Dear Pats,
Oh my goodness, why ever didn't you tell me you were so pretty?! I hope your young man considers himself the luckiest chap in the world to have captured the heart of someone who is so kind and interesting AND looks like she's stepped right out of an oil painting. Why don't you ever write of him to me? I must have known him, once. Did I disapprove of him terribly? (I imagine I thought he wasn't good enough for you and wanted you all to myself? No wonder if the scoundrel left you to go to dances alone and feel like a gooseberry!). Or perhaps he disapproves of me? What fun, I'm beginning to think I might rather like to be disapproved of! (not too much you understand, but a little bit - just enough to imply that I'm someone with enough about me to warrant a strong opinion one way or another). But I'm sure you are always stalwart in your defence of your impertinent little friend when he mentions his feelings on the matter. Mam makes me out to be such a prim little lady when she tells me stories about myself that I rather enjoy feeling as though I might be a bit mischievous when I'm with you. You'd think I was almost a nun or a saint the way she speaks, and too shy to say boo to a goose…
I'm not sure if I should admit this to you or not, but I'm a little afraid Pats. What if I remember who I am and I don't like her? What if I don't recognise anything of what I think of now as being myself in the person I used to be? Most of me is so determined to get my memories back, but the things mam tells me just don't quite sit right, and now I'm up and interacting more I can't help feeling like she's a little disappointed that I'm not… different, somehow. It's as if I'm doing and saying everything wrong now, but I don't remember how I did it before so I can't put it right. I keept trying to tell myself that it's probably just be that she was hoping I'd have regained more of my memories by this point, but I still feel as though I'm not living up to the idea she has in her head of who her daughter is. She's been so kind to me while I've been getting better that I hate to disappoint her, but none of what she's told me fits. She says I never had a boyfriend when I was in London because I was devoted to my work, and the girl she knew as Delia seemed to spend an awful lot of her time volunteering or drifting around being dutiful. I don't sound at all the sort of person to gain the favour of a pack of tempestuous young boys or to go dancing of an evening or even to slide around a bedroom in my stockings. But I don't know if it's that she didn't know me that well or if I don't. Was I really so very proper (my heart says dull), or did I just write her the sort of letters one sends a conservative parent to keep them from worrying that you're going a little wild in the big city? And if that is what I was doing, what did I have to hide? I know I said it might be fun to be disapproved of, but even so I'd hate to discover that I'm actually some manner of criminal or thug. But then I think I can't have been all bad to have kept the friendship of someone like you. And you called me charming, which doesn't sound bad or boring.
I have your picture beside my bed now, so I can see it as soon as I wake up and know that whoever Delia Busby is, there is one wonderful person out there that cares for her. It makes me glad to know I have a friend, and I love being able to put a face to the name. Sometimes I catch sight of you sitting there on my dresser and think 'that's Patsy. She's my friend' and the thought makes me smile. I hope that's alright. I've just thought. Perhaps I was supposed to send the photo back? I will if you want me to Pats, but I would like to keep it if it's alright with you. It makes me feel safe somehow, to have you close.
I love hearing about Poplar and all the goings on of the people that work with you (Trixie and Barbara sound ever such fun, and Fred and Sister Monica Joan's antics have me in absolute stitches every time I read about them) but more than anything else I'd like to know news of you so that I might feel I know you. Just little things to help fill in the blanks. What's your full name? Have you always been a midwife or did you do something else first? Have you always lived in London?
On Saturday I went out to the village for the first time – all the way down the road and round the corner and on to the high street with a wicker basket on my arm like a proper village maiden. I'd just had your letter the day before and after hearing that you had lost yours I was determined to get just the right shade of wool to start making you a scarf. It's been more than a week since I last had a seizure and I was feeling so confident and ready to take the next step towards being recovered. I longed to go alone – to walk along a pavement like a normal person and browse and choose what I wanted without anyone staring at my bruises (all the ones from the accident have gone now so you'd never know what had happened to look at me) or asking why I wanted this or that thing. But mam wouldn't let me: 'you never know what might happen Cariad, I don't want you going out there alone just yet. What if you had one of your funny turns crossing the road?'. So instead we went together, with her holding onto my arm like I was an invalid and watching me intently (although whether it was for signs of recognition of my surroundings or imminent seizure I'm not sure).
We did have a nice time I suppose, I got my wool (which I am very excited about because I think the colour will look gorgeous on you with your red hair) and we stopped by a cafe for tea and Welsh cakes (I don't suppose they have them much in London? Just in case you've never had them and don't know what I'm talking about,Welsh cakes are rather like scones, only flatter and more sugary). I tried to chat with the waitress but somehow mam ended up dominating the conversation, chipping in every couple of minutes about my 'condition' as if it meant I somehow nothing I said should be taken too seriously. I know she means well but I can't help feeling I'm being turned into a child, and if I was a nurse away in London I must be quite used to my independence. Do you think the knock has made me soft in the head without me realizing it Patsy? Please tell me honestly because if I am crazy I would like to at least know it.
I'm sorry for the rather dismal tone of this letter. I imagine whatever life I had expected to be living now, it was nothing like this and maybe that's what's making me feel so conflicted. Please write to me about all the adventures you've had this week so I can think on something else. I like to imagine you happily dashing about Poplar with all your friends and having fine times.
Love,
Delia