Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S

out o’ my kitchen, you clumsy … you!”
     
    Poor Chummy! It always happened that way. Social situations were a nightmare for her, particularly when men were around. She just didn’t know what to say to a man, nor how to behave.
     
    Cynthia again saved the day. She grabbed a dustpan and brush, saying, “Never mind, Mrs B. Luckily it was the plate with the crack in it. It needed throwing out, anyway.”
     
    Deftly she swept up the bits, Mike appreciatively studying her neat little bottom as she bent down.
     
    Chummy stood in the doorway, abashed and tongue-tied. I tried to get her to come over and join us for a cup of coffee, but she flushed scarlet and muttered something about going upstairs to wash her hands before lunch.
     
    The boys looked at each other in wonder. Lunch in a convent was an unknown, but a female giant hurling plates around was the last thing they had expected. Alan took out his notebook and started scribbling furiously.
     
    We heard the bell sound from the chapel and a little later the Sisters’ footsteps. Sister Julienne walked briskly into the kitchen, small, plump, and motherly. She looked at the boys with true affection, and held out both hands.
     
    “I’ve heard so much about you, and this is a real treat for us all to have you here. Mrs B. has prepared roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by apple pie. Will you like that, do you think?”
     
    Three cool, sophisticated young men responded like three small boys taking sweets from a favourite auntie.
     
    We entered the refectory. After grace, during which the boys eyed each other with amusement, and muttered a self-conscious “Amen”, we sat at the large square table and Mrs B. brought in the luncheon trolley. Sister Julienne served as usual, and Trixie took around the plates.
     
    Alan was outrageously handsome. He had perfect, regular features, clear skin, dark curly hair, and soft dark eyes fringed with eyelashes that any girl would kill for. I had met him a couple of times, and when the girls flocked around him in droves, trying to win a glance from his bright eyes, I had noticed that he treated them as pleasing but inconsequential toys. He regarded himself as a “leader of opinion”. With a degree in philosophy from Cambridge University, he had already formed conclusions about life which he had picked up secondhand, without having lived much of it himself. The troubles and turmoils that befall most of us had yet to disturb his assumption of superiority. He had a huge regard for his own intelligence which, I had concluded, was adequate but not outstanding. He placed his notebook and pencil beside him on the dining table, which was rude, but Alan was not troubled by propriety; he was on a job, not a guest at a luncheon party.
     
    He had been placed next to Sister Monica Joan and was slightly annoyed about this, probably regarding her as being too old to be of interest to his readership. He had wanted to sit next to Sister Bernadette and talk about the impact of the new National Health Service upon the older style of medicine. However, he was not one to be deflected from his purpose and called across the table to Sister Bernadette.
     
    “As nuns are the servants of God, and the State has now taken over your midwifery service, do you now see your role as servants of the State?”
     
    He had planned this carefully, as he wanted to portray the futility of religion in his story. This would appeal to his editor.
     
    Sister Bernadette was contemplating her Yorkshire pudding with pleasure, and was unprepared such a question. In the ten seconds that it took for her to think of a suitable reply, Sister Monica Joan addressed him.
     
    “In the puny compass of our wit the Silver Cord is loosed. The State is the servant of the Orb. The servant is wiser than the organic process of growth differentiated by truth at the fountain head. Do you see your role as one of the forty-two Assessors of the Dead?”
     
    “What?”
     
    Alan stopped eating, mouth open, fork raised.
     
    “Eh, that is … I mean … pardon?”
     
    “Kindly don’t wave your fork at me like that, young man. Put it down,” said Sister Monica Joan sharply. She eyed him imperiously. “We were discussing the role of the free spirit, released by the confluence of the several centres, until you so rudely poked your fork in my ear. But what is that to me? Let us go with God, and accept the unacceptable. It is a lonely walk into the mind’s retreat. Is