Kleinzeit

Sister

Sister woke up, got out of bed, rose like the dawn. Rosy-fingered, rosy-toed, rosy-nippled. Tall, firm, shapely, Junoesque. Bathed and brushed her teeth. Plain white bra, Marks & Spencer knickers. Nothing fancy. Put on her uniform, her cap, her firm black Sister shoes.

Ward A4, please, she told the shoes. They took her there. What a pleasure to see her walk! The walls were cool and fresh with it on either side, the corridors smiled with reflected Sister.

In her office Sister did her office things, smoked a cigarette, unlocked the medicine locker, looked out on her empire. Men coughed and groaned, ogling her with eyes that bulged above oxygen masks. Someday my prince will come, thought Sister.

She walked among them, borne gracefully on her Sister shoes, trailing clouds of mercy and libido, followed by the medicine trolley. ‘Aaahh!’ they sighed. ‘Ooohh!’ they groaned. Deeply they breathed in oxygen, demurely peed in bottles underneath the bedclothes. Which bed will it be? thought Sister.

It was raining. The daylight in the ward was silvery, musical. The ceiling was ornately braced, like the roof of a Victorian railway station platform. Freshly painted cream-coloured Victorian knee-braces. Silver rainlight, green blankets, white sheets and pillowslips, patients in their proper places, crisp young nurses, blue and white, neatly ministering. Everything shipshape, thought Sister. Which bed will it be?