Chapter 1. The Sign in the Jam
"Oooh, perhaps it's an optical illusion", ventures Barbara.
Sister Monica Joan is convinced the thing – the stain? – on the wall is some sort of ectoplasmic visitation. Or, at the very least, a portent of some variety. "Unless you people see a sign and wonders, you simply will not believe", she notes. And with that, she is off to the bookcase in search of further information on apparitions from the other side. That's probably not a subject area very well catered for by the Nonnatus House Library, Trixie thinks.
Trixie, on the other hand, isn't quite as convinced by explanations from optics or ectoplasm. Nurse Crane is right – it does have a distinctly masculine odour to it. And when Trixie stands rather closer to it, a few days later – standing back to watch Patsy bash the television set until the reception improves enough to make Juke Box Jury visible (Patsy bashes the set with vigour, but not much obvious success), she takes a good sniff.
Trixie isn't stupid – far from it. Though perhaps it's sometimes convenient for people to think of her that way: as a girl who only thinks about her hair, and make-up, and whose knowledge only runs as far as the most recent article she read in her magazine. They see a pretty nurse (with an emphasis on the adjective and not the noun in that phrase), and a fashionable face. She likes fashion, of course. But why should a person be only one thing? That always struck her as rather reductive and rather – personally – insulting.
People think of her as a lightweight thing – an amuse-bouche, a dash of colour – who flits in and out of their lives with the latest information on the styles, trends and music. Most of the people who think of her like that, of course, forget that the brief comments she might make about styles, trends and music are actually delivered as an aside, a by-the-by, in the course of bringing a baby into this world, or assisting a frantic new mother, or administering an insulin injection.
The one person who really understood that – who understood that Trixie wasn't just an amuse-bouche – was Cynthia. Cynthia never treated her as just a frivolous thing, probably because she took the time to listen. Instead of assuming what Trixie wanted to talk about was fashion, or men, or music, Cynthia would furrow her brow and ask about something quite different. About a new medical treatment, or how Trixie had found this or that patient, or what Trixie thought about new plans to rehouse this or that family. And she waited to hear Trixie's response, as if she was waiting for Trixie's opinion before finally formulating her own. It wasn't always deeply serious – the stuff of the daily news headlines (except, sometimes, when it was) – but it was about things of importance. And Trixie enjoyed the feeling that she could persuade people – sometimes – to change their mind when it mattered.
Cynthia always said that one of Trixie's greatest skills was making hard, difficult things seem like light things. Of making painful conversations seem like they could be got through. Trixie's response had been to say that maybe that only meant she was flippant and incapable of taking thing seriously. Cynthia had fixed her with a very serious look and said – in that small, measured way of hers – that it was a great thing to be able to talk to someone and let them know that you were on their side, and to be able to show compassion without being solemn and grave. Solemnity can beat a person down, can cow people.
Trixie is not sure why she's thinking of this in the past tense. Cynthia – Sister Mary Cynthia – is still here. She's not gone anywhere.
Trixie isn't stupid. She recognises that 'masculine odour' – brylcreem. And, somewhere in the ectoplasmic residue, too, a distinctive (but modest) cologne. Well, it isn't difficult for her to work it out. Any doubts are set aside when Tom Hereward comes to offer some more spiritual advice to Sister Julienne on contraceptive matters, and he waits in the sitting room. Trixie, observing him almost dispassionately (really – she's happy for Barbara) observes that he looks far too nervous for a curate about to have a perfectly routine conversation with a nun. After a couple of days at Nonnatus House, none of the new nurses were really afraid of speaking to any of the sisters – their self-consciousness fell away, and the conversations became casual and pleasant. Tom, who should, she thinks, take at least some support from his position in the structure of the church, still seems a little unsure of himself. Maybe it's some delicate dance about how, exactly, curates relate to nuns – institutionally or otherwise.
Anyway. Trixie takes in his height, and then back to the - thing - on the wall. The measurement is just about right. The rest, she can imagine. She fills in a rough idea of how it might have got there. It is definitely not otherworldly.
Tom goes in to Sister Julienne's office. Sister Monica Joan and Sister Winifred emerge from the chapel, but do not appear calmed by their religious labours. It is another argument about the ectoplasm. Or, the non-ectoplasm, as Sister Winifred insists. Because to think of such things would be to run resolutely contrary to Christian belief.
"There are", Sister Monica Joan sniffs, "more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio".
"You surely don't mean the philosophy of the Anglican Church, do you, Sister?" intones Sister Winifred. And that rather puts an end to it.
There is yet another discussion of the contraceptive pill. Trixie is present for this one.
Delia is present, and impassioned – bursting with indignation, in fact. She becomes slightly more Welsh in her words the longer she speaks. Not that Trixie can disagree with anything she's saying.
Trixie thinks – she doesn't voice it – that there wouldn't be half so much fuss if this were a contraceptive pill aimed at men. When a medical innovation is discovered for men, it becomes a 'convenience', and everyone accepts without question that it should be stocked in hospitals and stores. If a device or a product is aimed at making women's life easier, it's only then that it becomes a moral issue, and people start worrying about the ethical dimensions of it.
Tom, who is here again, doesn't seem to want to venture an opinion to contradict Delia. If he has one. Spotting the brylcreem 'ectoplasm' on the wall, Trixie understands the cause of some of his hesitancy. It may not simply be because he is afraid of the Welshwoman's wrath. Though, if it is, she wouldn't really blame him, given that he lacks the courage even to stand up to Sister Julienne.
Delia is now talking about the fact that unmarried women are not eligible for the new pill. Sister Julienne purses her lips. Delia barrels on regardless.
"It seems stupid to me – really stupid – that we should be denying this pill to those who need it most. Of course it will make a difference to married women with families, and give them some measure of control – but isn't it the unmarried mothers, the very young ones, who have the greatest problems?"
"Problems which are not ours to solve, Nurse Busby. Problems which fall outside our medical jurisdiction as midwives", Sister Julienne comments.
"But – and excuse me sister, they are ours, aren't they? Because what it really comes down to is a matter of health. Because the woman – well, the girl, really – who has a child at 16 or 17 – she doesn't really know how to look after it. She's not ready. And if she hasn't got a husband to support her and that child, or if the father won't do the right thing – and goodness knows, they don't often enough – then she has to find some way of supporting herself. And maybe that means she goes on the game, and later we have to treat her for syphilis, or she contracts something else. Or maybe it means she lives as cheaply as she can, in some squalid little place, and puts her own health in danger, or the health of her child, and then it's some sort of contagious disease, or malnutrition. It's absolutely Victorian. It's the sort of thing the National Health was meant to put an end to. It's a punishment for young women – and it is a medical issue." Delia pauses, possibly remembering where she is, and whom she's speaking to, and hastily adds, "at least, in my opinion, it is".
It's a little like watching a steam train.
Sister Winifred enters only at the end of the discussion. She has, for the past few days, been providing short-term cover at the nearby primary school, after one of the teachers came down with chicken pox. Trixie suspects that Sister Winifred lingered rather longer than necessary at the end of classes today, in order to avoid the scheduled discussion. While the impassioned talk on the benefits of contraception continues, Sister Winifred makes her way towards the kitchen cupboards.
Sister Winifred declares herself famished after a day at the school – "the children are a joy, but it is such hard work to keep up with them at times! I have no idea where they get their energy".
Sister Monica Joan agrees with the sentiment, and joins her at the table, setting out some scones (and jam, and butter: should anyone ask if the two are really both needed, she will make an appeal to her age and her blood sugar).
Sister Winifred has spread the jam on half a scone and is about to take a rather large bite (in fact, a very large bite for such a small nun), when Sister Monica Joan pulls at her wrist.
"Sister!" she exclaims "You must forebear!"
Sister Winifred looks puzzled.
Sister Monica Joan stands, and moves over to her, and – quite forcefully, given the fragility of her own hands – compels Sister Winifred's hand (still grasping the jammy scone) down to the plate.
"Observe, Sister. Do you not see – can you not make out – the face of St Raymond Nonnatus in that blob of jam? No – you must not touch it: we must set it aside and ask Mr Hereward to inspect it. Its meaning may be of great significance. Perhaps St Raymond Nonnatus himself feels called upon to intervene in this debate about the arts of contraception."
Mr Hereward, hearing his name being called, moves towards the kitchen table and turns his head to one side, then the other, in a fashion which could politely be described as 'non-committal'.
Sister Monica Joan polishes off the last scone while the inspection of the Sign in the Jam takes place. Trixie strongly – very strongly – suspects that Sister Monica Joan sees nothing in the jam at all, other than a means of antagonising Sister Winifred.
Trixie steps over to take a look at the scone for herself (catching quite a whiff of Tom's brylcreem as she does so – really, how could anyone else not have noticed?).
"I'm not sure about St Raymond Nonnatus, Sister", she says, looking at Sister Monica Joan as she wipes the crumbs from around her face. "It seems to have a distinctly demonic aspect to me. I'd be very wary of eating it, even if I were starved after a whole day of Keep Fit".
Later that evening, Trixie and Patsy are both in their room.
"Delia seemed to have a lot to say about the contraceptive pill."
"Yes, she's awfully passionate about these things. One of her best qualities."
Patsy silently curses herself for a comment and an intonation that possibly sounds as if it goes beyond friendly admiration.
"Yes, I've noticed, but this seemed rather… more than that?"
Patsy looks perplexed. "How do you mean?"
"Well, I thought that perhaps she might be personally invested in the argument."
"I'm sorry, I'm not following you, Trix."
"Oh, come on Patsy! She's stepping out with someone – someone at the hospital."
"At the hospital?" Patsy scoffs. "Some ancient consultant or some insufferable junior doctor who thinks he's god's gift to the world of medicine?"
"Hm, well, perhaps that's not her type."
Patsy says nothing.
"Patsy, I know she's your friend – she's my friend too. I'm only speculating. Lovingly, I might add. I'd ask her outright if she were here."
"I just don't see it, I'm afraid. She's never mentioned anyone."
Trixie tries again.
"Well, so not a doctor. Perhaps – perhaps a young man from Wales. Perhaps someone who's come down from the Valleys to London to make his fortune."
"You're making him sound like Dick Whittington."
"As I recall, he only had a cat, not a girlfriend."
Patsy exhales, stubs out her cigarette, and thinks about lighting another. Delia would like her to give up. But the subject of Delia, tonight, is what's driving her to think longingly about another drag.
Trixie continues. "And I doubt he has time for a cat. He's probably… a very passionate public speaker. Yes, I bet he's the kind to go to all sorts of political meetings. Maybe he aspires to be a councillor. And by day, he works in some sort of office. The well-educated type – she's always reading."
Patsy, sitting in her blue and white pyjamas, sighs glumly. Trixie can't take much more – this really is becoming quite ridiculous. She is impatient.
One last try.
"But, actually, thinking about it, I think I'm entirely wrong about her type."
Patsy raises an eyebrow. This really is a very one-sided conversation.
"Yes?"
"Oh yes. The more I think about it, the more I think her type is probably… tall. Yes, that would make sense. As a couple, that would look right. Tall. And, with Delia's complexion being what it is – dark hair, and those eyes—"
Patsy is about to specify Delia's eye colour – or, rather, launch into a short disquisition on exactly how the colour of her eyes change throughout the course of the day – when she catches herself.
Patsy, clearly, still does not see where this is going. Trixie marvels at the fact that Patsy ever manages to diagnose any patients at all if she is always quite this slow on the uptake. If Sister Monica Joan sees signs all around, then, by contrast, Patsy is apparently blind to even the bluntest of hints. Trixie presses on.
"So, given Delia's complexion, they should be blonde, or, possibly, a red head. And, well, I think Delia's far too practical to be mooning over any sort of long-distance romance. So they'd have to live locally. Ideally, I mean, here in Poplar. And if it can't be a doctor, then it would have to be someone who does something medical – because she'll be after someone to discuss those things with."
Patsy does notice the switch from the masculine pronoun to the ambiguous "they" and "someone". And then, with a slow blink, takes in the content of Trixie's list for Delia's ideal man.
And she looks at Trixie – not quite as blankly as before. And the glumness on her face from talk of Delia's suitors has been replaced with… something quite different.
"Oh, come on sweetie. Surely you know that I know. And surely you also know that it doesn't matter a wink to me." Trixie smiles, and holds out her cigarette to Patsy. Patsy pauses, then accepts it, taking a long drag.
"Was it…"
"Obvious? Yes. To me, at least. Not to anyone else, I shouldn't think."
"What was it – I mean, how did you know?"
"Apart from the look of sheer unadulterated lust that Delia gave you last time you came to Keep Fit in a leotard? Had any man given me such a look, I would have absolutely melted on the spot. Or, slapped him in the face, quite possibly."
"Oh."
"Delia mustn't take all the blame though. There's quite an array of Marlene Dietrich pictures above your bed, Patsy. Hardly subtle. Of course I worked out what it meant. I notice these things."
"I did mean – I wished I could tell you. But, you know, it's hard. More than hard. Impossible sometimes."
"I bet. But you needn't worry about me making it hard for you."
"If Delia weren't on a night shift, I'd suggest calling her into the room. I think she'd probably have more to say than me."
"Don't be ridiculous. You may not be as forthcoming as Delia – I don't think that's your nature – but now you're done with this charade we can have a perfectly human conversation about these things."
Patsy smiles. "Yes. Yes, of course."
"Because we are friends, Patsy. I know there are things in our lives which neither of us likes to talk about. But that probably means we ought to talk about them more, not less."
"The talking cure… has never really held much appeal, I'll admit."
"Well, that aside. More importantly, now you can stop your pretence of being interested in men – although I can't say you really put that much effort into it, most of the time – we can concentrate our efforts on finding an eligible bachelor for me. I must say I rather liked the look of Mrs Quinn's cousin – until he started talking endlessly about the Rotary Club as I was trying to deliver the maternity pack."
"Be careful what you say – I hear he's a very powerful man. In Rotary Club circles, at least."
And the conversation becomes light again.
A/N: Sister Monica Joan's line: "Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will never believe" is a reference to John 4:48. Mainly because I rather like the idea of SMJ grumpily paraphrasing an irritated Christ.
