IT WAS A SQUALID EXISTENCE. CHARITY'S ROOM WAS FIVE FEET wide and eight feet long. The Pendleton philosophy dictated that people sleep alone but spend all the rest of their time in the company of the group. Charity had lost twenty-five pounds. She knew this only because she had to take in her dresses by inches every few months; her only personal possession was her sewing box, stowed secretly beneath her bed. The hall sister allowed her to keep it so that she could secure the loose buttons of her brothers and sisters. “Remember, Sister Charity, vanity is a sin,” she reminded her.
She had been in London for six months but had seen little of it besides her lodgings off Piccadilly Circus and the mission hall. She played with the chorus every evening at the rallies and then there were the trips around the country. Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield, Bristol—the rallies attracted the solitary, the lonely, and those who had lost loved ones to the war. There were plenty of those. Time was running out, and there were so many people to be saved.
Charity didn't have much of an appetite lately. Perhaps it was the food, which wasn't very good, or perhaps it was simply that the days had a wearying banality. Reading the newspaper was discouraged. “Let us not be distracted from our purpose,” Isaiah Pound reminded them. Books, newspapers, letters, postcards were all distractions.
Sometimes she couldn't bear it, and would try to slip out for a walk, but someone always joined her—Sister Amelia, usually. She always seemed to be on the lookout for Charity. She often peered into her room, and always turned up to eat with her. Once Charity asked Amelia if she had sisters.
“You're my sister.” Sister Amelia smiled.
“But what about your family?”
“This is my family,” Sister Amelia replied matter-of-factly “No other family matters.”
Sometimes they walked together around Piccadilly Circus, looking for people to invite to the rallies. Solitary souls were the most receptive. One evening Sister Amelia spotted a nurse who appeared to be talking to herself; she wore a uniform, with white shoes and a white cap that draped to her shoulders.
When Sister Amelia greeted her, the woman's lips seemed to stop in midconversation. Startled, she stared at the two young women and abruptly buried her trembling hands in her pockets.
“I'm Sister Amelia, and this is Sister Charity. Are you lost?”
“No,” replied the woman. “My husband's lost, but I'm not.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” said Charity.
The woman's chin bobbed with emotion, and she shook her head. “He died.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” said Sister Amelia. “You must be so lonely.”
The woman's eyebrows rose pitifully.
“Do you need somewhere to stay? Something to eat, perhaps?”
The woman shook her head. “I have a home. I have a job. I'm a nurse.”
“Sometimes it's comforting to share your feelings,” said Amelia.
They bought her a cup of tea and inquired gently about her life. The woman explained that she worked at a local hospital, that she used to nurse children, and that she wanted children, but that was impossible now.
“We all seek to fill a void,” Isaiah Pound repeatedly reminded his followers. This nurse was a potential Pendleton. If they could get her to a rally, she would probably join.
The sisters offered the woman gentle sympathy. “I'm so sorry about your husband. Was it an accident?”
The nurse hesitated. “Oh, no, dear, it was murder.”
“Murder?” cried Sister Amelia. “How terrible!”
“Yes.” The woman nodded. “It was a terrible way to die. He was pushed off a mountain when he was just a little boy. The shepherds found him. Poor thing.”
Sister Amelia smiled nervously. “A little boy? But I thought he was your husband—”
“Yes, dear,” said the woman, as though there was no apparent contradiction in this logic. “And one day I'll avenge his death. The minister of war killed him, you know—Geoffrey Mansworth.”
It was evident that the woman was a little confused, so the two Pendletons quickly wished her well and parted ways with her.
“Poor dear,” said Sister Amelia. “I didn't know what to believe of her story. And such a strange name—Polly Pigeon.”