Shadows of the Workhouse

she could mollify my father in ways that I never could with my blunderings. Jane has already agreed to come if you can spare her. And I, for my part, would be eternally grateful.” Jane’s hand was resting on the table; he touched it lightly, and gave it a little squeeze.
    She blushed and murmured: “Oh! Pip.”
    The visit started badly because the old colonel called Jane “a raw-boned horse” and Pippin was furious and would have walked out of the house without even unpacking. But Jane laughed and said she had been called worse than that in her time. Pippin raged on about “that impossible old man” until Jane went up to him, placed her fingers on his lips, and whispered: “Just be thankful that you have a father at all, dear.”
    In an agony of self-reproach he caught hold of her wrists and drew her to him. “May God forgive me. I am not worthy of you.” He kissed her gently. “All my sins will be redeemed by your suffering, my wise and perfect love.”
    Later that evening the Colonel returned to horses when he referred to “that little filly of yours”. Pippin stiffened, but his father carried on, “She’s got good legs. Always a sign of pedigree in a horse or a woman. You can tell the breeding by the shape of the ankle.”
    The weeks passed well and the Colonel took to Jane. Her quietness appealed to him and he approved of her self-effacing habits. He barked at his son one evening: “Well, there’s one thing to say. That little filly of yours is not going to drive you mad with a lot of silly chatter. Never could abide those magpie women, m’self; yackety-yackety-yak, all day long.”
    His son smiled and said, “I take it that we have your blessing, then, sir?”
    “Whether you have my blessing or not, my boy, I can see you are set on the filly and nothing will make any difference. Go ahead, go ahead; your mother would have been pleased, God rest her soul.”

    The Reverend Mr and Mrs Applebee-Thornton returned to Poplar for a few days before they sailed for Sierra Leone. I have never in my life seen a woman so changed. She was tall and regal, her eyes were smiling, and calm confidence seemed to spring from deep within her. Pippin hardly took his eyes off her, and always referred to her as “my dear wife”, or “my beloved Jane”.
    Of course, we had to have a party. Nuns love a party. They are very sedate affairs, ending at 9 p.m., in time for Compline and the Greater Silence, but they are fun while they last. Mrs B provided excellent cakes and sandwiches, to which we added a little sweet sherry, compliments of the Rector. The invitation was open to anyone who had known Jane and wanted to wish the happy couple well in their new life. About fifty people came, and some boys from SPY (the South Poplar Youth Club) provided music with their guitars and drums, which was considered to be very risque. Pippin gave a delightful speech. The length of the phrases and the extravagance of the language – about pearls of great price, and the best wine being served last – was lost on many people; but the gist of the message was that he was the luckiest man alive, and everyone cheered.
    Dancing had just begun when the telephone rang. I was first on call.
    “Yes . . . yes . . . This is Nonnatus House. Mrs Smith . . . What address, please? How frequent are the contractions? Have the waters broken? Keep her in bed, please. I’ll come straight away.”

Part II

    THE TRIAL OF SISTER MONICA JOAN

SISTER MONICA JOAN

    Sister Monica Joan did not die. She developed severe pneumonia after wandering down the East India Dock Road wearing only her nightie one cold November morning, but she did not die. In fact, the incident seemed to rejuvenate her. Perhaps she enjoyed all the extra pampering and cosseting supplied by her Sisters and Mrs B, the cook. No doubt she enjoyed being the centre of attention. Perhaps penicillin, the new wonder drug, had pumped fire into her old heart. Whatever the reason, Sister Monica Joan, at the age of ninety, enjoyed a new lease of life, and was soon to be seen trotting all over Poplar, to the great rejoicing of everyone who knew her.
    The Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus was an Anglican order of fully professed nuns. The Sisters were all trained nurses and midwives, and their vocation was to work amongst the poorest of the poor. They had maintained a house in the London Docklands since the 1870s, when their work was revolutionary. Poor women in those days had no medical care during