Patsy taps gently on the door then pushes it open. "I'm off, then."
Looking up at her from the chair in which she's sitting, Delia puts down the book she hasn't been reading. "So I see." She tries to smile, sadly, but can't, and looks away. "I wish you weren't."
Patsy pushes the door closed behind her. "It's for the best. It is. For us both."
It's the only course of action; Patsy's sure of it. One too many close shaves, one too many near misses, and a growing murmur of muttered commentary about how much time they spend in each other's company - commentary which currently stops short of impertinent insinuation, but Patsy's not sure how long that can remain the case - and consequently, this is the only way forward. She has to take herself away, to remove herself from the nurses' home, because they reflect and radiate each other when they're together. When they're together, the need to reach out, to touch, to be close is almost unbearable. And, Patsy fears, that makes it only a matter of time before they're found out. And then thrown out.
She has to go. For Delia's sake.
"It's for the best," she repeats.
"I know. I wish it wasn't." The look on Delia's face almost pulls Patsy's heart from her chest.
"Delia, darling - "
Patsy reaches out to her, but Delia cuts her off. She stands up, dusts herself down and with an effort, puts on her brave face. "Sorry Pats. I'm being stupid, I know. I just wi - " She stops. The mask slipping, she hoists it back up. "I know, Pats."
There is no point. There's no point complaining about it, because complaining won't change anything. It won't change the sheer bloody unfairness of it all. They've fantasised, before, about running away together ('eloping', Delia fancifully called it, and though Patsy laughed she was secretly charmed) but they both know that's no use, that's no solution at all. And so here they are. Stuck with this situation. With each other, but not together.
There's no point talking about it.
For a long moment they look at each other, sorrow unspoken, regret unspoken, longing unspoken, desire unspoken.
They don't need to speak these things.
They know.
Suddenly decisive, Patsy tears her eyes away from Delia's, looks behind her and scrutinizes the closed door. Another glance at Delia then at the door once more. Though she's already closed it firmly, she pushes against it to make sure, drops the catch (the rules be damned), then wedges her suitcase against it. Not quite impregnable, but secure enough.
"Come here." She opens her arms wide, and in a moment Delia's to her. Patsy holds her tight, tries to memorize the ways their bodies fit together, to drink in all of her, not knowing when they'll get to do this again.
"It's not like you're going to the moon," Delia mutters into her chest, as if she can tell what Patsy's thinking. "You're only going across town."
Patsy tips Delia's face up to meet hers and kisses her gently. "It's far enough," she says. "And there'll be nuns."
"You're not still scared of nuns, Pats."
"I might be."
"Shush, now, silly."
Delia kisses her again, slowly, deeply. The longing, the desire rises, but before it threatens to become too much, before it consumes them, Patsy pulls away, rueful. "Better not. I should be off."
Delia sighs, turns, and moves across the room. Opens a drawer and closes it again.
"I have something for you."
"Something else?"
"A real present, this time."
"You mean, not just booze?" That morning Delia's already pressed a bottle of scotch on Patsy - "As my Taid always says, never start a new job without something to oil the wheels" - and Patsy, unable to dispute good old fashioned Welsh wisdom, had placed it carefully in her suitcase.
Delia nods, and shyly proffers a lovingly-wrapped package which has been stowed secretly in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet for the last week.
"For me? Darling, you shouldn't..." Patsy's eyes are filled with love even as she protests.
Delia nods. "Of course I should," she says, but as Patsy's fingers are fumbling at the string, she reaches out to stay her hand. She shakes her head. "Open it later. Think of me."
Patsy retrieves her suitcase from the door, flips the catches, and slips the package in. "Always, darling."
Then she pulls Delia to her one more time, holds her tight one more time. Kisses her one more time. And then, releasing her, with a nod of her head she turns and is out of the door and gone.
The best cure - or rather, distraction - for an aching heart is hard work. This is a lesson Patsy learned early, and learned well. She's thrown herself into the afternoon's work whole-hearted; she's given herself no time to dwell on matters, no opportunity to feel sorry for herself. She's been too busy concentrating on settling in, on making a good impression, on ensuring that this plan of hers will, in fact, go to plan.
Only now, in the bedroom that she's been assigned to share with the blonde midwife, does she have the chance of a few moments on her own. She'd unpacked hastily when she'd arrived but had left Delia's parcel for a less hurried moment. And now - with Trixie away in the bathroom and seemingly the type to take her time over her evening ablutions - appears to be the best opportunity that she'll get today. She takes the parcel from her drawer, caressing it reverently, as if it were the giver she were holding, not the gift. Gently she unties the knots, grinning to herself at Delia's careful precision, her attentiveness to detail.
As the brown paper unfurls, it reveals soft blue-and-white cotton, and a card, neatly written in black ink.
To keep you warm. All my love, always. D.
Patsy gathers up the soft material, holds it to her face, inhales. There's the faintest scent of Delia on the cloth. Patsy closes her eyes, and after a brief moment of indulging it, bites down hard on the longing and the sadness. She shakes her head, tells herself off, and then sets about getting undressed.
She puts on the blue-and-white pyjamas. They give her comfort. They give her warmth. They make her feel loved. She knows she is.
But no sooner is she dressed and the card from Delia stowed carefully, lovingly in her little box of precious treasures, there's a tap at the door and Trixie's poking her head round.
"Are you decent?"
Patsy looks down at herself, then back up at Trixie and nods.
"Excellent," Trixie beams at her, then turns and beckons to Cynthia, who is hovering just outside on the landing. "Nice pyjamas," Trixie says, as the two of them enter the room. "Now, we thought to welcome you properly - how about a drink? You do drink, don't you?"
Patsy grins. Delia's Taid was right. That bottle of scotch might just come in handy after all.