Patsy has only heard about Chummy's early days at Nonnatus House through the grapevine. She understands the pain of settling in to a new place, the routines of a building full of busy women chafing until one truly settles in. She's not a direct replacement, as she was for Jenny, but it's strange to hear about someone so much when you've never met them.

Chummy, if stories are to be believed, is around eight feet tall, has the finest backstitch this side of Battersea, and is the kindest soul to ever step through Nonnatus' doors.

Patsy wonders if she'll leave a legacy half as impressive.

She feels a little guilty for thinking thank heavens the moment Chummy opens her mouth. The upper-class endearments are both familiar (oh, how being called 'old thing' makes her miss her father!) and a source of great relief. Patsy is, for the first time since arriving at Nonnatus, certain she is not the poshest person in the room. Between them, they might even get away with a "what-ho" without Sister Evangelina rolling her eyes too obviously.