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

knew that we knew, that the applause was not for them or their music. They bowed stiffly, faces set in a grim smile, and left the platform.
     
    Black fury took possession of me. I greatly respect musicians, knowing their years of intensive training, and I could not excuse this last gratuitous insult, which I saw as deliberate. I could have hit Sister Monica Joan, hard, in front of a couple of hundred people. I must have been shaking with rage, because Cynthia looked at me in alarm.
     
    “I’ll take her home. You stay and find a chair at the back somewhere, and enjoy the second half.”
     
    “I can’t enjoy anything after that,” I hissed through clenched teeth; my voice must have sounded strange.
     
    She laughed her soft, warm laugh. “Of course you can. Get yourself a cup of coffee. They are playing the Brahms Cello Sonata next.”
     
    She gathered up the knitting needles, extricated the wool from around the chair legs, put it all into the knitting bag, blew a kiss with a whispered “cheerio”, and ran off after Sister Monica Joan.
     
     
    For many days, or perhaps it was weeks, I could not bring myself to speak to Sister Monica Joan. I was convinced that she had deliberately set out to wreck the recital, and to humiliate the musicians. I remembered her petulance when she did not get her own way, her sulks when she was thwarted, and above all her relentless torment of Sister Evangelina. I made up my mind that the apparent senility was no more than an elaborate game she was playing for her own amusement. I decided that I wanted nothing more to do with her. I could be as haughty as Sister Monica Joan if I chose to be, and whenever we met, I turned my head away and said not one word.
     
    But later an incident occurred that left me in no doubt at all about the reality of her mental condition.
     
    It was about 8.30 in the morning. The Sisters and other staff had all left for their morning visits. Chummy and I were the last to leave, and were just stepping out when the telephone rang.
     
    “Is that Nonnatus ’ouse? Sid ve Fish ’ere. I thought you ought’a know Sister Monica Joan has jus’ gone past me shop in ’er nightie. I’ve sent ve lad after ’er, so she won’t come to no ’arm.”
     
    I gasped in horror, and quickly told Chummy. We dropped our midwifery bags, grabbed a Sister’s cloak from the hall-stand, and sprinted down towards Sid’s fish shop. Sure enough, weaving a zig-zag line down the East India Dock Road, the fish boy a couple of paces behind, was Sister Monica Joan. She was wearing only a long white nightie with long sleeves. Her bony shoulders and elbows stuck out under the thin cloth. You could have counted every vertebra in her spine. She wore no dressing gown, no slippers, no veil, and the wind blew thin white strands of hair upwards from a head that was nearly bald. It was a cold morning, and her feet and ankles were blue-black with cold and bleeding. From behind I saw these sad old feet, like skeleton’s bones, clad only in mottled blue skin, doggedly, determinedly trudging on to a destination known only to her clouded mind.
     
    Without her veil and habit she was almost unrecognisable, and looked vaguely grotesque. Her rheumy, red-rimmed eyes were watering. Her nose was bright red, and a dew-drop hung on the tip. My heart gave a lurch, and I realised how much I loved her.
     
    We caught up and spoke to her. She looked at us as though we were strangers, and tried to push us aside.
     
    “Mind, out of my way. I must get to them. The waters have broken. That brute will kill the baby. He killed the last one, I swear it. I must get there. Out of my way.”
     
    She took another few steps on bleeding feet. Chummy threw the warm woollen cloak around her shoulders, and I took off my cap and put it on her head. The sudden warmth seemed to bring her to her senses. Her eyes focused, and she looked at us in recognition. I leaned towards her and said slowly, “Sister Monica Joan, it’s breakfast time. Mrs B. has made some nice hot porridge for you, with honey in it. It will be getting cold if you don’t come now.”
     
    She looked at me eagerly and said, “Porridge! With honey! Ooh, lovely. Come along, then. What are you standing there for? Did you say porridge? With honey?”
     
    She took two steps, and cried out in pain. Obviously she had not been aware of her cut and bleeding feet. Thank God for Chummy, her size and strength. She picked Sister Monica Joan up in her arms