Farewell To The East End

end of the nineteenth century? How could she reject offers of love and marriage and children to become a nun? I was never able to answer these questions. A religious-minded woman who has nothing to lose by embracing the monastic life, I could understand. But Sister Monica Joan had everything to lose. Yet she gave it all up. In fact, she had given up her position in society ten years before entering the convent, by becoming a nurse – a lowly and almost despised occupation in the 1890s. She was not, however, a saint! She was wilful, haughty, sarcastic; she could be cruel and unfeeling, arrogant and demanding. All these faults I was aware of – and loved her still.
    I liked nothing better than to go to her room when work permitted and listen to her talking. Sometimes her mind wandered through a muddle of various religions – Christian, pagan, oriental philosophies, occultism, theosophy, astrology; she embraced them all with uncritical enthusiasm, whilst still observing the strict monastic disciplines of her order.

    One day I asked Sister why she had given up her life of wealth and privilege for the humble life of a nurse, a midwife and a nun.
    She winked at me.
    ‘So you think our life “humble”, do you? Nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Ours is a life of adventure, of daring, of high romance.’
    ‘I agree with you there,’ I said. ‘Almost every day comes as a surprise. But I started nursing when I was eighteen, because there was no other choice. But why did you? You had plenty of choices.’
    ‘You are wrong, my dear. The choice of which pretty dresses to wear? Pooh! The choice to spend each afternoon “visiting”, and talking about nothing? Pooh! Pooh! The choice to spend hours embroidering or making lace? Oh, I couldn’t stand it – when nine-tenths of the women of Britain were toiling with their half-starved, stunted broods of children. I could not leave my father’s house and start nursing, or lead any sort of useful life until I was over thirty.’
    She was in good form. I was on to a streak of luck, because it was always a lottery talking with Sister Monica Joan. At any moment she might say no more. I said nothing, but waited.
    ‘When Nancy died, I had an almighty row with my father, who wanted to control me. I hated the shallow, empty life I was leading, and wanted to throw myself into the struggle. I left home to become a nurse. It was the least I could do in her memory.’
    ‘Who was Nancy?’
    ‘My maid. She had been surgically raped.’
    ‘What! Surgically raped? What on earth does that mean?’
    ‘Exactly what it says. Josephine Butler had rescued the child and she asked me if I could take her on as my lady’s maid. I was eighteen at the time, and my mother permitted me to have a lady’s maid of my choice. Nancy was thirteen.’
    ‘Who was Josephine Butler?’
    ‘An unknown saint. You are ignorant, child! I cannot waste my time with such ignorance. Go, fetch my tea, if your mind cannot rise to higher thoughts.’
    Sister Monica Joan closed her fine, hooded eyes, and haughtily turned her head on her long neck, to signify that she was offended, and that the conversation was over.
    Humiliated by her cruel tongue and furious with her (not for the first or last time), I retreated to the kitchen. But that same evening I asked Sister Julienne about Josephine Butler.

    Josephine Butler, born in 1828, was the daughter of a wealthy landowner in Northumberland. 10 The whole family of seven children were highly educated and brought up to think deeply about class inequality and the conditions of the poor. In those days, this was considered to be radical, unconventional and dangerous. Her grandfather had worked with Wilberforce for the abolition of the slave trade, and Josephine had listened to adult discussions about slavery, child labour, factory work and related subjects throughout her childhood. In later life she said, ‘From an early age I mourned about the condition of the oppressed.’ She was particularly drawn to the condition of women whose abject poverty drove them into prostitution, through which they would frequently become pregnant, and then both the woman and child would be destitute.
    In 1852, at the age of twenty-four, Josephine married George Butler, an academic and professor at Oxford University. He was ten years older than her and was a reformer and radical thinker, just as her father had been. It proved to be a perfect meeting of minds. After the marriage Josephine moved with her