Trixie stared at the bottle in hand. It had been months since she drowned her sorrows in liquid courage. She had not quite endured so many alcohol-free nights as to declare herself abstinent, but lying against the bed frame, staring at the empty bed adjacent, she had never felt so sober.
Trixie had an excuse for every drinking escapade. A celebration of her engagement - sorrow over it's end. A night out with the girls – a rare night in to herself. But what would she raise a glass to now? The end to friendship? The end to sobriety? She shook the liquid until it formed a cloud in it's glass enclosure. Trixie watched it intensely, hoping that once the fog had cleared, she'd see Patsy through the contortion of the glass – hand out, forgiving.
Trixie didn't know where Patsy was, but assumed she was in Delia's room. Talking about her – her cruelty and intolerance. Perhaps they would say that she were two-faced, judgemental, callous. And they'd be right, she thought. Trixie hid the bottle under the bed, determined they couldn't add 'drunk' to their list of her most ardent qualities.
Trixie changed into her nightclothes and turned off the light. She lay in the claustrophobic confines of her bed covers, unable to think of anything other than Patsy and booze. She wondered whether there were any words that had the same memory-altering effects as alcohol. A magic potion of a sentence that could erase the night's events. Sorry, forgive me, I need you – just didn't seem to cut it.
Trixie knew the impact of words. A declaration of love had conceived many a child. A declaration of war had caused London to crumble. Words, she knew, could be uttered in seconds but bring a lifetime of change. Seconds was all it took, after all, for Tom to utter words of beginnings and words of ends. Seconds, she sighed, was enough to utter words of regret - "it's my business when you do what you do for a living."
And so, Trixie fished the bottle from under the bed and counted the seconds down – 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... she took a swig of bravery. A magic potion for magic words, she justified. Her head swirled with the taste of regret and words to be said. She took an ounce of courage from the ounce of liquid consumed – and made her way to Delia's room. Seconds, she hoped, could be all it took to forgive.
The harsh air in the hallway sobered Trixie. Her body rattled in time with her thoughts. What could she say that would atone for what was already said? Trixie had tried, during the walk home, to understand her own reaction to the revelation. The harshness, the implications of her words – hurt was her only justification. And so, she had hurt Patsy in turn.
Trixie saw the artificial light creep from under the door. She moved forward until her shadow eclipsed the orange glow.
But as Trixie placed her hand over the door handle, she heard it. The unmistakable sound of sex: heavy breathing, soft moans, the contact and release of skin on skin. She paused, flushed, afraid the sound of creaking floorboards would reveal her presence. She slowly released her hand from the brass. The liberation of her skin and the sound of the handle shifting back in place seemed deafening. She caught her breath, afraid to add her own breathing to the cacophony of sounds. She heard the soft cry of Patsy's name, stifled and hushed. "Shh, sweetheart", Patsy whispered. Trixie released her breath. They hadn't heard her, she thought, relieved.
She took a step back, the floorboard whimpered. Silence. Trixie froze in mid-stride, her hand glaciated in the night air. She couldn't make her escape, she thought; her footsteps would surely be heard in the muteness. Patsy would find her, spying again, prying into matters that were none of her business. Trixie's internal panic screamed at her to run. But then – she heard lips meet and pull apart in quick succession, breathing less shallow, heavier. She crept backwards, wincing with every creak in the floor.
Once safe in her room Trixie covered herself in bed covers, her cheeks still flushed. Everything had changed and nothing had changed, she thought. Patsy was still escaping their room in the early morning hours. Trixie was still escaping herself in the contents of a bottle. But, thought Trixie, thinking of how easily Patsy had shrugged off the night's events, only one of them was hurt. Only one of them was alone.
Trixie held the bottle close. Just to dull the pain, she justified.
Barbara lunged from her slumber, her eyes wide, forehead moistened with sweat. She gasped and clenched her bed covers, her fists whitening at the knuckle.
Her reaction caused Phyllis to bolt upright in a similar fashion. Her pink hair rollers lunged forward, dangling precariously over her brow. "What on earth is wrong?" croaked Phyllis – her voice had not quite awoken at the same speed as her body. She stared at Barbara, rollers banging against her forehead as she nodded her head in agitated expectation. "Well?"
Barbara appeared startled. Not even the ridiculousness of Phyllis' head-gear could shake her from it. Phyllis could creak out of bed, with full bodied undergarments clinging to her lumpy frame, and it still wouldn't shake Barbara out of her expression (though witnessing this was always Barbara's favourite part of the morning). Barbara bought her bed covers to her neck, as if to conceal her panicked thoughts.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Phyllis - a voice of concern, expression of disapproval. "You're all clammy... it's most unattractive this early in the morning."
"Sorry to wake you Phyllis, it was just a nasty dream." said Barbara, panting.
"Right," said Phyllis, eyeing Barbara suspiciously. She rose from the bed, undergarments clinging. Barbara smirked, breaking her expression – she had misjudged the power of Nurse Crane in her delicates.
Phyllis turned to face Barbara. Barbara looked away, spotting an invisible fly on the windowsill. "If any of your friends are also under the weather this morning, they needn't think I'm covering their shifts," she said, gathering her toiletries. "You, Ms Gilbert, are quite fortunate that you're not rostered until this evening!" accused Phyllis, finger pointing.
Patsy woke, mid snore, to the sound of knocking. Dazed, she took in her surroundings. She rose suddenly- she was in Delia's room, beside Delia. In nothing but her underwear.
Patsy shook Delia awake as three more knocks brushed against the wooden frame. Delia and Patsy stumbled out of bed. Patsy ferociously looked for the previous night's clothing, tossing random objects in her wake. This is it, she thought, the end.
"Ah, who is it?" asked Delia, throwing discarded pyjamas to Patsy. Such was her panic that Patsy suddenly lost all memory of how to wear pants. She held them up in bewildered confusion.
"Hurry up!" mouthed Delia as she covered herself with a dressing gown.
"It's Barbara," came a whisper from behind the door. "I need to talk to you."
Delia let out a sigh of relief and moved toward the whisper, much to Patsy's dismay. Patsy wrapped herself in the pyjama top. "No!" she mouthed, still thinking of escaping out the second story window. Sure, a broken leg would hurt, she thought, but not as much as homelessness in London's winter weather.
Delia opened the door. Barbara stared at a flustered Patsy - clumsily buttoning up her pyjama top. Patsy composed herself and stood straight, buttons askew. At least she managed to put pants on, thought Delia.
"Barbara, I am here because... I needed to ask Delia for something," said Patsy, eyes panicked.
Barbara arched her eyebrows, "okay..."
"Yes, well then," Patsy turned to Delia. "so can I have the thing? That I asked for when I came in just moments earlier?" asked Patsy, her voice broken like a teenage boy.
Delia found it all very amusing. "And what thing would that be, sweetheart?"
Patsy's whiter than white complexion turned a pinker shade of pink – matched only by the colour forming on Barbara's cheeks. "Sorry?" stumbled Patsy. She glanced at Barbara briefly - reassuringly, then back to her girlfriend in wide eyed horror.
Delia shifted nervously. It was not a slip of the tongue. Delia had thought that if she informed Patsy of her indiscretion in a nonchalant way then maybe she would just laugh it off. But seeing Patsy's expression, Delia realised her plan was futile.
Barbara was as uncomfortable with the growing tension as she was with the open affection. She decided, as a lover and not a fighter, she preferred the latter. "It's okay Pats, I know", she said, smiling uneasily.
"Know what?" asked Patsy. She turned to Delia for answers.
"About us, Cariad," said Delia, softly. Patsy looked at Delia like she had just sneezed in her champagne. She rushed to the door and closed it abruptly, bracing herself against it's frame.
"I'm fine with it, I really am," said Barbara, placing a hand on Patsy's arm.
Barbara watched Patsy watch Delia. Her face was red with embarrassment and rage.
"Look," said Barbara, "obviously you didn't know that I know, I can see that's a bone of contention between the two of you." Barbara removed her hand from Patsy's arm and placed it on her own hip, like a teapot with a broken spout. "But I'm afraid you're going to have to just... carry on!"
The tone and unusual frankness of Barbara's words caused Patsy to break her non-reciprocal eye contact with Delia. She turned to Barbara. "Excuse me?"
"Yes, I know it's rather unbecoming of me," said Barbara, "but I really do insist, I have a much more pressing issue and I need your advice." Barbara sat on the edge of the bed and readjusted her dressing gown. "As experts in the field, that is."
Experts in the field? thought Delia. She wondered if Barbara needed a lesson in achieving a fuller fringe.
"What is it, Barbara?" asked Patsy, curtly.
Barbara shifted closer to the end of the bed. "Well you know last night?" she paused, as if the previous night had been so flippant that the two women could not recall it.
"Yes," confirmed Delia. "It feels like it was just yesterday." Patsy smirked begrudgingly.
"It appears as though I may have..." Barbara blushed and looked at her nails, as if just realising their existence.
"what Barbara?" asked Patsy impatiently, she was in no mood for polite banter.
Barbara looked to Patsy, her brow creased in worry. "A date," she said, at last, throwing herself on the bed. "Oh I'm so embarrassed!"
Patsy's jaw dropped, Delia roared with laughter.
"Don't, it's not funny," muffled Barbara into the bed sheets.
Delia sat next to Barbara's slumped body, still laughing. "Lara I presume?" she asked, patting Barbara's back.
Barbara turned over, her sweaty fringe plastered to her red forehead. "And I'm the one who asked her," she sulked. "I didn't know she was... so inclined... she looked normal." Barbara raised her head, "no offence."
"Oh none taken," said Patsy, sarcastically. She smiled, breaking her feigned annoyance. At least Barbara had taken the news of their relationship, of what they were, reasonably well... for a normal person.
Barbara's head slumped back on the bed. "I had forgotten all about it. But this morning, I was thinking of all the things that happened last night and... well, what am I going to do?" she pleaded.
Patsy sighed and joined the two women. "When is this date?"
Barbara groaned. "Today, at 1pm. We are meeting for tea and then seeing To Kill A Mockingbird at the cinema." She frowned, close to tears.
"Drink - then a movie..." nodded Delia, "that's practically going steady," she laughed. Patsy hit her with a pillow.
Barbara turned over again, mimicking a dying star fish. She gasped for air, face buried in the sheets.
"Delia's just being a deviant," said Patsy, shooting her girlfriend a look of disapproval. "Believe it or not Barbara, but women like Lara, are capable of being around a nice girl like you... without kissing them senseless. I don't recall Delia or I making advances, do you?"
"No," groaned Barbara into the mattress.
"I'm sure you'll find Lara would make a most wonderful friend. Nothing more."
Delia smiled at Patsy, she was always so sensible. The smile was not returned, she noted.
"You really think so?" asked Barbara, turning over. "And she wouldn't expect anything more?" She sat crossed legged and looked to the two women, hopeful.
"Patsy and I had no expectation other than friendship; there's no reason why Lara wouldn't be the same," said Delia, suddenly sensible.
Barbara nodded, "yes of course, how silly of me."
"Of course that ended when Pats groped me in the hospital laundry."
"Oh Lord," Barbara braced herself, hands on her thighs, slightly hyperventilating.
"I was just trying to get past," Patsy protested, "it was a tight space!"
Delia shook her head, 'it wasn't' she mouthed. Patsy pushed her down to the bed.
"Don't listen to her Barbara, you'll be fine," said Patsy, pinning Delia with one hand.
Barbara smirked at the playful affection displayed between her two friends - in between sudden bouts of winded gasping.
Barbara concentrated on slowly maintaining her breath. It enabled her to reflect. She couldn't stand the poor girl up, she knew. Barbara was not a girl who broke promises, nor hearts. And it would give her the opportunity to understand how her friends felt toward each other. Barbara knew that such personal questions were rude, but the Lord was unlikely to answer her nightly prayers any time soon. He would be much too busy sourcing her silk stockings, she thought.
"Well I am, unfortunately, a woman of manners," said Barbara, once contained. "And a woman who really wants to see the film. I'll just explain that I would very much like to be her friend, but nothing more." She paused, "and I'll stay away from tight spaces."
Barbara stood and addressed Patsy. "Thank you for your advice." Patsy smiled in acknowledgement.
Barbara turned to the Welsh woman, "and Delia?"
"Yes?" Delia giggled, aware of how adorably unhelpful she had been.
"You need to wash those sheets."
Delia blushed immediately. Patsy laughed but stopped abruptly, realising she was also implicated.
Barbara swished her way to the door like a sophisticated lady - one who had not teamed a faded dressing gown with unkempt hair. Channelling Joan Crawford (after her excellent insult delivery), she swung the door open but stopped suddenly.
"Still dishevelled I see?" said a fully clothed Phyllis lingering in the door way. Barbara combed her hair down with her fingers.
Phylis looked beyond Barbara to the two women. Their faces were flushed, Phyllis assumed, with the effects of alcohol. "You lot are due downstairs for breakfast," she said, shaking her head. "You're a sight for blind eyes, I tell you," she muttered as she walked back down the hallway. Barbara followed, patting down her hair.
Delia smiled at Patsy, her face apologetic. Patsy walked out the door, ignoring Delia's hand grasping for hers.