"Come on Mrs Jones! Just one more great big push for me!"

Patsy's hand is almost numb from the iron grip of her patient, but the long, protracted birth is nearly at an end. With the other hand easing the baby along, she can do nothing about the damp hair stuck to her face.

"That's the way!"

Mrs Jones' strained cries finally cease, and after a few beats of ringing silence, the air is again filled with cries, this time from Poplar's newest inhabitant.

Pasty clips and cuts the cord, and wraps the baby girl up in a soft blanket to pass to her mother. "Mrs Jones, you have a daughter."

Mrs Jones, who is no older than Patsy herself, smiles that brilliant smile, joy radiating through the pain and exhaustion. And Mrs Jones has plenty of reason to be exhausted – Patsy has been attending her labour for four hours. The air is thick and humid; the burner has been on full blast to keep a supply of hot water.

Mr Jones comes in from pacing behind the door as soon as the afterbirth is delivered. He takes his wife's hand, and they look down at their new baby, adoration on their faces. Patsy suddenly feels like an intruder, so she sorts out her equipment, washes her hands, and bids the new parents farewell.

Finally stepping out of the building, Patsy retrieves her bicycle and breathes the fresh air of the morning. There is blood on her uniform and she desperately needs a shower. She checks her watch. 7am. Rather than waking Trixie, whom Patsy knows was up until 2am with Sister Julienne dealing with a particularly difficult breech birth, she heads towards the nurse's home. She knows someone who will be up already, despite it being her day off. She will be on her third cup of tea, and - if everyone else is attending their shifts, which Patsy thinks they might be - singing away like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.


"You look like death warmed up!" Delia exclaims, "shouldn't you be working?"

"Well, if this is the sort of reception I get-"

"No, of course I'm pleased to see you, silly. It's just so unexpected!"

"Mrs Jones went in to labour early, so I had to attend."

"That's a good, strong Welsh name. I trust mother and baby were all right?"

"She's got a lovely baby girl, both in fine spirits."

"And the name? Angharad? Bronwen?"

"I think I'd rather enjoy listening to you go through the entire alphabet, but the parents are yet to decide. And I do hate to spoil your fun, but they're not actually Welsh."

"So this leaves you free today, then?"

"Until 11, at least. And I can't go out looking like this; I was simply exhausted and wanted to see you."

"You are a wonderful surprise, Patience Mount, and I'm sorry if I suggested otherwise. Would you like some coffee? You can shower if you'd like."

"Some coffee would be superlative. I'll shower at Nonnatus; I don't much fancy putting these clothes back on."

Patsy follows as Delia leads her into the communal kitchen and puts the kettle on. She sits at the table and watches Delia prepare a coffee for Patsy and a tea for herself, knowing that any attempt to help will be rebuffed.

For a moment, Patsy allows herself to enjoy the domesticity of their scene. Delia welcoming her home, fussing in her spotless kitchen, and nobody to hide from.

Delia puts on some toast because she knows Patsy is always famished after a night shift.

"For my hard worker," she says, as if reading Patsy's thoughts. She puts the mugs and plate down in front of Patsy, then slides into the seat beside her. She hands Patsy the butter and the raspberry jam she has borrowed from Nurse Wilkins, because she knows it is Patsy's favourite.

Delia watches Patsy prepare her toast, then steals a bite out of a slice. Patsy feigns outrage.

"Why, you tealeaf!"

Delia laughs, eyes sparkling.

Patsy reaches over to brush a stray crumb from Delia's lips. Delia leans in to her touch. Neither moves for a few seconds.

The hubbub of Poplar buzzing outside is a reminder that these moments are private and fleeting, but Patsy treasures each one. She moves her hand to her lap.

Delia understands. "What a lovely morning this turned out to be."

"It's perfect." Patsy agrees, sipping her coffee.


"I suppose I should be heading back," Patsy says, wishing she could stay.

"What, already?"

"I'm afraid so, old thing."

Delia reaches into Patsy's bag and retrieves a book; she knows there will be one there, Patsy never leaves without one. Grinning, she slips something between the dog-eared pages. Unable to resist, Patsy reaches over and finds a small bookmark of a religious icon. Years at Our Lady and St Mark means she can immediately recognise St John, with his thin halo and long scroll.

"Delia, I'm not sure I-"

"St John, like St John Ambulance. Something to keep by your bedside to remind you of me."

Patsy laughs, loud and uninhibited, "very innocuous. Thank you, darling."

"They were giving them out at cadets training last week and I wanted you to have one."

"On long nights, I shall look at St John here and think of your rendition of Ar Hyd y Nos and I'm sure I will be asleep in no time. I'm only sorry the nuns don't provide promotional material with St Raymond Nonnatus so I can't return the favour."

"It's all right," Delia says, returning the book and stepping much closer to Patsy to do so than strictly necessary, "I'll think of you anyway."


That evening, Patsy looks up from her book to see Trixie looking dishevelled in the doorway, mascara smudged into black circles around her eyes. "Oh sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Trixie breaks down in Patsy's arms and manages to tell, through sobs and hiccoughs, how little David Shipwright, the premature baby delivered by Trixie to the ironmonger and his wife, had died suddenly aged just three days. Patsy's heart breaks as she thinks about the sheer joy the Joneses showed her that morning, and the horror if it were all suddenly snatched away.

Holding her friend close, she rubs Trixie's back and strokes blonde hair. Patsy thinks of when her mother used to soothe her after bad dreams about monsters. She considers how lucky she is to have Delia now to comfort her and chase away her demons. At Trixie's request, she pours several strong drinks, which are downed between washing the ruined makeup from her face and changing into her nightie. Sick with grief and alcohol, Trixie quickly dozes off, ungracefully face-down on her bed.

The room now too quiet, Patsy gently strokes her bookmark and hums a traditional Welsh folk song under her breath. Trixie's ragged breathing eventually settles, and Patsy thinks of dark hair and blue eyes.