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Chapter Text

‘There’s still some dirt from the road around your fingernails. It’s by that little graze. When they next give you a bed bath, just get them to rub it away with the corner of the flannel. A spot of antiseptic wouldn’t go amiss.’

As she makes that observation, meant as a comfort but which sounds concerningly clinical now she’s said it, Patsy is also struck by the fact that she only noticed the remaining dirt after reflexively taking Delia’s hand. A gesture that, in this current context between them, she can’t be certain she has consent for.

No matter how much her heart might be hoping otherwise, her nursing knowledge tells her that – if such a head injury as the scans suggest has been sustained when her darling was dutifully wearing a helmet – recognition is extremely unlikely.

Especially initially.

So she’s surprised when her wife not only doesn’t pull her hand away but seems to grip ever so slightly tighter.

At least until Delia comments, in a very disorientated tone, ‘You sound a bit like a nurse.’

Because the confirmation that she did indeed sound clinical isn’t cushioned by the relief it would carry were she confident that it came from a shared joke. And that means all she can summon is a strangled sort of half-chuckle, half-sob, followed by a feeble, ‘Do I?’

Then Delia supplements her statement with a question that perhaps, in another time or even another country context, might well have broken her completely.

‘Are you a friend of mine?’

In this time and this country context, though, she has the luxury of answering openly (if still stiltedly), ‘I – my name is Patsy Busby-Mount and I’m your wife. Is that okay?’

Part of her curses her constant need to question but, quickly recalling her recent rumination on consent along with the fact that Delia herself has been seeking clarification, she lets it hang. And is promptly at once dazzled and flustered when the revelation is greeted with a grin, a giggle and a shy yet sly, ‘Lucky me.’

Not knowing quite what to make of that response, since it is so delightfully (devastatingly?) in character, Patsy decides to deflect. ‘Delia –’

It isn’t very successful, because her beloved brunette seems as belligerent as ever and presses, ‘Have we been married long?’

The emotion of everything has so clouded her mind that the elder of the two women manages only to murmur, ‘A little while.’

But the vagueness – admittedly very understandably – apparently isn’t enough, because her wife insists, ‘How long?’

So, with a soothing squeeze of their still-clasped hands, Patsy elaborates, ‘Almost two years, but we’ve been a couple nearly seven.’

Delia surprises her – yet again! – by humming, and offering awkwardly, ‘We waited –’

She nods, explaining, ‘We were working, and we were very busy – because of the pandemic,’ before wondering whether she should’ve left that bit out and added in its place that Delia had only been seventeen-turning-eighteen when they first met and eighteen-turning-nineteen when they got together,  so wanted to wait until she was at least twenty-one.

But it turns out mentioning work was the right move, because it prompts some rather excited questions. ‘We work together? Where?’

Patsy can’t help chuckling at the enthusiasm, even as she worries that her reply may cause distress. ‘In this hospital, actually. As nurses and then midwives.’

However, as she should possibly have predicted on this decidedly topsy-turvy day, it seems to have the opposite effect, and her wife exclaims eagerly, ‘Oh! So you are a nurse. Does that mean you can tell me what happened, please?’

Willing her voice not to waver, she does as requested. ‘You had a bicycle accident, darling. And hit your head.’

Delia is silent for several seconds, and Patsy almost panics that she’s provided either not enough detail or too much. Then, though, her wife hums again and asks, pragmatically, ‘That’s why it hurts and why I’m struggling to remember things and why I’m in hospital?’  

And the request for further clarity allows her to continue – firstly by offering comfort and secondly by posing a potential plan. ‘Yes, my love, I’m so sorry. But, because we’re married and both nurses, the consultant – the doctor – suggested you could come home with me soon. If you’d like that?’

Watching her favourite face warily, she is delighted to be dazzled by another grin, though swiftly saddened when it morphs into a frown paired with a doubtful query. ‘If you don’t mind caring for me?’

So she brings out her own brightest smile, and purrs, ‘Of course, my sweetest heart. Like you care for me. It will be an honour.’

Delia smiles as well, and attempts to agree. ‘Yes please, P…’ Then, as she trails off awkwardly, her wife’s gown shifts as her shoulders sag beneath it with a combination of all too evident relief and embarrassment, and Patsy is half-tempted to hustle the smaller woman out of the hospital and home that instant.

It would be too much too soon, though, and she knows it. Instead, she settles for simply – yet so very complexly – finishing her sweetheart’s sentence, supplying both the forgotten diminutive and its origin. ‘Patsy; Delia, my love. My name is Patsy. It’s short for Patience.’

The younger woman’s smile turns rueful after that, and she quips, ‘You certainly live up to that.’

The elder is helpless to stop a – blessedly brief – burst of laughter. ‘And you certainly still have your sense of humour.’

Delia clearly does her best to giggle along, but it peters out into a sigh which sounds both sad and weary, and she asks, ‘Patsy – could we sit still and hold hands for a minute or two, please? I’m a bit overwhelmed.’

Her heart thumping with pain even whilst it swells with pride – mostly because the request is more like one she’d make than her wife – the referenced redhead readily concurs. ‘We may sit just like this for as long as you need, dearest Deels.’

She’d not meant to let the nickname slip just yet but, now she has, she’s glad; given that she gets to bask in the glow of another beatific grin, accompanied by a bashful, ‘Deels? I like that.’ At least, she’s glad until the grin slips again, replaced by more doubt in the form of a furtive glance at the door and a hushed, ‘But don’t you have somewhere to be?’

So she soothes, earnestly, ‘With you. Nurses Busby-Mount have a formidable reputation around here.’

She hopes to encourage a laugh, or even just a chuckle, but her darling remains disconcerted. ‘No-one can make you leave?’

Shaking her head, she remembers how details seemed to help just now, and offers emphatically, ‘Nope. I’m your wife and your next-of-kin. Unless you want me to go, to give you a break.’

That point feels pertinent but, from the horror on her favourite face, it seems it might’ve been misunderstood. Then Delia gasps out, ‘No!’ and Patsy can tell she’s about to cry or panic.

Neither of which is ideal.

She consequently pre-empts both, stroking her wife’s soft hand as she counsels, ‘Okay, okay, okay, okay. Could you take a breath, darling? I’ve got you, Deels, I’m holding your hand.’

Thankfully, one breath becomes another and another and another. Then, just as softly as any of the inhalations and exhalations, she hears, ‘Thank you. Sorry –’

Suppressing a smirk, she says seriously, ‘Nope. No sorries. That’s what you say to me when I apologise unnecessarily.’

Any sense of levity vanishes when her reminder is answered with a reticent question. ‘So you meant it when you said about me caring for you?’

She grips as hard as she can without hurting and reassures, ‘Of course I did, darling.’

Delia laughs now, but it is wet, and she whispers, ‘I’m so lucky. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.’

Caught unawares by the intensity of the sentiment, Patsy swallows thickly before responding, ‘I’m the same.’ Then, in an effort to relieve them both, she shifts back to the request that preceded this part of their conversation. ‘Do you still want to sit still and be quiet for a bit?’

Delia smiles that sweet, shy smile. ‘I feel calmer now.’

‘I’m so glad, sweetheart,’ she says sincerely, because she is – and not purely for her sake, or indeed that of her favourite person. There are others to consider, and now seems as good a time as any to introduce their presence. So she goes on, ‘Well then – at risk of suggesting something that might change that, your parents are in the corridor outside. They didn’t want to come in until we’d chatted, and they won’t stay any longer than you can manage this first time, but would you like a moment with them?’

Blue eyes go wide at that, as she’d guessed they would, but her beloved brunette (confronted with a hard, confusing choice) is brave enough to go with what must be, frankly, the terrifying option. With only two (entirely reasonable) conditions. ‘Could – could you stay, please? And remind me what I call them?’

Grinning, Patsy offers immediately, ‘Mam and Tad. And their names are Dilys and Dafydd.’

Delia takes a shuddering breath, but mutters resolutely, ‘All right. I’m ready.’

So the redhead nods, and uses her free left hand to send a message in the relevant WhatsApp chat, silently pleading with the hospital Wi-Fi to work well enough to avoid getting up and breaking the physical contact that has become such a source of solace for both of them.

It behaves, because blue ticks bounce up after barely a second, and then the door creaks softly as the Welsh couple creep in, chorusing, ‘Helo, Delia, cariad.’

Then Patsy feels her face flush hot when her wife blatantly blanks her beleaguered parents, electing instead to lock her own gaze and say, silkily, ‘I know what that means. “Love”.’

Or it comes across as a deliberate disregard for their new company – until Patsy registers that the hand in her own is twitching and realises the true cause of Delia’s apparent break in courtesy.

Bringing up the stopwatch on her phone, she then stretches as calmly as she can to press the buzzer by her beloved’s bed.

Again, barely a second goes by – she knows this because she can verify it on the tiny computer cradled in her lap – before the door bursts open and a colleague rushes in, calling, ‘You buzzed, Delia – oh –’

Then that same colleague stops in her tracks and Patsy has to bite her tongue to hold back a shout of… well, of joy. She succeeds, saying smartly, ‘Yes, I’m terribly sorry, Nurse Smythe; a seizure. I’m timing but I thought it ought to be recorded.’

Then she watches their once fellow student’s face fight with the effort of keeping professional as the young South African murmurs, ‘Ag, Patsy, I’m so sorry –’

Genuinely grateful, she soothes, ‘Dankie, Joy. We’re all right, though – we’re together.’ Then all of their attention is occupied by Delia resurfacing, since she groans, so Patsy stops the stopwatch and shushes, ‘Darling, you’re back. It’s Patsy, my love.’

Her wife blinks, then says blearily, ‘My head hurts.’

She nods, supplying, ‘You had a seizure, sweetheart.’ Which is met by her beloved brunette bursting into tears; the distraught reaction at last giving her the courage to spring up from her seat and increase the contact between them. ‘Oh, Deels – cwtch?’

‘Please,’ her wife heaves out between sobs.

That’s all the assent (and consent) she needs, so she gathers her as close as she conceivably can without causing discomfort to areas she’s conscious are delicate and bruised. Then, whispering into her most precious person’s hair, she pours all the promises she has vowed to keep into a (suitably secular) litany of  fidelity and faith. ‘Okay, okay, okay, okay. I’ve got you. I love you. I’ve got you.’

Because she’s got Delia.

Delia has her.

And that means they can get through anything.

Chapter Text

As soon as it happens, Delia’s convinced she’s never been more embarrassed in her life.

Not only has she just had a seizure (at least according to what everyone around her has said) but she’s just thrown up on the (wildly gorgeous) woman who is apparently her… girlfriend?

Or maybe even wife?

Either way, she feels so consumed by shame that she can only squeal, ‘Duw, mae’n flin ‘da fi!’

Even as the woman moves back out of their cwtch, though, she surprises her with a gentle tut and a grin, murmuring, ‘Hey, what did I say about unnecessary apologies, hmm?’

She is grateful for the generosity, but she doesn’t remember the answer, and (despite sensing the question was rhetorical) that uncertainty makes her scoff, ‘But I just –’

The woman raises an eyebrow, before countering, ‘Deels, you and I have been sick on each other more times than I’d care to reveal with your parents here, as I’m sure they already think I’ve led you astray. This is my own fault, firstly because you’ve just had a seizure and I should’ve known to offer you a bowl before a cwtch, and secondly for wearing something white – or possibly cream, I can’t really tell currently –’

The nickname, and the level of detail offered, means that the woman could only ever be one person – her girlfriend. The confidence that recognition gives allows her to protest, playfully, ‘Pats!’

Patsy bites her lip, and Delia can’t easily make out if it’s to stop herself laughing or crying. What she says soon afterwards suggests the former, however. ‘I’m teasing. In my defence, the rookie error is down to me being in a rush to change after – well – because I was working when – but anyway, because I was working, I’ve still got scrubs in my backpack. I never trust the hospital laundry so I sort my own. But that means I can just pop to the loo – only as far as your convenient ensuite here – and change again. If you’d be happy for a few minutes?’

The gaps, and the awkwardness, in the delivery combine with Delia’s own anxiety about being left (or, more accurately, about Patsy leaving) and lead her to bite her own lip briefly. But she soon tells herself (silently) to stop being so silly and says, slowly but surely,  ‘I’ll chat to – to Mam and Tad – and apologise for my rudeness.’

She’s surprised when the heartfelt statement is met with discomfort from her father. ‘Delia, fach, you had a seizure. That’s not being rude!’

He is smiling, though, which must mean he’s trying to be supportive in a gruff sort of way – and Patsy even agrees with him! ‘Dafydd is right, Deels, darling – none of this is rude, or your fault. I’ll be back in a tick.’

The kindness she’s being shown feels undeserved, but it also helps her feel safe, so she should be grateful. Instead, she’s suddenly filled with a sense of inadequacy, and drops her gaze. As she does so, out of the corner of her eye, she notices the shining of a small screen on the floor. The sight of it prompts her to glance up again in a panic and plead, ‘Wait don’t crush your phone! I think it fell when you jumped up to give me a cwtch.’

The grin the tall ginger woman gives her is so dazzling that, were she not already dizzy, Delia thinks she would be now (in a much nicer way). Then her heart thuds happily as she hears her gush, ‘Oh! So it did. Me being keen! There, love, proof you care for me.’ Then there’s a pause, as the phone is picked up, and she’s almost able to believe the sentiment (possibly helped along by the unexpected delight of a gorgeous figure bending flexibly at the waist). But only almost – because a truly terrifying clinical comment comes with the phone being fetched. ‘Oh, Joy, that reminds me, let me check – the seizure was twenty-one seconds, and I believe it was the fifth.’

The fifth? Five!?

Ffyc.

Before she can seek clarity and share her concern, however, the blonde woman to whom the observation was addressed interjects, ‘Dankie Patsy – and Delia, I’ll just pop that on your notes and then grab a new gown and some sheets for you –’

Her tone is kind, and so is the offer, but both are also clinical – which means they’re embarrassing.

Extremely.

So extremely that she lets her head drop again as she sighs, ‘Oh – I guess I do need –’

Her insecurity is apparently picked up as easily as the phone was, because she hears a soft attempt at reassurance from another source as the blonde woman – nurse – leaves. ‘S’okay, Deels, love – Joy and I’ll help you get cleaned up.’

The gentle phrasing helps her be brave enough to meet the ginger woman’s (blue, and beautiful) eyes, even as she mumbles, ‘But you shouldn’t have to – I just –’

That gets some more softness, paired with the briefest tut. ‘I want to. And it’ll be quicker for you with two of us. Joy and I are almost as much of a dream team as you and I are. I’ll be so speedy getting changed myself.’

The comparison between her and the nurse who’s just left makes her giggle in spite of the situation, so she shows her gratitude by trying to be funny in return, saying wryly, ‘Secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others.’

Everyone in the room laughs, and she’s strangely relieved. It seems the ginger woman might be as well, because she quips, ‘Told you you still have your sense of humour,’ but Delia thinks she hears the tiniest of wavers in her voice.

She decides to respond by trying to keep things light, murmuring, ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Then, though, she’s confused by the use of “still”, and for some reason that prompts her earlier concern to resurface. So she goes on, warily, ‘But – five? That’s too many.’

Those beautiful blue eyes widen as the redhead apparently registers what she’s asking and replies, ‘Seizures? Yeah, it is a lot.’ Then there’s a pause, and a puffed out breath, followed by some further information. ‘You – you were out for a while before that as well.’

Except it doesn’t really feel like information, because Delia is so confused, so she clarifies, ‘Out?’

The ginger woman grimaces, but supplies, ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Unconscious.’

Delia can’t stop a gasp at that. ‘Gosh. What happened?’

She’s grateful when the (lovely) woman just offers, ‘You had an accident and hit your head.’

It reminds her so much of how she tries to be with patients that she says, genuinely, ‘Thank you for telling me. You’re very good,’ and then asks, ‘Are you a nurse?’

She feels silly; the question comes from nothing except her own projection, after all. So she’s surprised to receive a somewhat sad smile, accompanied by an answer which is half an affirmative and half – both amazingly and awfully – not. ‘I am, but I’m here because I’m your wife. Patsy.’

It makes her want to grin and cringe all at once. Especially when she spots the stain on the woman’s – her wife’s! – white shirt. Before she can stop the outburst, she’s gushing, ‘Duw – and I’ve just been sick on you? I’m sorry!’

Patsy just grins gently in turn and tuts, ‘Always thinking of others before yourself. I’m sorry you’re having seizures.’

Delia’s doubtful she deserves such generosity, and asks, awkwardly, ‘Have you told me this already?’

Patsy nods quickly, then clarifies, ‘Some of it. Not about you being unconscious.’

Delia bites back a giggle; partly because she worries it might not be appropriate, but mostly because she’s unsure what else could come out of her mouth with it if she’s too exuberant. She does allow herself a joke, though. ‘So you’re having to repeat yourself and I threw up on you? I think you got the worse deal.’

It’s a joke that Patsy seems familiar with, since she smirks, and adjusts for apparent emphasis, ‘I got the best Deels.’ Then she murmurs, ‘I will just nip and change in the ensuite, though, and give you a moment with your parents.’

Thankful for the last point providing a subtle reminder about the people who will be remaining with her, Delia summons what she hopes will be a suitably believable smile and says as brightly as she can, ‘Mae’n flin ‘da fi, Mam a Tad.’

The man – her father – smiles too, but he also admonishes (admittedly gently), ‘What did Patsy say about sorries, cariad bach?’

The query shakes her, so she says seriously, ‘I don’t remember.’

Unfortunately, the woman – her mother – seems to think she’s being sarcastic and tells her off. ‘Delia! That’s not funny!’

Crushed, she says weakly, ‘I wasn’t –’

She breaks off, biting her lip and breathing in through her nose in an effort not to burst into tears. But the man (Tad) interjects in a way that makes her wonder if she’s not alone in her upset. ‘There’s no need for that tone, Dilys.’ Then he addresses her directly, and it – both his words and the very fact of being addressed directly – nearly makes her cry for the opposite reason. ‘Delia hasn’t asked for this, any more than we have. Have you, fach?’

But she manages to smile instead, and say carefully, ‘No; at least I don’t think so.’

She’s hopeful that might satisfy her mother, but the older brunette barrels on, ‘Yes, well, this could all have been avoided if you weren’t careering around some of the busiest bits of London on a bike. Iesu mawr; you probably weren’t even wearing a helmet! And now you’re here with your head cracked open and your mind half gone!’

The last sentence makes the younger brunette feel particularly unstable – so much so that her eyes sting with tears she doesn’t know if she has the strength to hold back any longer – but the one before it tugs at her brain, so she latches on as though it’s a lifeline and comments as calmly as she can, ‘I’m pretty sure I was wearing a helmet. I can’t be certain, but…’

She trails off, her courage ebbing at the realisation that she doesn’t know for definite. But, just before the sting of the tears gets too much to bear and she lets them fall, a third person joins the conversation – her voice a comforting cwtch as she comes back towards the bed. ‘What can’t you be certain of, Deels, darling?’

Even though the double endearment suggests otherwise, Delia is so discombobulated (and also so desperate for a form of confirmation her mother might actually accept) that she fixates on the fact that the woman is wearing a kind of uniform and asks, ‘Are you a nurse?’

She feels very silly – but the woman grins, explaining, ‘I can understand you thinking that, because I’m wearing scrubs, and I actually am a nurse. Like you.’ Then she adds, ‘But I’m here because I’m your wife. Patsy,’ and Delia’s simultaneously relieved (because it means she has someone who’s not only on her side but does have relevant medical knowledge) and incredibly shy and awkward.

The relief is stronger than the shyness, though, so she channels that and says, ‘Oh, Pats! Maybe you can tell me – was I wearing a helmet?’

She watches the woman’s – her wife’s – face as she waits for an answer and, in doing so, she thinks she glimpses the slightest of scowls being sent in her mother’s direction before Patsy speaks. ‘You absolutely were wearing a helmet. You volunteer with St John’s Ambulance, Deels, and you take cycling proficiency very seriously.’

The intensity of her wife’s – Patsy’s – voice, and the thickness of her accent, is so adorable that Delia almost chuckles in admiration. Yet the confirmation somehow doesn’t bring her as much comfort as she hoped it might, and that means she only succeeds in sighing and saying, ‘That’s good.’

Unfortunately this isn’t enthusiastic enough for Patsy, who raises a brow and observes, ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

So she guesses she has to reveal the source of her remaining anxiety, and does, willing her voice not to wobble. ‘I am, thank you for reassuring me, but – why did it happen, then?’

If there had been a scowl on Patsy’s face before, now she seems distraught. But she also keeps her voice even – impressively so – as she starts what turns out to be quite a long speech. ‘Oh, my love. Because accidents happen. Helmets aren’t a guarantee of anything! But yours kept you alive and, in my humble opinion, that’s the greatest blessing we could ask for. All of us. Disability is part of being human, my sweetest heart. Believe me, I’m all too familiar with that; as a nurse, but as a person too. I’ll tell you why in more detail when things are a little less… fresh for you. For now, Joy’ll back me up when she gets back. Anyone can become disabled at any time, no matter how much we might think we’ve planned and been careful.’

Delia wants – so much – to be able to reply as eloquently and at such length. To express the depth of the muddled mixture of gratitude and grief that’s engulfing her as she’s granted such a detailed response. To say how it grounds her and how much she needs that. But she’s too overwhelmed to get her words in order, and they’re not alone, which prevents her from answering in any other way. And, because they aren’t alone, she’s also aware the other people might not – actually very likely wouldn’t – understand what she means. Because her mother, particularly, is distressed by her current state; seeming to think it’s a problem.

And, if it is, she must be, too.

That means all she can find to say is a faint, ‘So I’m disabled now?’

Patsy apparently takes this as evidence of Delia’s own distress, because she soothes, ‘Right now, my darling, yes, but it’s too early to say anything about the future –’

That isn’t the issue, though; she’s anxious about how this change will affect others, not herself.

Patsy most of all.

And how she feels about her.

So she follows her first, faint, question with a second – made stronger by the strength of her worry. ‘But you still love me?’

Patsy’s eyes (beautiful, blue and suddenly – surprisingly – brimming with tears) lock on hers and she asks, huskily, ‘Deels – may I hold your hand, please?’

Blinking, Delia says a simple, ‘Yes,’ finding that anything else gets caught in her throat.

Then she watches as Patsy nods and, holding her gaze the whole time, walks to sit on the chair closest to her bed before taking her hand, tracing her fingers over the skin in a gesture that feels both comforting and protective, and pronouncing, ‘Delia Braith Busby-Mount: I love you with every cell in my body. Nothing can change that. I promise you, and I don’t make promises lightly.’

‘We’re married?’ Delia asks, giggling giddily at how breathless she suddenly feels and sounds. Eventually, encouraged by a shy nod and grin (and the grounding touch of her wife’s – her wife’s! – hand) she calms enough to add, ‘Have we been together long?’

That gets another nod, after which Patsy giggles as well. ‘Nearly six years. I said nearly seven earlier, but I think I got muddled because I’m overwhelmed.’

Delia laughs properly then, quipping, ‘That makes two of us. And I don’t remember anyway so it doesn’t matter. What else did you say?’

Patsy smirks; her eyes now shining with mischief. ‘How long we’ve been married.’

So Delia thinks it might be fun to play along, and hums, saying sweetly, ‘Gosh, this must be like “50 First Dates” for you,’ in reference to the romcom that, until she’d decided to study nursing, had been her only context for the sort of scenario she’s now apparently in.

As she hoped, Patsy takes her literally, and launches into a passionate speech. Listening intently and trying not to laugh, Delia swears silently never to stop loving this wonderful woman and person, just as Patsy so publicly promised she wouldn’t stop loving her.

‘No it’s not. There are a few people similar to Lucy Whitmore, but her specific symptoms are extremely rare, and her diagnosis is totally fictional. What you’re experiencing right now, Deels, is called post-traumatic amnesia, because this is the day of your accident. We won’t know how much your memory’s actually affected yet. And anyway, a brain injury isn’t a convenient plot device or a cute personality quirk. But I’m sorry, love, I’m not a neurologist – and I’ll stop being a nurse and go back to being your wife. Because we’ve been married since last April, so just over eighteen months. I overestimated that one a bit earlier as well, but…’

Despite being the one to prompt the digression because of its relevance (and because, no matter how little she seems to remember, she somehow knows they’ve discussed it before), that same relevance combines with Patsy’s final point to make Delia sad. So she deflects – a little anyway – for both of them, squeezing the hand around hers and asking, ‘Have you got rings to show me? I’m guessing mine got removed or lost but –’

Her heart thrills with relief and joy when her wife – her wife, her wife, her wife! – beams and exclaims eagerly, ‘Yes! Here,’ as she uses her free hand to search under her scrub top and present the requested evidence. ‘We keep them round our necks when we’re working. And I’ve got yours, so we can go and get a new chain for them together –’

‘When I’m released?’ Delia interjects, half playfully and half-pointedly.

‘Discharged, Delia,’ she hears, and realises that she’d forgotten (for a minute, or maybe more) that it wasn’t just them in the room.

She therefore tries to seem apologetic. ‘Sori, Mam.’

And is surprised when her mother does the same. ‘No, I’m sorry, cariad. It’s no wonder you’re getting your words mixed up.’

She hadn’t been, of course, not in that case – but she is getting more generally mixed up, with words and many other things. So, slipping into Welsh for reinforcement, she says genuinely, ‘Mae’n flin ‘da fi – dw i wedi anghofio. Alla’ i ddim cofio.’

And Mam must appreciate the effort, because she generously answers in English, ‘We know you’ve forgotten, cariad, and that you don’t remember. You took a nasty knock to your head. It’s okay –’

Delia wants to be thankful, but something in her mother’s final sentence pushes beyond the positivity about the whole thing that she’s managed to maintain up to this point.

Or she hopes she has.

She can’t be sure, and that’s the problem.

It’s a problem that leads her to snap, ‘It’s not okay; how can it fucking be okay!?’

Guilt grips her immediately, and she glances in a panic at Patsy, who grips her hand tighter.

But her mother barely blinks as she responds, readily and overwhelmingly, ‘Mae’n flin ‘da fi, cariad. I know I haven’t always been the most supportive, but – I need to be now, and I want to be. Mae eisiau i fi a dw i’n moyn. To echo Patsy, I love you with every cell in my body – in a very different way than she does, mind – and she’s right. We’re all blessed you’re still here. And you’ve had more than enough confusion for tonight, so I think Tad and I should discharge ourselves to the cafeteria, and leave you and Patsy to… get reacquainted.’

There’s so much to process in what she says, and Delia wishes she could. Because she can’t quite believe it; this piece of proof that everyone around her bed unquestioningly, unconditionally, actually wants to be here for her.

But she also can’t believe the innuendo implicit in the last part of its delivery.

It seems neither can her wife – her wife, her wife, her wife, her wife! – because they squeal simultaneously:

‘Dilys!’

‘Mam!’

And their sharing in every emotion gives Delia all the confidence, comfort and care she could ask for.