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

London.
     
    One day a mounted policeman on a jet black horse was proceeding sedately down the centre of the road. He wore a magnificent white helmet and long white gauntlets, which gave him a kind of Ruritarian, operatic appearance. He saw Sister Monica Joan and, anticipating what would happen, turned his horse sideways in the road, raised his gloved hands to halt the traffic in both directions and indicated that she could cross. As she passed, Sister turned, looked up at the horse and rider, and said, quite clearly and loudly, “Thank you, young man, that is very kind. But you need not trouble yourself. I am perfectly safe. The angels will take care of me.” She tossed her head and walked swiftly on.
     
    That incident occurred years before I knew her, so clearly her idiosyncrasies had always been there although perhaps they had become more accentuated as she grew older. Sometimes I wondered, though, if her celebrated eccentricity was not an affectation, assumed for the childish delight of drawing attention to herself. Like the incident with the cellist. Poor fellow, it must have shattered him, and I tremble to think what it did must have done to the pianist.
     
    All Saints, East India Dock Road, was and still is a prestigious church, commanding a favoured position in the diocese. Built in classical Regency style, and beautifully proportioned, the interior is a gem and the acoustics beyond reproach, making it an excellent place for concerts.
     
    The Rector had managed to persuade a world famous cellist to perform. Cynthia and I were given the evening off in order to attend the concert. At the last minute we thought how nice it would be to take Sister Monica Joan. Never again!
     
    To begin with, she insisted on taking her knitting. Neither Cynthia nor I remonstrated as we should have done, but that was only with the wisdom of hindsight. We entered the church, which was full, and Sister Monica Joan wanted to sit in the front row. Like a dowager duchess she sailed down the central aisle, with Cynthia and me trotting after her like a couple of lady’s maids. She sat down middle centre, directly opposite the chair placed in readiness for the cellist, and we sat on either side. Everyone knew Sister Monica Joan, and from the outset I felt conspicuous and uncomfortable.
     
    The chairs were too hard. Sister Monica Joan fidgeted and grumbled, trying to adjust her bony bottom to the wooden chair. We offered her a kneeling pad, but that was no good. Cushions had to be found. Curates ran hither and thither poking into sacristy cupboards, but with no luck. Church paraphernalia contains everything but soft cushions. The nearest thing was a length of velvet curtaining. This was folded up, and placed under her bony prominences. She sighed at the young curate, who was new and eager to please.
     
    “If that’s the best you can do, I suppose it will have to do.” Her sharp tone erased the smile from his face.
     
    The Rector stepped forward to welcome the audience, and said that coffee would be served in the interval.
     
    “And now it is my great pleasure to welcome—”
     
    He was cut short.
     
    “Do you have decaffeinated for those who do not drink coffee?”
     
    The Rector stopped. The cellist, one foot on stage, paused.
     
    “Decaffeinated? I really don’t know, Sister.”
     
    “Perhaps you would be good enough to find out?”
     
    “Yes, of course Sister.”
     
    He signalled to a curate to go and find out. I had not seen the Rector look uncertain before; it was a new experience.
     
    “May I continue, Sister?”
     
    “Yes, of course.” Very graciously she inclined her head.
     
    “ … my pleasure to welcome to All Saints the renowned cellist and pianist … ”
     
    They bowed to the audience. The pianist seated herself at the piano. The cellist adjusted his stool. Silence fell on the audience.
     
    “She’s wearing brocade, my dear.”
     
    Sister Monica Joan’s articulation was faultless, and, as I have said, the acoustics at All Saints are superb. Her stage whisper, which at its best could penetrate a railway station at rush hour, reached every corner of the church.
     
    “We used to do that in the 1890s; cut down some old curtains, and make a second best dress out of them. I wonder whose curtains she got hold of?”
     
    The pianist glared, but the cellist, being a man, had noticed no insult, and started tuning up. Sister Monica Joan was fidgeting beside me, trying to get