Thankyou to those who left feedback regarding my previous chapter's shifting to multiple storylines/characters. This update continues in that vein.
And thanks for the continued encouragement, not long to go now.
Trixie closed the bedroom door and went to her hiding place. Kneeling by the bed, she outstretched her hand and felt across the cold wooden floor. She hoped to feel the crisp glass grace her fingertips, but she traced nothing but the rustic imprints of wood and a random collection of dust. She poked her head under the bed in search of the bottle. It was gone. She looked in her drawers; her cupboards, nothing. She panicked. Perhaps a Nun had found it, she thought. Please be Sister Mary Cynthia and not Sister Winifred, she willed. But it was a brief fixation. Such was her need for relief, that a judgemental Nun was the least of her concerns.
Trixie ran to the bathroom, trusty ol' Listerine would be a suitable replacement for now. She didn't need a lot anyway, just the warm shock of alcohol to slightly numb her senses. Though she had never before resorted to such extremities, it was simply a necessity to cope with her shift on such a day as this, she justified.
Trixie opened the bathroom cabinet and scanned it's contents. There, amongst the various toiletries, she found it. An empty bottle of gin, so large that it seemed intrusive in the space.
"Patsy," she whispered.
Trixie gathered the bottle and closed the cabinet door. She watched her reflection in the cabinet mirror. A steady succession of tears caused her face to slowly distort. After everything she had said, the way she acted, the pain she caused... sweet, reliable Patsy was still looking out for her best interests. Just as she had always done. The red-head hadn't changed, it was Trixie who was unrecognisable. The mirror just confirmed it.
Trixie somehow found the strength to put on her uniform, all the while glancing remorsefully at Patsy's bed. She opened her bedside drawer and took out a pen and paper. Bracing the paper against the chest, her pen hesitated for a moment. She thought back to all that Lara had confided. Patsy had not told her, not out of selfishness or not wanting to be her friend, but out of fear. A fear that she lived with every day. A fear of being found out, which Trixie had only justified. A fear of losing friendships, which Trixie had seemingly tried her best to fulfil. A fear of losing her job. She sighed and wiped a tear from her eye.
Trixie knew that there was nothing she could write that would atone for what was already said and done, but she had to start somewhere. She began with the simplest of words - sorry. She scribbled the rest in a rush, knowing that if she took the time to think, it would never be written, and never be known. She tucked the folded paper under Patsy's bed covers so that it only slightly protruded into view.
Patsy had made up her mind; reply with four simple words: "the allegations are absurd." Keep it short and simple, no need for further elaboration. To concoct a long, detailed story is a sign of guilt, and, would require the ability to conduct more than one complete sentence. She placed the last of the medicine bottles to the side, then looked up briefly to see Phyllis approaching. Out of sheer panic, Patsy commenced the re-counting of stock. She re-positioned the medicine bottle to it's original place. Then the one after that, and the one after that. If it wasn't such a pitiful attempt at avoidance, Phyllis might think that Patsy was simply too preoccupied to acknowledge her presence.
A thump on the table broke Patsy from her pretence. Her eyes focused on a dark blue leather-bound book. Patsy closed her eyes; the ledger. How could I be so foolish?
"You'll need that to keep track of your meticulous counting," said Phyllis, eyebrow arched.
"Yes, of course," said Patsy, not daring to look at the older Midwife.
"And re-counting."
"Nurse Crane doesn't miss a trick," said Patsy, smiling and shaking her head.
"It's nice to see your smile, Ms Mount," said Phyllis. Patsy's smile weakened. "Well then," continued Phyllis, she didn't want to cause Patsy any further despair, "dare to accompany an old maid home?"
"I can't, I'm afraid. It seems I have some rather meticulous numbers to write down." Patsy rolled her eyes at her own forgetfulness.
"So it seems," smiled Phyllis. She turned to leave, but paused. She looked back to the red-head. "You are an excellent Nurse Ms Mount, " she said with stoic conviction, "and an outstanding human-being."
Patsy smiled weakly and nodded. Phyllis turned away, embarrassed at her uncharacteristic sentimentality. Patsy watched as Phyllis walked the length of the room and out the door. Patsy continued staring at the wooden panels for several moments; willing time to freeze. She glanced up to the clock above and counted the hours until her judgement. Panic stabbed at her heart. She braced herself against the ledger and took elongated breaths. Slowly calming, she traced her fingers across the indent of the leather, then turned the pages to her previous position. And there, in the middle of the page, was the neat, cursive script that Patsy recognised as belonging to Phyllis.
She whispered the words aloud:
"Courage is the only asset
That will conquer in the fight
If you have the will to mass it
On the lines of truth and right."
Patsy looked to the space once occupied by the curmudgeonly Midwife and sighed.
It wasn't until Lara bellowed forward in laughter at her unintended joke that Barbara noticed her necklace. Dangling from the blonde's neck was a gold cross hanging from a gold chain.
"Are you religious?" asked Barbara. She stared at the crucifix now resting on Lara's collarbone.
Lara's laughter faded, she twisted the cross with her fingers. "Oh no, it seems as though the inquisition has returned."
"Sorry," said Barbara, "I'll stop with the million questions."
"Oh I was joking Barbara, I don't mind. Though I do intend to go home and write a list of questions for you... for next time." Lara blushed at her presumption.
"That seems only fair," said Barbara, smiling. She was most glad there would be a next time.
"But yes, I am. Catholic to be specific, church every Sunday. Does that surprise you?"
"Yes?" Barbara was uncertain whether that was the right answer.
"Because I'm homosexual?"
"Yes?" Barbara was aware that she was answering in confused questions, but she didn't want to offend her new friend. She was well aware of what the Bible said about her kind. "I'm sorry, it's not a particularly lovely topic to raise, considering..."
Lara smiled weakly.
"Oh gosh," said Barbara, she placed her hand over Lara's, "and yet there I go, raising it. Let's talk about more pleasant things." Barbara paused, unable to think of more pleasant things, she was too preoccupied by her own foolishness. Lara, too, was preoccupied with the warmth of Barbara's hand on her own. She slowly removed it from Barbara's light grasp. It wasn't lost on Barbara, her face grew red from the implication.
"Well," said Lara, keen to distract from the hand-holding, "I don't believe the interpretation of the Bible that we're all going to hell. That is an interpretation for those who like to shrink scripture to fit their own narrow-mindedness."
It didn't help Barbara's blush. There was once was a time when she would have prayed for people like Lara, for people like Patsy and Delia, to release them from their sins and be saved.
"And what's your interpretation?" asked Barbara.
"That God loves me, just like everyone else. And not despite of my sin, because I don't believe that it is a sin. How could loving someone be a sin? And hating someone like me, be an act of faith?"
Barbara contemplated for a moment, Lara was right, of course. "You are perhaps the most wise person I've ever met."
It was now Lara's turn to blush. "And you are perhaps the loveliest." She falted, aware of the insinuation. "I'm really glad to have made a new friend," she clarified.
"Me too."
"But as your friend, I feel it incumbent upon me to tell you..."
"What?" asked Barbara, her eyebrow raised in suspicion.
"We've missed the film."
Delia watched the clock, she was almost certain that Patsy would be home before her; certain that Patsy would be interrogated before she had the chance to change the night's course. She would have to feign illness, or a sudden emergency, she thought. Leave early, find her former friend, or indeed friends, and convince them to retract the accusation. All in the space of two hours. It seemed insurmountable. But still; she thought back to Mr Chisolm: 'fear makes the wolf appear bigger than he is.' I can beat this, thought Delia; a wolf is no match for the Welsh.
Delia hunted down the ward Matron. If a toad embodied buxom human form and favoured a seam-busting uniform, the amphibian would resemble a more attractive parody of Matron Beasley. Other Nurses had even taken to call her Ms Beastly behind her back, but not Delia. Delia could make a friend of anyone; and she had been determined to do so with Matron Beasley. Though a friendship had not yet resulted from Delia's endless cheerful greetings and enquiries concerning the Matron's cat, it was clear to anyone that the Head Nurse was slightly less of a raging lunatic around the small brunette.
"Well, I don't have all day Nurse Busby, and neither do you!" said the Matron from behind her desk. "What is it?"
"Um," Delia played with her hands, "I'm afraid there is an emergency I must attend to."
Matron Beasley's brow creased in anger. "Well go on then!"
"You mean you're letting me go?"
"Well this is a hospital, Nurse Busby, responding to an emergency is part of your job, is it not?"
Delia's excitement faded. "No, I mean yes it is, but that's not why I'm here. You see..."
Delia paused in panic. She had intended to say that the emergency was of the frequent need to use the lavatory kind (Delia could never work out why Patsy thought her dramatic), but she could predict Matron Beasley's response: 'This is a Hospital, find some medication, and get bloody on with it!' Delia racked her brain for an excuse more likely to lie with the Head Nurse's sympathies.
"Well get bloody on with it!" said the Matron, in seeming confirmation of Delia's concerns.
"It's my cat!," exclaimed Delia, at last.
Matron Beasley raised her eyebrow. "I didn't think you had a cat..."
"She's new. Her name is Trixie... she's somewhat of a mangy terror."
Matron laughed. "Still young is she? I've been there."
"Well she's getting on," said Delia. "But she's pregnant, so young enough. My house mate has just called and said she's in labour, but there's a problem."
"Oh dear..."
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Delia, "But my house mate, she's not a Nurse you see... so she's asked if I could possibly come and ..."
"Of course," interrupted Matron Beasley, "say no more." She rose to her feet and motioned Delia toward the door. Delia was sure the hot sweat of her hand would leave a greasy imprint on her back. Still, Matron Beasley could place a grease infested hand directly on her face, and she wouldn't mind. "Thankyou so much Matron, you really are a great friend."
The Head Nurse stepped back from the brunette, she lowered her head bashfully. "Thank you, Ms Busby... Perhaps Mr Tipples and Little Trixie could have a play date sometime?"
"That would be... splendid," said Delia.
"And bring the kittens!"
Delia ran toward home. Though she was mostly preoccupied with the riot act she would soon be spieling, she thought briefly of her other dilemma. Where would she get a cat? And where at Nonnatus could she keep it?
This, she concluded, was the problem with long, elaborate fabrications. Not only were they a sign of guilt, but they could also result in the long, elaborate hiding of kittens.
Phyllis had ruined Patsy's plan. On the brisk walk toward Nonnatus, Patsy constantly recited the poem in her head.
Courage is the only asset
That will conquer in the fight
If you have the will to mass it
On the lines of truth and right
She had heard the poem before, perhaps in childhood. Perhaps at school, she couldn't recall. But she knew the words written were only a partial retelling. She internally recited the words again, hoping another verse would come to mind. But she would get to the last line, and forget all else. 'On the lines of truth and right' seared into her consciousness.
'The allegations are absurd!' would have been the simplest of explanations, but it wouldn't be the truth; it wouldn't be right. Patsy contemplated- but did truth and righteousness justify the risk? She knew what the consequences of truth were. It had been ingrained in her psyche since she realised the woman she was becoming. The loss of her job, loss of her residence, loss of reputation. And loss, perhaps, of friends. The loss of family, she knew, was suffered by others of her kind, though it had never been a concern of hers, not in the past. Having lost her mother and sister at such a young age, and with the relative absence of her father, she knew family to lie in the most obscure of places. She had found it in the arms of Delia, and now, she realised, in the heart of Nonnatus House. She was thankful that fate had worked to bring them both to her. The end of this, from speaking her truth, would be the greatest risk of all, she knew. Her blessing would come undone.
"Blessing" she whispered, suddenly realising the connection. She recited the poem once more, this time aloud:
"Courage is the only asset
That will conquer in the fight
If you have the will to mass it
On the lines of truth and right"
She hesitated, searching for the next verse..., "blessing, blessing," she said in hushed tones, her brow creased in concentration. Then, Patsy suddenly ceased her long strides. She looked to the sky and whispered:
"And when at last victorious,
From the conflict you arise,
You'll reap a harvest glorious
From your blessings in disguise"
She realised now, where she had heard it, whom had said it... "Mother," she breathed. Tears fell from Patsy's eyes as she reminisced the stormy nights in the POW camp. In comforting the young Patsy, her mother would hold her in her arms and rock her back and forth. "Don't be afraid, my Patience," she would whisper, "we have each other. That is a blessing that others don't have." Patsy would bury her head further into her mothers embrace. Her mother in turn, would recite the poem softly in Patsy's ear. But Patsy, of course, had only had the blessing of her mother and sister for so long.
Patsy continued walking. But I still have Delia, she thought, and would still, if I spoke my truth and the worst were to happen. They would have to find other jobs, of course, find another place, but they'd still be together. And in their own flat perhaps, just as they were before. Delia would smell disinfectant in the air and know that Patsy was home; Patsy would wrap her scarf around Delia in the morning and send her on her way. They still couldn't be open in their new jobs, she knew. But away from that, for sixteen beautiful hours in their day, they would be free. And that was a blessing.
Patsy lengthened her stride; she walked with purpose. It was true, she surmised, the truth shall set me free. Patsy thought of the panic she felt when sharing Delia's bed, the pain from only being able to touch her behind closed doors. And then, she imagined that fear and the pain disappear; just as the fear of the consequences was slowly subsiding with each determined stride.
And so, Patsy had a new plan. Her truth- her love for Delia, despite all obstacles, would no longer be disguised by shame. Her truth was glorious, her truth was a blessing. But then she thought of her mother's words and her stride weakened; "this is a blessing that others don't have." She thought of Mr Amos and of the anonymous faces at Gateways, who could only be themselves in a shroud of secrecy. And even then, when they tried their upmost to hide like Mr Amos had done, like she had done, they could still be punished for simply choosing to love.
Patsy increased her pace once more, a steely determination adorned her face. Her truth, she decided, would not only be glorious, would not only be a blessing- her truth would be righteous.
Author Note: The poem is borrowed from The Harvest by Jack Crawford (1847 - 1917).