Chapter Text
Leaning on the window, Patsy watched the enormous hospital come into view as the bus pulled up to the dilapidated stop. The stone bricks shone yellowish in the October sun, while the front arches were cast in shade. Cars skidded past in streams, creating a roar in the background that Patsy knew she would never get used to. Already she missed the subdued bustle of the nursing school, tucked away beside the hospital in Dover. It was a small, modern building with a routine of its own, somewhere Patsy had finally started to find her feet. Structure was her lifeline, when the memories arrived, when she thought she would drown in the fear and loneliness. She could call her schedule to mind, control what she was able to control. Almost ten years had passed; she wasn’t a child anymore. But those moments where she felt her stomach clench and her heart speed up in fear were still frequent and unpredictable. And coming back to London certainly wasn’t helping.
Patsy blinked back to reality in time to see the doors of the bus shutting in front of her. Calling out for the bus driver to wait, she gathered up her bags and hurried to the front, feeling her face flushing as she apologised to the driver. Safely off the bus, she adjusted her cap and was about to make for the gate when she noticed another nurse standing at the bus stop. She was dressed in the same grey raingear as Patsy, but her cap was askew on top of a sagging bob and a long, glossy brown fringe. A suitcase and a dishevelled carpet bag sat at her feet. She looked up as Patsy stood and put herself to rights, a worried look on her face. Her clear blue eyes darted to her face then away again, as if Patsy wouldn’t notice her if she stayed behind her fringe.
‘Hello there,’ the girl began tremulously. ‘I’m Delia Busby.’ She had a light voice with a Welsh accent.
Patsy nodded tersely, giving her a small smile. ‘Patience Mount.’ The young woman smiled, visibly relaxing a bit. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’ She stepped forward, stretching out her hand, but she seemed to change her mind halfway and left it hovering halfway, looking down as if she expected Patsy to reject it.
Patsy came forward to meet her and clasped her hand. She felt Delia’s hand squeeze hers in relief. Her hand was cool and smooth in Patsy’s rough one. She looked up through her fringe to make surprisingly steady eye contact. Her eyes were wide, under short eyelashes. Patsy felt her cheeks heating up and looked down, withdrawing her hand. Delia gave a half nod and shifted her gaze to the hospital. ‘Are you new as well?’
Patsy nodded distractedly, rallying her thoughts. ‘In a manner of speaking. I’m here to complete my third year. You must be just starting? You look awfully young.’
It was Delia’s turn to flush, a surprisingly mulish look crossing her face, and Patsy shook herself internally. It was all well and good to say to herself that she didn't have to care about being pleasant, but she didn't like to nettle people.
‘You’re hardly a withered old matron yourself.’ Patsy barely contained a surprised bark of laughter, fighting to make her face look stern. Delia took a step back. ‘What brings you to London midway through your training?’
Patsy narrowed her eyes, her hand tensing on her handbag. ‘I have an aunt in London.’ That was all the girl would be getting from her, and anyone else who asked. Patsy wasn’t one to air her laundry in public, not to a stranger with an innocent, inquiring smile and attentive blue eyes.
‘Of course.’ Delia seemed to take the hint. ‘We should both go in, I suppose.’ She adjusted her scarf and picked up her bag. Patsy nodded, preparing to go her separate way. She made for the gate, her heels tapping smartly. Looking to the side as she walked, she stopped. Delia was a few paces behind her, trying to hold her suitcase in one hand while struggling to keep a grip on a floral carpet bag that was starting to creep open. For a moment she looked terribly forlorn, her eyes anxious behind her fringe. Patsy felt a pang of sympathy. She’d only been friendly after all. She turned and marched back to Delia, taking the bag from her. ‘You’ll get on alright, you know. It’s easy enough, once you learn to do as your told. It’s quite like school.’ If that was any comfort.
The worried look remained. ‘I never went away to school.’ Patsy fought not to roll her eyes. This girl was like a limping dog, her emotions on show like she’d never learned to keep a stiff upper lip, put her best foot forward. Patsy tightened her grip on Delia’s carpet bag, firmly preventing the handles from falling open as she held the iron gate open for the girl. Hospital life would test her; either she would learn quickly, or she wouldn’t be staying very long. Patsy couldn’t help feeling sorry though, at the thought of that open face closing off, of this awkward, forthright young woman constricting her feelings to a blank nod and a yes, matron or doctor.
She was being ridiculous. It happened to everyone, and she would be better off, in the long run. She walked into the hospital unspeaking, Delia still behind her, through the reception and down a short corridor, until she heard a cough behind her. Delia had stopped outside a door marked Matron. ‘This is me here.’ Patsy nodded. Delia stayed staring at her, fingers tapping against the clasp of her suitcase. ‘Could I have my bag back please?’
‘I – oh. Here you go. Sorry.’ Patsy found herself blushing for the third time in five minutes. She held out the bag rather crossly to Delia.
‘Thank you,’ said Delia, hefting the bag in her hand to keep the contents from spilling out. She turned to the door, putting down her suitcase and raising her hand to knock.
‘– Good luck,’ Patsy blurted out. Immediately she turned on her heels and hurried further along the corridor. She could shake herself, getting so flustered around this odd girl. It must be the nerves of coming here, starting anew, some of Delia’s anxiety rubbing off on her. She could excuse herself, just about – she had been dreading the move for months and hadn’t been prepared to come across another worried new nurse – but she couldn’t afford to let emotions interfere. Still, it wouldn’t be likely to happen again. She couldn’t see a girl like that lasting a week here.
Patsy continued down the corridor, walking a little faster than strictly necessary. She was the first to admit she had no sense of direction, but part of her would rather get lost than walk back to reception and ask for directions. This particular corridor was quiet and echoing, but as she came to a corner two nurses emerged from the stairwell, their chatter bouncing off the walls.
‘Excuse me, but where could I find Matron’s office? I’m new, a trainee.’
One of the nurses looked her up and down and Patsy drew herself up taller to hide her urge to squirm. ‘It’s just back that way, the last door on you left before reception – didn’t you see the sign on her door?’
Blushing, Patsy remembered the plaque on the door Delia had gone through. ‘Thank you,’ she said curtly and turned on her heel.
Retracing her steps, she made it back to the door as it opened. A nurse in a blue uniform emerged, followed by Delia, still with a death grip on her bag. Patsy felt herself draw a breath as if she was about to say something else, and moved to knock on Matron’s door before she could.
‘Enter,’ came the voice from inside.
Patsy walked into the small, spartan office. Matron was arranged behind her desk, engrossed in a tidy stack of forms. After a moment’s wait she looked up.
‘Are you the transfer from Dover?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Patience Mount.’
‘Very good. Have a seat.’ Patsy sat. ‘I understand you’re in your third year of training as an SRN. This is rather irregular to have a nurse move from one hospital to another during her training.’
Patsy shifted in the chair. ‘I have an aunt living in London, ma’am, I came here to care for her. My situation was explained in my letter of application, and the matron in Dover approved.’
This Matron’s face was stern. ‘Be that as it may, the matron at Dover has not been to the London. We are a fast-paced, modern hospital. We demand the highest standards from our nurses.’
Patsy put on her most agreeable smile. ‘The matron had full confidence in my abilities, ma’am, and I hope to be able to prove myself here.’
Matron pursed her lips. ‘You’ll be assigned to work in male surgical for the time being.’ She held out a slip of paper. ‘Report there now and Nurse Phillips will give you your schedule and answer any questions about your training. You’ll be expected to attend lectures even in your third year and you'll be taking examinations at the end of the year. ’
‘Yes, Matron.’ Patsy rose from her chair.
‘Nurse Mount – I don’t need to tell you that we expect exemplary conduct from nurses at the London, in all aspects of life. In your case – living off the hospital grounds – you should be especially particular. You will not usually be given second chances.’
Patsy nodded once. ‘Yes, Matron.’
. . .
Aunt Gloria’s parlour wasn’t really a parlour. The small front room had been a nursery before the building was turned into flats, and it still gave off the air of being tucked away and hidden from the world, between the draughty attic and the rest of the house. Patsy carefully pulled off her shoes at the top of the stairs and tiptoed inside. She couldn’t tell if the floral wallpaper had originally been yellow, but it certainly hadn’t been speckled with mould around the picture rail. The carpet was stiff under her feet as she crossed to the window, which never let in enough light, even when not covered by heavy 1920s feather-patterned curtains. Two ancient armchairs slumped in front of the sooty fireplace, surveying the knickknacks that were all that remained of Gloria’s glory days. Patsy laughed to think of the woman absconding from her family home with the tarnished silver candelabra and tattered lampshades that cluttered the mantlepiece. In spite of herself, she reached out to examine the blackened silverware. Newly arrived in England after the war, she had sat on the floor of this room and polished the candlesticks with Goddard’s silver polish for hours and hours, working the cloth into the filigree spirals until her fingers were rubbed red and sore. Her aunt hadn’t minded her coming in here, though she was particular about keeping every other room in the house free of all traces of life. It was as if she wanted to forget this room and all it contained, traumatised niece included.
A small snort startled Patsy and she looked down to see her aunt asleep in one of the armchairs, half swallowed by the cushion. Her chest rose and fell intermittently under her green housedress that Patsy was sure she had owned the last time she saw her, while her feet stuck out . Patsy tapped her fingers against the other chair, surveying her. It had been eight years since she’d lived here, of course, but her aunt seemed to have aged at least twenty, disintegrating along with her home from a distant woman in her late fifties to someone Patsy would have ached for if she had been one of her patients. A tiny soul slowly ebbing away, abandoned by everyone who had been dear to her.
You know better, she reminded herself.
She crept out into the flat’s tiny kitchen, once a nanny’s bedroom off the nursery. Last night she had been appalled looking around to see how far her aunt had let it go – rings of forgotten cups of tea entwined on the counter, the old gas stove splashed with ancient stains and starting to rust. Even the bare lightbulb in the ceiling was dim and dusty. Now, though, she looked around again, more worried about five plates of toast lined up in a row on the counter, long gone cold. She wondered if Gloria had eaten anything at all today. She stuck her head under the sink and rummaged around, emerging with a scrubbing brush, cloths and a new bar of soap, and set to on the floor. The floorboards had wide gaps between them – the joys of old, subdivided flats – and she attacked the ridges of grime that had built up along each edge.
Dirt aside, there were signs everywhere of her aunt’s mind was deteriorating. Her father had kept in touch with his sister over the years, five or six times a year since the war. Then a month ago, he had written to Patsy. The letter was still in her case upstairs, not yet fully unpacked.
My dear Patience,
I hope that this letter finds you well. I am writing to you to ask a service of you. I am sure you remember my sister, your aunt Gloria, from when you first came to England. As you know, she cared for you during a very difficult time for the both of us, and I know you will be glad to repay her now.
I have grown concerned over the past few months that my sister’s health is declining, and that she is lonely living by herself. I worry that her mind, in particular, is affected. You know what this means, I am sure, from your training, and I am afraid that she will not be able to live on her own much longer. She needs someone to monitor her, and to tell you the truth, to keep her company. Would you consider going to live with her again in London? It would only be for a few months, until I can make more practical arrangements. My sister can be distrustful of strangers, and I would feel more at ease knowing she was with one of the family.
I know you have a year left in your studies, but I am sure you could complete your training in the London. An acquaintance of mine is a surgeon there, and I can ask him to put in a good word for you. As always, I wish I could come home and see the both of you, but my work has been so busy this last year and I believe it will be several months before I can leave Hong Kong.
I am very grateful for your understanding, my dear. I am sorry that this will be such an upheaval for you, but I know that you will remember your duty to your aunt. Our family has become so very small, we must look after each other.
Yours sincerely,
Father
She’d been furious at first; her father hadn’t written in months, now here he was asking her to uproot her life on a whim. She was beginning a life for herself in Dover, somewhere quiet and near her mother’s family, almost a qualified nurse, trying desperately hard to leave the past where it ought to stay. To come back to the flat – the place where she had tried to piece together what had become of her family, of her – when she thought of it, it was as if she was thirteen again, choking back grief and fear that her aunt refused to acknowledge, feeling as if she would die herself from keeping it all in.
It took only one afternoon tea in Fortnum and Mason to realise that her aunt wasn’t the same woman she’d been eight years ago. She was quiet and withdrawn, speaking slowly and haltingly as Patsy rattled through her setlist of small-talk questions, and her once-sharp face lost and perplexed as she filled her in on her work and her studies. On the train home, Patsy had drafted her letter to the matron in Dover, trying to push aside the queasy anxiety that swirled inside her. Her father was right – she owed it to her family, to see the last of it to its end.
‘Patience?’ Gloria stood in the doorway, gripping the doorframe for support. Patsy jumped to her feet and hurried over to her, Stifling a yawn, she glanced out the window to see that it had gone dark. The floor was done, the counters were spotless, the wasted food thrown away. The stove was gleaming under the lightbulb, though she wasn’t sure Gloria could be trusted with the gas. Tomorrow she would go out and buy bleach to scrub the sink and the bathroom. She would start a list of tasks to do, set the flat in order, see her aunt made comfortable. Do her duty.
Everything else could, would have to wait.