AN: sorry this is coming so much later in the day than usual, and may have more typos/iffy bits. It has been a long, bad day.
Reviews will help make it better though, if anyone's inclined to leave them :)
Dear Patsy,
I like the sound of your Nonnaus nuns much better than the ones you went to school with. I feel quite indignant and protective of little school-girl Patsy, as if I could go back and tell Mother Gertude off for spoiling her Christmas (and if she dared touch you with her cane then heaven help her! Nun or not, no one gets to hit my Pats!) . I don't think schools ought to hit children at all – all this 'spare the rod spoil the child' nonsense is so outdated. Why can't souls be saved with kindness, if they need saving at all? (I'm sure yours didn't at any rate, you are such a darling). I remember getting a few raps with a ruler in my school days myself, even though I was never a really bad child, just a bit careless and dreamy sometimes. Being hit only made me more inattentive because the pain was distracting and I'd be feeling so indignant at the punishment when my only crime was getting an answer wrong because I'd been lost in thought for a moment... Oh dear, I've just realized that I might have told you about Mr Howell when I was in London and if so you'll know I wasn't always 'just a bit careless and dreamy'.
So yes, alright - I did fill his pockets with tapioca when he left his jacket unattended and I suppose that really is rather naughty. But he was dreadful Pats, he truly was. He spat when he talked (serious 'first two rows need at umbrella' spitting) and called me 'girly' instead of Delia and seemed to make a sport of seeing how many children he could reduce to tears in a single lesson. Even so I would never have done it, except one day I had put my hand up to give an answer or ask a question one too many times for his liking and he told me to be quiet because girls didn't need to understand maths to be a wife, they just had to look nice and do as they were told. I told him I wasn't going to be anyone's silly old wife, I was going to be a nurse. I was so proud of my ambition! And young enough to think telling him that would make a difference to the way he thought of me. But then he laughed at me – a hard, sneary 'up close in the face' laugh as if I had said something both ridiculous and slightly crude and deserved to be made an example of. Then he said I couldn't be a nurse because by the time I grew up the war would be over and women would be back in the kitchen where they belonged, so I should stop bothering him with questions in class and look more to my appearance and home making skills instead. Not a single girl dared raise their hand once for the rest of his lesson. It was quite horrible.
I know I probably should have just resolved to prove him wrong and left it at that (after all he was an ex-boys' school teacher who had only come out of retirement because of the war and nothing I could do would change the fact that his ideas about women belonged to another century) but I was only seven and he made me so angry! And then they served tapioca at lunch time and I HATED tapioca, and I hated him, and the dinner nanny was at home with influenza so no one was watching to make sure I finished my serving. It was as though everything was coming together to help me carry out my revenge and what happened next really seemed inevitable at the time. Oh Pats, his face was such a picture when he put his hands in his pockets and found them coated in cold slime! I'm sure you know I'm a terrible liar so I couldn't deny it when he accused me, but It was almost worth the stinging he gave the back of my legs for it, and the chastisement certainly doesn't seem to have reformed my character in the least because I still think he deserved it. Your school nuns sound even worse though. However did you dare move into a convent after your school experiences?
But you must be glad you did, the Nonnatus nuns sound so lovely and if you hadn't you would never have met Trixie and Barbara and all the rest! You and Trixie seem like such good friends to each other. I love the idea of getting to share a room with your best friend that way – fancy the two of you sitting up half the night, both trying to out-Santa the other! As nice as it is to give other people surprises though it was probably even nicer to set the decorations up together, and I love the idea of Trixie making you a stocking out of one of her own old ones. I think she's quite right; it would be a terrible shame if you were the only one without one. If there had been time enough between getting your letter on Friday and Christmas morning on Sunday I'd have made one for you myself and sent it in the post!
I don't care what you say to the contrary, to me you are a wish granting guardian angel and you shan't be able to deny it when you hear my news! Do you remember you suggested I talk to the doctor about the idea of me returning to nursing and the possibility of a position in the little local hospital? Well, I went in to see him first thing this morning, and he said he thought it was a wonderful idea! It's been weeks now since my last proper seizure, all my physical wounds have healed and he says that working in this sort of environment might well help trigger recall of my nursing days. I'm so excited! At first I'll only be there three mornings a week, and I expect he'll just have me counting stock and emptying bedpans, but it's a start and if I can prove myself then I'll be able to start actually working with patients again. And the very best bit is that if I demonstrate competence at the cottage hospital he said he's willing to write a formal reference to the London recommending me as ready to return to a city hospital, should I want to go. I'm one step closer Pats!
After it was all arranged he introduced me to Sister Davies, who is in charge of the nurses there (though for the day shift there's only her and one of two others there at a time as it is a very small place). I think I shall enjoy working at the cottage hospital. I didn't get to do more than say hello to the other nurse as she was busy on the ward, but Sister Davies seems like a decent sort. I think she runs a very tight ship so I shall have to watch my step while I'm still learning the ropes, but she also seems to be fair and not ungenerous with praise when it's earned. She took me to her office and asked me questions about nursing procedure and had me demonstrate a few things. She did say some of my methods were 'new fangled London ideas', but she also told me the other girls could learn a thing or two from my hospital corners, and she seemed pleased with me overall. It made me so happy because often I don't realize that I remember how to do something until I try it, and this is something it seems I really can do! Once she was satisfied with my general competence she took me round the ward and the stock rooms and told me a bit about the way they work there. She even sized me up for a uniform right then and there. I have a uniform Pats! It's hanging neatly on the front of my wardrobe, and I keep finding myself reaching out to touch a sleeve or adjust the collar. I can't tell you how hard it is to resist the temptation to put it on and just look at myself in it in the mirror and grin like a fool because my childhood dream has come true all over again. But I want to keep it perfectly fresh, ready for my first shift tomorrow (tomorrow! I'm going to be a nurse again tomorrow! 'Nurse Busby reporting for duty'. I like the sound of that, don't you? However will I be able to sleep tonight?).
I was a little afraid that mam would put her foot down, especially as I didn't ask her before I went to talk to the doctor (it wasn't out of meanness, I was just so excited I didn't want her to make me nervous with a lecture!). But after I came skipping into the house with the parcel containing my brand new uniform and flung my arms round her like an excited child even she seemed to come round to the idea. I don't think she realized until now quite how much nursing means to me and she really does want me to be happy. She said that as long as I don't try to take on full shifts and stick to just shadowing the other nurses (of course I have no intention of doing that for any longer than absolutely necessary, but I haven't said that to her yet) it might be good for my memories for me to be back in a nursing environment. She spoilt it a bit by adding that maybe this would stop my ridiculous notion of coming back to London because I could do the same job right here at home, but at least it's a step in the right direction. I think my Susan balloon must be a lucky mascot, making all my wishes come true! Or maybe it's you bringing me good fortune; after all it was your idea for me to ask in the first place. So thank you Patsy!
Actually, I've been wanting to apologise for my last letter. I'm a little embarrassed about writing to you regarding my little funny turn when I opened your present. I hope it didn't make you think I didn't like it; I absolutely adore my lovely jug. I expect I was just a little bit overwrought. Maybe it was to do with remembering my grandmother in such detail with mam right before that. Newly regaining memories does have the unfortunate effect of making it feel as though things have just happened, so maybe it was just a little grief remembering she is gone now. We were very close once upon a time. She trained as a nurse in the local hospital during the Great War, for all she had little kiddies at the time, and she was so proud that I wanted to follow her into the profession. She made me a little replica nurse's uniform for my sixth birthday and it was my most prized possession. I can remember arguing with mam over it when I wanted to wear it to Cousin Vince's wedding. Grandma said it was smart enough and quite proper for me to show support to the war effort for the occasion, what with Vince being a military man home on leave himself, and eventually mam gave in! My grandma was almost like an ally in mischief at times and I do miss her, for all her strictness when it came to things like being respectful to my elders (even ones like Mr Howell) and her mistrust of anyone without a Welsh accent. Anyway, I hope you won't think badly of me for my little silliness. I'm sure being gainfully employed again will help keep such things at bay - having too much time to just sit and think does rather strange things to ones mind!
Love,
Delia
—–
Dear Patsy,
The more we exchange these letters back and forth, the more I feel as though I'm missing something – as if there is some part of the big picture that you aren't telling me. I've tried dropping hints but either you don't pick up on them or you are deliberately keeping something back, and I can hardly ask you outright when I don't even know what it is I'm asking for. Besides, it would sound as though I was accusing you of something and you have been such a wonderful friend to me I don't want you to think that. How could you possibly begin to tell me everything after all? Your letters have made me happier than I can say; I don't know what I'd do without them, or without you. So I'm hoping that just putting pen to paper and writing all of this confusion down will help me to sort through it and maybe work out what the problem is. I'm not really writing to you at all (I'll never send it), and yet starting with 'Dear Patsy' seems so natural I did it without thinking. I never could keep a diary, but somehow if I imagine the words going to you, it's easy. Whatever would you think of me if you saw this? (no, I'm sure you wouldn't mind, you never seem to think badly of my strange notions. I think you'd be glad to know it helped me. Perhaps you'd even think it 'charming'. I hope so).
There's been… something, for a while now. Maybe even since that first time I woke up with the smell of bleach in my nose and no idea why (maybe earlier still, from the very beginning when absolutely everything was so strange that I couldn't have begun to pick out one strangeness from another), but I think it really started properly with Christmas day and the jug. I know you said it was to do with my having a flat of my own, but somehow that explanation just doesn't quite sit right. Could I really have gotten so very upset over that? After all, moving back here is a trial that has been ongoing since this whole sorry affair began, and whether I was living in a flat or a Nurses' Home in London seems to make very little difference. The sadness felt bigger than that, more important. It was like the dense fog of my amnesia had thinned for a moment; just enough for me to see myself and discover I was missing a leg and would never walk again, like something that fundamental to who I am was gone. For a few seconds the sadness was so overwhelming that I couldn't breathe, I just sat there with your beautiful gift in my lap and my hands pressed over my mouth as though I was about to scream or throw up or just cry and cry until I was empty of tears… but perhaps it isn't fair of me to ask you why that should be. Maybe I never told you why I wanted that particular thing so you had no idea of the effect it would have. You have come to be so important to me over these last few weeks that I find it hard to remember that you were simply an ordinary friend who I tamed cubs with and saw at parties from time to time. Why should I expect you to be able to interpret my own heart for me when I can't do it myself?
But still there's a stubborn part of me that says you could if you wanted to, and that the reason you won't is part of this whole big 'something'. I told you in my last letter that it was to do with grandma passing away but I know that isn't the case, I just can't bear to have you think me crazy. This sadness was something recent, something… I don't know, something else. I so hope I start getting my London memories back soon so I can figure out this mystery.
Love,
Delia