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‘Really Deels? Haven’t you had enough of that by now?’
Speaking as she entered her friend’s room, Patsy regretted the two questions as soon as they were out of her mouth. Mostly because the Welshwoman they were addressed to looked as though the sound was such a surprise that she almost dropped the two tumblers she had clearly only recently picked up from her bedside table. But, when the brunette turned, the blonde was relieved to be greeted by the dimpled grin that had become so familiar over the past fifteen months.
Nearly sixteen.
Not that she was counting, she mused inwardly, fighting the impulse to blush at her own train of thought. One did not count the months, or even days, when it came to a mere friendship. So her musing morphed into scolding, and that was sufficient to scare away her blush. At least until her questions were answered.
‘I’ll have you know I haven’t had so much as a sip yet, Pats,’ Delia said, her voice soft as she passed over the contraband. ‘And you’ve never complained about my whisky stash before.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied reflexively, whilst they clinked glasses, completing the ritual. ‘And I didn’t mean the Scotch – although it’s my turn to buy a bottle or two soon. I meant the song you were humming when I came in. I know you like Christmas, but it’s Boxing Day. Don’t you think you ought to retire “Deck the Hall” for another year? Or is it “Deck the Halls”? There are so many versions, I never know.’
Delia tutted, then giggled, and Patsy’s heart leapt – and she was unable to use the alcohol as an excuse for her reaction because she had yet to take a sip. So she concentrated carefully on what her friend was saying. ‘It’s neither. It’s “Nos Galan”’ – which means I get to sing it for another five days. It’s Welsh originally, and about New Year’s Eve. Even you English sing it like that, anyway, sometimes, since you stole it. “Soon the Hoar Old Year Will Leave Us”.’
Despite her best efforts, she was distracted, and fixated on a single word, mumbling, ‘I’m not English.’ Then, horrified with herself for revealing anything in such a manner (for revealing anything at all), she hurried to explain. ‘I mean – I am, by heritage, but not birth.’
She was powerless to stop a blush, then, so tried to deflect from her burning cheeks by raising the tumbler to her lips at last. And regretting it when Delia’s reply made her splutter her small mouthful back into the glass. ‘What? But when people ask you where you’re from you always say your family have a house in Chelsea.’
She nodded sheepishly, swilling the liquid around the base of her tumbler to occupy her hand and prevent it from shaking, and thinking how impressive it was that she had managed to avoid this conversation for almost a year and a half. That must be some sort of record. Not that she had shared much voluntarily before, but the repeated arrival of extravagant parcels at school in lieu of visits from her father had inevitably led to gossip she much preferred to quash instead of allowing it to run rampant. But that thought dragged her back to the present, since she realised she was letting her mind run rampant too, and being extremely rude by leaving Delia hanging. So she quickly agreed, and offered some additional information to compensate. ‘I do. And we do. I’m not pretending I’m not privileged. But I grew up in Singapore. Which won’t sound much better, because it was once a bastion of the British Empire’s power, and it’s still a colony. But – well – let’s just say I understand something of what it means to be judged for where you’re from.’
She stopped, surreptitiously taking some breaths to get calm again, and noticed Delia looked sheepish as she spoke in the gap. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so ashamed. I’ve done what the others do with me. Your accent – I thought – you sound just like Janine or Verity.’
She was shocked into a giggle at the mention of two of their most snooty fellow trainees. ‘Very kind, I’m sure.’
The brunette blushed even deeper, and said desperately, ‘You know what I mean.’
She relented, realising that sarcasm was unfair in the situation. ‘I do. Colonial parents. But the polish came from my father sending me over here to boarding school. I’m sorry I haven’t told you, I find it hard to talk about.’
In fact she was finding it hard to talk full stop. So hard that she only just heard her friend’s response. ‘I’m not surprised. Didn’t your mother have something to say?’
‘She – she wasn’t there.’ Once again the words were out before she meant them to be, and she was doubly mortified by the crack in her voice.
But Delia’s expression had become so tender that it did not seem to matter as much as she might have expected it to with anyone else. ‘Tell me, cariad, tell me what happened,’ she whispered, placing her own glass down on the bedside table.
Then Patsy felt her put a hand on either side of her left arm, and let herself be guided to sit on the edge of the single bed. But, in fumbling for something to focus on, all she could say (or ask) was, ‘What does “cariad” mean?’
For a split second she swore she saw Delia blush, but she shook herself inwardly, insisting that was wishful thinking. And the younger woman’s tone was measured (no, almost nonchalant) as she replied. ‘Oh, it means sweetheart or love, but it’s a word almost everyone uses at home. My Mam says it more often than my name.’ The giggle that accompanied the explanation was nearly enough to distract her from how deflated she felt at the knowledge that it was something so apparently commonplace. And also from the reminder that Delia – like most other people – still had a mother who used any kind of endearments. But it did not quite work. And then she felt frustrated that she was being so ridiculous.
Because why would Delia ever have something that was said only between them? And, more to the point, why would she want to?
Thankfully, she did not have to scramble for an answer, either to her internal questions or to Delia’s clarification – because the younger woman went on. ‘I’m sorry, though – I shouldn’t have told you to tell me, I should’ve asked if you’d like to.’
She paused for a moment before replying, pondering how simultaneously pleasant and terrifying it was to receive confirmation that someone actually cared, if only enough to check in. Then she drew a deep breath and said, ‘I would. I’ve held out long enough and it’s about time. I might need some more Scotch, though,’ she added, turning her head to wink.
It had the desired effect – because Delia giggled, and reached for the bottle to top them both up, without commenting on the fact that she had hardly drunk what was already there. But the brunette then locked their gazes to say, seriously, ‘Share as much or as little as feels comfortable.’
She just nodded at first, needing to swallow, and decided to take a deep drink followed by another deep breath. ‘I actually grew up, in the sense that I was no longer a child afterwards, in several different internment – prison – camps during the war. Alongside my mother and sister and they –’ She broke off, not because she was unable to say it, but because she had registered that there were tears tracking down her cheeks. Only one or two, but that was one or two too many, and she was ready to go rigid with mortification again. So she managed to whisper whilst she moved to put down the tumbler, ‘Sorry – I don’t know why I’m – I’m not sure why I even brought it up.’
Brown hair shook, and a strand tickled her face, making her aware of quite how close they were sitting since she had shifted. But she found she did not mind – so did not pull away as Delia whispered back, ‘I’m honoured you feel safe enough.’ And then she felt a small, soft hand rubbing soothingly up and down her arm. ‘Let it out. We’ll chalk it up to the alcohol so your reputation remains intact.’
That set her off giggling, and all she could think to reply (eventually) was, ‘That feels nice,’ in reference to the touch.
Delia beamed, and she let herself be dazzled. ‘Does it? Well,’ she heard her murmur, the lilt of her accent sounding much more pronounced for some unfathomable reason, ‘maybe this will feel nice too.’
Then they were even closer – so close she wondered fleetingly if their noses would touch – but she barely had time to process the thought before a pair of lips (Delia’s lips!) pressed against her nose. And that contact was so unexpected (in the loveliest of ways) that she squeaked in surprised delight.
And, at the noise, Delia pulled back.
Blushing.
Her forehead creased with worry…or perhaps panic?
‘Sorry –’ she stammered, ‘I shouldn’t have – I just wanted to help. Please don’t leave.’
She was struck by how similar the last sentence sounded to one of her own repeated internal refrains. So she spoke quickly. ‘Oh Deels – you did help. Of course I won’t leave. I’ve wanted to do what you did for months, but I didn’t know how. No – I didn’t dare. But you did. And I’m terrified too. But we can talk it all out tomorrow. For tonight, I can say “come here”.’
Then, smiling, she followed her speech by stretching out to stroke the concern from Delia’s face – until she saw a slight, but deliberate, nod she was confident could be taken as consent. With that signal, she leant forward so their lips touched, and she heard the smaller woman sigh as they opened their mouths and began a tentative dance of exploration.
Eventually they both needed air, so they broke apart, giggling. She could only grin, she was feeling so giddy, so she was glad when Delia said, smirking, ‘You taste like Scotch.’
She feigned affront. ‘I’m surprised you can tell. So do you.’
That just made them laugh harder, until Delia piped up again, ‘Stay a while longer, please, Pats? I could do with a cwtch.’
She nodded. ‘I’m the same.’ Then a thought occurred to her, and she added, in a different tone, ‘I don’t suppose you’d sing me “Nos Galan”, Deels?’
Delia returned her earlier mock offence. ‘Oh, you want to hear it now?’
She bit her lip at the adorable outrage, but answered honestly, hoping the words she spoke would carry the meaning of many more until she found the courage to use them. ‘I love it when you sing. And I think this new year is going to be my favourite, so I want to mark it appropriately, which means I need to learn the original lyrics.’
The younger woman huffed theatrically, but she was grinning almost mischievously when she replied. ‘Fine. But you can join in on the “fa la las”. In harmony.’
She barked out a laugh. ‘I should’ve guessed you might say that. All right.’
Because it was all right. She was all right. And, best of all, they were all right.