Work Text:
Merry Christmas 1959
‘She can be quite militant, my mam,’ said Delia absently, distracted by the attempt to cellotape a rather forlorn looking bow to a more carefully wrapped book shaped gift.
‘Surely not?’
The sardonic tone made Delia place a careful finger in the centre of the ribbon and look sharply at her companion who was sat to her left, perched on the end of the narrow, single bed. Her furrowed brow smoothed and a grin spread across her face when she saw the playful smile on Patsy’s face. Their eyes met and both pairs smiled wordlessly before Delia continued.
‘I was just trying to explain why she is always so insistent on attending a Welsh language carol service – even when she comes to see Auntie Blod. I have managed to avoid it the last few years.’ Delia paused and her eyes dropped to the ribbon again. ‘I hate the fact I am leaving you at Christmas again. Every year it gets harder. Last year it was all hands to the pump and this year I’m gone for a whole week.’
Delia looked hard at the ribbon, she felt rather than saw Patsy move and kept her hands on the ribbon as she felt warm hands snake around her waist and a tall, lithe body press flush against her back as she bent over the dressing table where she was working on the present. The smaller woman closed her eyes and bent upward, pushing her body into the embrace and hearing the rub of the starched cotton in Patsy’s uniform as it met her cardigan.
Delia abandoned the ribbon entirely and moved her hands to her stomach where her fingers found the familiar slats between Patsy’s own digits. ‘I dream of a Christmas where you can come with me, be with me. Walk on the beach, play dominoes in The Lobster Pot on Christmas Eve, admire my dad’s prowess with the carving knife.’
‘Delia, you know that I love you?’ Patsy’s voice was earnest and Delia opened her eyes, tilted her head towards the lips by her left ear before nodding a slow affirmative. ‘Well, despite you being the single most important thing on this earth for me and, despite the fact I have never met her, I’m not sure anything will induce me to spend a week with your mother.’
Their combined laughter rang out loudly in the small room of the nurse’s home where they had spent so many hours and Delia tried to stifle her giggles with a hurried shush.
‘If you’re not careful Nurse Mount, Matron will be up those stairs and demanding to know why you aren’t stood watch over the telephone at Nonnatus House. Or Sister Evangelina will be putting a black mark against your name on her card index.’
‘Still not as frightening as your mother,’ muttered Patsy, pressing her lips briefly against Delia’s neck and releasing the diminutive brunette.
‘I suppose you will be in bed or delivering babies when I leave this evening,’ said Delia regretfully. ‘I better say Merry Christmas now.’
Crossing the carpet to where Patsy had stationed herself by the door Delia rested her fingers on the slender forearms crossed across Patsy’s body and reached up to press her lips into those of the taller woman. Instinctively Patsy’s arms reached around her back and Delia leaned in further to make fuller contact when the raucous shouts and giggles of several passing girls made them spring apart.
‘Happy Christmas Deels, I love you,’ whispered Patsy and she was gone, the door clicking resolutely behind her as Delia heard hard heels rapping out a brisk pattern on the polished floors. What Delia could not see, or know, behind her closed door was the swimming vision of the tall, red-haired nurse as she made it to the stairwell.
Eighteen hours later Patsy screwed up her eyes against the pounding in her head as Sister Julienne made her way ponderously through a saying of grace that was surely going to leave the potatoes cold. Although her eyes were closed she was sure that she could feel Sister Monica Joan to her right, slipping morsels from the feast into her mouth as the clear, crisp voice of the senior nun rang across the festive table. She wondered momentarily if she might do the same when ‘Amen’ sang around the table. Before her eyes were fully opened there was a clatter of spoons against china and she winced as the chatter and noise of Christmas lunch fought for dominance with the headache raging inside her skull. Trixie trilled loudly about making the best of spending Christmas day at work, Sister Evangelina tutted loudly at Sister Monica Joan before piling the older nun’s plate as high as she could with the best of the breast meat from the golden turkey so proudly carved earlier that day by Fred. It was her first Christmas at Nonnatus House and joy at finding a house so full of love wrestled with the regret she felt at no longer being able to sneak, without suspicion, into a room several floors from her own where warm arms and a kind Welsh lilt waited to wish her a happy Christmas. Closing her eyelids in what she hoped might be taken as a final prayer of thankfulness Patsy summoned a vision of Delia to her inward eye and wondered what the Welshwoman was doing at that moment. Despite her humorous objections she wished fervently she could picture, in truth, the kitchen in Marloes overlooking a Pembrokeshire beach where Delia was no doubt complementing her father on his carving skills. She knew the scene from a hundred recollections painted by Delia’s lively anecdotal conversation but she longed to know the scene for itself. To be a part of Delia’s Christmas. To have a shared Christmas.
The deep, resonant chime of the front door sliced through her reverie and she looked expectantly around the startled eyes of the assembled nuns and midwives before she spoke.
‘I’ll go.’
She pushed back against her chair, placing a napkin at the side of her plate, and trotted up the short flight of stairs from the kitchen. Sister Evangelina tutted and her voice echoed down the corridor.
‘No doubt some useless man, flapping because his Christmas dinner is on hold for labour pains.’
Patsy smiled and smoothed the cotton of her green dress before she wrenched open the ancient heavy door that separated the nunnery from the rest of the East End. Her hand was still resting against the wrought iron handle when she registered the small, blue eyed woman smiling up at her from the doorstep and it gripped tighter when recognition flooded her senses.
‘Merry Christmas Pats,’ said Delia quietly. ‘It turns out that leaving you is harder than I imagined. So here I am.’
As Delia’s voice trailed away; defeated by the sudden realisation of the idiocy of her decision and the wild panic in Patsy’s eyes, she made the choice to make the situation easier. She gave a soft smile and turned away as she spoke, making to leave the threshold of Nonnatus, her words tumbling over one another like storm waves.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you. I just couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing you today, or for the next day or the next day. But I have seen you now.’
Without warning Delia found herself being hauled inside the capacious hallway of the convent she had never seen but had heard so much about. She had little time to register the wooden stairs and banisters, the surprisingly tacky nativity scene on the hall table or the strong smell of beeswax before she physically jumped at the door slamming into its frame behind her.
‘Your mother is going to kill you,’ said Patsy, the idiosyncratic smile that quirked her right lip as if a fish hook was tugging at her cheek appearing by degrees over her face, her strong fingers still gripping Delia’s forearm. ‘But this is the greatest Christmas present anybody could have given me.’
‘Well, happy Christmas then Pats,’ said Delia, softly, searching for Patsy’s eyes with the striking azure of her own. As their gaze met Delia felt her stomach turn over. She moved her hands to Patsy’s waist and revelled in the physical closeness. Patsy stiffened for a moment, glanced worriedly down the corridor towards the kitchen from which emanated various sounds of cheer, turned her face back towards the expectant, open face of the woman she loved.
‘I can come to the nurses’ home later, but you have to go.’
Delia bit her lip and nodded.
‘But, before you do,’ murmured Patsy, eyes again flitting to the long wooden corridor, her hands inexorably finding slim hips through the layers of winter coat and pushing into the cold fingers pressed against her own warm waist as she leant in and kissed Delia briefly but firmly on the lips. ‘Merry Christmas, Deels.’
‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’