A/N: This is an expansion on my fic Bunk Down, exploring Patsy's backstory right up until we reach the present day and, of course, Delia.
Three Green Bottles
New Year's Eve, 1941.
Patience was growing tired, but was reveling in being allowed to join the festivities, her presence going rather unnoticed by the grown ups, who seemed to have been gripped by an all consuming joy, tainted by the slightest bit of silliness, as they often were when her mother threw parties. She weaved between taller figures towards the tray of canapés that were still left, plucking one up and popping it into her mouth unnoticed. There was a brewing excitement in the air for midnight to arrive, signaling a new year, but Patience wasn't sure she would be quite able to stay awake until then, as much as she wanted to.
She spotted mummy, knowing not to bother her too much at these kind of things, lest she not be permitted to shuffle between guests, to gaze upon the merriment, unable to wait until she was old enough to wear a dress as elegant as the other women around her, none more so than her own mother. She wore daring deep purple, and her finest pearls, Patience's favourites, the ones that she was under no circumstances to take from the jewelry box and fiddle with, which gave them a sort of allure. Mummy said that they would be hers one day, and that Nancy would have her pick too.
Daddy would say she was in her element here, which apparently meant it was what she did best. Opening the house for parties, organizing soirees at Raffles, charity balls and events for the high-ranking army men – that was mummy's domain. Patience marveled in her mother's glamour, and it was evident that others did too. Her mother spotted her, grinning from ear to ear, "Darling girl!" She strode over to her, crouching down to give her a warm hug – something she wouldn't usually do in front of guests, as doting and loving as she was. Patience wrapped her arms around mummy, breathing in the smell of her perfume. "I thought daddy had put you to bed."
"He's in the drawing room." She had peeked through a gap in the door earlier, spotting her father reclining with a cigar, talking to a friend, probably about rather boring things – 'business' and the like.
Her mother rolled her eyes, "Honestly, that man. He's with Sir Raynott, no doubt. They'll have plenty of time to talk, they'll be on the same boat all the way to England." She shook her head. "Oh!" She gasped gleefully, her laugh chiming. "Gerald!" She turned to father's friend, and Patience gaped, at the man who had seemed to have attacked a rather large bottle with a sword, the liquid frothing from it as he struggled to get it into glasses. "Honestly, old thing, stop waving that saber around in here." She quipped.
"Mummy, can I try?" She sensed that her mother wasn't quite expecting the kind of behaviour from her that she usually would – the fact she was still out of bed underlined that well enough.
"Oh Patience, there's rather a knack to it I'm afraid." She said, giving her the impression that mummy was rather a dab hand at such things. "I know, we'll open one without the sword, shall we? It's frightful fun anyway."
Patience grinned from ear to ear, not quite believing her luck, as her mother swiped a bottle of champagne from a table that was rather full of them. "After this is straight off to bed – do I have your word?" She nodded firmly, reaching for the bottle. It was heavy, and her confidence slightly waned as those in the parlour began to look at her, seemingly finding the sight somewhat adorable. "You must aim it away from you…and everyone else for that matter. Right all, stand back. We don't want anyone's eye taken out." A few chuckled, and Patience attempted to pull the cork but it seemed rather stuck. Perhaps it really was the best thing to do just to chop the top off with a sword, she pondered.
"Come here, sweetheart." Her mother stood behind her, holding the bottle so she was free to tug at it with all her might. After gathering her strength, the cork went flying across the room, hitting the wall and rebounding with some force as everyone cheered, and the champagne began to spill from the bottle. Her mother took it from her quickly, pouring it into glasses before it could soak the floor. She could barely contain her grin. "Very good, Patience. But I think that's quite enough excitement for one night, don't you?"
"Can I try-"
"Absolutely not." Her mother said firmly, "You haven't caught me off guard quite enough for that, and won't for some many years." She ushered her towards the stairs, and Patience reluctantly let her.
"How many years?" She asked.
"Hmm, let's see. Shall we agree on your sixteenth birthday? I think that'll be appropriate." Her mother mused to herself. "But please, darling, you mustn't grow up too quickly, I couldn't stand it." Her mother said with a hint of sadness. She knew that when she was thirteen she would be going to school in England, away from her mother and father. She had just about managed to escape prep school, due to mummy's protestations that nine was far too young for her to be away from her family and that Nancy would be lonely. Patience hadn't weighed in on the argument – her mother had fought her corner efficiently enough – but she had silently agreed.
Her mother flicked off her high heels as they entered Patience's room, taking the pins out of her daughter's hair after seating her on the bed. "Mummy, why does daddy have to go to England? He's going to miss your ball for the soldiers." So was Patience, for that matter. She wasn't allowed to attend mummy's charity parties, only the ones in the house that were for their friends.
"Well, darling," She started, whilst unbuttoning her dress for her. "Daddy's partner in England is rather on his way out, you remember Mr. Cheverell, don't you? Anyway, he's quite old now, and he's not very well. Your father has to go and sort his affairs out with him, rather urgently really, before he passes away."
Patience sighed; wishing daddy didn't have to go away. He was so often busy, but when he wasn't they had such tremendous fun together. The war in Europe seemed to be taking up even more of his time, as apparently it had 'complicated things with shipping', and he seemed so terribly grumpy and frustrated whenever she saw him, but never with Nancy or her.
"Into bed then, chop chop." Mummy flung back the covers, "I know it's a little loud downstairs, but do try to sleep." She climbed underneath the sheets, watching her mother as she opened the window, and then pulled the net across it. "Now, darling girl, mummy loves you so very dearly." She bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair.
"I love you too, mummy." Patience smiled, drawing the covers over herself, the excitement of the late evening washing over her, as well as the tiredness of having been out of bed for much longer than she had ever been allowed to before. It would be the last time Patience ever saw her mother being her best self – so social, charming and glamourous that she could hold the attention of an entire room by just gliding into it. That image of her mother was soon to fade away, though it would always be the one that Patience would urge herself to think on whenever memories of the woman who had brought her life – and had fought so desperately to allow her to cling onto it – cropped up in her mind, as they so often would.
February, 1945.
Patience dared not admit it to anyone, even herself, but her father's arrival wasn't something she had relished in as much as everyone around her had expected her too, including the man himself. She was a shrewd girl, highly adept at understanding what people around her wanted of her, and much of the time she was very good at playing along with it. She had tried to be happy when she saw him, and was rather successful at doing so, but sensed that he was doing the same. Of course, it was obvious enough that he was relieved she was alive, but he had only just learned before setting off for Singapore that Patience was the only one he would be returning with, so she supposed it was taking him some time to get over the shock. She'd had much longer to get used to the idea that mummy and Nancy were no longer with her, but was still having trouble adjusting to the fact that she wasn't going to die as well, and that everything she had known for three years was now a part of her past – well, as much as she could make it so, and god knows she would try.
She knew that she should be pleased to go to England, to start her knew life, in comfort and health, but it felt like she was leaving her family. The women and children she had lived alongside in these past years were all she had in the entire world, apart from her meager possessions – her mother's compact and her own diary. And of course now two sets of clothes, a nightdress, a toothbrush and hairbrush, courtesy of the crown. Even at this age, she had it in her to be just a little bitter, to ask why the far off country that she had never really known hadn't been able to save them sooner. The point was, the women from the camp were the only people who knew who she was now, and she was well aware enough that upon returning home she'd be expected to slot into her father's life in the way that he wanted her to. Patience knew that it was the best way, but she also felt like she needed more time to get used to the idea.
They sat opposite each other at a table in Raffles, clutching menus. She let her eyes flicker over the dishes, still not quite over the choice of food now available to her, the tastes and the textures. She'd told herself she'd try everything on the menu, everything that didn't have rice that is, because she was never, ever, eating rice again. It had been three weeks since the liberation, and she'd made her way through the hotel's menu rather well, her eyes happened upon the next dish she was going to try, resisting the temptation to return to some of her favourites. Her heart sunk though, when she struggled over the words. It definitely wasn't a Singaporean dish, so that couldn't be why she didn't understand it.
"What is it, Patience?" Her father asked, placing his menu down. "Can you not read?" He asked.
She clenched her jaw, "I can." She said firmly. Her mother had made sure of it that she continued learning, and the women were constantly swapping the little literature they had. If anything she'd been forced to read books harder than she should have been able to manage due to the limited supply there was.
"Show me." He held out his menu, waiting for her to point out the offending dish that had her stumped. Reluctantly, she reached out, showing him.
"Oh, that's gigot d'agneau pleureur – lamb. It's French, of course you can't read it. Don't worry, you'll learn French at school, and I'm sure you'll catch up in no time at all."
She breathed a sign of relief, though was slightly worried to not have realised that it was a different language she couldn't make sense of, and not her own. She hadn't read very much at all, or tried to keep up with her studies in the camp, since her mother had died. "Can I have that?"
"If you so wish, Patience. Rather a large meal for lunch though." He said. "After this, we're going to the house to see what the Japs have done with the place." He added with a touch of irony.
Patience didn't want to go, she wanted to stay here with the women. Some of them were leaving soon, and some of them had already left. She wanted to be around people who knew what she was feeling right now, how strange everything seemed. There were no boundaries, no fences, and enough space to run and run forever unless the sea got in your way. If she wanted water that she wasn't afraid would kill her, she only had to twist a tap and out it would come – hot if she wanted, cold if not. Everything and everyone was clean, even though it had felt like it would take an age for the dirt to budge under her fingernails.
They sat in relative silence until their food was brought, her father saying that after that they would go shopping, clearly trying to cheer up with the suggestion that he buy her some nicer new dresses and shoes, and some long socks to cover the bandages on her legs. He stopped talking though, when he seemed to realize that very little he could say was going to enthrall her, or make her act like a little girl. "Patience." Her father said, rather sharply, and she flinched, glancing up at him, not knowing what she'd done. "We'll have to get you a governess right away, another thing to sort out I suppose. I'll send a telegram to your aunt and have her arrange for a suitable one."
"What is it, daddy?"
"You simply cannot eat like that." But she had been using her knife and fork, hadn't she? It had been such a struggle when she'd arrived at the hotel, and so embarrassing to have to be helped cut up her food, not having used cutlery in years. She was still a little clumsy, but she was getting there – that's what Louise had said. "Elbows on the table, mouth wide open, in a hotel of all places."
She shrunk at the criticism, not saying a word as she slipped her elbows off the table and placed her hands neatly in her lap, sitting up straight. Her appetite was suddenly gone, the sick feeling that came when she ate too much or had something too rich overcoming her after only a few mouthfuls. It felt foreign for this man to be telling her what to do, acting like her parent. For so long he has become this figure of hope in her life – we're going to return to England with daddy soon, just you wait. Oh, and he'll be so pleased to see us, all of us – but had also taken on an mythical quality, and now she felt like she didn't know him.
Later that day they waited outside Raffles for one of daddy's friends who had a car, watching the pulled rickshaws and people pass by. She wished that he'd let her stay with the women here, with people that didn't care if she cried in front of them, as she so wanted to now. She wasn't even sharing a room with them anymore, her father suggesting that she needed peace and quiet after her ordeal, and renting them a suite in the hotel, but the silence was daunting, and she sensed that he didn't think many of the women appropriate company – some of them swore and they were what he would call common. She didn't want to admit either that she was tired, and still so, so sore, and she suspected that daddy didn't want to believe that she was either. He had looked away when he had seen the ulcers on her legs when her dressings were changed. When Rodney's car pulled up, someone who she was apparently supposed to recognise, it was him who noticed she struggled to climb into the car.
"Get into the backseat, old boy!" He told her father, "Let the girl feel the wind in her hair." He picked her up under the arms and placed her into the front seat, garnering a small smile. Rodney drove quickly to the point of recklessness, chatting cheerfully to her father, overcome by the glee of the war being over, being happy to return to his business in Singapore, trying to distract her father from his misery in a way that Patience couldn't. He included her in the conversation occasionally, saying the right things – the first person she'd met outside of the camp that had been able to do so. He didn't talk about her frightening future, where she was destined to live a life that felt like it might have far off, maybe even non-existent, familiarity, but mostly that she didn't know how to navigate. And he didn't talk about the past. He mentioned the flowers and the trees they passed, naming them – in Latin too – he explained to her what his business was, and asked her what she liked. When she answered that she liked to read, he said he would have some books on plants sent to the hotel for her. She liked that he was bringing her back the present, back to the real world, in a gentle way.
"I'll wait outside, shall I?" He said as he stopped outside the house.
The building was huge, it almost didn't seem like it could be a home, let alone hers – once. White, or a least it was some time ago, with paint peeling, and darkness behind the windows. The tiles beneath their feet had some cracked or missing among them, and the door was ajar, no need to force it. Her father pushed it open. It wasn't a total wreck, but it had been lived in. There were things of theirs still there, things she vaguely recognized, and distinctly Japanese decorations and furnishings. It looked like it had been left in a hurry though – it wasn't obvious, just a feeling she'd got, a memory for when mummy had been rushing around the house, grabbing things, important things to take to the camp, most of which she hadn't been able to hide and had been stolen from them eventually. She hoped bitterly that the Jap who'd lived here, probably a high-ranking military official, was going to be punished like so many of the others were.
"Come, Patience." Her father beckoned her, drawing her out of her daze as he ascended the stairs. He sighed and shook his head as he noticed large squares on the wall, lighter and cleaner than the rest of it, indicating paintings removed. Her mother had loved art, and no doubt most of the most valuable pieces had gone. She trailed him into the room daddy and mummy used to share, overcome at the sight of it. Their bed was unmade, a silk Japanese throw crumpled at one end, her father picking it up and inspecting it with his thumb and his forefinger, and dropping it like it had put a bad taste in his mouth. He opened the drawers of the dresser, peering in them, slamming the last one in apparent exasperation. He looked enraged, and she hovered nervously in the doorway. Then he bent down at the floorboards, lifting one up, and then another. She had never known they had a secret passageway. As she stepped closer, she realised the cavern contained a safe, the door of which threw he shut with a bang.
"Bloody bastards." He muttered, and she pretended not to have heard. "They took everything." She sensed he meant more than just their valuable things, and in that moment she hated them more than she ever had. More than when they left for the camp and walked for days and days, more than when she was hungrier than she ever had been and ever would be again, more than when her mother was punished for harbouring her possessions, not out of sentimentality, but because she could trade them for food and medicine, more than when her best friend Geraldine had died, more than when mummy had died and then Nancy even though she promised that she would care for her. Because now, she couldn't be happy, and the whole time in the camp she thought that she would be, one day, but it just didn't seem possible anymore.
Before they wandered into the next room, and the next, she spotted something in one of the drawers daddy had left open – a small, square bottle. It was nearly empty, just a little perfume left. She opened it, and breathed in the smell, familiarity washing over her. It read Chanel on it, and the scent was distinctly the same as the one that that overwhelmed her nose when mummy bent down to hug her – before the camps of course. She clutched the bottle in her hand, and decided that whatever daddy salvaged from the house, whatever he had shipped back to England as a relic of their old life, this was coming with her.
March, 1946.
Patience found it impossible to tell whether or not she preferred being at school. The fact she had started late was an understatement – she had joined in the middle of the second term of the final year of prep, but she supposed it was better to get used to the whole affair before going to finishing school, as it would have been rather a lot to catch up on. She felt happier to be surrounded by other children, rather than just her ghastly governess and miserable father, who seemed less able to look her in the eye as the weeks went on and on. He had wanted her to feel better, to start being a child, but as much as she desired to be the person he expected her to, she couldn't pull it off. Even when she pretended there was an unmistakable sadness in her eyes, and it was always obviously a farce.
Her governess had caught her up with her studies sufficiently enough, and taught her manners, which she had picked up quickly. Her French was almost as good as everyone else's, though her Latin was still atrocious. Reading and arithmetic were fine though, but she was especially lost on Religious Studies. Catholics, Christians, those who clung to god like a lifeline, and those who denounced him as spiteful, and even a couple who had never believed in him before the camp, hadn't made for a coherent strategy on the spiritual education of the children. Her mother had stopped praying, and she had noticed after a while that she didn't kneel before her bed night after night anymore. Perhaps because she was exhausted and needed sleep, or perhaps because she was angry with God. She had prayed when Nancy got so terribly sick though, prayed for her daughter and not for herself right up until the moment she couldn't form words.
Patience didn't like prayer – it reminded her of the futility of the act, and only did so meaningfully when she was truly desperate, unable to think of another thing that would relieve her, but in the back of her mind she knew it was still silly. She had to do it at school though, every night, along with the other girls. So she found herself praying for things she knew would probably happen anyway, and that she wouldn't be beside herself if they didn't – that Beatrice would have a lovely birthday, that her house would win hockey cuppers, that she'd do well in a test – and that way, she had something she could feel less bitter about.
She was curled up in the most comfortable chair in the common room, glad to have nabbed it, Seventeenth Summer open in her lap. One of the other girls had borrowed it to her, recommending it highly. She was finding it rather dull, unable to understand why the protagonist was so hung up on her boyfriend, wondering why anyone would bother to write a book about something so utterly unexciting. She decided to only read enough of it to sufficiently pretend she knew plenty about it to Phyllis when she prodded her with questions on the novel, and resolved to delve into one of the books Rodney had sent her. He was living in Australia now, just like Louise, and though so very far away, neither of them had forgotten about her like she feared they would.
Daddy couldn't understand why she still wrote to Louise – he hadn't liked her because she was loud and assertive, not to mention she used foul language, and he so desperately wanted Patience to let go of it all, but she couldn't. Her nurse friend was studying to be a doctor now, at least for the time being, but she wrote to Patience like she was an adult, perhaps because she knew she had seen so much, and told her with honesty that she couldn't stand her classes, having more experience with emergency and tropical medicine that even the person who was teaching her. She'd amputated a foot by herself when Dr. Doreen had been down with malaria, and yet her peers were talking her down to her because she was a woman. In her last letter she had said she was considering going back to nursing, abroad though, somewhere where her now very specific and expert skill set would be useful.
Harriet was trailed by some friends into the common room, and gave Patsy a glance as they occupied the sofa. She couldn't read whilst they chatted, but she continued to pretend to. She found herself unbothered by who liked her. She didn't yearn for acceptance. She didn't show enough excitement and warmth towards those who were friendly to her for them to continue coming back to her with the same level of enthusiasm, so thus Patience found herself surrounded by people she talked to happily enough, but no bosom buddies, and a good few people who thought her aloof and offish, Harriet included. She wondered if she'd ever feel able to get along with girls her own age without forcing herself too – they all seemed so terribly, giddily happy all the time, squealing and laughing and whispering, or sobbing over the most ridiculous thing. Emotions of the extreme over very little – she had no time for that.
"I say, Patience." Harriet started, the other girls around her, Francine, Cecelia and Mary looking surprised at their friend even talking to her. "What did you have for supper this evening?"
She tightened her jaw, trying not to react. She closed her book, reasoning with herself that it was natural for people to wonder why someone was being treated differently, and if it was for a special reason that didn't apply to them. "I had oat broth, and then liver with an egg." Then she added sarcastically. "In fact, I think they skimped on the jam in my semolina." Today definitely hadn't been a day where her dinner had been preferable to that given to the other girls, that was for sure. She was glad of it, because Harriet seemed to wrinkle her nose.
"But why?"
Patience resisted the urge to roll her eyes deep into the back of her skull at Henrietta's incessant whining voice, wishing she'd found a quiet hallway to read in before lights out instead. Then she gave the answer she always gave, "Because before I came to school I wasn't very well, and now I have to eat specific foods with certain vitamins in them." She hoped that would satisfy the irritating young woman's curiosity.
"What was wrong with you?"
She openly sighed this time, not masking her displeasure. "I had a deficiency in Thiamine." She didn't want to say malnourishment, but she also didn't want to lie.
"And calcium?" The other girl continued.
"What?" She said shortly.
Henrietta gestured to the bottle on the table that was between them, "You get given so much milk."
It was true – the foolish school nurse seemed to have it in her head that she ought to be drinking her body weight in milk everyday because Calcium was good for children. Of course it was, but it wasn't the problem. It was vitamin B1 that she needed. She didn't argue with the woman though, there was no point – if she did, her father would know about her insolence, her resistance the total recovery he so desperately wanted her to have. So she continued to go and see her, to be weighed and have her height measured. The nurse would occasionally try to engage her in conversation about it, but she would resist, painting on a smile and saying how much she was enjoying herself to ensure a quick escape.
"I don't want it, you have it." She said, standing up and excusing herself quickly, climbing the stairs to her dorm room. Luckily none of the five beds had someone seated on them, and she quickly occupied hers, crossing her legs and gazing out the window in somewhat of a daze. The fields and the clouds warped as she directed her eyes through the two milk bottles she had arranged on the windowsill – that was all they were good for – and the wildflowers she regularly placed in them. One for her mother, and one for her sister.