A few weeks had passed since the birth of Jacinta O'Malley's son, and her husband's miraculous, or at least Sister Frances thought, change of heart about his wife's pregnancy. The angry, jealous, betrayed man that she had first met, suddenly transformed by the sight of a little boy into a tender, loving, gentle, man, ready to forgive his wife without a second thought. Was it love that did that? Did love have so much power? Did something else cause the change she would not have believed possible if she had seen it unfold before her very eyes? She could not think of another cause, but this revelation simply muddied the waters of her mind. She began to realise that her sheltered life had taught her so little of what made her, and the rest of the world, human.
Late that evening, Sister Frances was still awake, the aftermath of her trip to the dentist paining her acutely, when a thought suddenly occurred to her. There was a man behind every birth. Obviously she knew that, she had the basic groundings of the mechanics, but she had seen birth solely in an exclusively female world. She sat bolt upright in bed.
"How could I have been so stupid," she said aloud to the dark room, "how can I understand my patients if I cannot relate to their husbands too?"
She slumped back on her pillows. She hit a snag in her plan. How was she going to find out about the male world? A world she had excluded herself from long ago. The magazines that she had been reading each week told tales of women's trials and tribulations in relation to their husbands and their lovers, often not one and the same, but she'd learned nothing about the men behind these tales, who they were, why they did what they did. She hardly knew any men. She allowed herself an uncharacteristically naughty grin at the thought of Mr Spragg, the young curate who was, she imagined, fast asleep on the camp bed upstairs in the attic room. From what she had seen, he did not think he'd be the most fruitful source of what she wanted to know.
She wriggled into a more comfortable position, taking care not to lean any weight on her still-sore jaw. Another thought occurred to her, "Fred's a man," a child-like voice spoke in her head. "Could I?" a slightly older voice continued. "No," Sister Frances confirmed.
Later that week, Sister Frances was standing in the Buckle's paper shop, pouring over the weeks' offerings of magazines, when a short, stocky man in early middle-age walked into the shop. His dark hair was slicked to one side with Brylcreem and he strode purposely towards where Fred was standing behind the counter. Unaware that he was not the only customer, he called out, "best odds on the Derby, ya backin' or layin' the Irish favourite this afternoon?"
"Barney!" Fred hissed, and threw his head pointedly in the direction of Sister Frances.
"Holy Mary!" Barney cursed, "sorry Sister, beg ya pardon."
"Barney, this is Sister Frances, one of the Nonnatans," Fred said awkwardly, trying to defuse the situation, "Sister Frances, this is Barney, my um, friend."
"Nice to meet you," Sister Frances chirped, taking Barney's hand, "please carry on, don't mind me."
Barney looked awkwardly at Fred, who mouthed, "don't worry" at him, and the two began to pour over the racing pages of the nearest paper. After a moment, Fred said, "nah, gonna have to back 'im, quid win on Right Noble."
"I'll give you a hand, others are only offerin' on the shoulders if not shorta," Barney replied, waving his hands wildly, "but best prices for you ma friend."
Fred handed over the pound note and Barney wrote out the betting slip. Sister Frances who had been watching this exchange of words and gestures with a mix of confusion and awe could no longer hold her tongue and said, "what's just happened?"
"Barney's a bookmaker," Fred began, "I want to put a pound on the 'orse called Right Noble in the Derby at Epsom this afternoon. He's offer'd me odds of 5-1, a hand, other bookies are only offerin' 9-2, on the shoulders, so worse odds. The gestures are the tic tac. When he's on course, that's how he lets the other bookies know what prices he's offerin'."
Sister Frances stared at the two men for a moment and suddenly realised she was being allowed a glimpse into a world that she had never before seen. What made her act as she did next she could not explain, but she went closer to the counter and said, "what if I wanted a bet?"
"Sister," came Fred's wary reply.
"Can I see the horses?" she asked, peering over at the newspaper.
"I don't like takin' money off a woman," Barney murmured, "and I couldn't take it off a nun."
Sister Frances ignored the two men and began to scan the list of twenty-five runners and riders. She saw Right Nobel, Fred's choice. The names meant nothing to her of course. Some, like Bermondsey and Hermes sounded like suitable names for a prized racer, others like Splice the Mainbrace and St Puckle just sounded a bit silly. One, called Dream Man, had 100-1 typed beside his name "about as much chance as I have of finding one," Sister France thought.
"Black Prince, she announced after a moment, "I'd like to bet on him." She pulled two shillings out of her purse and placed them on the countertop, "and there, you'll be taking the money off the counter not off a nun."
Barney looked at Fred for some sort of guidance. Fred, as confused as Barney by the young nun's uncharacteristic behaviour, could only shrug his shoulders and pull a face at him. Watching and waiting, Sister Frances stood in silent anticipation
"I'll giv' ya' macaroni on 'im," Barney replied, eventually.
"25-1," Fred translated, "go each-way Sister."
"What does that mean?" Sister Frances asked.
"If he comes in the first four you'll win sommit back," Fred replied.
"A shilling each-way on Black Prince," Sister Frances said confidently to Barney, who began to write out her betting slip, "I like his name," she added more innocently.
"Pleasure doin' business with you Sister," Barney said courteously, before taking his leave and disappearing out of the shop. Once they were alone, Fred looked at Sister Frances, who was carefully tucking the betting slip into her purse and said, "what are you up to?"
"Not sure really!" Sister Frances admitted.
Fred eyed her suspiciously before saying, "If you come by later, I'll have the race on the radio, we'll see how our bets do."
"I'd like that," Sister Frances replied, before checking the time of the race in the paper and taking her newly purchased magazine out of the shop and back to Nonnatus House.
Throughout lunch, Sister Frances was full of nervous excitement about the prospects of Black Prince's chance in the Derby. She was noticeably fidgety and even more easily distracted than usual.
"Is all well Sister Frances?" Sister Julienne asked.
"Um yes, Sister, all is quite well, thank you," Sister Frances added with a nervous giggle.
"What are you doing with the rest of your day off?" Sister Julienne continued, her eyes narrowing a fraction in suspicion.
"Fred and I have plans," Sister Frances replied, as nonchalantly as she could manage.
This time, Sister Julienne really could not disguise her suspicion, but made no further comment on the matter.
Later that afternoon, Sister Frances slipped out of Nonnatus House and headed to the Buckle's paper shop. She slid through the door and was greeted by Fred, who was adjusting the dials on his radio, listening through the crackles for the BBC's broadcast from Epsom. After a moment, what was clearly a familiar voice began to emit from the radio, a gentle, well spoken voice, but not overly-clipped like many of the newsreaders she was familiar with. He sounded as excited about the race as she was.
"There we go, Peter Bromley, loud and clear, for your delight Sister," Fred said proudly, pulling up two chairs so that they could huddle around the radio.
Most of the pre-race commentary was as incomprehensible to Sister Frances as Barney's tic tac. But she listened intently, trying to glean as much as she could, her ears particularly attentive for word of Black Prince.
Soon, Peter Bromley called "and they're off."
"Here we go Sister!"
"Right Noble the joint favourite sitting just behind the leaders as they climb the hill, Lester Piggott's got him in a perfect position."
"That sounds good" Sister Frances whispered.
"Long way to go yet," Fred whispered back.
"As they run down to Tattenham Corner, Right Noble leads from St Puckle, Black Prince is in fourth, going well, and coming to challenge the leaders."
"Come on Black Prince," Sister Frances said under her breath.
"Into the home straight and Black Prince takes it up, Sodium in second, Charlottown third."
"Come on Black Prince," she called out unashamedly.
"Royal Noble and St Puckle begin to fade out of contention."
Fred swore under his breath, before joining in Sister Frances' willing of Black Prince home.
"There's a furlong to go and Pretendre has taken the lead, Charlottown is second, Scobie Breasely takes him up the rail, Black Prince is back in third and looks tired."
"Come on, keep going," Fred and Sister Frances urged.
"Charlottown wins by a neck, Pretendre is second and Black Prince is five lengths back in third."
"Third!" they chorused together. "You'll still pick up ya' place prize money," Fred added.
"How much will I win?" Sister Frances asked.
Fred did a quick calculation and then replied, "Six shillings."
"I won money on a horse," Sister Frances giggled with glee.
"You best not make a habit of it," Fred remarked knowingly, "you'll get yourself in trouble."
"Oh no, I won't do it again," Sister Frances confirmed, "I just wanted to know what it was like. How do I get my winnings?" she asked,
"We'll go find Barney, don't want 'im tippin' up at Nonnatus."
Fred closed the shop and the two of them began to walk in the direction of the Docks. They stopped outside a dark, dingy-looking, pub.
"He usually touts from 'ere," Fred remarked, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'll get 'im, we can go round the back and he'll pay up."
Sister Frances watched as Fred's eyes nervously darted the length of the street before stepping inside. True to his word, almost immediately, he and Barney reappeared, and Barney handed Sister Frances over her winnings. Before she had time to thank him, he had disappeared back inside the pub. As soon as he was out of sight, Fred said "come on, let's get you outta'ere."
"Is it not sa…" Sister Frances began, but before she could finish her sentence, two men, neither much older than herself, tumbled out the pub door. The younger of the two was dishevelled and clearly the worse for drink. The older one was neatly dressed, but had a face of thunder carved across his features. The older man swore at the younger and aimed a punch square at his jaw. The younger man fell to the ground, slumped against the wall, unable to raise an arm to fight back. Fred led Sister Frances away from the scene.
"Those two are brothers," Fred remarked, "Alan and Billy. Used to go down the dogs and the 'orses with their old man before the War. Awful gambler, awful drinker their Dad, lost a bloody fortune. He gambled to get over his life's woes, and drank to get over his gambling woes. Then when 'is Mrs. upped sticks and took the boys with 'er one morning, he drank and gambled to get over her. Alan refused to touch either, havin' watched 'is old man go to ruin. Billy on the other hand, well, you can see which way he's gone. Billy's got a couple'a kiddies un'all."
"But why did Alan do that to Billy? His own brother," Sister Frances asked.
"Sounds strange to think abou'it," Fred mused, "but I guess that despite all the daft things Billy's done, Alan still cares about 'im. But that feelin's turned to anger, frustration. If Alan didn't care about 'is brother he'd 've left him to go the same way as their father."
Sister Frances mused over this strange concept for a moment. Aware of the silence that had fallen between them, Fred said "so how are you going to spend your winnings Sister?"
Sister Frances thought for a moment and then said, "I've never tried beer before, could I buy us one?"
"What has got into you today Sister?" Fred asked.
"Nothing in particular," the young nun lied through her teeth.
"Come on, we'll go down the Black Sail," Fred replied, allowing a smile to spread across his face.
Sneaking back to Nonnatus House in time for Compline, two lager shandies to the good, was not the easiest task Sister Frances had ever performed. She'd enjoyed the buzz of the public house, she'd enjoyed the taste of her drink, the contented fuzziness that it had induced. Though above all, she had begun to understand more of the world around her and in her magazines, why men gambled, why men drank, why men let their frustrations boil over so furiously. Once again a little word resurfaced, a word whose definition was becoming clearer in her mind.