Farewell To The East End

the happy couple led the dancing. At seven o’clock they left to get the night train to Cornwall, where they were spending their honeymoon. A taxi came to take them to Paddington station, and a big crowd gathered outside the church hall to wish them well and see them off. Jack didn’t stand waving with the rest of us. He ran round to the back of the hall, grabbed his bicycle and gave chase to the taxi, with Chummy and David looking out of the rear window in astonishment. He was a strong boy and a fast cyclist. He followed the taxi all the way and was on the platform to wave them off as the train steamed out of Paddington station.

TAXI!

    Sister Monica Joan had recovered from pneumonia caused by wandering down the East India Dock Road on a raw November morning wearing only her nightie; had lived triumphantly through the shock, trauma and humiliation of having been accused of shop-lifting; had survived the ordeal of prosecution and a court case before judge and jury; and now, at the age of ninety-two, looked set for another decade.
    It was a fine summer, and Sister Monica Joan had a number of relatives whom she decided she must visit. I have described earlier the niece living in Sonning-on-Thames, to whom she bequeathed two fine Chippendale chairs. Another niece and nephew with their three children lived nearer, in Richmond, which was still a tidy distance for a very old lady to travel alone by bus. But, undaunted, she set out.
    I am not sure whether she told anyone where she was going (probably not), but once again there was general anxiety in the convent, because Sister Monica Joan was missing, it was eight o’clock and time for Compline. No doubt prayers were said for her safety, which must have caught the ear of the Almighty, or whoever oversees these small matters, because at that moment the telephone rang, and the niece in Richmond said that her aunt was with them, enjoying the company of the three children. Asked whether she could stay the night, the niece said it would be difficult, because they had only a small house, and there wasn’t a spare bed, but her aunt was welcome to sleep on the sofa. At this point Sister Julienne made a tactical error, which she freely admitted later. A night on a sofa would have done Sister Monica Joan no harm whatsoever, but Sister Julienne hesitated and said she really ought to come back to the convent.
    Thinking that it was too late in the evening to ask them to put her on a bus, Sister told them to put her in a taxi, which would be paid for on arrival.
    It was a grave mistake, which in subsequent days and weeks led to a series of incidents that spun out of control. Sister Monica Joan had probably not been in a London taxi-cab since they were horse-drawn. As a professed nun she was vowed to a life of poverty, and if she travelled anywhere she took the bus or train, the cheapest available route. A modern taxi was a new and delightful experience.
    At lunch the next day, Sister was full of her niece and nephew in Richmond, and their three delightful daughters. ‘Such pretty gels, don’t you know, so engaging.’ She couldn’t remember their names, but one of them, poor child, had spots. Such an affliction at that age. She would go that very afternoon to Chrisp Street market, to find something suitable for the one with spots.
    She sailed around the market, oblivious to sideways glances and whispered warnings that went before her from the costers, who all kept a wary eye on her since they had been frustrated in their charge of petty theft.
    She homed in on a new stall run by a woman with beads and flowers around her neck and in her hair, who sold herb and flower remedies and potions in pretty pots with exotic sounding names, guaranteed to cure anything. Ingrown toenails, gastric ulcers, piles, failing eyesight, toothache – all could be cured by her remedies. Sister Monica Joan was in a delirium of delight. This was what she had been looking for, all her life, she assured the woman behind the stall – an essence of marigold, a tincture of dog daisy, an infusion of dandelion, and all so simply explained in the little booklet. She poured over the booklet and compared it with her notes on astrology and life forces and earth centres and came to the happy conclusion that all had been revealed. Not only would the one with the spots, sweet child, be cured, but her future would be luminous.

    The next day Sister Julienne had a rather nasty telephone call from the nephew, who said