Farewell To The East End

thrust their hands into her young body. Then they introduced other instruments, including long-handled forceps, with which they were able to grab hold of the cervix, pulling and turning it, ostensibly to examine for signs of venereal disease. Can you imagine the pain for a thirteen-year-old virgin? Whether they raped her phallically as well is not known. When they were satisfied they untied her. ‘She is clean. No sign of venereal disease. We can give her the certificate. Get up, girl, you can have your certificate to say that you are clean. Your mother will be pleased.’
    The distraught mother was powerless. There was no one to complain to. If she had been so bold as to complain to the police, she would probably have been victimised herself. In any case the men had acted within the requirements of the law. If they had raped the girl it was of no consequence because the speculum had opened up the vagina. Josephine Butler coined the phrase ‘surgical rape’, and thousands of innocent women were subjected to it.
    Nancy’s mother wrote to the Association for Repeal of the Contagious Diseases (Women) Act and received a visit from Mrs Butler herself, who advised her that Nancy must leave Southampton at once, because she could be seized again at any time and re-examined. Mrs Butler promised to find a position for the child, and that is how Nancy came to be the lady’s maid to young Monica Joan, the rebel daughter of a baronet.
    Sister said, ‘Her back was badly injured, she could hardly walk. She was cringing and terrified. She was with me for eleven years, and then she died of tuberculosis of the spine.’
    She said no more about Nancy. Perhaps it would have been too poignant, too troubling, after all those years, for Sister Monica Joan to recall.

MEGAN’MAVE

    Megan’mave were identical twins and masters in the art of grumbling. They must have spent their time in the womb grumbling to each other about cramped living conditions, a damp environment, too dark, smelly, and wet. And when they emerged into the world kicking and screaming they would have started to complain about too much light, noise, fuss and bustle. Their cot would have been too hard or too soft; their clothes too tight or too loose; their milk too hot or too cold; and the breast (if they ever had suckled a breast) would have been grabbed by relentless baby hands as they each sucked a nipple voraciously, each fixing black unblinking eyes on the mirror image of herself across the soft and yielding body of the mother. After feeding they would have grumbled to each other about excesses of wind and gripe; they would surely have grumbled about the paucity of the milk, or the lack of proper nourishment to which they were daily subjected, and which would be the cause of untold suffering as they grew up. Over the years they honed their chosen art to an unprecedented level, finding fault with everything and everyone.
    Megan’mave kept a fruit and vegetable stall in Chrisp Street market. From Wednesday to Saturday each week they could be heard shouting more loudly and more aggressively than any other coster. They had an intimidating way of glaring at a potential customer and demanding, ‘Well?’ If the unwary buyer, perhaps through nervousness, were to hesitate, they would lean forward menacingly, black gypsy eyes gleaming, and repeat, ‘Well? What do you want?’ even more loudly. Should the innocent buyer have supposed that the customer was always right, that error would soon be rectified. Megan’mave were always right, and the customer was always wrong.
    It was surprising that they sold anything at all, but, strange to say, they were very successful, and their stall was easily the most popular. Women in curlers, wearing headscarves and carpet slippers, with Woodbines and babies appended, crowded forward with their shopping bags to be bullied and insulted as they acquired their bargains. Perhaps that was the secret of Megan’mave’s success – everything was a penny or a halfpenny cheaper than it was on other stalls. But I have watched them at work, and wonder if the bargains were not more apparent than real. The two women moved about with lightning speed and ferocious energy. They could weigh a pound of carrots or turnips, throw them in a bag, twist the corners, add the cost to the last item, glare at the customer, and demand ‘that will be three shillings and sevenpence halfpenny’ before the average person could draw breath. Mental arithmetic