‘And, Queenie, something for you.’ Sister Catherine crossed the room, holding out an envelope. The loud woman called Finty opened a letter informing her that if she scratched off the foil window, she would discover that she’d won an exciting prize. The blind lady, Barbara, received a note from her neighbour - Sister Catherine read it out - spring is coming, it said. I don’t know her name.) There is a big man they call the Pearly King, and he had another parcel though I have been here a week and I haven’t yet seen him open one. There was a card for the new young woman. Sister Catherine passed several brown envelopes, forwarded, to a Scotsman known as Mr Henderson. Sister Catherine strode in with the morning delivery. I can imagine all sorts of things, Harold, if I put my mind to it. I hear the patients cough, and it is only the wind in my garden by the sea. But I close my eyes and I pretend that the heat of the radiator is the sun on my hands and the smell of lunch is salt in the air. The colours, the smells, the way a day passes. By the time she’d got sorted, pens and a glass of water and so on, he was dozing again. One lone seagull balanced in the sky.Ī patient nodded, and Sister Lucy fetched paper. Outside, the winter evergreens flapped and shivered. Sister Lucy, who is the youngest nun volunteering in the hospice, asked if anyone would like to help with her new jigsaw. We were in the dayroom for morning activities.
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