[set in 1984]
The situation is becoming untenable. Delia comes home each night and just cries; usually huddled up to Patsy on the sofa, sobs wracking her body.
"There were three today, Patsy," she manages. Patsy holds her, strokes her hair (Patsy cannot help but notice the number of grey hairs are growing day by day). Delia has done this for her countless times over the years; she is nothing but grateful that she can repay the favour, but…
"Delia, I'm not sure you can keep on like this," she says carefully, as the tears begin to subside, "you're not eating properly, you're exhausted all the time-"
"I can't leave them, Patsy. So many of them don't even have a family any more; they need someone who cares!"
Midwifery was meant to be a change away from the oppressive practices of general nursing, with its entitled doctors and impersonal methods. After twenty-three years, Patsy has never been more grateful that her speciality is, the vast majority of the time, nothing but joy.
On the other hand, Delia's most recent work at The Royal London means she watches young man after young man die from a disease known in the newspapers as "the gay plague".
"If I left, they probably couldn't replace me," Delia says, her head resting on Patsy's chest, her eyes puffy, "they don't understand what's causing it, nobody wants to be near them-"
"I know, darling," Patsy says gently. Her years at Nonnatus taught her a lot about spiritual callings. "You look after them, and I'll look after you."