Anger.
The diminutive Welshwoman was rarely angry; her patience was legendary in its fortitude, able to withstand the hardest of trials. It had been a trusty companion to her ever since her life had become forever enmeshed with a certain other Patience who wasn't always as sturdy as her personality trait, and she was certain she would have to lean on it heavily in the years that were to come.
But it was anger that brimmed in her now, hotter and faster than the tears that were streaming down her face as it crumpled into the lonely pillow of her single, nursing home bed, strangled cries into the soft fabric going blessedly unnoticed as she tried to insulate her despair from the other residents; it avoided awkward lies and jumbled excuses.
In earlier days after Patsy had relocated to Nonnatus House she had palmed people off with empty platitudes about feeling "tired" or having had a "hard day at work" when she was feeling particularly morose about her romantic predicament. She now 'preferred' (if that's what you could call it) to wallow privately in her own sadness until she was sick of it, and then, once she had calmed down, to carry on.
There were so many things for Delia Busby to be angry at: she was angry at herself for her flippant remarks, angry at that ridiculous, overcautious redhead, angry at the unavoidable situation they shared, and most of all, angry at everyone else for deigning their relationship unworthy of recognition.
As her sternum heaved and contracted with what could only be described as heartache, she ruminated on her regrettable remarks she had made to the other woman.
"Why?" she groaned into the pillow clenching her hair at the back of her head and pushing her head down, as if she could smother her anguish into silence. Why had she made those comments about marriage in the café? She knew, knew with absolute certainty she would never get married, would endure 100 years of secrecy with Patsy before she would endure even one day of a traditional façade of a marriage with some unfortunate man. She punctuated her muted growling by removing her fists from her hair and driving them into the pillow; she had only been trying to get a rise out of that impossible woman, some sort of reaction other than the forced, cold neutrality that had stared at her from across the table when she had dared to touch Patsy's hand in public.
Following this trail of thought suddenly made her shift the burden of blame away from herself; was her reaction not proportional given her treatment by that foolish woman? She was always so scared; Patsy's head was so often poised to look over her shoulder Delia was shocked it hadn't permanently twisted that way for good. It left them in this inane position where Patsy was less affectionate towards Delia than her friends as if she truly believed being that overprotective would absolve them from suspicion. Delia's opinion was that it just drew more attention to the issue, but she did hold a more recalcitrant attitude towards the situation as a whole.
It was only more painful when juxtaposed against the version of Patsy that she got access to when the pair of them were alone; the unchained, exuberant Pats full of smiles that were reserved only for her, bursting with emotion that never graced her public, cool demeanour. Just as remarkable was the sad and broken Patsy, and whilst she never relished the other woman's difficult times, she felt privileged that she was the only one trusted enough to see them without restraint. She got sides to the woman that only she would ever see, and it just made it seem all the more unfair that nobody else would ever be permitted to acknowledge that world, because it was beautiful.
Delia twisted forcefully to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling, her azure eyes framed with tell-tale blotchiness, her tears now silent and slow. She felt cumbersome in her clothing, having thrown herself on the bed without so much as taking off her coat. Being in love, she concluded, whilst full of reward, was utterly terrible for your nerves and very much a labour.
Rolling over somewhat awkwardly, she breathed in deeply into the side of the pillow where Patsy had lasted rested her head in one of their stolen visits. She convinced herself she could still smell a trace of her there and dwelled obliviously in this thought for a few seconds, wishing she wasn't alone. What she wouldn't give for the comforting scent of bleach, perfume, lacquer and Patsy's skin; that unnameable unique aroma that every person seemed to have their own of. She lamely traced the imaginary outline of Patsy's figure with a trembling hand before letting it fall uselessly to the bed.
She couldn't stay truly cross with her lover for long though, not really. She'd meant what she said – she really would marry her tomorrow if she could. She felt a lump form in her throat as she contemplated the impossibility of it all and acknowledged that it would never be an option, not for people like her, people like Patsy. The dark room around her seemed to encroach on her personal space and merge with her blackening mood as the threat of tears began to tickle at the edges of her eyes once more, just as she thought she had freed herself from their toxic grasp.
That hadn't stopped her from imagining it though; picturing it, planning it in her mind as if that would ease the agony of knowing it would never be rather than compounding it – wasn't every girl supposed to dream about her wedding? Why should that preclude a girl who had fantasies filled with a different type of suitor?
Her head could conjure up a slideshow of achingly realistic scenes to both treat and torture herself with. She supposed she would wear a dress, even if it was not a "traditional" wedding (it was only in her head that this was going to happen, she could do whatever she so well pleased). Even more wondrous of a thought path to follow would be what Patsy would wear – she looked so utterly gorgeous in shirt and trousers or a dress; Delia could extensively envisage the enviably fashionable woman pulling off either look. She could wear a sack cloth with a hole cut in it and somehow make it seem current.
She wondered if she'd like to be the first to walk up the aisle, or come in second (nice to have the luxury of choice) – would she prefer to watch Patsy walking up, or to be the one being watched? Either possibility bought a giddy smile to her face, before it was dashed immediately by how preposterous it was.
Or maybe they could walk together she thought, allowing the idea to return once more – she quite liked the idea of them striding defiantly past everyone, metaphorically spitting in the face of all the ideals that systematically anchored them in a sea of secrecy, filled with night time whispers, painful circumspection, and uninvited questions from those who demanded to know why she was still "single". The knowledge that she could not bat back their invasions of her privacy by asserting that she was spoken for consumed Delia in the moment, and she broke out of her reverie to regard the dark walls of her single room once more.
Was that not just it though? Did that not just frame how unfair the whole scenario was? That a man and woman could marry despite not necessarily having once ounce of true feeling between them, and she was forced to carry her love like a refugee would their last possessions, clinging it to her breast in the fear that someone may take it from her. She couldn't just book a Church, invite all the significant people in her life, pronounce her feelings, and be thoroughly congratulated on the affair. She'd never share in the girlish preparations and the excitement of all her friends and they helped prepare her for the big day. Instead she was forced to communicate her deepest longings through lidded glances, sly appraisals of her lover's body when she was sure her wandering eyes would not be caught, knowingly long gazes that were plausibly deniable in their romantic intent to outsiders.
So many looks.
Sometimes it felt like she was bursting at the seams from stuffing down her longings like errant clothing in a suitcase, and forcibly latching the lid down as if by the time you opened it again, everything would be miraculously organised rather than exploding into a worse mess than before. Of course, there were times where the pressure could be eased – irregular night time visits, rushed affection when they found themselves unexpectedly alone, words over the table, touches of the hand (when Patsy didn't panic about it) but Delia Busby was greedy with her emotions; she just wanted more.
Patsy just wore it better than her. Delia wore had her heart firmly attached to her sleeve and liked to carry sentiments out in the open, believing that trapping them in only aggravated them – like caging a wild animal. Her tall redhead was far more reticent in her everyday expressions, and had picked up this guarded persona from her childhood experiences in the Internment Camp. Delia supposed it was far easier for the older woman to let her affection out in small doses, or mute her desires in public, because that is what she had always done. As had been previously noted by Delia this evening, the Patsy she had access to in private was the exception to this lifetime habit – and although she was grateful to have earned her love's trust, it did limit the scope of their current relationship.
Delia found it near impossible to have such tight control, finding that once the lid was taken off, pure want would gush through and have to be lassoed back before it bolted from the confines of its prison. If you could capture all those looks that communicated her innermost thoughts, she was certain they would smoulder with all the burning intent she had to corral back into a place of safety, shut away, and lock until she was permitted otherwise. But all that succeeded in doing was feeding this irascible, animal yearning and maddening it through the drought of attention, she only wanted her more. Paradoxically and infuriatingly this almost led to less as she knew that her ardour had the power to turn her lover skittish and anxious if applied in wrong situation; one overly-brave gesture could earn her an evening of detachment.
Just like today.
As her mind turned full circle back to its original inception, with a sardonic self-admonishment that nothing had been achieved through these mental gymnastics, Delia became overwhelmed with exhaustion from sheer thinking. As tiredness dramatically threw itself into her arms like a dance partner ready for the final lift, Delia's eyes began to stutter between views of the depressed room and the grace of her eyelids across her grateful, stinging eyes. She floated out of her ruminations long enough to acknowledge that her face was damp with the tracks of renewed crying, which she had been too distracted to mark as it had streamed down her face. Brushing a still shaking hand across the evidence, and knowing she would once again have to cover up puffy eyes tomorrow, she fell into a deep slumber, the kind that can only be achieved by the fatigue of overthinking, and the weariness it brings upon its conclusion.
Notes: For reference, Iago is a Shakespearean character from Othello - deceiving and manipulating characters whilst appearing honest and trustworthy (information from Wikipedia).
However this representation is based on the lyrics of the song by Grace Petrie rather than the characterisation in the play (which is a bit more extreme)! After listening to the song (mentioned in the summary), and how it was used in context, I thought her lyrics were the perfect metaphor for how Patsy tries with best intentions to conceal their relationship (especially in earlier seasons) whilst damaging it at the same time.