Patsy stumbled into the dark of Nonnatus House. Lightning flashing through the windows allowed her a haphazardly lit path to the kitchen. She scrambled for the light. She clicked the switch once, twice; nothing.

"I think the weather has caused a blackout, I'm afraid."

It was a voice Patsy had never heard before, a slight accent tinged at the edges. She could just make out a flame in the distance. It wavered intermittently at the darkened shadow reaching above it.

"Still, I'm braving the dark. I find the lack of Horlicks at night much more frightening than a blackout."

Patsy turned to leave, suddenly aware of the oddity of a stranger in the darkened kitchen. The voice didn't scare her, though perhaps it should have, thought Patsy. It was the unexpected nature, as though she had stumbled upon something she shouldn't have; as if the words weren't meant for her, that accounted for her exit.

"Are you there?" asked the voice.

'Ah yes," stumbled Patsy, stepping fully into the thin glow of the kitchen. She felt for the ledge of the counter-top and steadied herself.

"Would you like one? Only I'm making one for myself so it's no bother."

"Gosh no," exclaimed Patsy, too eagerly, she realised. Strong English tea and heated Port were the only hot drinks she could stomach.

"Suit yourself."

"Not such a sweet tooth I'm afraid. Besides I should really be getting to bed," Patsy explained. She turned toward the doorway but hesitated. "I'm sorry but who are..."

"Of course you say that," interrupted the voice, "but you haven't tried my Horlicks. It's quite famous."

Patsy smirked, stepping toward the sound. "And what makes this Horlicks so famous?" And why on earth am I having a conversation with a stranger in the dark? She thought. She could be a cat burglar for all Patsy knew. A cheerful cat burglar with a heart of gold. That would be her modus operandi; lure victims with promises of a malted drink and take them for everything they had.

"Well that would be telling and not showing," the voice chastised. "My English teacher would be aghast. Didn't they teach you that in creative writing?"

"Mr Hawthorn was far more concerned with the classics, I'm afraid."

"Well in that case," said the voice, "I don't mean to brag but Hemingway was quite a fan of my Horlicks."

Patsy laughed. "Is that so?" She quite liked this cat burglar.

"He even wrote a book about it. The tale of Two Horlicks'... about how a lovely Welsh Midwife made a cup for herself, and another for a sophisticated stranger whose name she doesn't yet know. It's awfully suspenseful."

Of course; the new Midwife, remembered Patsy. Sister Julienne had warned them all to be especially kind, she was new to East London. Patsy had been so exhausted by three nights shifts in a row that she hadn't the capacity to even remember she hated storms, much less that a new staff member would be joining them. She had walked the journey home through rain and thunder, and the only thing on her mind had been sleep. But now her mind pulsed with other thoughts. A Welsh accent is rather lovely, she considered, but knowledge of contemporary authors was not a strength of the new Midwife.

"How could I possibly resist?" Patsy relented. "And my name is ..."

"Uh, Uh," the voice scolded, "let me guess. That's the suspenseful part."

"If you must," nodded Patsy, her voice heightened in amusement.

"You sound awfully polished, classy, an air of upper class breeding..."

Patsy reddened at the transparency, thankful that the dark had shrouded her.

"Is it Elizabeth? No that's not it. Grace? No... It's not Margaret is it?" the new Midwife asked in disgust.

"Well I'm somewhat glad that it's not, considering your obvious distaste," laughed Patsy.

"Such an ugly name won't do for such a pretty voice," the Welsh Midwife explained. "I know what it is," she continued, stepping closer to the red-head. Patsy could barely see a darkened figure approach. It stopped just inches from her. She could still see the stove flame from atop the figure's head. Clearly this woman was petite in frame... and standing rather close, she thought. Patsy felt the woman's breath touch the skin of her neck.

"Patsy Mount... I'm Delia Busby, pleased to meet your acquaintance." Delia searched the dark for Patsy's hand. She let her own hand lead the way, outstretched and exploring. But she had been so close to the other woman that all she could feel was starched cotton atop a firm... very firm, stomach. She grasped around, searching for fingers attached to limbs. Patsy, uncomfortable with contact from even people she knew, held her hands out to stop her. "Pleased to meet you too," said Patsy, as nervously as Delia's fumbling.

"Sorry," mumbled Delia, "I was trying to shake your hand. Seems a rather silly thing to attempt in the dark."

The two women searched clumsily for the other's hand until at last they met. And lingered. Patsy had never felt hands so soft; like silk, she thought. But then she thought of her own skin; it's harshness borne from too much disinfectant and scrubbing. She jerked her hand away. The sudden force of it startled Delia. She turned away nonchalantly, pretending it hadn't.

"I think the milk is boiling," Delia said as she inched her way over to the flame. She stirred the liquid, suddenly unsure of what to say. To Patsy, the sound of the wooden spoon intermittently hitting metal was deafening.

"How did you know my name?" asked Patsy, keen to fill the space.

Delia opened cupboards and grasped at its contents. She felt at flattened china. "Nope, they're plates," she said. "Sorry, I'm feeling for cups," she explained to the waiting Midwife. "It's like searching for a cup in a blackout," Delia muttered.

"Here, let me help you," offered Patsy. She inched her way to the sound of Delia's fumbling. "They're in an overhead cupboard." She felt across the wooden panels until she reached the one she expected was hiding the illusory china. She forced it open but the door caught suddenly; loudly.

"Ouch," exclaimed Delia, stumbling backwards.

"Oh my goodness, did I hit you? I'm so sorry," said Patsy, reaching for the relative stranger.

"It's okay," said Delia. She reached one hand out to stop Patsy fussing, the other reached for the source of her pain. "You can help me look for my eye in the morning."

Patsy gasped. "Did I really hurt you? Is it bad?" Patsy could just make out Delia's features; delicate but lacking in detail. She certainly couldn't tell whether any real damage had been caused.

Delia laughed. "Not to worry, I hear eye patches are in vogue," she said, covering her eye.

Patsy reached for the china. "I have the cups," she confirmed, as if the gain of tableware made up for the loss of vital organs. "And I really am sorry about the eye... eye." She had voiced the last words like a pirate. "Oh God, I'm not sure why I thought that would be an appropriate thing to say," said Patsy, clearly mortified. "You mentioned an eye patch, so I thought pirate... I was trying to offer a distraction."

Delia laughed. "That's how I knew your name; who you were," explained Delia. "Trixie and Barbara told me you'd be an absolute menace in the kitchen, tell awful jokes and yet would still be utterly adorable."

Patsy's face blushed all the more. It's because I'm near the flame, she reasoned. Still, she couldn't quite believe she had known this woman for less than five minutes and already she was attempting the awful jokes she usually reserved for drunkenness; already she had been told she was adorable. She had been described as many things: brusque, efficient, stoic, but never adorable. She felt suddenly self-conscious at the forwardness of it all.

"That's Dickens by the way," said Patsy, keen to change the subject to something less personal.

Delia took the cups from Patsy's grasp and felt her way over to the stove. "What is?"

"A Tale of Two Cities. It's Dickens, not Hemingway."

"Well what the Dickens!" exclaimed Delia, laughing. "My village wasn't known for it's love of literature I'm afraid. The Art of Lawn Mower Repair is as high brow as it gets."

"Ah yes," said Patsy, "Proust, I believe."

Delia smirked. "So you are capable of jokes that are actually funny," she said. If the room were lit, Patsy would have witnessed Delia winking in her direction.

Patsy smiled, she enjoyed the lack of pretence. It marked a blessed relief to the women she had been to Boarding School with. They were all for show, like large pristine homes, popular in the suburbs. Though it had been their first meeting, Patsy knew that Delia was 'lived in,' tangible, authentic. Plus, Delia thought she was funny; and no one thought she was funny. She made a mental note to invest in some humorous literature. If medicine could be learnt, so too, could wit.

Delia carefully poured two cups full of her famous Horlicks. She held out a cup for Patsy, but the red-head failed to grasp its whereabouts. Delia grasped for Patsy's hand. Finding it, she helped to clasp Patsy's long fingers around the cup. "Careful, it's hot," said Delia. "And by that I mean, stay away from my other eye."

Patsy rested the scolding cup on the counter top, then picked it up again, this time by its cool handle. "I really am sorry."

"I'm just teasing," said Delia. "But I've got my eye on you. Just the one... The other is still rolling, probably halfway to Brighton by now."

Patsy, who hated any form of physical contact, felt the urge to shove the Welsh midwife playfully. She suppressed it, wondering of its origin. Even in Boarding School she had not participated in such girlish affection. "I can just tell you are never going to let me forget this," said Patsy.

"Never," agreed Delia, taking a sip. "My eye patch shall form a constant reminder."

The sound of Delia's slurping encouraged Patsy to drink of the contents. "Mmmm," she said, convincingly. A little too convincingly.

"Clearly I meant famous for being bloody awful," scoffed Delia. "Somehow I don't think this is Horlicks."

"It does have somewhat of a savoury flavour," agreed Patsy.

"You've hurt me physically, you might as well go ahead and hurt my feelings," laughed Delia, "I've force fed you instant gravy!"