Summer 1960.

Trixie was awfully good at hiding things. During the day, she'd outline her lips with rogue and brighten her eyes with a thick layer of mascara. She'd appear at breakfast with a smile on her face - she was some sort of expert on faking a smile - but, if you looked closely, her eyes would be dark. All through the day the smile would stay, bright and wide, and not once would anyone see it crack. Patsy was sure it did crack, perhaps several times a day, but she never saw more than slightly swollen eyes or heard more than a quiet sigh.

Trixie was good at facades; so good that even Patsy, who was almost renowned for her ability to see right through people, struggled to see what was really going on in the girl's head. She wasn't sure she would have even an inkling at all, really, if she didn't share a room with Trixie.

She'd known for quite some time that Trixie's childhood was just as broken as hers - in a very different way, of course - but equally broken. Whilst Patsy had suffered the horrors of humanity first-hand, Trixie had watched someone she loved struggle through the aftermath of war, screaming in his sleep, drinking his way into oblivion, half the man he used to be. Patsy had been struck with the realisation that Trixie was an awful lot like Delia in that sense - they both shared the compassion and empathy of people who'd watched someone they love scare themselves awake with memories too horrific and inhumane to venture from between their lips. Both shared the same sense of understanding as someone who had cradled their loved ones back to sleep and sat up with them, holding their hands, when they couldn't face the nightmares anymore. Both were curt and quick with the words when asked about the nightmares, or the screaming, and both were skilled in the art of changing the subject. Sometimes, when Patsy woke up from a nightmare, her voice hoarse from screaming, her body convulsing under the bedclothes, she had a hard time differentiating between Trixie's gentle touch and Delia's soft hands.

And then Trixie had met Tom. He was good for her, much in the same way that Delia was good for Patsy. The notorious drinking hadn't stopped – Patsy doubted it ever would completely – but it had lessened, and Trixie's eyes were the brightest Patsy had ever seen. They'd never spent a night with each other, to Patsy's knowledge (and, quite frankly, she didn't care) but Trixie's persistent insomnia seemed to have cured itself and Patsy was no longer being woken up to Trixie rearranging the wardrobe or organising the vanity in the small hours of the morning. Not that Patsy minded, of course, but it was a welcome change to have the girl sleeping soundly throughout the night. She'd never seen a couple more in love – she'd caught Tom looking at Trixie like she was the most precious thing in the world more times than she could count. She'd always looked away though – she'd learned from experience that some looks were for behind closed doors. She'd caught Trixie's hand lingering on his cheek for longer than was necessary, watched her face light up whenever he walked into a room, watched her smile after he kissed her. Sometimes, the jealousy burned in her throat, but she always swallowed it. Delia was not Trixie's fault, nor was she Patsy's, but Patsy had come to terms with the fact that she would need to be satisfied with stolen kisses and secret touches.

There had been blissful peace, for a while, and Patsy had relished in it, not doubting that it would be snatched away any moment.

And it was, on a frightfully warm night near the end of June, when Patsy's body felt too heavy for sleep. Trixie had slipped in a few minutes previous, her every action muted for Patsy's benefit – it was very early in the morning and she should have been sleeping. The blonde midwive had slipped into her pyjamas silently, climbing into bed soundlessly, switching the small bedside lamp off and plunging the room into darkness. There had been quiet, and Patsy had almost missed the change in Trixie's breathing. It suddenly became heavier, more erratic, catching in the back of her throat, and Patsy had recognised the sound almost immediately. Growing up in a dormitory with eleven other girls had made her rather respondent to the sound of someone crying themselves to sleep. It still made her heart rate quicken, all these years later, and all she wanted to do was to slip into Trixie's bed beside her and hug her until her tears dried on her cheeks. But she hesitated, almost out of habit. Crying was a very private thing and very few girls on the dorm had liked to be comforted – whether it was from embarrassment or shame, Patsy never quite knew, but it wasn't until Trixie's muffled whimpers had turned into fully audible sobs that she climbed out of her own bed and towards the other girl's.

"Trixie?" she whispered tenderly, crouching on the floor nudging the other girl's shoulder. Trixie turned around to face Patsy, her face smudged with salt water.

"Oh, Patsy," she said, her voice shaky, "I didn't mean to wake you-"

"You didn't – I've been up since before you came in," Patsy moved her hand to Trixie's head, stroking the girl's hair gently, "Now, budge up will you? I'm freezing."

Trixie smiled and wriggled to the other side of the bed obligingly. Patsy squeezed in beside her, finding her hands under the blankets.

"It's a frightful squash, isn't it?" Patsy giggled, and then her expression turned suddenly solemn, "Now, whatever's the matter?"

"I broke off my engagement with Tom," Trixie began, her voice wavering and fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Patsy reached out and wiped them away with her thumbs.

"When?"

"A few days ago, now."

"Why?" Patsy coaxed cautiously, not wanting Trixie to clam up.

"Oh, Patsy, I was such a fool," Trixie said, and the tears started coming thick and fast as the girl broke into sobs, choking out her words, "We h-had an argument – it was all my fault – and I came back an-and I-I d-drank so m-much that I-I pa-passed out. S-sister Julienne found out – she always does, doesn't she – and she asked me, asked m-me if I w-wanted my ma-marriage to start out on a l-lie. And I didn't. So that's that."

"Oh, Trixie, darling," Patsy murmured, pulling her friend closer to her, embracing her tightly, "You should've said something."

"I was ashamed," Trixie sobbed into Patsy's shoulder, "I've never lost control like that, not ever. Not really."

"Does Tom know?"

"No – and you mustn't tell him," Trixie said, a sense of urgency in her voice, "I don't want him pitying me. He shouldn't have to be ashamed about being in love with someone who can't control herself.

"I won't tell him, Trixie, but I can assure you that he doesn't think that," Patsy soothed, rubbing Trixie's back.

"Why wouldn't he? I'm a disgrace," Trixie broke down again, pulling away from Patsy and burying her head in her hands.

"Trixie, you are not a disgrace," Patsy said firmly, pulling Trixie's hands away from her face and cupping her face, "And even if you were, do you really think any of us would stop loving you? Me? Barbara? The nuns? You are so loved, Trixie – don't you understand?"

"Thank you," Trixie said in a barely audible whisper, taking Patsy's wrists in her hands, "I'm alright. I promise."

"I'll be right across the room, if you need me."

When their alarm went off at six sharp the next morning, neither girl spoke of the previous night, but Patsy knew the events were remembered. Many a time she came back from a long shift to discover a mug of lukewarm Horlicks on her bedside cabinet, or found that someone had already sterilised her equipment when she went down to do it herself. Trixie never said anything, but Patsy was perfectly fine if Trixie wanted to operate that way, through secret favours and hidden thank yous. She was used to hiding parts of her life away – she was starting to learn that, sometimes, the best parts of life were the parts that were hidden away, private and secretive, whether they were in the form of personal belongings in a box, midnight confessions or lilting Welsh accents.