sister Alice was working as a midwife. She was summoned to deliver the second child of William and Bertha Drake. It was the middle of the afternoon and there was no sign of any Germans when she arrived, but then the labour started to drag on. Sister Alice was a bit surprised because Bertha’s first delivery had been very straightforward. Then the sirens started. The family rushed off to the shelter, but what with all the excitement, Bertha was suddenly in the final stages of labour and couldn’t be moved.

  Bombs were dropping very close, bits of plaster were coming off the ceiling and they were in the dark. So there they were pushing, and panting, and suddenly there was a whistle and the most almighty explosion. The house next door was hit, the window blew in and Sister Alice was thrown on top of poor labouring Bertha. Just like a Charlie Chaplin movie, the huge window frame came crashing down around them, completely framing them on the bed. They were fine, plaster everywhere, but the baby came out two minutes later, screaming. It was a healthy girl.

  Bertha called her Jackie because she popped out a bit like a jack-in-the-box. Sister Alice said a prayer and had a nip of the brandy she always carried for emergencies. And this was an emergency – she realised how shocked she was!

  That same night one of the last V-2 bombs of the war hit the Community’s Bow Lane house. The clergy and neighbours in the square rushed out and desperately dug through the rubble, but the only Sister left in there at the time, Sister Margery, was killed. Sister Alice then added, ‘In a funny sort of a way I helped save Jackie’s life, but she also saved mine. Because of course without her arrival keeping me out late, I would have been in the Bow Lane House too.’

  Suddenly the invitation made perfect sense and it also explained why I had been invited. Six months before, I had delivered Jackie’s first baby. Both Bertha and Jackie had fallen pregnant within a month of each other. This was not unusual for the time and the area. William and Bertha had married in their teens and so had their daughter Jackie. It seems rather strange now, but then it was quite common for nieces and nephews to be older than their aunts and uncles – a case of large families, early marriages and imperfect contraception. However, the modern world was creeping in. With Jackie still living at home (again not unusual in poor families) and two babies about to arrive, William had decided to invest in a telephone. They were still quite a novelty in Poplar houses. I used to arrive for my antenatal visits and find Bertha and Jackie sat in the front room staring at it. The phone had pride of place on a special little table right in the centre of the room. ‘Oh dear, Phone, do ring,’ Bertha would say longingly. Of course it never did because none of their family or friends had one.

  Jackie’s baby was due first and pretty much bang on the day I was summoned to go and deliver the first of the next generation of Drakes. It had been a straightforward pregnancy, but it was a difficult, hard labour. When Jackie’s baby finally emerged he was blue and not breathing. In these situations I find my training automatically kicks in. The first step was to use a mucus extractor (like a tiny straw) to suck out any mucus from his nostrils. When this didn’t spring him into life, I placed him on my lap and rubbed his back hard. This would usually elicite a gasp from the baby but new baby Drake was still lifeless and blue.

  There was absolute silence in the room. Bertha was with us and I was aware she knew the seriousness of the situation. I tapped on his hand. For some reason this sometimes worked. But again, Baby Drake wasn’t responding. Sometimes people held babies upside down by their feet or gently blew air through their lips. I wasn’t convinced by either of these approaches. Instead I said, ‘Bertha, can you reach in my bag and on the left you will find a small bottle.’

  She waddled over, rummaged and quickly pulled out a small bottle of brandy. All of us midwives carried a bottle for just these kinds of emergencies. I opened it and placed a little bit of brandy under new baby Drake’s tongue. Immediately he screwed up his eyes and started to squirm, and a couple of seconds later an angry yell filled the room.

  ‘Thank the bloomin’ Lord!’ Bertha said.

  ‘Is ’e goin’ to be all right, Mum?’ Jackie said, peering anxiously as I massaged baby Drake’s back.

  ‘Yes, sunshine, ’e is. Look at the beautiful little fella!’

  Jackie promptly burst into tears and the tension in the room was broken.

  ‘So,’ said Sister Alice. ‘What do you think about going to the party?’

  ‘Well, I would rather like to go,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, indeed. I would rather like to go too.’

  ‘But Sister Ruth?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I think it’s best if I talk to her.’

  The next day Sister Alice caught me in the corridor.

  ‘Sister Catherine Mary, we have been given permission to go to the Drakes’ party.’

  ‘Oh really? How did you manage …?’

  ‘Ours is not to wonder why. There is only one thing you need to know – we have to be back in time for Compline.’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed, Sister.’

  I bowed my head and bounced off to work, thrilled but feeling slightly nervous.

  The party was taking place that weekend in the local British Legion club. Sister Alice and I first had to go to Evening Prayer so we were a little late for the party and among the last to arrive. The hall was full and a scene of happy smoke-filled chaos. Someone was making a racket on the piano and there was some rather raucous joining in. Lots of children were chasing around, getting into mischief and spoiling their best clothes, groups of young men stood in protective huddles, glasses of beer in hands, fags in mouths, talking to each other but eyeing the room, I presumed to spot female talent. The women were busy chasing the children, organising the food or gossiping. In places the generations mingled. There was a grandmother pulling what I presumed was her acutely embarrassed grandson onto the dance floor. At first no one really noticed us, but as people caught sight of the two Sisters in b
lue habits and white veils walk across the floor, there were lots of confused and amused double takes and nudges.

  ‘All right, Mum. Love the fancy dress.’

  To my horror one of the young men had grabbed Sister Alice’s sleeve.

  ‘Yeah. Sugar and spice kit. I love a bit of canoodling with a bit of chastity. Give us a hit and miss, your Reverence.’

  At this point one of the young men planted a smacker right on Sister Alice’s left cheek. A leery cheer went up from the group and everyone turned around. Sister Alice, pink to the very roots of her veil, took her arm firmly away from the young man’s grasp and drew herself up.

  ‘Sister Alice of the Community of St John the Divine. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  I was bracing myself for the young man’s reply, but we were saved by William Drake pushing his way over to us.

  ‘Oi, Charlie! Hands off the Sister, you great idiot!’

  ‘Whoooo, Bill! If I’d known we was dressin’ up, I’d ’av come as the Pope.’

  ‘Leave it out! I told yer, this is Sister Alice. She’s a nun, you idiot! She delivered our Jackie and this is Sister Catherine Mary and she did our Jackie’s baby, and I’d appreciate it if yer gave ’em some respect.’

  The young man, Charlie, looked at William and then at us and then back at William again, and then he took a deep breath and exhaled whistling through his teeth.

  ‘Well, Sisters, my apologies. I’m just not used to seeing religion at a Moriarty.’

  Sister Alice graciously bowed her head and said, ‘Indeed. Well, Charlie, your apology is accepted, although I think it would be wise to ask permission before you kiss a lady next time.’

  ‘Right yer are, Sister, right yer are. So I’m not goin’ to Gypsy Nell then?’

  ‘No, Charlie. You’re not going to hell, not this time anyway …’