Birthday Morning in the Nurses’ Home in the 1970’s.

My ears were accosted by the sound of a clanging bell and my eyes widened onto a dirty-white cracked ceiling. Confused, I toppled out of bed, my feet getting snarled in the frayed holes of a blue coverlet and cellular blankets. Gazing around the tiny room, bare-walled, sparsely-furnished with bed, dresser and wardrobe, reality dawned and I grinned.
A bit like a nun’s cell without the crucifix. And that bell! Clatters every morning, even on my days off.

“Am I on duty this morning?” I mumbled, trying to work out what day of the week it was, counting in my head. And then I remembered.
“Yep…split shift on my twenty-first. Damn Sister’s eyes.”
I threw on a dressing gown, grabbing my soap bag from the drawer of my dresser, untangling my hair at a fractured mirror, its splinters radiating like a spider’s web. All set to dash to the shower block, I heard a knock on the door – three sharp raps.

“What the…?” I yelled, waiting for the “Open up. Police!” command. Nothing. Not another sound. So I flung open the door, angry and prepared for battle.
Great start to my birthday, this is.
Nobody there. I glared up the bleak-green walled corridor with a dozen or so doors on either side, spotting a fellow student nurse appearing from her room.

“You see anybody knocking on my door?” I asked, my voice echoing in the gloom.
She giggled.
Somebody grabbed my shoulders and twisted me around.
At least two dozen of them, armed with boxes and balloons, shrieked, “Happy Birthday!”

“I’ve got the key of the door…never been twenty-one before!” I answered.

Copyright © Sheila Newton 2011
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www.writeangleswithsheila.wordpress.com
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