Trixie Franklin has many good virtues. Indeed, upon their first meeting Barbara thought that she had simply radiated sunshine and rainbows. This perception had changed slightly over time, of course. By the end of Barbara's first fortnight at Nonnatus House she had declined a night cap so many times; endured endless gossip about the private lives of nuns, that she had altered her position. No, Trixie Franklin illuminated cheerful feistiness and freshly popped champagne, Barbara had concluded. Both excellent qualities, but slightly less innocent.

Over time the entire residence of Nonnatus House had stumbled upon Trixie's slightly less alluring quality. She was quite simply as stubborn as a mule. Trixie's insistence that her exercise class was a priority, and incessantly suggesting that Barbara at least try a tipple, were testament to this.

The alcohol had not served to relax Barbara enough to send her to sleep, as Trixie had promised. Instead Barbara had hiccuped her way through an overly detailed sermon: Why oh why were socks called socks? Though mostly incoherent, she had concluded they must have been invented by someone named Sock. Barbara was thankful that she was not a direct descendant. Barbara Sock was not becoming. She did like socks though, they were "most handy in winter."

Indeed Trixie's stubbornness could lead to priceless moments - an intoxicated Barbara. And moments less desired - bending over in leotards for an instructor who could model lingerie.

It could also, Patsy now realised, lead to nastiness. Trixie's obstinate nature revealed itself in full force as she refused to alter her fierce eye contact, nor answer the imposing question.

Why are you even here?

Trixie knew why, of course. She was jealous, hurt, sneaky, a bad friend. A concoction of all the ghastly traits, the Trixie of cheerful feistiness and freshly popped champagne, could never admit to.

But Patsy was also bullheaded. Delia had informed her of this almost daily. Mostly the trait had been used to advance some well-meaning cause. She had been relentless in ensuring, despite all odds, that her Scouts learnt something – anything, whilst under her watch. For their part, the Scouts had learnt that Patsy was much calmer and good-humoured when Ms Busby tagged along.

Then, of course, there were those damn cigarettes. A habit she managed to keep defiantly, despite Delia's constant reminders of the health consequences. And indeed the bedroom consequences. Delia was not so stubborn in her reprimanding, it seemed.

And so, sitting adjacent the blonde, Patsy matched Trixie in bloody-minded looks of impending death by not-so-friendly fire.

This unyielding, Trixie had not accounted for. Surely, after all that had been revealed Patsy would be crumbling at her feet? Not causing Trixie's own feet to tremble.

She raised an eyebrow at the red-head. History, Trixie knew, dictated that she would win the battle.

As a child Trixie's younger brothers were renown for their mischief. They would steal flag-poles from front lawns and the cooling cakes on neighbour's windowsills. They were branded trouble-makers. Acquaintances failed to understand how they could belong to the same blood-line as that 'nice' Trixie. Unaware that it was Trixie who was the source of encouragement. Sitting back, eating the very cake her brothers had been scolded for.

Despite knowing she was wrong for using her brothers for personal gain, Trixie simply could not own up to this flaw in her personality. That she were capable of acts that were frowned upon. Besides, there were no rewards for admitting injustice. Certainly no cake. Forgiveness? she thought. Perhaps.

But seeing the venom on Patsy's face, Trixie discounted the possibility.

"Answer me!" Patsy demanded, her breathing less erratic.

Trixie felt her insides spilling over.

"Why. Are. You. Here?" Patsy repeated, louder.

"Why are you?" Trixie retaliated. The immediacy – an attempt to escape inquisition.

Patsy fell silent.

"And what is here exactly? This place?"

Trixie paused, letting the words fill the air. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

Trixie smirked, knowing full well what Gateways was. She wanted to hear it from Patsy – to take the heat off what had bought her here.

"Oh please Trixie, you act as if you haven't been spying. As if I'm in the wrong!" shouted Patsy.

"Well aren't you?" screamed Trixie. She immediately regretted her words.

Patsy rose to her feet, her anger giving way. "Pats, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Patsy stood above her, staring down to her features; a mixture of hurt and rage in her face.

"You know," said Patsy, "I thought of all people, that you would be on my side. After the soldier you covered for, I thought..." Patsy stopped. She had almost likened herself to a fellow queer. She swallowed the word. Afraid of it's consequences.

Trixie sighed. She remembered the conversation they shared. It seemed so insignificant then. It had happened after the husband of a patient had been caught engaging in... what had Police called it? Unnatural Acts? Trixie wondered what other insignificant conversations, would soon become significant with hindsight.

"Pats..."

Patsy turned to her, but Trixie couldn't think of the words. She wasn't sure what to say. Beyond accusations and snide remarks. Her defence, her armour had held her words hostage.

"What?" asked Patsy. "You're going to sit there and pretend - after the spying, that look of disgust, the accusation that how I feel is... that you're on my side?"

"If you had just told me this wouldn't..."

"This wouldn't have happened?" Patsy interrupted. "You wouldn't have had to spy on me like I was..." Patsy's eyes wandered, searching for the words, "a bloody war criminal!"

Trixie stood to her feet. "I don't think you're a criminal, Patsy." She looked to her, eyes concerned, head positioned slightly off-kilter. Then looked away. "But you're not who I thought you were."

Patsy kicked an empty can that littered the alley. Not in anger, but an attempt at distraction. She let out a long breath, ready to tell Trixie that nothing had changed. She was exactly the strong, reliable friend she had been just hours before. It was a speech well rehearsed.

But of course things had changed. Not all her doing.

"Well", Patsy traced a cobblestone with the tip of her shoe, "you're not the friend I thought I had either."

Trixie sucked in the air, as if all the words Patsy had said could be consumed and forgotten. She exhaled. "Friend," she said. "Let's talk about that shall we?"

Patsy scoffed, "so you don't want to be my friend now that you know?" She shook her head, incredulously.

"Know what, Patsy?" Trixie asked, pleading. She took a step toward her.

Patsy concentrated on the movements her foot was making, outlining the imperfect square in the road. She was aware that she should leave, could leave. But she wanted to be sure that her secret remained safe. This meant, of course, that she would have to say it. The actual words that she could barely say to herself, to Delia even. She wasn't sure she could.

"Why do you even care?" Patsy cried, not daring to look at the blonde approaching her. Patsy placed her arm out - hand stretched, fingers pointed at the sky. It stopped Trixie from moving closer.

"I care because I thought we were friends," said Trixie, staring at the hand before her.

"Friends don't spy on each other!" screamed Patsy.

"Friends don't lie to each other!" Trixie's shoulders slumped. "I know I shouldn't have followed you. I wouldn't have if I knew..." Trixie scoffed, "Christ Pats, I'm not even sure I know now."

Patsy released her arm, letting it fall to her side. She turned from Trixie.

Trixie waited for Patsy to explain, to say the words aloud, but knew it wouldn't come.

"You know I thought you were seeing someone."

Patsy turned her head, curious.

"I saw you" Trixie paused. "And Delia", she said delicately.

Patsy closed her eyes at the mention of Delia's name.

"You were outside, dressed up. Completely different attire than you had been wearing when you left. You were not, as it were, with Mrs Busby."

Trixie waited until the full weight of the insinuation had landed. "So I thought - those two are up to something." She paused. "And I followed."

Trixie began to pace between the two adjacent walls encompassing the alley. "I saw you laughing with whom I thought were two sophisticated gentlemen. I thought you were keeping them from me. That you were embarrassed to introduce them to dear, drunk ol' Trixie."

Trixie stopped pacing. She turned to face Patsy. "And that, to answer your question, is why I'm here – wounded, sober, pride."

An excruciating silence filled the air.

"So why dear Patsy, are you?"

Patsy braced herself. She thought of how brave Delia would be if she were here. Delia would tell Trixie what she was. That she was in love. With a woman. And Trixie could accept it or that would be the end of their friendship. But Delia wasn't here. She had abandoned her; escaped with Barbara, of whom no explanation was needed.

Patsy felt all the courage drain out of her. No explanation was needed here either, she concluded. Trixie had seen what she was with her very eyes. To expect a full confession, after all Trixie's antics, was downright elitist.

"That's none of your business," said Patsy, at last. She looked to Trixie, "despite what you think Nurse Franklin, the universe doesn't revolve around you. Certainly not my personal life."

Trixie felt a stab of pain in her chest. Perhaps she really had misconstrued their friendship. The pain tightened as Trixie thought of all she had confided. The drinking, the insecurities about Tom. Patsy had given her nothing. Patsy had thought her untrustworthy, had not thought her a friend.

It was the pain that caused Trixie to lash out – to speak all the words that were in her head. Words she knew should never be said aloud. Words that nice girls didn't say. Feelings that nice girls didn't have.

"It is my business" she spat.

Trixie grabbed hold of Patsy's shoulder, turning her around forcefully. "It's my business when I have to make excuses for you. Explain why you're mysteriously absent from your bed when you're not on shift."

Patsy backed away from her.

"It's my business when I share a room with you." Trixie stepped closer to her, lessening the gap. "When I dance with you. Undress in front of you."

Patsy ceased retreating. "Really Trixie," she yelled, "if you think that I'm attracted..."

"It's my business," Trixie interrupted, "when you do what you do for a living."

And there it was, thought Patsy. The reason why she could never tell. Her livelihood, all she had worked for, was at stake.

Patsy's doggedness collapsed. Tears erupted from her eyes. She turned and ran.

Trixie watched as Patsy turned the corner, her loud sobs filling the silence of the night. She felt her legs give way with the weight of all she had said. She hit the ground with the same impact her words had surely had on Patsy.

Patsy - who had never judged her, despite the break ups, her drinking, her inflexibility. It had taken her friend running away from her, running because of her, to remember what had slipped away.

"You cold-blooded, pig-headed, judgemental fool!" she spat to herself.

Trixie had won the battle. But the war within herself had just begun.