Shadows Of The Workhouse: The Drama Of Life In Postwar London Page 17

  RECREATION HOUR

  Recreation in a convent is a time when the nuns can let their hair down – metaphorically, of course. Usually the recreation hour lasts from 2 p.m. to 3 p.m. With the morning work completed, lunch taken and no religious duties to perform until Vespers at 4.30 p.m., the nuns are free. But “free” only within the discipline of the order. At Nonnatus House, during the recreation hour, the nuns withdrew collectively to their sitting room, where they would engage in needlework and polite conversation.

  How these reverend ladies found time for it defeats me to this day. Each of the nuns seemed capable of packing forty-eight hours of work into every twenty-four and each of them did it with serenity and grace. Sister Julienne, for example, who was Sister-in-Charge, was not only the senior nurse and midwife with overall responsibility for the practice, but she was also in charge of the smooth running of the house. She was accountable for maintaining the monastic tradition of religious observance, instructing the novices, teaching the student midwives, acting as hostess to numerous house guests, handling convent finances and keeping the accounts. She took her fair share of district visits, including night calls, as well as finding time to engage in needlework and polite conversation during her brief hours of recreation when most people would want to lie horizontal with their feet up.

  It was their practice, as I have said, for the nuns to retire to their sitting room after lunch. But occasionally Sister Julienne would say at lunch time, “I think we will take recreation in the nurses’ sitting room today,” whereupon the Sisters would look with a particular benevolence upon us girls, as though they were granting us some special favour. The nuns would then go to their cells (nuns sleep in cells, not bedrooms) to collect their work, and we would rush to our sitting room to clear away dirty plates, mugs, ashtrays, magazines, glasses, empty chocolate boxes, biscuit tins, hairbrushes, medical books (yes, occasionally, we put in a bit of study), and all the paraphernalia essential to the life of the average young girl.

  The Sisters entered and we smiled sweetly, as though we hadn’t been frantically clearing things away for the past five minutes. Sister Evangelina, not famous for her tact, glared around her, growling, “Well, Nurse Browne, I believe your mother is coming to visit you at the weekend. You had better tidy the place up before she comes.”

  “Oh, but we have just had a thumping good tidy up for you, Sister.” Chummy was not offended, simply puzzled.

  Trixie gave a shrill laugh and was about to speak, but Cynthia, the peacemaker, retorted, “We’ll get out the Hoover, the polish and the dusters before the weekend, Sister.”

  Sister Evangelina snorted her disapproval and opened her workbox. Everyone did the same except Trixie and me. Neither of us owned a workbox; we did not sew or knit for recreation.

  Sister Julienne was concerned. “Oh, my dears, perhaps you could each make a little tea cosy for the Christmas Fayre. Tea cosies always go down well. People buy them for Christmas presents.”

  Material, stuffing, scissors, needles and cotton were provided and conversation centred on the desirability of a large number of tea cosies to boost the convent’s finances for the coming year. As well as everything else, the Sisters not only organised and ran a sale each year, but made a large number of the items to be sold. For many decades the finance for supporting the midwifery practice had, to some extent, depended on the monies collected at the Christmas Fayre.

  The Sisters were making many small items considered to be useful or necessary in those days, such as handkerchief sachets, glove folders, pincushions, cushion covers, tray cloths, tablecloths, pillowcases and virtually anything else onto which a bird or a daisy-chain could be embroidered. Conversation centred on the saleability of each item for the Christmas Fayre. The need for a large number of chair-back covers puzzled me and, even more, the name by which they were called – ‘antimacassars’ – until I learned that they were intended to protect the back of a chair from the grease on men’s hair. Many men plastered their hair with Brylcreem in those days and the oil used in Victorian times was Macassar.

  I looked around me with pleasure. It was all very genteel and sweet; it could have been a scene from any period in history when ladies had almost nothing else to do. Sister Julienne was making rag dolls with great speed and efficiency, creating tiny waistcoats and shoes, fixing button eyes and snipping wool hair. Sister Bernadette was an expert in golliwogs. Children are not allowed to have such toys today, nor even to use the word, but in those days they were all the fashion. Sister Evangelina was hemming handkerchiefs, and Novice Ruth – what on earth was she doing? Novice Ruth had a wooden object rather like a large cotton reel. Four nails, without heads, had been hammered into the top. The Novice was plying heavy linen thread round and round the nails with a small blunt instrument and pulling the thread over the nails at each turn. Through the centre of the wooden reel a woven band emerged. It was already a yard or two long, but still Novice Ruth continued plying the thread and weaving.

  What on earth was it? I watched, fascinated. She must have read my mind because she laughed and said, “You wonder what I am doing. This will be my girdle. I am approaching the time of my first profession, when I shall take my first vows. A Sister wears a woven girdle wound three times around her waist and, at the end, we tie three knots. This is a constant reminder of our three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.”

  She had such a beautiful face and such a radiant smile. Her vocation clearly filled her with joy.

  Conversation continued about the Christmas Fayre and who should attend the stalls. Mrs B as usual, was in charge of the cake stall, and Fred, the boiler man, always managed a very good stall selling second-hand tools, which attracted men to the Fayre. It was Fred’s proud boast that he could sell anything. Give him a bag of bent, rusty nails and he would sell them for you.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Now who can that be?” said Sister. “We’re not expecting anyone. Would you answer it, please, Nurse Browne.”

  Chummy laid down her expert embroidery and left the room. We continued talking about the Christmas Fayre, speculating if the band from the SPY Club could be asked to provide some entertainment. Should they be paid and, if so, how much? “How about tea and cakes?” someone ventured. “Wouldn’t that be sufficient payment?”

  “What on earth has happened to Nurse Browne?” Sister Evangelina grunted. “She’s been gone at least five minutes. It doesn’t take that long to answer the door.”

  At that moment Chummy re-entered the room. She was bright red. She took a step forward and kicked a waste-paper basket, which shot into the air, spilling its contents as it flew. It hit Sister Evangelina on the side of the head, knocking her veil and wimple sideways. The shock caused her to prick her finger and blood spurted over the handkerchief she was hemming.

  “You clumsy fool,” she shouted. “Look what you have made me do.” She sucked her finger and waved the ruined handkerchief at Chummy.

  Sister Julienne took charge. “Never mind, Sister, use the handkerchief to bind the finger or we shall have blood all over the other work. Better to spoil one item than half a dozen? Now, Nurse Browne, what on earth is the matter?”

  Chummy opened her mouth and her lips moved but no sound came. She tried again with no success.

  The Sisters were seriously concerned. “My poor child, do sit down.”

  Chummy sat down and again tried to speak. Her vocal chords finally responded and the words came out in a rush. “Please, Sister, the policeman is at the door and he wants to see you.”

  Trixie gave a scream of laughter. “Didn’t I tell you! There, look, Chummy’s sweet on the policeman!”

  Cynthia kicked her hard.

  Sister Julienne looked troubled. “Oh dear, oh bother. I’ll go at once.”

  We all looked at one another. Sister Julienne would only use such an extreme expression as “oh bother” in an extreme situation.

  The knowledge that the policeman was at the door again gave me a nasty jolt. I
had managed to lay aside the awful dilemma of the jewels found in Sister Monica Joan’s room. I looked anxiously at Cynthia, who was embroidering a cushion cover and who refused to look up. All the Sisters were silently bent over their work. Chummy took up her sewing again but her hands were shaking so much that she could not control the needle.

  Only Trixie spoke. “Well, now for it. They’ve come to take her away. There’ll be a right old rumpus.”

  Sister Evangelina turned on her. “Hold your tongue, you thoughtless, loud-mouthed girl. Just keep quiet for once.”

  “Sorry, I’m sure.” Trixie didn’t look at all sorry.

  I managed to catch Cynthia’s eye and we exchanged a look of alarm. Novice Ruth stifled a tear and worked furiously at the girdle she was making. Sister Bernadette was stuffing a golliwog, poking the stuffing down hard into the legs. The clock ticked and no one spoke except for the occasional “Pass the scissors, please”, or “Have you got the light-blue thread over there?”

  The soft footsteps of Sister Julienne were heard and we all looked up expectantly, but she passed the door and went upstairs. Glances of real anguish were exchanged between the Sisters.

  All the muscles around my chest and stomach seemed to tighten at once and I felt hot all over. “Could we open a window, do you think?” I enquired.

  “I was about to suggest the same thing,” said Sister Bernadette, and Cynthia, who was nearest to the window, stood up and opened it. The clock ticked on and we continued sewing. No one spoke.

  Again footsteps were heard – descending the stairs this time. We all looked up, each with the same thought in mind. What were they going to do with her?

  The door burst open and Sister Julienne stood there, her features filled with joy. “They are dropping all charges and taking no further action! Oh, the relief, I can’t tell you the relief. I have just been up to see Sister Monica Joan to convey the news, although I am not sure that she understood what I was saying because she just looked at me in complete silence.”

  “Praise the Lord,” said Sister Evangelina, sniffing hard. She blew her nose loudly into the blood-stained handkerchief and wiped the corner of her eye. “Let us praise the Lord for his mercy.”

  We were all overjoyed at the news, but Sister Evangelina displayed more emotion and relief than anyone else in the room. Her reaction brought home to me the genuine goodness and charity of the woman who had suffered so much from Sister Monica Joan’s verbal cruelty. The apparent dislike between the two women was not of her making, and a less loving soul might have been indifferent, if not secretly glad, to see her Sister’s downfall.

  Sister Julienne sat down. “This calls for a celebration so I have asked Mrs B to bring up an early tea and we will have jam with our scones today.”

  Mrs B came bouncing in with a large tray. “There, din’ I tell yer? As innocen’ as a new-born babe, she is. An’ them police, they wants their bleedin’ ’eads (beggin’ yer pardon, Sisters) bangin’ together, vey do. An’ I’d like to ge’ me ’ands on vat lyin’ coster, I would.”

  Sister Julienne burst out laughing. “You’ll do no such thing. We don’t want you had up for assault. Perhaps you would pour the tea, Novice Ruth, and pass the scones.”

  Mrs B withdrew. The tea and scones were passed round, not forgetting the jam. Everyone was in festive mood.

  Sister Julienne continued her story. “Apparently the legal adviser to the police has suggested that, due to the age of the suspect and the triviality of the items found in her room, the police might find themselves in a position of ridicule if they were to proceed with prosecution. The costers involved have been informed that a charge will not be brought by the Public Prosecutor but they would be within their rights to bring a civil action. Due to the fact that a civil case costs so much money and that they would be unlikely to get compensation, damages or costs, the costers have decided not to proceed.” Sister Julienne gave a huge sigh of relief, caressing her cup as she raised it to her lips.

  We four girls could not share the happiness of the Sisters. We knew something of which they were completely unaware. The knowledge of the jewels in Sister Monica Joan’s possession weighed heavily upon us. I was terrified that Trixie would blurt out something ill-considered that would give the game away. Cynthia and I exchanged glances and clearly the same thought was going through her mind also. She was sitting near Trixie so she nudged her and I was grateful to see her mouth the words, “We’ll talk later.” A plan was forming in my mind to remove the jewels from Sister Monica Joan’s room, take them to Hatton Garden and just leave them somewhere. My mind was racing – yes, that would be the answer, or perhaps I could leave them outside a police station a long way away, so no one would suspect. But where would I find them? The beastly things had gone from Sister’s bedside cabinet. Perhaps I could talk to her about it. Would she see reason? It would be good to talk to Cynthia later; she was always so sensible.

  Sister Julienne said, “I knew our prayers would be answered. I do so believe in the power of prayer. No need for a lawyer now, eh?” and she giggled, happily. I squirmed – if only she knew – and my resolve to find the wretched jewels and dispose of them grew firmer.

  Tea was being cleared away, the sewing brought out again, and we all settled down to work.

  The door opened. Sister Monica Joan stood at the threshold. She did not enter the room immediately but stood quite still, one hand resting on the door. She was wearing her full outdoor habit, with the long black veil, perfectly adjusted over the white wimple. She looked magnificent. Everyone stopped talking, laid down their sewing and looked up at her. Yet she did not move, her hand remained motionless on the door handle, her hooded eyes were half-closed, her eyebrows raised, and a slightly supercilious smile played around the corners of her mouth. She had a magnetic quality about her that forbade speech.

  Then she moved for the first time; slowly and deliberately she turned her head, beautifully poised on its long neck, and scrutinised each person in the room with a level and unfaltering gaze. She looked each of us straight in the eye for a few seconds, then turned her head very slightly and looked at the next person. No one dared to speak or move. I have never seen a more riveting performance in my life.

  It was Sister Monica Joan herself who broke the silence. She tilted her head slightly to one side and raised an eyebrow. A naughty little grin lit her features. “Greetings all. Did I ever tell you about the Thief of Baghdad? They boiled him in oil, don’t you know; or perhaps they drowned him in a butt of Malmsey wine. One or the other, I’m not sure which; but they did him in, I’m sure of that.”

  Sister Julienne rose, both arms outstretched. “Oh my dear, say no more about that dreadful business. Not another word. It was all a misunderstanding and we have put it behind us. But come in and join our happy circle. I see you have your knitting bag with you.”

  Sister Monica Joan graciously consented to be led into the room. Sister Evangelina rose from her seat. “Have this chair, my dear; it is the most comfortable.” Sister Monica Joan sat down.

  The jewels! They flashed and glistened into my mind. They had to be disposed of and now was the perfect time. Sister Monica Joan was knitting quietly and everyone else was sewing and chatting. There might never be such an opportunity again.

  I excused myself and left the room. At the bottom of the stairs I removed my shoes, so that no one would hear footsteps. It was the work of a moment to reach Sister Monica Joan’s room. Quietly I entered and wedged a chair under the handle, in case anyone tried to enter. The search started. I scrutinised every inch of that room, every drawer, every shelf, every cupboard; I felt all over the mattress, the pillows, the cushions; the tops and the hems of the curtains. I rummaged through her underwear and her habits – it wasn’t seemly to pry into a nun’s private things, but it had to be done. Nothing! Nowhere! My earlier thought about the lavatory cistern returned, and I raced along the corridor to the bathroom. Still nothing. I began to feel panic grip me; recreation hour must surely be drawing
to a close. If one of the Sisters found me on their private landing or in their bathroom, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Running downstairs and replacing my shoes took only a few seconds, and I was back in the sitting room just as the ladies began to fold up their sewing and talk about the evening visits.

  I muttered my excuses: “I’m sorry, Sister, I don’t seem to have got on very well with the tea cosy. I don’t think I’m much good at sewing.”

  Sister Julienne smiled. “That’s perfectly all right, we can’t all be good at the same things.”

  She turned to Sister Monica Joan. “Can I help you, dear? That is a lovely baby’s shawl you are knitting. Can I help you put it away?”

  She took the handle of the knitting bag. Sister Monica Joan grabbed the bag back. “Don’t touch it, leave it to me.” She pulled the side nearest to her, but the handle on the other side was caught over Sister Julienne’s wrist. The seam burst and a shower of rings, watches, gold chains and bracelets was flung across the floor.

  THE TRIAL

  Total silence followed. The two halves of the torn knitting bag were held by Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan, who looked at each other for what seemed an eternity.

  Sister Monica Joan was the first to speak. “Inanimate objects have a life of their own, independent of the creature, have you not noticed?” She glanced at each of us in turn. “And whenever an atom gets excited it creates magnetic fields.”

  “Are you suggesting, Sister, that these inanimate objects were somehow magnetised into your knitting bag, independent of human activity?” Sister Julienne’s voice was sarcastic.

  “Most certainly. ‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio.’”

  “Don’t call me Horatio.”

  “Poof, hoity-toity.” Sister Monica Joan was aloof. “The difficulty of comparative study is the incomprehension of lesser minds. But keep the trinkets. Use them well. In the latter days they will be interpreted in a mystery play, a drama, an allegory. Use them well, I say; they have their own life, their own force, their own destiny.” And with that she floated out of the room.