Poetry in Motion
Disclaimer:I do not own Call the Midwife, or any of the characters mentioned. All rights belong to BBC One, PBS, Heidi Thomas and Jennifer Worth. I do not own rights to 'Poetry in Motion' or any such published works of music, art and film mentioned in the story.
For entertainment purposes only.
Chapter 1
Poplar, 1958
There was something to be said about night-time in Poplar. It was not Poplar. So hush and unflustered, it teetered masterfully in between the Wild West and a proper ghost-town. Where under the brilliant sun, snotty little buggers tossed punctured footballs across byways and motor vehicles honked until women screeched out their windows for them to stop – the jammed little patch in East London spun fast, frantic and surely around agendas of burly dockworkers and stealthy pickpockets, of tardy milkmen and even tardier monthly visitors.
At half past eleven on a weeknight however, the whirling was no more.
It halted.
A portion of Earth flung into space and caught in inertia sans gravity. Hovering, yet heavy, Poplar stood still. Fog sunk low and sprinkled London with dark magic.
A streetlamp or two, flickering just, hinted the young midwife's path back to the convent.
She tugged at the lapel of her coat, fastening her pace as she scurried through a fine maze of dirty brick row houses. Coarse threads of dry wool and something else worked into Patsy Mount's thumb and she would have winced, muttered something under her breath she would never mutter at Nonnatus, she would have if invisible blades of ice hadn't been attempting to scissor through her dark duffel coat.
Any opportunity to feel the sputter of amniotic fluid bucketing over her hands was one she would trade for nothing. The sharp cries followed by wondrous smiles. The capability to contort a body so a living, breathing thing could crawl out and thrive. She treasured her job. Yet, love for midwifery did not surprise her. She was at her calmest in a storm, always had been. Sure, getting the hang of formalities and pleasantries and of fretting mothers had been tricky, but she had done well.
What was surprising, however, was that she found herself walking a step faster not because the roads were a deserted, or because Poplar was not the safest place for a lady after nightfall, nor because she had birthed four babies that day – two breech – and was positively exhausted. Rather because she knew Sister Julienne would be leading the nuns into compline. She knew Trixie would be filing her nails, lingering around the dancette, a peg of Advocaat ready with the latest serving of gossip. She walked faster because she didn't want to wake Sister Monica Joan if she got in too late – all those certainties in that toasty little nunnery seemed much too charming, and much too safe a prospect to miss out on.
Nurse Mount was getting attached.
She shook the thought away, her breath coming out in thick white vapour as she hassled.
"Bloody hell…" she growled when she tripped, a heel getting caught in a crack on the pavement; she regained her balance. Where were proper shoes when she needed them?
"Oh Patsy, don't be such a ninny. You can't possibly wear those ghastly clogs to see a man like Godfrey Black!" Trixie had dug through her cupboard, sighed happily and yanked something out, "Perfect. A tad snug but they'll do."
Patsy recalled the conversation she'd had with Trixie earlier in the evening and gritted her jaw.
Before it could formulate, the thought was replaced with vigilance and her ears perked up. Round eyes darted to the left. Scuttling; it sounded like metal dustbins scraping about. Inadvertently, pale legs slowed and pupils contracted. It was a rat. Fat and hairy. This time she did flinch.
District practice will wring out any squeamishness of roaches or pests out of you, but it was late and Patsy had stood up a gentleman and was feeling off and portly rats reminded her of a time much bleaker, much farther back and farther away than the malodorous communal lavatories of East London.
Then as though it knew of its influence, the well-fed vermin dashed in her direction and she gasped and her heel did something or the other and so did her ankle and then her right hand was cupping the smooth, cool roundness of a cobblestone and her knee fighting against something hard and her other hand against something utterly soft and warm.
"Oh gosh –"she jumped to her feet, grabbing at what that felt like a forearm and hauling the figure up with her, "Heavens – are you alright?"
"Am I alright?" The woman said, not in earnest; she was brushing at her front with a purse, "I don't know about you but I find it helps to keep my eyes open when I walk!"
Patsy was stunned, she had never been the clumsy sort. Quite the opposite in fact. She had aced every posture exam in Boarding School so even the staunchest of nuns could find no flaw.
Just this moment, her education seemed to have escaped her. Half thinking about where the rat had gone and half about the incensed shapely woman she had rammed into, she struggled to steady herself on a pair of Trixie's pumps too small. She felt like a bumbling idiot.
"I'm – I am sorry. I could – I –" Patsy was having trouble collecting her thoughts; she realized she hadn't eaten since lunchtime, "- I apologize"
By the time she got the words out, Patsy noticed the woman had finished tending to her Chesterfield coat and was looking up at her intently.
Patsy breathed out slowly, with all fingers and toes trying to gather her scurrying composure. It was an accident. She breathed. Its O.K. Accidents happen.
"A rat" she said finally.
You utter fool.
Bright eyes widened somewhat, scanned the area.
"Minced pies are a delicacy among night crawlers in Poplar I suppose" Patsy said, attempting to bring levity to the situation.
"Well?" the woman stared, challenging.
The midwife was beginning to get vexed now.
"Well…?" Patsy stiffened, "With all due your respect – "she tucked back a rogue lock of hair that had fallen out of her beehive; she felt her natural self-assurance returning slightly, "– I believe I've conveyed to you how absolutely regretful I am for my absentminded civic sense. However, I hardly ran you into the ground with a motorcar" exasperated eyes traced the length of the smaller woman, "Now if you've got damages I am most willing to pay medical bills, but as you seem quite alright you might spare me a moment of understanding. As I recall, I'm hardly the only scatter-brained pedestrian on this footpath."
Dark eyebrows hiked up, surprised by the outburst. The young woman opened her mouth and closed it again and Patsy watched carefully. As though it was going to come bite her. She swallowed at the thought.
"Well – "the brunette cleared her throat, "- well I don't like rats."
"I say, you'd be the first one" Patsy said, exaggerating her shock.
"I don't like rats miss and should I see one in this very moment I'd quite like to run. To do that, I'm afraid I'm going to need my right hand back" the woman retorted, not missing a beat.
Patsy broke eye-contact and looked down. The night-air was brisk and nippy but she was scorching red under her collar. She dropped the woman's gloved hand like a dead fish.
"Right" Patsy mumbled, taking a step back to create some distance.
The once irate woman was now watching Patsy keenly, a bemused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She hadn't expected the redhead with the cut-glass accent to submit so easily. Had the taller woman not been standing so straight and rigid, she would have felt bad for her, but so it happened the brunette's bus from Pembrokeshire had been delayed and trekking down High Street Blackwell with two handbags in this city at this time of night was hardly a cake-walk. Londoners were quite toffee-nosed when it came to non-Londoners she had noted. Typically, she liked to believe she was patient and understanding of such prejudice – after all, most people came around as time went on, and it wasn't as though people back in her village were always welcoming of outsiders. Tonight however, she would suffer no snobbish charade of class.
"Delia Busby" the Welsh woman offered a hand.
Patsy took it without thought, cringing at her own awkwardness as she shook lifelessly.
"Shall I call you the rat-lady?"
"What?" the redhead blinked, registering her sing-song lilt for the first time. She withdrew her hand.
Delia, had laughed out loud this time.
"You've got a peculiar way of apologizing, I must say" the midwife said, smoothing a fold on her sleeve.
"Oh?" Delia looked genuinely stunned at the woman's apparent entitlement "That's quite right too –" glinting eyes took in the length of the redhead, " – because it was far from my intention"
"Humility?" Patsy shot back.
"Barbarity"
"Barbarity?"
"The Romans packed opponents head-first with much less power than with which I was struck down, did you know that?" Delia said.
"Just don't tell me you're equating yourself with Caratacus, Delia?" Patsy sobered.
Noting mild distraction on the woman's face at the use of her name.
"Only if you're equating yourself with Hosidius –?" the brunette let the sentence suspend in air, waiting for the taller woman to fill in the blank with her name.
Patsy found herself in search of syllables, taken aback with the woman's knowledge of Britain's river battles with Romans.
"You're not going to make me ask again, are you?" Delia deflated, the spark of mirth replaced by something softer now.
Both women turned to the street when they heard the engine of a motorcar pass by. The stream of headlights cut through layers of smog and rained over them for a few moments before darkness.
Patsy swallowed. Delia was very pretty.
She matched her expecting look.
"Patience" the redhead offered.
"That's quite well but I've not got all night"
This time, Patsy didn't mask her grin, letting it split her face in half.
"What? Go on"
"Everyone calls me Patsy, but my name is Patience. Patience Mount" she said, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.
Delia chuckled, wrapping her arms around herself as an especially frosty draft draped around them.
"I'm the git now"
"So you admit it" Patsy curved an eyebrow.
Delia opened her mouth in mock-shock, adjusting her scarf as she looked straight at Patsy, "You're one to talk! Not the most graceful ballerina knocking innocent bystanders to the ground and scaring them off in the middle of the night?"
"I'm perfectly graceful, thank you very much" Patsy folded her arms across her chest, "One can hardly be expected to foresee an immovable object in the dead of night with hungry rats scurrying about, can they?"
"One can hardly be expected to foresee anything at any time of day or night if one is an unstoppable force" Delia smirked.
"I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted"
"That's for you to decide Patsy…" Delia said; she pursed her lips suddenly, her shoulders squaring, "I - Patience – I'm sorry if that was too familiar."
"Oh - I detest Patience. Only my father calls me that –" the redhead shook her head, surprised by the Welsh woman's sudden hesitancy. Even more surprised by her own willingness to talk about her father.
The break in conversation went far to make Patsy conscious of what she was doing. She had to stop. She knew nothing about this woman. It was bad enough she had pummelled her to the ground she didn't want to make her uncomfortable. She had to control herself.
"Well…" Delia's features relaxed at the words, a shy smile returning to her mouth "I wouldn't want to call you anything detestable, then."
Patsy shuffled on her feet to keep warm, "Quite."
Another gale of London winter slithered across India Docks and along the corner of Manor Road and the redhead had to blink to look away from Delia's vibrant blue inspection.
"Right then –" Patsy buttoned an already fastened coat, she stepped away and then back and then away again " – I better get going."
The Welsh woman glanced at her wrist and looked up with her mouth open.
"You've taken up quite some of my time Patsy Mount!"
Patsy laughed in pretend offense, gaze trained on the brunette as they began moving in opposite directions, "It takes two to tango Delia Busby"
"Oh go on. Remember, spare us poor streetwalkers and don't go dashing into anyone else as you tango" Delia called, moving backward.
For the first time since she'd met her, the young midwife noticed two suitcases in Delia's hands. Was she going somewhere?
Never mind.
She thought it best if she never met her again anyway. She watched as the brunette turned around and walked away.
"I am the picture of a dancer Delia; I assure you I won't ram into anybody without help!" Patsy answered.
The brunette spun back, half way down the cobblestoned path when Patsy realized she had been watching Delia's back for Lord knows how long. The crisp air contested with strands of dark brown hair and she stared at Patsy with a beam too bright for the night.
"That you are Patsy. Perfect poetry in motion…" she yelled back.
With that, the fog swallowed her and nothing was left but the downiest hint of perfume.
The midwife turned around and paced back. She had trouble breathing for her heart was beating faster than usual.
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A.N.: Thank you so much for having taken the time to read this story! It's my first one, and I was not born in the 50s' so please pardon the inconsistencies in my linguistic usage. I'll try and fix it in the future, if I go on with this piece.
Did you enjoy it? Do let me know!