The cab ride seemed much longer than the 10 minute drive her new watch told her it had been, sitting squashed between her mam on one side and her dad on the other. Mam kept up a constant stream of complaints about anything and everything:
'These roads – I don't know how anyone can find their way round this place, it's like a maze! It's all mapped out sensibly back home, I've never seen a Canadian town this untidy'.
'Have they even tried to fix these streets up since the war? I feel like my head's about to hit the roof with all these lumps and bumps'.
'I'm sure the cars are smaller here – such a squash to fit the three of us in the back! And with you as skinny as a rake, I don't think that nurse has been feeding you properly cariad'.
She fretted on and on until Delia gave up even trying to defend the streets, or the taxis, or the weather or whatever it was that came under fire next. After a while she didn't even listen anymore, letting her mother's words fall against her ears like the drumming of rain on a rooftop. Her father didn't join in the conversation either, beyond making gentle noises of acknowledgement whenever Mrs Busby seemed to require input. Mostly he kept his eyes forward and his hands folded tidily in his lap, but every couple of minutes he'd turn to smile at Delia and give her hand a little pat, as if reassuring himself that she was really there.
In spite of their obvious concern for her, in that moment Delia felt nothing so much as tired and cold. She couldn't help wishing she was still at the flat with Patsy, getting ready for an early night in their own room and sharing a cup of cocoa before bed. No matter how many times she told herself that these people were her parents, they still felt like total strangers. She had to keep reminding herself in her head to call them mam and dad instead of Mr and Mrs Busby.
But by then her mam was making one farewell complaint ('the price of a taxi! All of ten minutes that journey was, you'd think he'd taken us to the moon and back. The brazen cheek of it!') and leading the way into the hotel. Her dad put a supportive arm around her, as if she might not be able to walk alone. She wanted to tell him she didn't need help, but he seemed to feel such a need to do something for her that she didn't quite have the heart. Besides, she was fed up of doing nothing but argue with them.
The hotel her parents had chosen was a small one, but clean and pleasant, and her mother led them directly through to a modest dining room that was already decorated in anticipation of Christmas. There were wreaths of holly and strings of tinsel draping the walls, and an as yet undressed tree in one corner that lent the air the woodland scent of pine sap. They were the first Christmas decorations Delia had seen so far, and she admired them as they were led to a table near the fire.
Before Delia or her father had properly settled themselves at the table, let alone discussed what to order, Mrs Busby had caught the eye of the nearest uniformed member of staff and was beckoning imperiously.
'Waiter? We'd like to order. We'll have a selection of sandwiches, a pot of tea and scones all round, unless you have Welsh cakes... No I didn't think so. You English never do. And I'd like a slice of coconut cake with two forks for my daughter and I, we're celebrating. That'll be all, thank you'.
She had not let the young man get a single word in before she was waving him on his way and turning to her daughter to explain.
'You and I used to have a little tradition Delia – on a Saturday morning you'd do your weekend homework and then we'd go to the shops together. If you'd done well in school that week I'd take you for a treat before we went home. We always shared a pot of tea and a slice of coconut cake with two forks. It was our little weekly ritual – a bit of mother-daughter bonding time. I always think of that when I eat coconut cake, even now'.
Delia's smile was genuine, almost for the first time since her parents had arrived. She was finally getting to see a side of her mother that wasn't just looking at the world around her and finding it wanting. It didn't matter that she wasn't especially fond of coconut, and would rather have had a teacake than a scone.
'That sounds lovely mam. Will you tell me more about it? I don't remember much about being a child, and I'd love to know what I was like'.
'Of course cariad! You were a lovely little thing. Big bright eyes and so much energy, I'd have needed a dozen pairs of hands and as many eyes to keep up with you. You were clever too, and had so many friends. Your dad and I were so proud of you'.
Delia almost didn't say anything. She wanted to keep hold of this comfortable, confiding air between them, but at the same time her mother's assertion that they had been proud of her as a child only highlighted how badly wrong things must have gone later. She couldn't just let it pass. However much she disliked the answer, she had to know what had happened.
'Mam... I know it might be a bit early to ask, but since you said how proud you were, I have to know... what went wrong between us, in the end?'
Her mother glanced from Delia to her father before answering, her hand tightening involuntarily on her napkin.
'Oh, now, cariad. There's no need to go over old wounds. Your father and I forgave you for all that a long time ago, we were just waiting for you to see sense and come back to us. We've never stopped praying for you and waiting to bring you back into the family. You've nothing to feel guilty over anymore'.
Her mother's tone was reassuring, even kind... but the words made Delia deeply uncomfortable. Until now she hadn't thought of the rift between them as something that was her fault, but from what her mother said she must have done something terrible. She still burned to know what had happened between them, but it felt impossible to push the point now. Instead she dipped her head over the scone she had been about to butter and tried to think of some way to change the subject gracefully. Thankfully Mrs Busby seemed equally keen to move on, launching into a story of Delia's childhood with an abruptness that belied her cheerful tone.
'I'll never forget your sixth birthday. You were so excited the whole week beforehand I thought you'd make yourself sick. We baked your cake together on the Friday afternoon, in the shape of a daisy. That was your idea of course. I tried to convince you to have a more traditional cake, but you had your heart set on a flower so we did our best. All credit to you it looked lovely in the end. Proper petal shapes and real daisies all around the edge of the plate. Rationing was in full force by then of course so we were a bit limited, but you came up with the idea of spreading a circle of marmalade in the middle of the white icing to make the yellow centre of the flower, and told me exactly how you wanted the petals cut out. You were always so creative. I knew you'd make such a lovely mam yourself. None of the other mothers I knew were so imaginative – some of them didn't even make their own cakes, can you imagine? But you. Six years old and already you were coming up with the most lovely things. I couldn't wait to see what you'd do for your own children'.
'Didn't it taste a bit funny with marmalade?'
'Oh it tasted dreadful I'm afraid, everyone but you scraped it off the top of the cake before they ate it at the party, it was a shocking waste, especially at that time. You got ever so cross that your friends were undoing your hard work and kept on munching your way through your slice with the most dreadful grimace on your face. But you finished it even so'.
'I... I think I remember that. A little. You ate yours too. And dad. I was crying because the other children said my cake was silly and messy and tasted funny. And then... I think this was after they'd all gone home... you cut us all a slice and we ate it for tea, even though we'd already had cake that day and I wouldn't normally be allowed it twice. You both finished it all. I really thought you liked it, I felt so much better. You... you told me it was just too sophisticated a cake for the other children, but anyone grown up would love it'.
'That's right love! You do remember'.
'Only bits, but it helps to hear about it. Thank you mam. I wonder... Can you tell me anything about my grandmother? I found pictures of her a few days ago. I'd love to know more about her'.
Delia leaned forward eagerly, remembering the precious bundle of photographs that had looked so well loved, all showing her grandmother smiling out at her.
'I don't think so. We didn't get along. She was my mother, but God forgive me we had some terrible rows. In the end we didn't talk much. I'm sorry Delia but I don't like to talk about it. I think we should all go to bed now, you need an early night and your father and I are exhausted from running half way round the world after you. Come along Howell'.
Delia jumped slightly at her mother's sudden harsh change of mood and abrupt refusal. She had said something wrong again, just when she'd thought they were doing so well. Once again she felt the rebuke sting like a slap. She needed these memories back so she could stop putting her foot in it, but even without them she couldn't leave it like this.
'We haven't finished our tea, or the cake. Please stay mam'.
'I'm afraid I'm not hungry anymore. You can stay and finish if you like, I'm going to bed. Are you coming Howell?'
Her father looked torn, glancing between them with a pained expression that suggested he was unused to going against his wife's wishes. Eventually he mumbled:
'I don't like to leave Delia here on her own Gladys, and it would be a shame to waste all this. You know I hate wasting food'.
They all sat perfectly still for a few moments while her mother glared, all waiting to see which way it would go. At last she gave a sharp sniff and settled back into her place.
'If you both insist, I suppose I won't go up all on my own. We'll finish the tea'.
For a very long minute the only sound was the slight clink of teacups on saucers, and the faint burble of conversation from the other diners that made the contrast of their own silence all the more stark. At last Delia came up with a topic that had to be safe, because it wasn't something that involved her missing memories.
'Mam... will you tell me about Canada? What's your home like?'
Mrs Busby took a careful sip of tea before answering, but by the time she had lowered the cup she was looking less severe and the anxious clenching in Delia's stomach eased a little.
'It's a lovely little town. We've lived in a few since we first arrived, but I think we've finally found our place. It's only small – all of two hundred souls, but they're good people and very active in the church. You get to know everyone in a place that small and the neighbours all look after each other. And then there's Father Tremblay. He gives the most passionate sermons I've ever heard, you can see he really believes, not like some of the limp fish who seem to be paying lip service for the sake of whatever perks they can get from the church. He's got proper, traditional ideas about what it means to be Christian, none of that wishy washy liberal nonsense. They're looking for a new Sunday school teacher actually. A young woman from a faithful family, someone good with children...'
'Gladys love...'
'What? I'm only telling Delia what she asked. We get proper snow there cariad. Real white Christmases like you used to dream of when you were a girl. Nothing like the rain and sleet you get here. All winter children can go ice skating and sledding on the slopes outside town, and the carol service is beautiful. Father Tremblay's so welcoming too. Last year he asked us to teach a welsh carol to the church choir. Imagine! I've been a member for two years and they're always interested to hear about Wales. It went down a treat and I made Welsh cakes for them all for after the concert. Everyone agreed it made a change from the usual gingerbread!'
'It sounds lovely mam. I didn't know you sang'.
'Oh yes, I always liked singing. Your father used to call me his little nightingale, back in our courting days'.
Delia looked at her father, surprised to hear that the almost silent man beside her could ever use such a poetic turn of phrase.
'Why dad, you old romantic! Will you tell me about how did you and mam met? I'd love to know'.
Her father smiled warmly at her mother, a twinkle appearing in his eye that hadn't been there before.
'Your mother decided it the first day we met'.
'Oh Howell, really-'
Was mam blushing? Surely not!
'Well you did love! You always knew your own mind, it was something I admired in you. I was learning the business of my father's draper's shop Delia, ready to take over when he retired. Your mam came in to buy some fabric'.
'It was to make a dress for my sixteenth birthday party. I wanted everything to be perfect'.
'That's right. We spent close to an hour discussing types of fabric and colours and patterns, I think I got down every roll and sample swatch we had at least twice over. But it was all worth it when she came back in the day of the party to show me the finished result... she looked like an angel. I was quite blown away'.
Delia's father had said more in the last two minutes than she had heard from him since them met, and he had a misty look in his eyes as he recalled their meeting. Whatever the ins and outs of their relationship, her father was clearly still deeply besotted with his wife.
'She came in twice a week after that, for a bit of ribbon or a button. Small things, but we'd spend half an hour chatting every time. Eventually she came right out and asked me when I was planning to take her to the pictures because her button box was quite overflowing and she couldn't wait forever. So I did at once of course. I never looked back, and I was always grateful to my dad for being discreet enough not to tell me off for shirking my duties in those early days. He had a sharp enough eye for it generally, but I think he knew even then that I'd marry her one day. And three years later, I did. It was the happiest day of my life, until you were born bach'.
'Oh Howell, stop telling Delia such nonsense, she doesn't want to hear all this!'
'No it's alright mam, I think it's lovely. It's nice to know a bit more about you and dad'.
Her mother gave her a smile that was surprisingly sweet after the pinched frown of disapproval that seemed to be her norm. After that the conversation flowed more easily, and by the time the last crumbs were eaten and the last drop of tea poured, Delia felt almost like everything would be alright between them.
It wasn't until she had said goodnight and retired to her single bed in a strange, impersonal bedroom that her mind drifted back to Patsy. Would she be having nightmares, without Delia there to keep them away? She was certainly glad to have the chance to know her parents, but she was looking forward to getting back home.
.....
To begin with breakfast had gone well. Delia was still cautious about what she could bring up, but she was looking forward to telling Patsy all about it when she called, and it really seemed like they could be some sort of a family. Her parents would be here for a while so she'd be able to visit them, and even when they went home she thought they'd be able to write proper letters now.
She was feeling happily optimistic, even if she was eating porridge when she really fancied toast - when mam dropped the bombshell.
'Your dad and I have talked about it, and we want you to come home with us Delia, to Canada'.
It was the last thing she had expected. She was only just getting to know her parents, and by all accounts even before the accident it was years since they'd been close. And now they wanted her to travel half way round the world with them, to a place she'd never been, to live among complete strangers? She knew there were reasoned arguments to be made, but all she could manage was
'Mam... no... My whole life is here, I... I can't just leave'.
'Your life was here cariad, but not anymore. What have you got here now, really? One friend, whose put her life on hold for you because she was feeling charitable and as far as she could tell you had no one else. That can't continue forever. You don't have a job here anymore, or a husband. For heaven's sake Delia you don't even have memories of the place! It's the perfect time to go'.
'But Patsy's been like family mam, I can't just leave her all of a sudden. She wants me there, and I like our flat. It's my home'.
'Of course she told you she wanted you to move in, she would hardly have said otherwise when you'd nowhere else to go. But things are different now. You can't keep living off the charity of some nurse, not when you have your family to support you. If you won't do it for me and your poor father, do it for the sake of this... this Patsy woman. You must see it would be selfish to keep imposing on her the way you are. It's not as though you can even pay your own way while you're not working. She'd be better off finding a flatmate who can split the bills, and you're better off with your family'.
'I... I suppose I never thought of it like that'.
'Well think about it now. I've spoken to that friend of yours and arranged for us to meet her for afternoon tea later. We'll tell her then, and meet with your doctor about transferring your care to our practice back home in the morning. There's a few things to get sorted but we can be ready to leave by the end of the week. We'll be home just in time for a nice family Christmas'.
'You spoke to Patsy? When?'
'She called the hotel earlier. I didn't want to disturb you while you were resting'.
'Oh mam, I wish you had'.
'Well we'll all see her later so it doesn't matter now does it?'
'I suppose not...'
'And we'll tell her about the new arrangement then?'
'Well...'
'Are you thinking of her or of yourself now Delia? You owe her this... Look, I didn't want to say anything and get you all upset, but she... well, on the phone she told me she was glad we were here, to take over the burden of care. She wants her life back cariad. Can you really blame her?'
Delia felt winded. Patsy... Patsy was glad she wouldn't have to look after her anymore. She wanted her to leave.
Why had she assumed she would want anything else? As mam said, it was different now her family were here. Of course she wanted her life back. Hadn't she known all along how much Patsy missed nursing? She just hadn't realised she missed it more than she wanted to have Delia around.
Delia could barely manage more than a whisper as she gave the answer her mother wanted to hear:
'...Alright mam. We'll tell her this afternoon'.
'That's my good girl. I knew you'd see sense and come home to your mam and dad. Everything's going to be different now, you'll see. I think we should look on this accident as a gift from God. It's your chance to start over as the person you were always meant to be, with your family behind you and the Lord by your side. Your suffering the last few weeks will wash away your old sins and you can begin with a clean slate. Not many people get that chance cariad, you should count your blessings. You know, I can't wait to show you round the church, and introduce you to Father Tremblay. He does the loveliest Christmas service and I'm sure he could do some sort of blessing for you, to welcome you back into the arms of Jesus where you belong. Oh Delia I'm so excited! We'll go for a nice girly shopping trip first, get you something really special to wear on the day. And we can have lunch out, make a day of it! We can find somewhere that does coconut cake. How about it?'.
'I... I... Yes mam I'm sure that'll be lovely. I'm sorry. I don't have much appetite for breakfast. I think I'm just going to go for a little lie down'.
It was all Delia could do not to run from the dining room. Somehow her mother's enthusiasm for the idea of her going with them to Canada made the prospect all the more unappealing, and there were tears in her eyes by the time she finally shut her bedroom door behind her.
Canada. How had this happened? Yesterday she was living with Patsy and making plans for their future. They had finished painting the flat and made the first shopping trip for furnishings. They were so comfortable in each other's company now that often Delia would go hours without remembering that she had amnesia. They had been happy... Or at least she had been happy. She had really thought Patsy felt the same way, but now... How had she got it all so wrong?
Then there was the rest of the life she had been building for herself – the girls at Nonnatus House who had seemed well on the way to becoming really good friends. The letters she'd just started exchanging with a few of the nurses from the hospital that she had been hoping would lead to restored friendships further down the line. The work she'd been going to start at Nonnatus while Patsy was out attending births. The cat she had still harboured secret plans to mention, eventually. Now she was going to have to start from scratch.
It was almost 10am, but Delia crawled back into the bed that had already been remade by the hotel maid (with a twinge of guilt at undoing her neat work) and pulled the covers over her head. Her parents believed she was still a proper invalid, so if she decided to indulge her sadness and hide under the blankets, no one was going to suppose it to be anything but physical exhaustion. She lay there in the self-imposed darkness, tears trembling at the edge of her lashes but not quite giving her the relief of falling. She felt too numb and in shock for that as she tried to take it all in. But however hard it was, she had to work it all out now, so that she could be composed by the time she met Patsy this afternoon. She had to seem pleased by the concept of going with her parents.
It was what Patsy wanted.