Flannel

A flannel-washed-out school. Unsullied nuns in a sullen line. Again hearing the quacking of ducks as new brown leathers shoes stepped and skipped, though skipping was a serious offense behind the school fence. London, eons ago, a blighted borough lost in the scant gravy of rationed times. Was I six, was I even aware of my eyes? What they took in or let out? How to recall what I was, or who all others were. Ad hoc groupings of tabula rasa jostling to be known unto themselves. We were collated, tagged, and fed, led to cold block toilets guarded by black and white sentinels as we scrubbed ink off fingers with bricks of green carbolic. Rosery beads clicked impatiently outside as a bride of Christ listened in. Then were returned to the inky wells to spill once more. Blank slates were our minds. I do not think anyone wrote on mine or I on other slates. When we stepped out of line we were chastised by a thin whip-lashing cane, it was the way of our Lord we were told. Whimpers and snotty noses from ill-nourished late developers. We were an almost, happy to be that unquestioning flannel grey, all quacking in a row and waiting for the light.