AN: I just want to say thank you so so much to people who have reviewed so far. It honestly means so much that you take the time to comment on my story. You are wonderful human beings and it absolutely makes my day to see them :)

[edit: it was pointed out to me that I might have made Mrs Busby in this new version a bit TOO harsh without explaining why properly, so I have gone back to her letter and softened/expanded on it a bit. It doesn't change the plot in any way, just smooths things over a little]

Dear Miss Mount,

I was glad to receive your letter, as was Delia. However I'm afraid I must confess that I will not be passing on your promise to write every week. I hope you won't take this as an affront as it is not meant personally - the kindness demonstrated in your offer does you credit, and I hope you will realise that both Delia and I appreciate what you have done for her so far. I have no doubt that you have the best of intentions to keep up a faithful correspondence as you have said, but it seems clear from your letters that you are a busy young lady, and such things may well fall by the wayside as time goes by. It seems inevitable that as the shock of this accident wears off your other activities will return to the forefront of your attention and you will find yourself with less time to devote to an absent friend, particularly one so unwell. You must be aware Miss Mount that the Delia you knew is not the same girl I see every day, struggling to recall whether she takes sugar in her tea or prefers eggs boiled or scrambled. While I may live for and rejoice in the glimpses of my Delia that come through, I fail to see what benefit you gain from writing to a girl to whom you are, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. I know that may be difficult for you to hear - it is difficult for me as well. But Delia is my daughter, and that will never change no matter what she does or doesn't remember. I will not let her be hurt if I can help it.

I do not seek to insult you in saying this, only to state the truth. I understand that it is the natural course of things for you to move on from this tragedy and will not judge you harshly when it happens, but you in turn must understand that my priority is my daughter's health and happiness. Delia and I cannot move on from this, and I don't want things to be harder on her than they have to be when the time comes. At present you are a pleasant diversion for Delia and nothing more, but I would hate for her to grow attached to you as time goes on, only to have you lose interest in your turn. Her short term memory is much improved since she left the hospital and with her confinement to her bed for all but an hour a day she might easily come to rely on your letters to add variety and interest to her life.

I admit that that is well enough, for now, and I am grateful for it, as I am for anything that can make my daughter smile. But I would not wish to give her false hope of a long term correspondence if that is not what this is to be for you, especially given the fragility of her current emotional state. No doubt when she is able to be up and about more she will find interests here at home to engage with and will feel less of a need for someone else's stories to keep her entertained, but in the mean time I would urge you to be sensitive and to think of Delia's needs before your own in this matter. As such, I think it would be for the best for all concerned to take these letters one correspondence at a time, without any undue expectations on either side, don't you?

That being said, Delia has asked me to send you her regards and wishes you to know that she too has been practising her bandage work (it is part of her rehabilitation to practice old skills in the hope of jogging associated memories). She says that although she may not know how she knows, she is sure she could have even the clumsiest cubs making perfect dressings in no time. I am taking that as a good sign and I would invite you to do the same.

Yours Sincerely,

Mrs M. Busby

... ... ...

Dear Mrs Busby,

I understand your concerns completely; in your place I might feel the same way. I apologise if I have come across as too forward in my letters to you so far, but I want to assure you that I will not forget about Delia, no matter how busy life may get. I know it feels like a gamble to put any part of your daughter's happiness into the hands of someone who is a virtual stranger to you, and if you think it best not to make promises I will of course understand and abide by that. As you say, we must put Delia's well-being first, and if she should ever tell me she doesn't want me to write anymore then of course I will stop.

But even so I want you to know that in the time we spent together in London Delia became my closest friend. Your daughter is one of the kindest people I know and she has helped me through difficult days as well as sharing the good ones. She may not remember that, but I do, and I don't believe that her accident has altered her nature even if she can't recall the specifics of why I should want to write to her. I am not a fair weather friend Mrs Busby, and if Delia never recovers her memory or reaches a point where she is able to live independently I will still gladly be a pen pal for as long as she wants me, and a visitor should she ever come to wish it. I don't make promises lightly, so I hope in time you will come to realize that I am truly in earnest on this matter.

Yours Sincerely,

Patsy Mount

... ... ...

Dear Delia,

Fred has embarked on a new money making scheme this week. He always has one or two little projects on the go but every now and then he gets one of his Grand Ideas and convinces himself he is going to make his fortune through the unlikely avenue of (to name but a few) pigs, or toffee apples and quails eggs (those two he had going at the same time so all the toffee got feathers stuck to it and he was shut down for being unhygienic). This year he has decided that Christmas is the great Missed Opportunity for sales (yes I know, it's not even December yet, but he won't be told). I did try to point out that one or two others might have gotten in ahead of him on the old 'selling things for Christmas' front but he wasn't having any of it.

So can you guess what Fred's big idea is? Something traditional perhaps, like a roasted chestnut stall? Or a cart selling snips of holly to decorate Christmas puddings? Oh no, of course not, not for our Fred! Credit where it's due he did try to stick to tradition at first, but Sister Evangelina put her foot down when he tried to move a dozen scrawny young turkey's into the yard at Nonnatus (he wanted to fatten them up ready for Christmas), and Violet (Fred's new wife) very sensibly refused to have them anywhere near her flat either, so back to the drawing board he went and came back with ...(drum roll please)... novelty brussel sprouts. No, you didn't read that wrong, Fred has decided that what people need at Christmas is not sherry or fruit cake or (heaven forbid) a spirit of unselfish goodwill to all mankind, but miniature cabbage-like vegetables carved into the likenesses of snowmen, angels and Christmas puddings.

I honestly have never seen anyone attempt to do anything more complicated than chop such vegetables in half, but Fred has a twenty pound sack of the things in the kitchen and in every spare moment he can be found trying to whittle them into shape then boiling them to see if they are still recognizable. It really is getting rather tiresome to have to brush away little green piles of discarded leaf before being able to safely spread ones toast in the morning, and even kind hearted Barbara is refusing to eat any more of his failed attempts. I do believe I can speak for us all when I say that nothing green will be welcome on the plates of Nonnatus House for quite some time! You should consider this fair warning Delia – if Fred ever does perfect his Novelty Christmas Sprouts (which he will be marketing by the way as 'Buckle Sprouts' as Buckle is his last name) he may just decide to send you a nice package of them as well! Even Wales isn't far enough away to avoid that I'm afraid. He was talking yesterday about trying to send some to his daughter in Australia! Of course by the time they made it there they would be unrecognizable as anything but compost but I didn't have the heart to burst his bubble (especially if it means less of them make it onto our table!).

Sister Monica Joan is most unimpressed and has taken to flicking the sprouts into the fire place or hiding them beneath cushions and in her knitting bag to avoid having to eat them. This morning when Fred was preparing his latest batch I saw her take one from the table and hide it up her sleeve, then when she was on her way out the room she took aim and launched it at the back of his head, bold as you like! For a lady in her 90s she's a deadly accurate shot and it bounced neatly off his bald spot in the most comical manner imaginable. He took the hint and moved his operations out to the shed after that and I am rather relieved, although I dare say the nip in the air will drive him back inside before long.

Besides Fred's leafy adventures life goes on much as usual here in London. Doctor Turner has discovered a brand new wonder drug that has all our pregnant women in raptures as they say it quite cures even the worst cases of morning sickness. It seems medicine is making such leaps that it won't be long before there is a single pill to cure any ailment one could care to mention! Sister Evangelina is not impressed though, she says people rely too much on drugs and modern indulgences, and except for in the most severe cases a little bit of queasiness is no reason to go bothering doctor for lotions and potions (her words, not mine). I believe she thinks anything that seems easy is suspect! She had the same reaction to Nurse Crane's rolodex and yet (though she would never admit it) I do believe she appreciates it now more than any of the rest of us. But then Nurse Crane and Sister Evangelina have never seen eye to eye, they are simply too stubborn and certain they are right to admit that actually, they are very similar.

But what of you Delia? I hear you are doing great things as well? Your mother tells me you have been practising your nursing skills and are feeling quite ready to teach young scamps of boys to bandage again. I am very glad to hear that as it means you are getting stronger. Perhaps before too long you will be able to write to me of Wales and the way you spend your days there. I'm sure your room is simply charming. I imagine it with sunny yellow walls and a dozen dolls on the window sill that you used as your 'patients' when you were a little girl playing nurses. Am I close? Do tell me so I can picture it all!

Fondest Regards,

Patsy

... ... ...

My dearest Delia,

I'm afraid your mother is trying to dissuade me from writing to you, or at least to make it clear that when you are better she expects these letters to cease. I hope I'm reading too much into her words and she really is just worried that I will lose interest and you'll be left disappointed, as if that is the case I can simply prove her wrong... but I'm afraid that in fact the problem is that she doesn't want you to maintain too much of a connection to your life here in London... or to me. I wonder if you will ever be allowed to come back, even if you recover fully? I certainly get the impression that that's not what she wants, and what if you agree? She's your mother after all, you might decide to stay just to please her. You might even decide you don't want to hear from me anymore.

But I can't think like that.

There are too many 'what ifs', and if I let myself dwell too much on all the ways things could go wrong in the future I won't be able to keep from crying. I can't let that happen, because if I start I may never stop. So I need to do as she advised and take things one day at a time.

And today, I feel as if I am starved. Your mother's letters barely begin to answer my wonderings, let alone provide those little extra details that are so important during a recovery. She writes that you are now allowed out of bed for an hour a day and that you have been practising doing the things you used to love. I almost teared up over the last lines because I could so nearly hear your voice in those words about your bandage practice. My sweet sunny Deels, somehow you always find the best in a situation. I think I might have smiled for real for the first time since it happened when I read that, though it brought me closer to crying than anything else has too.

Since I sent my reply I have been terribly afraid that I might have pushed too hard. I have been so careful to write only of mundane things without pushing for any more information than I was freely given about your life, but this time was different. Ironically I think it was because of your mother's discouragement that I dared to do it. I panicked that she would stop writing altogether, and I couldn't bear the idea of not having any more news of you at all. So I all but asked you out right to reply to the letter yourself. I don't know why it feels dangerous, really, but it does. As if, should I show I care too much, your family really will tell me to leave you alone... No. if I'm honest with myself that isn't what scares me. What truly terrifies me is the thought that you might tell me to leave you alone. It is so difficult to strike a balance between what is proper and what I long for. In my mind you are still the one who takes my hand at every opportunity, almost without thought for who might see and judge us. But for you it's different. Your mother said you see me as little more than a stranger. Is that really true? I wish I could hear it from you, rather than having to take her word for it. Do you think of me as your friend, for all you can't remember me? As a character from some distant story? Or as someone to be pitied, someone who can't let go of what is no longer hers? I hate not knowing.

It's funny. Your mother doesn't trust me to be there for you the way she knows you deserve, and yet I think I feel the same way about her. Oh I know she loves you and is devoted to your well-being, but I can't help worrying that she can't possibly be caring for you as I would (does she do your hair every day the way you like it, even if no one will see? Does she make you biscuits with a dash of cinnamon because you love the taste of Christmas no matter what the time of year? Does she tell you of the world outside and play games with you so you aren't bored during your confinement?). I suppose this sort of fear is true of anyone who is helpless when the one they love is suffering. I have seen many a dithering father desperate to do something, anything to help when we are trying to deliver babies and they inevitably get underfoot and need to be sent sternly away. I think I will be a little more sympathetic towards them in future, now I truly know what it is like to be banished from where the one you love is in pain and given only the barest scraps of information until after the fact.

Oh Delia, if only I could see you again, to have an image of you recovering to replace the awful picture of you looking so small and hurt in the hospital with the light all gone from your eyes. I long to see you smile again, even if you are smiling for the first bite of a rosy apple or the antics of a bumblebee on the honeysuckle outside your window and not for me at all.

I am finding it so hard to live up to my name and be patient when all I really long to do is get on a train and rush to your bedside. If only you had a phone so I could at least hear your voice. But perhaps in time, if your mother comes to see that I truly mean to be here for you… perhaps she might let me come and see you one day (I confess I dropped the smallest hint of my desire to see you in my last letter to her, in spite of her cautioning). My heart (the traitorous thing) is crying out 'or perhaps you'll invite me yourself!' but that hope is a spark still too fragile to expose to the cold winds of reality so I am doing my best to pretend I can't hear it.

I love you Delia.

Most truly yours,
Patsy