Jane spent most of her time in the house, so one of her jobs was to take telephone messages, which she did with meticulous, and needless, over-attention to detail. She also helped Mrs B in the kitchen. This led to many a rumpus, because Mrs B was a quick and efficient cook, and Jane’s dithering nearly drove her to distraction. She shouted at Jane to “put a move on”, and then poor Jane would be paralysed with terror, faltering, “Oh dear, yes, of course, yes, quickly, of course.” But her limbs wouldn’t move, and she just stood stock-still, whimpering.
Once I heard Mrs B tell Jane to peel the potatoes and cut them in half for roasting. Later, when she wanted to put the potatoes in the oven, she found that Jane had cut every potato into about twenty pieces. She had been so desperately anxious to please by cutting them into exact halves that she couldn’t stop and every half had been cut in half again, and so on until all that was left was a mound of tiny pieces. When Mrs B exploded, Jane fell back against the wall, pleading for forgiveness, shaking all over and white with terror. Fortunately, Sister Julienne came into the kitchen at that moment, saw the situation, and rescued Jane. “Never mind, Mrs B, we’ll have mash today. They are just the right size for steaming. Jane, come with me, will you, please? The laundry has just come back and needs checking.”
Poor Jane’s eyes said it all – her fears, her grief, her gratitude and her love. I watched her go, and wondered what had happened to make her so fragile. Despite the kindness always shown to her by the Sisters, she seemed to live in a world of unfathomable loneliness.
She was very devout and attended Mass every day. She also attended most of the five monastic offices of the nuns. I had seen her in chapel, her fingers counting her rosary, her eyes earnestly fixed on the altar, half-intoning the words “Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,” over and over again, a hundred times or more. It is easy to scoff at such devotion. Women like Jane can be seen everywhere and they are always fair game for a cheap laugh.
I was with Jane on one occasion in Chrisp Street Market. It was just before Christmas and the stalls were laden with knick-knacks and curios – obvious Christmas presents. We approached one of these stalls. Lying in the centre was a small wooden object, about five or six inches long. It was nearly, but not quite, round and smooth, with a slight ridge running up the under side towards a pronounced rim. The tip was rounded, smooth and polished, with a small hole in the centre.
Jane picked up the object and held it between thumb and forefinger for everyone to see.
“Oh, what’s this?” she said enquiringly.
Everyone fell silent and stared at Jane and the object. No one laughed.
The stall-holder was a fast-talking, street-wise coster of about fifty, who had been selling bric-a-brac most of his life. With a theatrical gesture he pushed his cap to the back of his head, took the fag out of his mouth and stubbed it out slowly on the edge of his stall. He glanced at his audience and opened his eyes wide with surprised innocence before answering: “Wha’ is it, lady? Wha’ is it? Why, lady, haven’ chew seen one o’ these fings afore?”
Jane shook her head.
“Why, it’s a honey-stirrer. Vat’s what it is, lady. An ’oney-stirrer, for stirrin’ ’oney.”
“Really? How interesting!” murmured Jane.
“Well, yes, very interestin’, it is. They’re old, you know, lady. Been around a long time, they ’ave. I’m surprised you ain’t come across one ’afore now.”
“No, never. You learn something new every day, don’t you? How do you use it?”
“How do you use it? Ah, well now, allow me to show you, lady, if you don’ mind.”
He leaned forward and took the object from Jane’s outstretched hand. The crowd, which had grown considerably, pressed forward, eager not to miss a word.
“Let me show you, lady. You sticks vis ’ere ’oney-stirrer in yer ’oney pot, and you stirs yer ’oney like vis” – he made a slight movement of the wrist – “an the ’oney, it catches on vis ’ere rim – you see vis ’rim ’ere, lady?” (He rubbed his fingers around it appreciatively.) “Well, ve honey, it catches on the rim, an’ drips off, like.”
“Really?” said Jane, “how fascinating. I would never have thought of it. I suppose it must be used a lot by country people who keep bees.”
“Oh, yes, country people, vey use it all the time, wha’ wiv all ’em birds an’ bees an’ all.’
“Well, I’m sure it must be very useful. Sister Julienne likes honey. I think I will buy this for her as a Christmas present. I am sure she would appreciate it.”
“Oh yes. Sister Julienne will appreciate it all right, not ’arf she won’t. If you asks my opinion, lady, you couldn’t get Sister Julienne a Christmas present as wha’ she’d appreciate more. Now, I was askin’ four shillins for vis ’ere remarkable honey-stirrer, but seein’ as how it’s you, lady, wot’s buyin’ it for Sister Julienne for Christmas, I’ll let you ’ave it for two shillin’ and sixpence, an’ you got a real bargain, I can tell you.”
The coster beamed benignly.
“That’s very good of you,” exclaimed Jane as she handed over the money. “I must say I’m delighted, and I’m sure Sister will be delighted when she sees it.”
“No doubt abaht it. No doubt at all. It’s bin a pleasure doin’ business wiv you, madam, an’ I must say you’ve made my day, you ’ave.”
“Have I really?” said Jane with a sweet, sad smile. “I can’t think how, but I’m so glad. It’s always nice to give pleasure to someone, isn’t it?”
Christmas Day arrived. We returned from morning church and prepared the dining room for Christmas lunch. A tableau of angels adorned the table centre. Our presents were exchanged at lunch time and were placed on the dining table beside each person’s plate. I found it hard to take my eyes off a small box, wrapped in silver paper, decorated with a red ribbon, resting beside Sister Julienne’s plate. What was going to happen?
We were fourteen to lunch that Christmas Day, including two visiting nuns from North Africa, beautiful in their white habits. Grace was said, with a special remembrance for the gifts of the Magi, then we all sat down to open our presents. A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” and little squeaks and giggles arose from the table, as kisses were exchanged between the ladies. Sister Julienne picked up the silver box, saying, “Now what can this be?” and my heart stood still. She removed the paper and opened the box. Just the flicker of an eyebrow, instantaneous and then gone, was all that betrayed her. She carefully put the lid back on the box and turned to Jane with a radiant smile, her eyes alight with pleasure.
“How very kind. A most charming thought, Jane. It is just what I have always wanted, and I am truly grateful. I will treasure it always.”
Jane leaned forward eagerly. “It’s a honey-stirrer. They are very old.”
“Oh yes, I know. I saw that at once. A delightful gift and so like you, Jane, to be so thoughtful.”
Sister Julienne kissed her gently and quietly tucked the box away beneath her scapular.
To all appearances Jane was a bit of a dimwit. It was her reading that gave me the clue that she was, in fact, exactly the opposite. She was a voracious, almost obsessive reader. Books were her only self-indulgence, and she handled them with loving care. I took to spying on her authors: Flaubert, Dostoevsky, Russell, Kierkegaard. I was astonished. Predictably, she had a daily discipline of Bible-reading, but beyond the Old and New Testaments her devotional reading was formidable: St Thomas Aquinas, Augustine, St John of the Cross. I looked at her with new eyes. Aquinas for recreation! This was no dimwit.