Farewell To The East End

don’t like the Cuts.’
    ‘Why not, Sister?’
    ‘A grim place. Bad associations.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The place of suicides. In the old days, the bad old days, when there was no money, no work for the men, no food for the children, every week a cry would be heard: “Body in the Cuts, body in the Cuts,” and always it was a woman. A poor, ragged, half-starved woman, driven to the limits of despair. Once a woman with a baby strapped to her body was dragged out, I was told.’
    ‘Sister, how terrible. Shall we go away?’
    ‘No. I want to go and see it for myself. I haven’t been here for forty years, since Beryl died.’
    Cynthia and I glanced at each other. We both wanted to hear the story, but didn’t want to disturb her thoughts, in case they flitted off onto something quite unconnected, and the story was lost. But the dark water, barely moving, seemed to focus her attention, and she continued.
    ‘They told me she jumped off Stinkhouse Bridge one night, and her body was dragged out the next day. I wasn’t surprised. No one was. She had a brute of a husband, seven children, another expected, no money, and a hovel to live in – the usual story. It is only surprising more women didn’t do it. Every child’s fear, you know, was that one day things would get so bad that mother would jump into the Cuts.’
    She raised her hand, took hold of the cross that hung around her neck and held it up over the canal. She called out, ‘Be sanctified, you black and wicked waters. Rest in peace, Beryl, unloved wife, weeping mother. May the lamentations of your children sanctify these turgid deeps.’
    What the people around thought of this little exhibition I cannot say, but several of them gave her rather funny looks.
    Sister was in good form and continued, ‘Do you know what that brute of a husband said when the vicar informed him that his wife was dead, and how she had died?’
    ‘No. What?’ we chorused.
    ‘He said, my dears – the vicar himself told us – the husband said, “Spiteful cat. Spiteful to the last. She knowed as ’ow today’s Newmarket day, and she knowed as ’ow I’m a delicate feelin’ sort o’ chap, so she goes an’ kills ’erself jest to put me out of sorts for the races. I knows ’er nasty ways. Spite it was; pure spite.” Then he walked out. The vicar was left alone in the derelict kitchen, with seven dirty, hungry children around him, for whom he would have to make some sort of provision, if the father wouldn’t. Then the man returned. But he had no thoughts for his children. He walked jauntily up to the vicar, tapped him on the chest and said, “Now you listen ’ere, mate. I wont ’ave no funerals on Friday. Vat’s Epsom day, see? No funerals. I wont ’ave ’er laughin’ twice.”
    ‘That was the last the vicar saw of him. He didn’t turn up for the funeral, which was on a Tuesday, and he simply abandoned his children. All of them ended up in the Workhouse.’
    Sister Monica Joan said no more, and we continued walking. The sun was pleasant, and the ghosts of the past seemed long since asleep. Cynthia and I talked of our plans for the future. She was hoping to test her vocation in the religious life. I knew it was a huge step to take, requiring much thought and prayer, but I had always regarded Cynthia as a saint (or very nearly) and was not surprised. We came to a wooden seat and sat down, and she asked Sister’s opinion.
    ‘Do you think I am called to be a nun, Sister?’
    ‘Only God knows. Many are called but few are chosen, my child.’
    ‘What brought you to the religious life?’
    ‘The conflict between good and evil. The eternal battle between God and the devil. I tried to resist the call, but it was too strong.’
    The nun sat looking at the water. I ventured the question, ‘Was there no other way?’
    ‘For me, no. For others it is different. You do not have to be a nun to be at war with the devil. To be in the fight, on the side of the angels, is all that matters.’
    ‘Do you believe in the devil?’ I asked provocatively.
    ‘Stupid, thoughtless child, of course I do. You only have to look at the record of the Nazis during the war to see the work of the devil.’ The atrocities of the war were vivid in the minds of everyone.
    She turned her head away from me scornfully. I had offended her, and she muttered, ‘Thoughtless, empty questions,’ but then said more gently to Cynthia, ‘Test your vocation, my child. Become a Postulant, then a