AN: Thank you to all the lovely people who left reviews yesterday (and especially to people who leave them regularly!), getting to see them really did help make me feel better :)
Dear Delia,
The first thing I need to do is apologise for the slapdash appearance of this letter. I'm afraid I'm writing it in rather unusual circumstances and the lack of a decent desk and proper lighting is making it difficult keep my handwriting tidy. But it is all in a good cause, if a bit of a strange one!
Today was one of those days when a dozen little things seem to go wrong before breakfast and everyone was at odds. We have one or two mothers-to-be on our books that are becoming a cause for concern and there are some disagreements on how best to handle the situation. Everyone feels very strongly that their way is the right option (in fact the only option) and it has been causing quite a few squabbles among the different factions. Add to that the fact that we all slept badly after last night's storm, the milk was off so no one could have their usual morning cup of tea or coffee and an entire pan of bacon was burnt to a cinder because Sister Winifred (who was meant to be minding it) had a nosebleed and everyone assumed someone else had taken over the cooking, and you have the makings of quite a tense morning.
No doubt it would have rumbled on without major incident had Nurse Crane not decided that this was the perfect time to bring up her new 'grand organizational plans' for the patients on our roster. Unfortunately Nurse Crane rarely displays much tact in such matters and can come across as rather disagreeable when she believes she knows best, which of course creates a great deal of friction with our other dominant personality, Sister Evangelina. The two of them are a little like cat and dog with each other at the best of times, but today Sister Evangelina was already particularly irritable because her ankle is giving her trouble where she turned it on a loose cobble (though I suspect she'd amputate her own leg without the benefit of anaesthesia before admitting to being in any pain), so the 'discussion' at the breakfast table was maintained only just below the level of shouting and exchanging blows in spite of all of Sister Julienne's words of reproach. All of us were feeling the urge to squirm in our seats and take cover by this point, but poor Sister Monica Joan (who had unwittingly taken a seat between the two of them when breakfast began) became more and more fidgety and upset until eventually she pushed back her chair and stood up so suddenly everyone stopped speaking at once in surprise. She announced that there was need of a place of peace and tranquillity in which one could shelter, because Mars was in ascendency all the hotheadedness that followed was distressing the dahlias. Then she picked up the potted plant from the middle of the table and swept out the room without another word.
In itself that would have been par for the course – Sister Monica Joan makes such declarations on an almost daily basis and generally very little comes of it, so by the time we were all preparing for morning rounds we had quite forgotten the whole affair and that would have been an end to it, except that she didn't turn up at the table for lunch. We assumed she had been foraging in the kitchen through the morning and left her in peace, but when it got to supper time and there was still no sign of her we were all starting to get rather concerned. It wouldn't be the first time that Sister Monica Joan has gotten confused and wandered off barefooted into Poplar to be brought back by a policeman hours later. Sister Julienne asked me to go up and check her room and try to entice her to come and have something to eat, and that is how I find myself in my present situation (you didn't think I'd forgotten that's what I was supposed to be explaining did you?). I knocked on her door half expecting to find the room empty, but when I put my head in to check I discovered that Sister Monica Joan had spent the day building a sort of tent out of several bed sheets, string and some straight backed chairs that she must have had quite a time of getting up here! It looked like the sort of den every little boy longs to build but is forbidden to by his order-loving mother and I half wondered if there really was a child here somewhere.
But of course, reality is stranger than fiction and when I got down on the floor and peered in at the entrance I discovered Sister Monica Joan sitting ensconced in pillows and surrounded by every pot plant at Nonnatus House (thank heaven Fred has already taken away the Christmas tree or goodness knows what she'd have done!). She wasn't in the least bit phased by my appearance and seemed altogether disinclined to explain what she was up to. She didn't even glance up at me, just continued lovingly polishing the leaves of a shrubby little plant and commented (seemingly more to herself than to me) 'there is such a tendency to overlook the humble Crassula Ovata, for it lacks both the bright blooms and sweet fruit that others use to draw the eye. But all need care and attention, or how are they to thrive?'. I wasn't sure what the correct response to that was so I tried to entice her out with the prospect of supper instead, but that seemed to upset her more: 'I fear I may waste away with the long hours since partaking in nourishment, but how can I abandon my vigil when there has been such disruption to the lives of those who cannot speak for themselves? If I leave the plants alone they may wither and die with the hostility that has been flung out there, like so much faeces by monkeys in a zoo!'
I started to understand the purpose of her day's work and gentled my tone a little in reassurance. 'Sister, it's quite alright now. Sister Evangelina and Nurse Crane aren't arguing anymore, the plants will be perfectly safe while you're gone... And I believe there is a rather marvellous jam roly-poly for dessert. Won't you come and have some?'
But remarkably even that prospect didn't win her over until I agreed to stay and look after her pot plants while she went for supper. So here I am, writing to you from a blanket den while I faithfully babysit the dahlias. Actually, I am beginning to rather enjoy myself. There is something very peaceful and comfortable about sitting curled up on cushions within walls made of bed sheets, and with so many plants in here it feels almost like I am somewhere between the warm safety of being in bed and trekking through tropical jungle. It is rather like being inside the dreamscape of a child, and I must confess I would be utterly content to stay here if only I had thought to bring a bit of supper up with me!
But here I am writing on and on about bed sheets and pot plants as if any of that matters when I haven't even acknowledged your amazingly exciting news yet! Oh Delia, you're a nurse again! Congratulations Nurse Busby, I am absolutely thrilled for you. I can't wait to hear all about your first week. Have you had a chance to meet both of the other day girls yet? What are they like? Is Sister Davies treating you well? Are they letting you help on the ward or still keeping you in the back to brush up your stocking skills? (It's an absolute waste if they are, but no doubt they will realize soon how much your sunny bedside manner has to offer in bringing cheer to the ward and will start to utilize your talents more fully!). Your doctor sounds like a very decent sort too, arranging it all for you so promptly! How wonderful that he has even offered to write to The London on your behalf when you're ready to return! Are you enjoying nursing? I hope it's living up to your expectations and that you aren't finding it too stressful.
You are certainly proving your Mr Howell wrong – you have defied his ridiculous limitations on the options available for women not once but twice! I'm sure little seven year old Delia would be very greatly comforted if she could see you now and know that you had achieved what you set out to do, but I can't say I blame her in the slightest for filling his pockets with tapioca. How dare he tell you you are fit for nothing but an obedient wife? I have always said girls are better than boys and as far as I'm concerned this incident only goes to prove me right. Thank goodness you are stubborn and wilful enough to follow your own dream instead of believe the dreadful rubbish touted by old dinosaurs like him. I really am quite appalled that he could try to crush the hopes of a little girl like that! I quite want to go and fill his pockets with tapioca myself. Or better yet his hat, which would have a much more dramatic effect! I agree with you entirely on the matter of corporal punishment. A good teacher has no need of it, and why should bad ones get to prop up their own deficits using fear tactics instead of taking the responsibility to engage the class on themselves? Maybe one day men like Mr Howell will be kept out of the profession and teachers will all be chosen because they are able to inspire young minds to love learning and make the best of themselves instead. At least I like to imagine it will be so for the little ones I deliver!
Oh Delia, you needn't apologise. Whatever the reason you have every right to feel sad, and I will never think any less of you for it so please don't feel as though you can't tell me. I only wish I could be there to comfort you when you're upset as you have done for me so often. Your grandmother sounds utterly delightful (although with my oh-so-very English enunciation I don't suppose she'd have said the same of me!), it's no wonder you miss her, especially if you had just spent the morning talking about all your family memories. She sounds like quite a role model for a young aspiring nurse, and she must have had some wonderful stories to tell! I'm sure she would have been incredibly proud of you if she could see you now.
Love,
Patsy
... ... ...
Dear Delia,
Something happened when I was writing your letter and I so wish I could tell you about it because if I'm honest (and it is still hard for me to admit this) I am utterly petrified by it, but I suspect you would be delighted and would somehow get me to see things the way you do. I know it isn't the disaster I was fearing but still it makes me feel… well vulnerable I suppose, and that is the one thing I have been fighting hardest against for years. I know what it is to be utterly powerless, to have your life and the lives of those you love so completely in someone else's hands and know that a simple whim on their part could destroy everything you've worked for. Of course I know this isn't the same thing. I'm not in that place anymore and no one here means me any harm. But even so when it happened I couldn't help feeling the tight panic in my chest that comes with being trapped. I could almost hear my sister crying and our mother telling us to keep quiet, keep our heads down because it was safer to blend in. 'Being different is dangerous. Be one of the crowd, never let them see girls. Keep our business to yourselves. Keep safe'. There is a part of me that never forgot the rules I learnt to survive as a child and I suppose I still live by them, for all I like to think I have put the past firmly where it belongs. Which is why I am still awake and writing to you all these hours later, when the rest of Nonnatus House has long since gone to bed.
You see, while I was finishing your letter up in Sister Monica Joan's blanket den Trixie came looking for me. She must have realized that Sister Monica Joan had somehow convinced me I needed to stay put while she went to have supper, so she'd brought me up a piece of pie. I thought she'd just drop it off and go back down to the table, but instead she crawled right in and found a place for herself next to me among the plants. 'Goodness, Sister Monica Joan does come up with some queer notions doesn't she? What on Earth is this supposed to be, a greenhouse?'
'I believe it's supposed to keep the plants safe from hostile monkey faeces… or something along those lines. To be honest I didn't quite catch the reasoning, but Sister Monica Joan was quite certain someone needed to stay in here to protect the plants from Sister Evangelina and Nurse Crane's arguing'.
'Oh well, if it's going to keep us out of the firing line I'm all for it. It's actually rather novel isn't it?'
We continued to talk of small things while I ate my pie, but when the last crumbs of pastry were finished and the plate was put outside the blanket's entrance Trixie nodded towards my half finished letter 'how is Delia anyway?'
'She's doing well. Her early memories are coming back and she's just started nursing part time in the local cottage hospital, so we're hopeful that that will trigger some more recent memories'.
'But she doesn't remember London yet? Or you? Oh Patsy, it must be dreadfully hard for you. I don't know what I'd do if Tom forgot I existed, and Tom and I aren't even seeing each other anymore'.
It was around then that my breath started to catch in my throat, but there was no look of calculation in her expression. She wasn't trying to trip me up, she meant it. Even so I couldn't admit to the truth and tried to keep my tone light and go on as if what she'd said was perfectly normal.
'Yes, well you and Tom were engaged, it would be quite a different situation to Delia and I'.
Trixie gave me a long look and shook her head a little 'only because you and Delia couldn't admit it. Oh Patsy, do you really think I don't know, after everything? I've been almost certain since that whole affair with Mr Amos anyway, but since Delia was hurt… well you don't act like a girl whose pal had an accident. I'm not blind Patsy, and I'm not deaf either, I hear you crying at night when you think I'm asleep and I see your face light up when her letters arrive each week, though you go quiet and barely make eye contact after reading them. And I wish you'd tell me. I couldn't care less whether you like boys or girls or Sister Monica Joan's begonias, but I do care about you. You're my friend and I hate to see you suffering on your own like this. I wouldn't have said anything if the two of you were still happily off in your flat together, but I know what it is to struggle alone with some big dark secret and having someone on your side can make all the difference. It did for me. So even if you don't want to talk about it… I'm on your side Patsy'.
I could barely whisper by that point, but somehow I managed to get a response out around the lump in my throat 'alright, you're right. Delia isn't just my friend, she's my… well, my everything I suppose. But please don't tell anyone Trixie. Not even Barbara. Not even Delia herself because I don't know if she'll ever remember who we were to each other, and if she does she might be appalled. This place had become more home to me than any I remember and I can't bear the thought of losing my family too. No one can know. Not ever. Please Trixie'.
'Of course not. I understand what it is to have secrets, and yours is safe with me, I promise'.
So that's it. We stayed and talked a bit more after that -Trixie told me a little of her own difficulties with drink, and the evenings she spent at alcoholics anonymous combating her problem. I gave her a hug and reassured her that I thought what she was doing was marvellous and brave, but I think she understood that I wasn't really capable of a big heart to heart just then. In the end we just sat quietly and took up where Sister Monica Joan had left off, polishing dust from the leaves of her various plants. And it was alright.
But now I'm anxious again, imagining all the ways something could go wrong. Trixie and I could argue and she could blurt it out in a fit of anger. She could slip up and say something incriminating when we're out dancing. I know deep down that she is too sensible, too use to keeping secrets to let that happen. But I have never done this before. The last time something like this happened, I ran.
Did I ever tell you that was why I left psych? The other nurses had begun to think me odd when I didn't join in their discussions about boys and never had dates. Then my lack of blushes and matter of fact manner when one of the more attractive male patients took to exposing himself (the poor chap really was almost entirely disconnected from reality and had become convinced his clothes were full of ants) started the whispers. Personally I thought such an attitude far more professional than their silly tittering (even if they only did it behind closed doors), but it may have been a mistake to tell them outright that I didn't see the appeal. I know they were only teasing when they said maybe I needed a bed on the ward myself to sort out my curious lack of romantic feeling, but even so it hit too close to the mark. The girls in psych were aware of queers in a way most people simply aren't, and it was dangerous.
Male surgical was safer. The nurses there were too familiar with the ways of men to be the least bit phased by them, and given the lechery we dealt with on a daily basis there was very little romanticizing that went on. A penis was simply anatomy there and my indifference was a necessary skill instead of an oddity. The thing is though Deels, I ran because of a hint, just a whisper that Nurse Mount was a little odd, and maybe she was that way (I don't even think they meant it seriously, it was the kind of joke the more callous among them made all the time: 'woops, careful Bea, you'll be hearing voices next')… but this time, it isn't a whisper. Trixie knows. She knows my biggest secret and if this had happened before your accident I would say I had never been more afraid of anything since I left the camp, but that isn't true anymore. I'm scared, but not the way I expected to be. Trixie is family, and if I am to be safe anywhere I feel it will be here. I think if I could talk to you about this you'd tell me to trust her and to be glad to know that I have at least one friend who cares so truly. So I'm trying to be alright.
All my love,
Patsy