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

quietly watching, and tried to do it myself, but couldn’t. She got some gravy on her fingertip, and licked it off. She seemed to like it and brightened a little. She dipped her finger again. Meanwhile, conversation had turned to the forthcoming jumble sale.
     
    Sister Monica Joan took up her fork, and ate all the potato and gravy, but not the carrots, then pushed her plate away from her with a hard-done-by sigh. She had obviously been thinking. She turned to Sister Evangelina and said loudly, but in the sweetest tone, “Keats may not be your cup of tea, but do you admire Lear, dear?”
     
    Sister Evangelina looked at her with justifiable suspicion. Instinct told her there was a trap, but she had neither verbal skill nor wit, only a heavy, ponderous sort of honesty. She walked straight into the trap. “Who?”
     
    It was the worst thing she could have said.
     
    “Edward Lear, dear, one of our greatest comic poets, ‘The Owl and the Pussy Cat’, you know. I thought perhaps you might particularly admire ‘the Dong with the Luminous Nose’, dear.”
     
    There was a gasp around the table at this piece of effrontery. Sister Evangelina’s face turned red all over, and the moisture began to glisten. Someone said “Pass the salt, please”, and Sister Julienne asked quickly if anyone would like another chop. Sister Monica Joan looked archly at Sister Evangelina, and murmured to herself, “Oh dear, now we are back to Keats and dewdrops.” She took out her handkerchief and started to sing “Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well”, as though to herself.
     
    Sister Evangelina nearly exploded with impotent rage, and scraped back her chair. “I think I can hear the telephone; I will go and answer it,” she said, and left the refectory.
     
    The atmosphere was tense. I glanced sideways at Sister Julienne, wondering what she would do. She looked exceedingly cross, but could say nothing to Sister Monica Joan in front of us all. The other Sisters looked down at their plates, discomfited. Sister Monica Joan sat erect and haughty, her hooded eyes closed. Not a muscle moved.
     
    I had often wondered about her. Her mind was obviously going, but how much was senility, and how much downright naughtiness? This gratuitous, unprovoked attack on Sister Evangelina was a piece of premeditated malice. Why did she do it? Her history of selfless dedication in over fifty years of nursing the poorest of the poor would imply saintliness. Yet here she was, deliberately humiliating her Sister in God in front of the entire staff, including Mrs B., who had just brought in the pudding.
     
    Sister Julienne rose, and took the tray. Serving the pudding caused the diversion she needed. Sister Monica Joan knew that disapproval was in the air. Generally she was served first with pudding, and given a choice, but on that occasion she was served last. She sat aloof, seeming not to notice. On any other occasion she would have complained bitterly, gobbled up her pudding, and asked for more. But not today. Sister Julienne took up the last bowl, placed some rice pudding in it, and quietly said, “Hand that to Sister Monica Joan, if you please.” Then she said, “I will go and see Sister Evangelina, if you will all excuse me. Sister Bernadette, would you please say the closing grace?”
     
    She rose, said a private grace, crossed herself, and left the room.
     
    There were a few desultory remarks about the prunes being a little tough, and would it, or would it not rain for the evening visits, but we all felt a little uncomfortable, and were glad when the meal was over. Sister Monica Joan stood up with a regal toss of her head, and crossed herself elaborately as grace was said.
     
    Poor Sister Evangelina! She was not a bad sort, and certainly did not deserve the torment she got from Sister Monica Joan. Her nose was a trifle red, admittedly, but by no stretch of the imagination could it be described as “luminous”. She was heavy and plodding, both in mind and body. Her big flat feet clumped about. She banged things down on the table, rather than putting them down. She flopped down into a chair, rather than sitting down. I had seen Sister Monica Joan observing all these characteristics with pursed lips, drawing in her skirts as the heavy feet passed. She, so light, so dainty, who moved with such grace, seemed unable to tolerate the other’s physical shortcomings, and called her the washerwoman, or the butcher’s wife.
     
    Nor was Sister