"Someone help!" called Lucille's voice from the hallway leading to the kitchen.
Sister Julienne looked up from the cup of Nescafé that she was making towards the source of the commotion. Rapid footsteps throughout the house confirmed that the call of distress had reached others' ears. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Lucille had crossed the threshold of the door and, pointing to her eye, wailed, "look what's happened!"
Instincts kicking in, Sister Julienne immediately sprang into action, rapidly located the ice pack, instructed Lucille to sit down, and began to fill it with a mixture of cold water and the ice cubes that had not made it into the punch the previous evening. By the time she had completed her task, an audience of nurses and nuns had assembled. Having surveyed the scene, no-one really quite knew what to say for fear of upsetting Lucille.
"You must remain calm," Sister Julienne eventually advised kindly, holding the ice pack in her hand, "and keep reminding yourself that it is only a black eye."
"You're not getting married for three whole days," Sister Frances piped up, attempting to lighten the mood.
"It will get worse before it gets better," Nancy advised.
"But it will get better," Phyllis insisted, rather wishing Nancy had not made her previous remark, "besides," she continued more gently, "there's nothing Trixie can't salvage with a bit of Panstick."
"I think we ought to put raw mince under the ice pack," Trixie suggested, heading towards Lucille with a handful of meat.
"Aren't you supposed to put steak on black eyes?" Sister Frances enquired, as Sister Hilda slipped into the room looking decidedly uncomfortable and holding a bottle of aspirin tablets.
"Since the Nonnatus House fridge didn't run to rump, sirloin, or fillet this will have to do," Trixie shot back at Sister Frances.
Noticing the latest arrival in the room, Sister Julienne turned around, and upon registering her consoeur's condition, flashed her a look of disapproving alarm. Suddenly aware that she had been rumbled, Sister Hilda managed to stammer, "um, and aspirin, uh aspirin brings down swelling," as knowingly as she could.
"Is it swollen, as well?" Lucille asked, despairingly.
"Try this sweetie," Trixie reassured, "and just keep saying to yourself, 'I am going to be a beautiful bride'."
"I don't feel like a bride," Lucille wailed, holding Trixie's pre-offered raw mince to her eye. A wave of empathy coursed uncomfortably through Sister Julienne's body, which manifested itself as a look of troubled concern etched across her face's every life line. "I feel like something in a butcher's window," Lucille admitted.
"Take the ice pack as well," Sister Julienne, handing it to her, "perhaps try alternating the mince and the ice for the next half hour or so. Nurse Corrigan," she continued to Nancy, "I think Nurse Anderson would appreciate a warm drink and something to eat."
"Yes Sister," Nancy replied, springing into action.
"Sister Hilda," Sister Julienne purred gently, turning to face her consoeur who was still lovingly cradling the aspirin bottle. Sister Hilda's face sunk like a stone through water. "Will you please join me in my office in a few moments?" she requested.
Unable to formulate a verbal response, Sister Hilda nodded her head. This she immediately regretted, as the room began to spin and the most recent wave of nausea rippled somewhere in her midriff.
As Sister Julienne took her Nescafé in the direction of her office, Sister Hilda slumped further down her chair and let out a pained moan. A wave of giggles erupted around the room before Nancy, unable to help herself, observed, "you look as rough as a badger's arse."
"Language, Nurse Corrigan," Phyllis interjected, "you are speaking to a nun, despite her condition," she added, unable to stop the very corners of her mouth from wrinkling.
"It was lovely punch, Sister Hilda," Lucille admitted, smiling for the first time that morning.
"Can you eat anything?" Trixie asked, making her way back into the kitchen, "something plain will help," she added, opening the nearest cupboard and peering inside.
"I can't face anything," Sister Hilda whimpered, her face visibly paling as she did so, "please don't make me."
"At the very least, try to drink this then," Trixie advised, handing Sister Hilda a large tumbler of lemon barley water, "you need to keep hydrated and the sugars will help too. Now," she added more gravely, "I believe you are expected in Sister Julienne's office."
With great reluctance, Sister Hilda clambered to her feet, took too-large-a-swig of lemon barley water, and scarpered from the room. The eruption of giggling which she heard from behind her, although cruel, was certainly warranted. Upon reaching Sister Julienne's office, still cradling the aspirin and the lemon barley water, she tapped apprehensively upon the heavy wooden door with her knuckles.
"Come in!" Sister Julienne chirped far too gleefully for Sister Hilda's liking. If she was heading for a telling off, she'd rather get it over and done with.
Sister Hilda sidled into the room and sat on the chair in front of Sister Julienne. The two women stared at each other for a moment before Sister Julienne asked, not unkindly, "are we feeling a little delicate this morning?"
"I'll be honest, I haven't felt this bad since 1941 when in one evening I had eight Between the Sheets and ended up swallowing a Grasshopper down in one go," Sister Hilda admitted, nauseously, but not without a glimmer of happy reminiscence on her face.
"I beg your pardon!" Sister Julienne replied, horrified.
"Cocktails, Sister Julienne, a Between the Sheets and a Grasshopper are cocktails," Sister Hilda reassured.
Slightly perturbed by this revelation, Sister Julienne enquired, "and may I ask what you consumed yesterday evening?"
"Um, uh," Sister Hilda moaned as the latest wave of nausea gripped her. She took a few sips of lemon barley water and took a few deep breaths before adding, "I don't think there's any rum left."
"There's nothing wrong with celebrating a joyous occasion full-heartedly," Sister Julienne continued, her hand moving in the direction of a number of objects that she had balanced on a spare chair beside her that she had collected between the kitchen and her office in apprehension of her consoeur's needs, "but you are no longer a WAAF girl."
"No, I'm not," Sister Hilda replied, her face falling as she did so, "I'm sorry Sister Julienne, my behaviour was unbecoming of me."
"Your apology is accepted," Sister Julienne reassured, "and, barring no such repetitions, nothing more will be said on the matter."
"Thank you," Sister Hilda replied, "may I?" she added, gesticulating towards the door.
"Just a moment," Sister Julienne chirped, "I'm curious, what constitutes a Between the Sheets and a Grasshopper?"
The mere memory of that night in the distant past of her misspent youth brought on a feeling of physical and emotional distress within Sister Hilda. She attempted to compose herself before replying, "a Between the Sheets is made of brandy, rum, orange liqueur and lemon juice, and a Grasshopper is…" She paused to raise the tumbler of lemon barley water to her lips, but could not bear to swallow anything. "A Grasshopper is made of chocolate, and creme de menthe and…"
The thought of a mixture of cream and spirits proved too much for Sister Hilda's delicate digestive system, but at the earliest hint of a retch on her behalf, Sister Julienne had reached to the spare chair for a bucket and placed it onto her desk in the direct line of fire. As Sister Hilda gripped the rim of the bucket, Sister Julienne left her own chair and stood beside her, gently rubbing her back with one hand and ensuring that her veil remained out of harm's way with the other. As the emesis ceased, Sister Julienne silently removed the bucket from her desk, wiped flecks from her consoeur's mouth with her handkerchief, and returned to her own chair.
"Does that feel better?" she asked a mortified Sister Hilda.
"Undeniably so," sighed Sister Hilda.
"A spoonful of Milk of Magnesia will settle your stomach," Sister Julienne announced, placing a bottle and spoon on the desk, "paracetamol will help with your headache," she continued, lining the bottle up with the Milk of Magnesia, "and when you feel up to it, here is a packet of Digestives and some orange juice. Carbohydrates and Vitamin C respectively."
"I hate Milk of Magnesia," Sister Hilda protested, "it's like sucking on…"
"I am not above spooning it into your mouth myself," Sister Julienne interjected, firmly.
"Fine!" Sister Hilda conceded, and poured herself a dose, screwing her face up in obvious protest when she knew Sister Julienne was watching her swallow.
"I'm led to believe," Sister Julienne purred satisfactorily as she watched Sister Hilda wash down the paracetamol, "that a pint of milk prior to the alcohol is the trick. I once met a girl who'd been in the French Resistance during the War and that's what they did as a precaution against German troops plying them with drink in order to gain information from them."
"Well, I'll know for next time," Sister Hilda replied, tartly.
The two women's eyes met, each trying to stare the other out, waiting for the other to crack. Much to Sister Hilda's surprise, Sister Julienne cracked first and dissolved into a fit of gleeful girlish giggles.
"What, the?" Sister Hilda enquired apprehensively, struggling to keep her face straight.
"If I was a gambler," Sister Julienne giggled, wiping her tear-glistened eyes with the corner of her scapula, "and you asked me to put a crown on any of the women who have ever been in my care under this roof to be the one who vomited the remains of a hen party across my office, the odds on you would have netted me a handsome fortune. I'm sorry," she added, continuing to giggle.
"Can I clarify, are you still angry with me?" Sister Hilda asked, puzzlement etched across her carved features.
"No," Sister Julienne replied, getting to her feet, and pulling Sister Hilda into a hug, prompting a "be gentle, I'm still delicate!" from its recipient, "but next time, I'll be keeping an eye on you," she added.
"You sound like my mother," Sister Hilda accused.
"Good," came the honest reply.