Dear Delia,

I'm afraid my knowledge of French names for fish goes no further than 'poisson' these days, and don't get me started on Latin! Ghastly language and the learning of it doesn't help you converse with anyone but priests (and even then I always had my suspicions that half of them don't actually understand a word they're saying). I have always felt that if one must struggle through the business of learning another language it ought at least to be one that might be of some future use and not merely something to be catalogued as part of a proper education for a young lady. But then languages never were quite my forte, so I am terribly impressed by your essay (and utterly tickled that you wrote it for me!). As to the other, think nothing of the business of boyfriends (I assure you I never do), you haven't embarrassed yourself at all. I have never been the least bit cross with you and I am sure I never could be, you are simply too goodhearted to really be angry with.

I completely understand your frustration Deels, but I'm not sure you realize quite how far you have come since you left the hospital. When I first wrote (and remember this was only a few weeks ago) you couldn't so much as read the letter for yourself let alone write back, and your mother told me she had feared she would never see you laugh again (at least until a cat in sock bandages worked its magic). At that time the whole world was strange to you and now… Delia, the dreams are wonderful news and definitely worth feeling hopeful over (when I read your letter I think I might actually have exclaimed out loud with excitement), but they aren't the only sign of your memory returning. Tell me sweetheart, if you aren't regaining your memories at all, however did you know what look your mother gave you when you were in disgrace as a little girl? How did you know of your French mistress, or the fact that you weren't top of every language class? The way you spoke of those things didn't sound like someone who was just repeating something they had been told about their past, they sounded like your own memories. Otherwise how on earth could your mother's expression have any effect on you now? Perhaps you've simply been going about the whole thing the wrong way round? Starting from the end rather than the beginning? I might be wrong, but it does seem like your old memories are coming along beautifully.

I imagine you were a delightful little thing as a child and quite the one for mischief. It's a shame we didn't know each other as girls (although I wouldn't put you through Catholic boarding school for the world), I think I could have done with a chum like you at school! I was always just a tad too well behaved when I was young and a spot of mischief could have made me a far more agreeable creature. If nothing else I suspect that you could have given me stiff competition when it came to fencing (and that's no small claim as I was the only girl in my school ever to beat Mother Gertrude – another little snippet of Patsy Mount knowledge for your collection!). I'm not sure you ever did fence in reality, but I can picture you deceiving everyone with your tiny size and charming sweet nature then having us all tripping over our feet with your fearsome remise!

I dare say it would be an awful fright to your mother if you disappeared off to London and I would hate for you to get lost (it really is a terribly big city) but for myself I would never consider it an inconvenience to see you, no matter what the circumstances. You mustn't ever think you are anything less than welcome with me Delia, even if we had to top and tail in my little convent bed! (and of course if you brought peppermint creams so much the better!). But perhaps for the time being it would be better if I were to visit you, should you feel the desire for company again? After all your mother would never let me write again if she thought for a moment that I had encouraged you to run off without so much as a toothbrush or a shilling to spare in your pocket, and although you might like the idea of being disapproved of I think on balance it would be much better for me to keep your mother's good graces if at all possible. I don't fancy writing under an assumed name!

Not long now until Christmas is with us. I like to think of you having a charmingly traditional family Christmas, hanging a stocking over the fire place and sitting down to turkey and roast potatoes (but perhaps not sprouts) wearing a paper crown from your cracker. Do you have a tree up yet? Fred brought ours in this week and we had quite the song and dance over it. Never one to do things by halves he decided that in honour of his first Christmas with Violet bigger would be better (I suspect his lady wife refused to allow it in their own home so Fred decided we were the next best thing). Poor Sister Winifred opened the door after breakfast to find herself confronted by what must have seemed to be half a forest. It appears as though our Alice in Wonderland parallels are set to continue undeterred even now we have dismantled the beach scene in our bedroom, for now every time I step into the parlour I feel like Alice after she takes a bite of magic cake and finds herself no bigger than a mouse. The tree reaches very nearly to the ceiling (which certainly isn't low) and we've all had to set to on the hobby crafts, making extra paper chains and baubles just to have a hope of decorating the whole thing. Sister Evangelina was most displeased when she saw it, she says having such a large tree makes a mockery of the Sisters' vow of poverty, and Sister Monica Joan added something about unseemly proportions that could almost have been construed as vulgar innuendo had it not come from a nun! Trixie and I had to try very hard not to look at one another when she said that or we would have burst into a most inappropriate fit of giggles, which could only have made things worse! One never knows with Sister Monica Joan whether she realizes what she's saying at times like this, but if the twinkle in her eye on this occasion is anything to go by, I rather think she did.

The Cubs have been practising hard for their part in the Christmas concert. They rather fancied pantomime, but we feared it might get a little too raucous for a church festival, especially when Steven (the little scamp) suggested we turn the nativity into a panto. Can you imagine it? The holy birth of Jesus with the Virgin Mary as a pantomime Dame and all the animals shouting 'he's behind you!' When the Angel Gabriel descends from heaven? Actually, don't tell Steven I said so but I thought it sounded like rather good fun! Does that make me dreadful? Of course we will not be performing such sacrilege (the nuns would never forgive me for allowing it), but a nice rendition of 'A Christmas Carol' should do equally well. Steven was consoled with the part of Scrooge and is in fine fettle stomping about the stage shouting 'Bah Humbug' in his best crotchety old man voice. Apparently it is suspiciously similar in mannerism to the headmaster of the boy's grammar school, which the cubs naturally find hilarious but that I fear may be storing up trouble for later, should the headmaster be given to attending such functions. Still, there is almost a week left to perfect the show and I might yet be able to convince the lads to tone down their tricks for the sake of a peaceful Christmas and the avoidance of a lump of coal in their stockings.

I do hope your week has been a marvellous one and that you've been able to get out and about without recourse to trickery!

Love,

Patsy

... ... ...

Dearest Delia,

I know you were translating literally, but you called yourself my 'petite amie'. Directly it might mean little friend but I have retained enough from my school days to know that to the French, that means girlfriend. Oh I know it's silly to quibble over semantics when it was plainly unintentional on your part, but even so seeing it written there in your own handwriting makes me feel bright with joy. My 'petite amie impertinente'.

I think you'd be proud of me now Deels, if you knew. I am getting more daring in my letters to you, though it makes my heart pound and my palms sweat with fear at my own audacity. Every week I spend the days between sending my letter and receiving yours feeling a little bit afraid that you won't reply, or that I will receive a short, formal note telling me that my attentions are no longer welcome and that I should seek God's forgiveness for my sinful nature (that's the influence of catholic school coming through again). But every week I find that not only were my fears groundless, your own letters give increasing cause to believe that there is hope. Besides, you are being so honest with me when you write; I want to return as much of the favour as I can and let you know that you are cherished.

And your dreams Delia. The sensible part of me knows that you dream of bleach because you're a nurse and goodness knows you spend enough of your time in places that smell of the stuff, but even so I can't help hearing your words in my head from that last glorious, awful day we spent together. "I want to smell coffee when I wake up in the morning. And bleach, because that will mean that you're there, or that you've just left. And when you come back in I can say 'welcome home'". It gives me the strength (or perhaps encourages the weakness) to hope that one day I will be able to say those words to you, and have you know them in all their shades of meaning. There can be no more joyful sentence in the world than that one. Welcome home Delia.

One day.

All my love,

Patsy