AN: I know, I know, this is so late! I work til 8pm on a monday (then cycle home) so I just got back. Sorry if anyone was waiting! :)

My Dearest Patsy,

I hope you aren't alarmed at receiving a letter out of turn like this, especially as my last one is probably only just being delivered as I write this. But I couldn't wait a whole week to tell you. Or even another day.

Pats, I remember. Not everything, yet, but enough. I remember YOU.

I mean, I really remember you. Oh my sweetheart, how could I ever have failed to recognize you in those early memories, whatever colour your hair? But the blonde girl was you and now I know that it's as though I've placed a vital missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle and I finally have enough of the picture to work out what it shows. I seem to be recalling more of my recent past all the time, much faster now than it was to begin with. I remember sitting my final Nursing Exam and going out afterwards with a huge group of girls (23 others, unless I miss my guess) all in that odd relieved-but-tense period between finishing the last of our assessments and finding out whether we had passed and become qualified nurses. I remember rescuing a box of kittens from an old bomb site, signing up with St John's Ambulance, winning the egg and spoon race at a charity fundraiser, and I remember countless other mundane, utterly ordinary, miraculous days that until recently I thought I might never recall at all. But the more I've remembered about my life and friends in London, the more I have realized that my memories of you are not like my memories of shrewd Trudy (who taught me the unlooked for skill of catching boys' eyes in bars) or Geordie Joan (who was my different-sounding ally among all the identical accents at the hospital), or any of the other girls I've been close to through the years, and it made me wonder.

Then last night I dreamt of Brighton and woke up with my heart hammering and your name on my lips. I know now that you weren't just a girl I volunteered with or even simply a good chum as I was given to believe by mam, back in the days when even my own name tasted unfamiliar on my tongue. For some reason I never questioned who we were to each other after that, even though when I look back on the past few months it seems obvious that I have been falling in love with you all over again since your very first letter. No doubt any other girl my age would have realized it long before now, but for me there has only ever been you, so before I remembered some of our time together I had nothing to measure my feelings against.

I wonder if that day in Brighton meant as much to you as it did to me? You mentioned it after I wrote to you about Susan so I know you remember at least some of it. For me every detail feels as sharp as if it had just happened.

We had spent the whole week planning it – deliberating over outfits, checking train times and maps and deciding exactly what we were going to include in the afternoon. When the big day finally arrived we stepped out of the Nurses' home looking as though we were going somewhere far grander than a little travelling fair, but somehow dressing up made it feel all the more exciting and we had truly gone all out. We took a picnic supper to eat while we were there (neither of us much fancied filling up on fairground food, although our sandwiches were naturally to be accompanied by the candy floss or paper bags of cinder toffee that we would purchase from the sweet stalls) and caught a train due to pull into Brighton station just after one o clock in the afternoon, which we thought would give us plenty of time to enjoy the rides and stalls before we had to head home. I had even arranged for Joan Harris to leave her window unlatched for us, just in case we didn't get back to the Nurses' home until after curfew. We thought of everything. At least… almost everything. After all that planning we were let down at the last hurdle, because it turned out that in my giddy excitement I had failed to take proper note of the dates and the fair didn't actually open until the following day.

I was crushingly disappointed and felt more than a little foolish. All that excitement, the train fare, the time we had spent rattling along in a crowded, noisy carriage (not to mention the fact that I had dragged you all the way to Brighton on your first day off in two weeks) only to be confronted by closed tents, shuttered stalls and silent, covered rides. You would have thought there would at the very least be people around, setting the place up or even just keeping an eye on their stalls but the site seemed quite deserted. I think you must have noticed how downcast I was because you didn't grumble or sigh at me for getting my days mixed up, you just looked around as though you had never been more pleased about anything than you were about that still, abandoned fairground and said 'come on Deels, let's have a wander round anyway. There's something rather thrilling about having the place to ourselves. It all seems bigger somehow, don't you think?'
So we walked among the striped tents and stalls that would, by the following evening, be filled with light and noise and the smell of frying onions, and talked. We were about halfway through our second slow circuit of the site when you stopped beside a small, peaked marquee that claimed to be a 'House of Mysteries' and glanced around quickly. Before I had quite realized what you were doing you had given me a mischievous grin, grabbed my hand and pulled me through the half-unlaced flaps into the reddish twilight of the tent. 'I've always wanted to get a good look in one of these. I went to one once with a girl from school, but of course unlike me she'd seen it all a dozen times before and she got bored after five minutes so I didn't get to watch much. It would be a frightful shame to waste an opportunity to see how it's all done!'

It was true that it was very interesting to have the chance to look closely at sights that were usually kept at a distance, but I could hardly bring myself to care about the hidden pulleys and mirrors rigged up around the tent ready to create the show's illusions, or even the enormous 'genuine dragon's egg' sitting in pride of place above the stage (it was part of a performance I had seen before that involved someone in full dragon costume bursting out and breathing fire at the delighted young audience, but in that lighting it looked suspiciously like papier-mâché and poster paint), because my whole awareness was fixated on the fact that you had not yet let go of my hand. Every nerve ending tingled at the contact and I couldn't help thinking how wonderful it was to walk along with you through that dusky tent, fingers laced like any pair of lovers. I found myself lingering over each article, no matter how tawdry or unimpressive, simply to put off the moment when we would step back out into the public eye and I would be forced to let you go. It seemed to me that you felt the same, although neither of us mentioned it and when eventually we did duck back through the entrance way we released hands as casually as if it were quite by chance that we should do so at that moment.

After our illicit peek at the inner workings of the 'Mysteries' we rather lost our awe of the fairground and looked in to several more of the tents and stalls we passed. As soon as I caught sight of the Merry-go-Round (it was always my favourite part of a fair) I ran to it and clambered up onto one of the fine, high stallions, gazing out at the glittering sea from my new vantage point. I confess I rather hoped you would climb up behind me on the broad saddle and put your arms around me the way I had seen young sweethearts do on such rides in the past, but instead you swung gracefully up onto the back of a neighbouring horse and gave it a tap with your heels as though you really expected it to respond to the command.

I was beginning to feel hungry by this point so we stayed up on our mounts to share our picnic, passing the packets of sandwiches and hard boiled eggs across the gap between us and pretending our apples were coated in toffee like real fairground food. It was such a pleasant place to sit and watch the world go by that we probably would have stayed a good while, had not a man in a flat cap spotted us and started running down towards the fairground, waving his hands and yelling at us to 'git away wi ya, we're not open til tomorra!'

Now I'm sure we could have climbed down calmly and given the man a dignified apology and explanation – no doubt he'd have accepted it gruffly (but probably not unkindly) and seen us on our way. But instead we scrambled off the horses and ran for it as though he had released a pack of angry dogs on us, in spite of the impracticability of high heels for running. By the time the fairground was out of sight we were giggling helplessly and clutching our sides, and must have looked quite a fright to passersby. Thank goodness Matron wasn't around to see it!

So that was that as far as the fair was concerned, but it wasn't late and we decided to stay and make the most of Brighton while we were there. In the end we didn't get back to the station until just before the last train was due to depart, and we were the only passengers in our carriage when we eventually began to wind our way back towards London. We were both tired and I found myself quite naturally resting my head against your shoulder as we left the city lights behind us. I think I may have dozed a little, but even after I woke up I didn't open my eyes or raise my head because being 'asleep' seemed like a wonderful excuse to lean against you and breath in your Patsy smell (in case you're wondering it is bleach and laundry soap, old books and lavender, and something indefinable that is uniquely you). When the train jolted I used the opportunity to snuggle closer and let my hand rest over yours on the seat between us. I felt very daring, but rather than pulling away to a respectable distance you turned towards me a little and planted a feather-soft kiss on the top of my head. That was when I knew for sure that you felt as I did, although we still hadn't talked about it. I felt so happy that I never wanted the train ride to end, and in spite of the crick in my neck and an increasingly urgent need to use the bathroom I couldn't bring myself to move until the train arrived in our station and you gave me a gentle shake and murmured 'we're back Deels, let's get you home to bed'.
From that day to this I was never sure if you knew that I was awake for that kiss.

Oh Patsy. March is too far away. I know we had a visit all planned, but it seems a life time away and I truly can't wait that long. I imagine by now you are terribly impressed with how composed I am being – writing you a letter rather than rushing off all harum-scarum to London and turning up on your doorstep without warning. Well, don't be. After my dream last night I didn't even wait until it was light out before I started packing. In all honesty it was a wonder I remembered to change out of my pyjamas, let alone prepare a case!

Oh but you needn't worry, it wasn't like last time, when I arrived at the station with nothing but a paper bag of peppermint creams to my name. You see, since that rather spectacularly poorly executed surprise visit I have been doing my homework a bit more (not because I was expecting to run off to London with no warning again, truly I wasn't. It just made me feel better to have plans in place ready for the day I would come home). I'd been back to the station and talked to a very helpful girl at the ticket office who got out a map and showed me exactly where the station I needed was and how much it would cost to get there. She'd never heard of Nonnatus House, but I recognized some of the bigger roads on the map and thought that if I could get myself to the East India Dock Road there would be someone around who could point me in the right direction from there. I even got a recommendation of a quaint little cafe run by the girl's maiden aunt which let out the upstairs rooms in the manner of a bed and breakfast ("nothing fancy mind, but it's not too dear and it's clean and respectable, and auntie May only takes ladies so as there's nothing to be afeared for a girl on her own"), so I wouldn't have to make any imposition on the nuns. So you see it was all arranged.

But of course it was no use, because the one thing I didn't plan for was mam. She took one look at the case and her expression just changed. She looked so hurt and afraid beneath her stern frown that I felt dreadful for considering it, although I am perfectly well now and there is no reason I shouldn't take a train alone. I expected her to argue with me, or tell me off as though I were still a truculent child (I was prepared for that). But she didn't. She crossed over to me in three quick strides, set the case aside and cupped her hand beneath my chin so I had to look her in the eye then said simply 'Please Delia. Don't.'
I tried to explain to her that I wasn't running away, it was just that my memories of London were returning and I was sure that if I could be in the places I used to know and speak to the people that knew me there I could get the rest of the missing time back. I explained that I knew where I was going and had a place I could stay. She almost waivered when I told her I was meeting you (my mother has gained a great deal of respect for you after the way you have faithfully kept up a weekly correspondence and cheered me up so much with your letters), but then she asked whether you were meeting me at the station and why on Earth a sensible young lady like you would encourage me to rush off to London without a word of it to my own mother, and I had to confess that you didn't actually know I was coming. I knew it was hopeless as soon as I said that. Mam's uncertain frown changed to a look that said 'my impertinent daughter is about to get swept away on another of her thoughtless flights of fancy and she's got another think coming if she expects to get away with it'.

She didn't disagree with my argument that coming to London would help with recall, but she absolutely refused to see the urgency of it and wants us to plan it all out and take a trip there together one weekend when the weather improves. I couldn't think of any acceptable reason to insist on going at once, but if I did things her way then when I eventually got to come to London there would be a schedule to follow and explanations to be made for everything and seeing you would involve a rather formal 'afternoon tea' meeting in a cafe somewhere, with a peck on the cheek and an 'oh how delightful to see you again, it was frightfully good of you to write', and mam sitting there at the centre of it all making small talk. That will be all very well one day (because of course I want the two people I love best to have the chance to know each other) but not right now. Not this time. I need to see you properly first, because although I KNOW that what I feel is true, I don't think I'll be truly alright until I'm holding you in my arms and I can't do that with my mother watching my every gesture.

I'm sorry I haven't told her the truth Pats. I hope you know it isn't that I don't want her to know about you. I so wish I could tell her, but she just wouldn't understand. I'm afraid she might try to stop me being in contact with you at all if she knew the real reason I wanted to visit so suddenly (though she'd think she was doing it for my own good). I haven't mentioned it before, but she actually rather disapproves of Nerys and Winnie because she says they are closer than is natural or healthy for girls their age. She tuts whenever she sees them walking down the road with their heads together and their arms linked and makes pointed comments about how neither of them ever walks out with a young man and says that 'they'll end up old spinsters if they don't watch out'. I don't want her to look at me that way Patsy, I couldn't bear it, not after how much better things have been between us recently. Besides, now I've been in this accident mam is even less likely to accept the way I feel for you. Since I now have a history of head trauma she'd probably view this as a sort of madness brought on by the accident and phone for the Doctor, and the consequences of that don't bear thinking about for either one of us. But I think perhaps you have always known that better than I did.

I'm sorry I used to get so frustrated by your caution in public Pats. I still hate that we can't dance together on evenings out, or walk hand in hand down the road like other couples do, but I understand now why you always looked so fearful of my boldness. Living with mam again has reminded me that people do notice such things and judge them, so although I want nothing more than to drop everything and run into your arms, I will be the cautious one this time. I have unpacked my case and am obediently in the process of planning a weekend in London with mam. But I still need to see you.

So please Patsy, will you come and visit me? I know you will have to agree time off with Sister Julienne and it might not be immediate, but will you come soon? Just as soon as you can manage, because I need to know that what I remember, that what I feel is really true. Or at least, I know it's true for me, but I need to see you and hold you and know that it is true for you too, because sometimes words simply aren't enough and now I know that this ache of longing is and always was me missing you, I can't bear it.

It doesn't take too long to get to the coast by train from here; we could even still have our seaside holiday. Or we can just stay here if you prefer – I've asked mam and she says she's willing for you to come and stay a while if you'd like to (though she says I mustn't pester you over it just because I'm so desperate for reminders of London, and I told her I wouldn't. This letter doesn't count because 'reminders of London' have nothing to do with the reason I am pestering for a visit). I don't mind what we do or where we go just as long as I get to see you.

Let me know when to expect you as soon as you get this.

All my love,

Delia.

p.s, I've just remembered that I asked about your boyfriend. Oh Pats how embarrassing, however did you manage to answer so composedly? You really are a sort of angel, and maybe nobody else will ever know, but I do. I know and I am so glad.