Farewell To The East End

patients. Within the convent she was very prim and proper, and I doubt her Sisters in God ever saw the crude side of Sister Evangelina.
    She slapped her ample thighs and leaned forwards, nearly choking. In alarm Cynthia thumped her back. When she could speak, Sister gasped, ‘Talk about the Black and White Minstrel Show – this is the Black and White Midwives’ Show!’
    Sister Evangelina did not possess a subtle wit, and her jokes were heavy, but she was delighted with her pun, and kept repeating ‘Black and White Midwives – have you got it? Black and White … Oh dear, now I’m doing it again – I’ll have to have one of your sanitary towels before I can get home.’
    By now, the children had come running upstairs to see what all the laughter was about. They had been alarmed when their granny had appeared, all black, demanding clean water and soap and clean sheets. They had heard rapid conversation which they did not understand, and then seen their father rushing down the road to make a telephone call. When a very large and cross-looking nun had entered the little front room, stamping and grumbling, they had hidden behind the sofa. It was all very intimidating. But then they heard guffaws of female laughter descending the stairs and brightened considerably, rushing upstairs before anyone could stop them.
    The children burst in through the door, and stood stock-still for a second or two whilst they took in the scene, scarcely able to believe that grown-ups could get into such a state. Everyone was black. Everyone was laughing. The big nun, her white veil streaked with soot, was rocking backwards and forwards with her face so red she looked as though she might burst. Somewhere in the mess a baby was screaming. The children positively let rip. They jumped up and down and bounced on their mother’s bed, to the alarm of Cynthia, because the baby was still attached to its mother. They rolled on the floor, getting as much soot on themselves as they could and smearing it on each other’s faces. Their grandmother tried to establish order and keep control, but she didn’t stand a chance.
    The big red nun laughed so much she was wheezing and coughing. ‘Oh dear oh dear, this is going to finish me. Pass me that towel. I can’t contain myself.’ She stuffed the towel up her skirts and wiped it around her legs. The children couldn’t believe their luck, and crowded around, lying on the floor trying to get a look at a nun’s knickers.
    Meanwhile, all the laughter must have been good for labour, because the third stage was progressing rapidly. The third stage of labour can be an anxious time for a midwife, and requires a great deal of knowledge, experience and care to enable the placenta to be delivered complete. But Cynthia hardly had to do anything. Janet couldn’t stop laughing and the placenta just slid out in one piece. It was a revolting sight, bloody and slimy and covered in soot, but at least it was out. Placenta and baby, of course, were still attached!
    ‘Sister, I shall need clean scissors and clamps and swabs,’ said Cynthia quietly.
    Sister Evangelina was not just a comedy act for the children’s entertainment. She was a professional nurse and midwife, and her mood changed instantly.
    ‘We will have to take the baby into another room and scrub up thoroughly. We cannot cut the cord in these conditions. As it is, the soot is not going to harm the baby. But I am not sure what would happen if it got into the bloodstream.’
    Disappointed children were shooed away and taken downstairs. The baby, with the placenta still attached, was carried into another bedroom, and with sterile equipment the cord was cut.
    The job of cleaning up fell to the grandmother. It took her about four days, and she needed a holiday to recover.

NANCY

    The harlot’s curse from street to street Shall weave old England’s winding sheet. William Blake (1757-1827)
    Sister Monica Joan had fascinated me from the first time I met her on a cold November evening in Nonnatus House, when we had devoured an entire cake between us, and she had rambled on about poles diverging and saucers flying and etheric ethers converging and goodness knows what else. She has continued to fascinate me over the years, and I have never been able to resolve the enigma that was she. How could a young woman of beauty, talent, intellect and wealth reject the privileges of the Victorian upper class to work in squalor amongst the poorest of the poor at the