II
It was late when she finished her rounds. The baby had been difficult and all the years of extra training still made her feel inadequate. Two lives were at stake – it was always two. That was why she'd been drawn to midwifery, particularly high risk births, in the first place. Seeing the baby safely make its way into the world and having the mother survive was all she'd wanted to do. This baby, however, had been an emergency. Mrs. Poole, a neighbor of one of the patients she had visited that night, had required a second midwife and it was by sheer luck that she had been available. In the end, she was the one to hold the baby first as the other midwife tended to the mother. It gave her a strange sense of accomplishment – all live babies did. She herself had been a breech. Had her mother been proud, like Mrs. Poole? Had she sunk into the sheets, crying with relief and love that overwhelmed her? And Mother – what would she think of her now? She rubbed her eyes. She had to be strong for them all. She had to show them what she'd made for herself, how she'd survived.
"You were a fighter from the first, my little one. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
Had she? She'd come to Nonnatus House, after all. But why, when she could have worked in a hospital? When she could have had regular hours and gone home after her shift, instead of being governed by her patients or the timing their babies chose to come into the world? She could've afforded her own place, lived alone or with whomever she wished. She could've had parties at her place, invited anyone she liked. That's how she'd met Delia, at a friend's party the summer she worked at The London. At the thought of her, a tightness rose in her chest. She wanted to reach for her. She missed the warmth of her arms as she took her in, her eyes open and unquestioning as she spilled over, her touch quelling, for a time, the fires that raged.
But she must see Trixie. Trixie, who she'd met on the stairs just before she left, had looked so distraught that she'd wondered if she should be with her and get a replacement to cover her shift. She'd never seen her look like that in the years since she'd known her, since they'd been roommates. Her hair had come loose from its clips, there were black streaks on her face from the layers of mascara that had dissolved, and blood on her lips. She had seen her break down, here and there, as they both have, when work and its aftermath had overwhelmed them. But midwifery did that to one, took you to heights you never thought possible. Like joy, grief too had been severe, leaving a lasting mark not only on one's memories but body as well. She knew about her migraines, had watched her struggle through the nights, her eyes full of unquiet sleep. But Trixie always woke up the next day and got ready for work. Whether she dragged herself or sought solace in the busy hours, she didn't know. And yet, she'd looked so different on the stairs today, as if the weight of her was too much to carry upstairs. She had tried to guide her gently, her fingers stroking her cardigan, the touch, as it steadied them both, taking her by surprise. But Trixie had managed to escape upstairs, imploring her to go to work. And she had, after leaving her a note. How much faith had she put in a line, in merely a few words? Did words really have any power to change? Could they pull you back to shore, or did they let you drown? She thought of the diaries she had stashed away, how the sight of the yellow pages, the ink bleeding through them, had driven her to seek a cure for her patient. At the time, she hadn't let the words—or the lack of them—consume her as they had done in the past. For after all, wasn't the box of mementos a reminder of all she had lost, like her mother's letters that she could not save? She'd left the note under the bed, among the shadows that Trixie had retreated to, each new shot a means to dull her pain.
Would she put on airs the next day, pretending nothing happened? She was privy to her airs, of course, but had joked about them with her. And hadn't Trixie laughed about them herself, when they had talked late into the night and were sure no one would hear them? The fun they'd had, too, smoking in their room and talking frankly about the restrictions at Nonnatus, the trappings of their work, and the uncertainties in their futures. Trixie had confided to her her despair of ever getting married, how men seemed to not want her. She had replied that having a boyfriend wasn't everything, that there was more to relationships. "But people leave, men will lose interest, and women will forget you once they've had their babies." She couldn't deny that – she too had lost people she loved, friends. And lovers. But she didn't tell her that.
She'd asked her, instead, about her new dress. Besides being a distraction, it was dressing up in the latest styles that made Trixie's eyes light up. It was strange, Patsy thought, for a midwife to be so frivolous as Trixie appeared to be. After all, their free time was so limited, leaving even less time to indulge in clothes and parties. But it made Trixie happy so she listened. And how beautiful she looked in her well-cut gowns, the light sparking in her blue eyes, the blonde locks moulding the soft contours of her face. And every time she asked her to dance, she'd found herself both excited and shy, as she stood within inches of her, heady with her perfume, in her hair, on her neck. She'd felt the roundness of her arms encircling her, her heart beating through the thin fabric of her dress, as if the rhythm matched her own. She saw Barbara watching them cautiously the day she arrived, and wondered what an outsider would think when they saw how comfortable they were with each other, how well they fitted into each other's bodies, how there was no awkwardness or ceremony but just the music in their ears and the synchronicity of their steps as they danced. Then, she could feel Trixie, her breath on her cheek, her eyes burying into her own, her grip hard, as if she couldn't let go.
And yet.
She had come home and not told her but had run away from her. Had she told Tom? Or worse, had he upset her? She felt a stone on her path, the sharp edge stabbing her toes through her shoe. She wanted to let out a scream in pain. But it was too quiet and she wasn't used to it. She gulped down her tears and kicked the stone away so it rolled off to the far edges of the street, no longer a threat to any other walker in the night. If he'd hurt her, she'd confront him…and say what? That he should let her be free? That she shouldn't be stifled in any way? Had he, in fact, called off the wedding? She knew how devastating that would be to Trixie. She hadn't lived in the world, mixed with so many different people, to not know why some people sought certain things, choosing reputation over independence, the safety of conventionality over the risk of authenticity. Just because she had learnt to hide, how could she expect everyone else to? Just because she couldn't even talk about love, how could she expect others to not seek it?
"My little fighter."
A wave of nausea washed over her. In the dark, she groped for a balance, finally resting on the side of large tree. She tilted her head as the bark dug into her forehead, marking her with its pattern of crosses. When she had learnt about the seriousness of her mother's illness, it was already too late. She had been so busy working in the camp that she hadn't noticed how her mother had grown tired and thin, how she'd been too weak to get out of bed. Once she had tried to break in to the women's camp, had even come close to seeing her mother sitting up, her shoulders hunched, retching into a rusty pail at her feet. It was that sound that reverberated with her in after years, a sound unlike anything she had heard, the notes of torment piercing the stale dark air, as if to rise above the injustice that led her to this point. Far away from home and family, her mother had died alone. What would Mother think of her now, of what she'd become? She searched for her mother's face, the way she had looked when they were happy, before the war had taken her. She used to sit on her mother's knee and tell her how she had felt like an outsider, never here nor there, too British for Singapore, too foreign for her English cousins, too posh, too wild, too different. But Mother had held her tight and made it all right, hadn't she? Kissed away her little hurts and said she was perfect the way she was. She longed to tell her now about little Susan the breech baby, the warmth that had drawn her to Nonnatus, the love that sustained and divided her. She wanted to tell her about Trixie.
She saw Nonnatus in the distance, the window to her room open. She quietly slid the key and entered and suddenly felt much lighter once her equipment bag was on the floor. She reached for the packet of herbs she'd gotten from Mrs. Poole's kitchen, tiptoed upstairs and gently turned the knob. And then she saw her, as the moonlight filtered through the curtain that beat swiftly in the cool breeze, lying on her bed. She was turned towards her but one of her hands was on the edge of her pillow, drawing it closer to her face. She hadn't changed her clothes, hadn't even taken her cardigan off. Some of the buttons of her uniform had come undone, revealing the hollow of her collarbones, her skin pale and smooth. As she shut the door and walked towards her, she caught the dried mark of her tears, the mascara splayed on her pillowcase. Her face was puzzling, as if the sleep had come and interrupted her thoughts. She bent closer.