Compline had been sung for the final time in 1966 and silence had descended upon Nonnatus House. Only the nuns were at home, the lay staff had all gone their separate ways for the evening to celebrate New Years Eve. Sister Frances had waved them all off with a sense of longing in her heart, wishing she was toasting in the New Year with something more exciting than a mug of cocoa, in the company of someone Seen rather than Unseen. As if she knew what her young consoeur was thinking, Sister Hilda had surreptitiously laced everyone's post-Compline cocoa with the remains of the bottle of brandy that had been bought to light the Christmas pudding, knowing that, for several reasons, no-one would say a word in complaint.
Sat up in bed, warm and fuzzy from the combined effects of the cocoa and the hot water bottle under her blanket, Sister Frances pulled out her journal and a biro and began to write.
31st December 1966
The tipping point between the end of one year and the beginning of another I find always conjures thoughts along the lines of "another year gone" or "how time flies" or even "what have I managed to achieve?" Sadly, I think on reflection, negative thoughts such as these have predominated my annual reflections in recent times, eclipsing those concerning "oh remember that!" or "wasn't that a wonderful day!" or "I've learned so much!". This year's version is different. Not since the year that I left school and entered the Order has my life changed so much. Though, it has definitely been for the better.
She paused for a moment, the nib of the biro dangling above the page, then added,
Not that joining the Order has had a detrimental effect on my life, of course!
She glanced around the spartan room, from the dark habit hanging on her wardrobe door, to the battered scuffed shoes discarded on the floor, to the plain curtains, to the pile of prayer books. The only indication this room was inhabited by a young woman was the pile of well-thumbed magazines on the desk and the multi-coloured Cadbury's Roses wrappers that lay, flickering in the lamp-light, at the top of the wastepaper basket.
No, she continued to write, I could not resent answering my calling, but it is not the life that most my age would want. A convent is a world unto itself. It has its charms, its quirks of course, especially this one.
She allowed herself a grin as memories of the past few months came flooding back to her: Sister Hilda's failed attempt to modernise their habits; Sister Julienne becoming worryingly interested in Franz Beckenbauer; the aftermath of Fred selling his home brewing exploits at the Advent Fair. She sketched a collection of wimpled stick-figures, one who was clearly wearing a shift dress with a roll neck collar, and a more rotund male figure, holding a bottle, before continuing to write.
But until earlier this year, I thought that the convent's walls had sheltered me from the outside world, so much so that I could no longer comprehend what was going on around me, what it was like to be a woman of this world. But this year saw me called to reach out into the world, to immerse myself in its ocean, whose waves of change had been lapping against me but never quite immersing me.
This year, I bought my first women's magazine and my first glass of beer. Or was it lager? What's the difference I wonder? I enjoyed a football match, I stayed up late, with and without permission, and won my first, and last (I promise) bet on a horse race. Simple things perhaps, common occurrences for many I'm sure. But such things are not part of my world. At least, they weren't. I found that the world I so desperately wanted to understand, and I tentatively admit, would like to play more of a part in, was laid out for me on glossy paper. And whilst my vows mean that I will have to forego the beer and the gambling, I understand their appeal. I understand their detriments too and their effects on people's lives. Never will I judge an addict of any sort again.
As I've grown in understanding this year, I have grown in confidence too. If you had told me this time last year that I would have organised my own evening classes, or helped to launch a housing charity I would have thought you quite mad. But I did it. And, without meaning to sound smug, what I have managed to achieve has brought, and will continue to bring, help those in need, in our own community here in Poplar and across the country. I stood up to the oppressors and up for the oppressed. I made those who felt insignificant feel as though they were a priority. If midwifery has taught me anything it's the joy of making one person feel as though they are the most important, when they are most in need. I hope and I pray for a world where no-one feels that they cannot go for help when they need it. And for a world where there will always be someone there to help.
Sister Frances paused for a moment and imagined Doreen Norris and her daughters, spending their first festive period in their new flat. She wondered too, where Reverend Kenrick spent his Christmas, out in the streets knowing him, and what he might be up to next. Her thoughts then returned closer to home, to one who, she assumed, must now be fast asleep further down the corridor.
I suppose there is an irony to the fact that this year, despite everything which I have seen, done, and experienced, I learned more about how to face the world, how to be there for someone, how to love someone, from a source that could not have been much nearer, or dearer, to home. I owe Sister Hilda so much, from the moment she took me under her wing when I first entered the Mother House as a Postulant. She was by my side, guiding my formation, when I took my final vows and when I was sitting on a London bus rattling through the East End on the way to begin my work at Nonnatus House. Sister Hilda always made sure that I was never alone if I needed someone. I used to think she was being nosey if she pestered me, asking over and over if everything was alright. But now I know the truth. Now I understand. Now I know that in her greatest hour of need, when she went through the most traumatic moment of her life, Sister Hilda, or Rosie as she was then, was all alone. Stigma and shame prevented her reaching out, and caused her to bottle up her secret for so long.
Sister Frances paused writing again and thought of Nancy and Colette, the two newest members of the Nonnatus family. Colette's foster parents brought her to the convent regularly and the pale, forlorn little girl that Sister Frances had first met was beginning to grow, and was as outgoing and chatty as her mother. Nancy too was going from strength to strength.
I thank the Lord, Sister Frances wrote, that our society is beginning to stop punishing women for something that was not solely their fault. Neither Lt. McBride, nor Colette's father, will suffer from the actions that led to the conception of their children. But both "Rosie" and Nancy will carry the burden far longer than nine months. I'm not sure I believe that pregnancy out of wedlock is right but it should certainly not be considered wrong. They are mothers, and babies, regardless of their circumstances.
This year Sister Hilda has taught me to listen, to be compassionate, to not judge, to trust my instincts, to follow my heart, to do all in my power to see that justice is done, to take every opportunity that presents itself to learn and to grow. However, and perhaps most importantly...
Somewhere nearby, a church bell began to toll midnight. Despite the chill of the night air, Sister Frances put down her pen, jumped out of bed, threw open her window and stuck her head out of it to listen to the peeling ringing out across the night sky.
"Happy New Year Sister Frances," she whispered as the final chime ceased.
Closing the window against the cold and jumping back into bed, Sister Frances continued ...she taught me the most important lesson of all. As so often in life, I am reminded of Chapter 13, Verse 13 of Saint Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians "three things will last forever, faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love." Love, I have discovered, comes in many forms, is complicated, yet so simple at the same time. But it is our greatest gift, and must be shared. Now that 1967 has arrived, Lord, may this year be filled with faith, hope, and love, grant me the strength to carry on your work, and may I continue to be a Sister of, and to, this world.
A/N: I hope that you have enjoyed my take on Sister Frances' tale of personal growth and Sister Hilda's backstory. I have certainly enjoyed playing with the nuns' characters and relationships (we need more nun-fics!) whilst tying my stories into the series and real historical events - re-constructing the history of Shelter from newspaper archives, and Peter Bromley's (now lost) raceday commentary from Pathe Newsreel footage, were great fun. Us authors love your feedback, so please review if you have time.