Dear Patsy,
I think that may be the best simile for arguing I have ever heard. Did Sister Monica Joan truly say they were like monkeys throwing poo at each other in a zoo? I can't imagine from what you've told me that either Sister Evangelina or Nurse Crane would be terribly pleased by that comparison! But it has certainly tickled me. And that blanket den sounds wonderful! I am quite tempted to make one for myself now. If only I were there with you in London I'm sure we could come up with some excuse for doing such a thing with the cubs!
Maybe I shall do it anyway. It sounds like the perfect place to write letters, or just to curl up in with a mug of cocoa after a long shift. I think Sister Monica Joan has the right idea of it - with all that bickering and bad temper it's no wonder she felt like hiding. Although I must confess I would never have thought of taking the dahlias with me, however poetic it might be to have Delia and dahlia sitting in a tent together! It would have to be when mam's not home of course - I don't think she'd approve of me putting her good clean sheets to such a use any more than the order loving mothers of those little boys you mentioned! She'd think me every bit as naughty as young Jack making bandages for his cat out of his freshly laundered school socks. It's a shame that it all came about because you've been having trouble with your mothers. I hope you are all in better spirits this week?
I have worked four shifts in the cottage hospital now, and I am thoroughly enjoying it, I only wish I could be there more! It certainly isn't too stressful – if anything it's the opposite. It's such a small place and I'm an extra pair of hands to what they're used to working with, so although I keep busy enough I am far from rushed off my feet. But I suppose it is nice that we have a little more time to spend on keeping the patients happy. It would certainly be frowned upon in a bigger hospital, but I've taken to sitting by the patients after my shift is officially over and reading to them, or playing a game of chess. I have always thought it must be terribly dull to be in hospital, and now I have spent so much time on full bed rest myself I can say categorically that the boredom is much worse than the pain. I know it's meant to be to allow all one's energy to go towards recovery, but really I think being engaged in something interesting (even if it is just listening to someone read 'Jane Eyre' aloud) is far healthier than falling into a stupor because you've nothing to do but watch the sunlight move across the floor!
In answer to your question, yes I have met both of the other nurses now. They have invited me out with them twice after work this week so we've had a chance to get to know each other a little beyond what is possible under the stern gaze of Sister Davies (she isn't really all that fierce as Ward Sisters go, but I think they must get trained in that particular stern look of disapproval, they all seem to have it don't they?). The other girls' names are Winnie and Nerys and they have been very welcoming to me, though both of them seem to love to gossip and tease. Actually, I vaguely remember Winnie from school as a roly-poly little first former with curly honey coloured hair and freckle-dusted dimples who loved skipping and wrote lots of stories about rabbits. But I was in the third form when she started so I didn't really interact with her much and although she says she remembers me too, I don't think she really does. She and Nerys met when they were both in training and bonded immediately over their mutual love of A. A. Milne. They have been best friends ever since, so when Winnie wrote to her about a vacancy here three years ago Nerys left the bright lights of Cardiff city and came out here to be a cottage nurse with her friend. She boards with Winnie and her family and in spite of their mismatched appearance (Winnie is even littler than me and is still all honey-hair and rosy cheeks while Nerys is almost as tall as Doctor Marsh and is a contrast of very pale skin and long dark hair that falls as straight as an arrow to her tiny waist when she releases it from its pins) they seem closer than most sisters I've known. It's all rather sweet.
They have taken to calling me 'Dilly', which I'm not too keen on, but they mean it affectionately so I haven't the heart to appear waspish and ask them to call me Delia, especially when it seems they are making such efforts to make me one of their little group. Winnie's nickname is Pooh bear and Nerys goes by NeeNaw, so I suppose I got off rather lightly with Dilly! Although one or other of them will inevitably start reciting that little poem about Daffadowndilly when they see me in my yellow uniform and then both of them start giggling as if it's the funniest joke anyone has ever told. I feel mean for saying it because they really are sweet girls, but it's already getting a little tiresome and I've only been there a week! I also have to watch my tongue around them because when I unthinkingly say the sorts of things I would to you their eyes go wide and Winnie claps both hands over her mouth and giggles and Nerys says 'oh Dilly you are dreadful' in a slightly awed tone, as if I've just said the naughtiest thing she's ever heard. It's nice to have company other than mam again, but I do miss you Pats. I may not really remember the time we spent together but I'm sure I was never 'dreadful Dilly' and you were never 'PeePee' or whatever daft thing Pooh Bear and NeeNaw would come up with for you.
Nerys and Winnie are lovely people, they're just not my people.
But having company and keeping busy isn't what I've been dying to tell you! Working in a hospital again really does seem to be triggering things and I'm beginning to remember little bits and pieces about my early days as a trainee nurse. I suppose you already know that I started my training in Aberystwyth? I completed my first four months there before a space opened up at The London and I was accepted for transfer.
That was the first big argument I can remember mam and I having. She couldn't understand why I wanted to go so far, for all the reputation of The London as one of the finest teaching hospitals for student nurses. Aberystwyth is hardly on our doorstep anyway, but I think she saw my leaving Wales altogether as an act of personal betrayal that never fully went away.
Do you remember I told you in my early letters that I was afraid I was a disappointment to mam for not being more like the Delia she remembered? Well, I think I may have been wrong about that. In actual fact I'm beginning to suspect the opposite is true. I think what disappointed her was how enthusiastic I was about hearing stories of my life in London and my desire to return there even with no memory of it to give me reason to go. Mam has always been rather afraid of my adventurous nature, she'd have felt more comfortable with a quiet sort of girl as she was herself, who would sit in the parlour and sew samplers or paint watercolours (she even sent me to 'young ladies' art classes for a while – yes, that is the source of those blasted pictures of daisies and petunias on my bedroom walls!). Instead she got me, and though she doesn't love me any less (of that I am certain) it is harder for her and my childhood was full of 'Delia, don't climb on that fence, you'll fall and break a leg!', 'Delia, get away from that dog! He might bite!', 'Delia, I do wish you'd stop eating those blackberries, you'll make yourself sick and get all scratched to ribbons on those brambles'. I am still as determined as ever to get back to London where I belong, but I understand mam's point of view a little better now and I think I will be more compassionate when it comes to leaving than I was the first time around. Hopefully we'll be able to part on good terms.
I wish I had more certain stories to tell you - my nursing memories are still pretty patchy and haven't really made it beyond vague impressioned of Aberystwyth yet (and that wasn't a terribly interesting time in my career, it was all studious pouring over textbooks and volunteering for extra duty to get good references for my applications to the place I really wanted to be), but the London dreams are happening more now as well, so it's only a matter of time. I think you might have been in some of them actually, though I can't be sure whether they were dreams or memories. After all I also dreamt last night that you and I were on our beach holiday and we met the walrus from Alice in Wonderland on the pier. He started telling us off because we couldn't remember the end to his poem about cabbages and kings (something about pigs in the sea? No, that isn't right. Perhaps I'd better look it up in case he makes another appearance tonight, he was really very stern about it!). I'm quite sure that didn't really happen, so the other could equally be nothing more than imagination!
Love,
Delia
... ... ...
Dear Patsy,
I didn't tell you because it seemed too intimate somehow to write out so plainly, but in my dream you were crying. I thought it was another memory of the hospital at first because I was in bed and you were kneeling beside me with tears streaming down your face. But it can't be the hospital. My memory of that place is all bright lights being shone in my eyes and pain in every inch of skin as though I'd been sandpapered, and a fogginess in my mind like I was watching a stranger's life through a misted window or from the end of a long, long tunnel so everything arrived distorted and faint. This was different. In this dream (memory?) I was well and you weren't a stranger, you were Patsy. I can remember what I felt at the time so clearly – my heart leapt when I woke to find you there but then I realized there was something very, very wrong, and unlike in the hospital I didn't hesitate to put my arms round you when tears threatened to brim onto your cheeks. I know that's what happened, but I can't quite see you clearly, no matter how hard I try to summon the memory with my waking mind. I can just feel the fierce strength of you clutching my arms while I held you, as if I was the only thing keeping you anchored in the world, and the softness of your hair against my cheek and smell the faint scent of your perfume, mingled with the bleach you use in the course of your work. When I woke from that dream my arms felt so empty with your absence that I found myself hugging my old rag doll like a child after a nightmare. I can't help wondering what it means.
Maybe it wasn't a memory at all; maybe it was just a dream, putting into clear images a feeling I have had for a while now. You write such lovely, cheerful letters with nothing at all to suggest it… so why do I have the growing conviction that behind your words you are unutterably sad? It doesn't make sense, but the more I think about it and reread your letters, the more certain I am that I'm right.
Is your sadness the same as mine I wonder? And if so what on Earth has happened to us both to cause it? Hopefully these dreams will continue and give me enough clues to start working this out, because I feel sure it's all linked somehow – the dream of you, the sadness I feel and the one I am beginning to feel certain you do too. And somewhere amid it all is that innocuous little detail of a pretty jug full of flowers.
I hope there is someone there with you in London who will put their arms around you and make you feel safe if you really are sad; even if that person can't be me. I can't bear the thought of you being upset and all alone.
Lots of love,
Delia