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The high street teemed with shoppers, mostly women trying to get Christmas shopping done in the few hours left before school let out that day. They moved with the efficiency of a person with too much to do and too little time to do it. Shelagh nodded her head in greeting as she passed friendly faces, grateful no one seemed set on little visits. She had two hours to complete her task and get Angela back to Mrs. Penney before clinic began.

They crossed the street when the scent of baked goods made Shelagh stop. “Oh, Angela!” she cried, “I’ve forgotten the biscuits I meant to bring today.” It was no wonder. Things were already busy at it was. She was mad to even try this.

Angela’s ears perked up at her favorite word. “Bizkit!” She cheered. Shelagh’s brow wrinkled in frustration and she scanned the area. “Oh, alright, we’ll stop and bring some apple fritters with us to Freddy’s house, shall we?” Angela clapped her hands in excitement.

“Got some luvley fritters here, Missus, fresh from me oven,” a voice called. Shelagh turned to see an apron-clad man beside a heavy cart laden with baked goods. He snapped a brown paper bag open. From the look of him, he clearly appreciated the quality of his baked goods. “How many’ll do ya?”

“Half a dozen, please.” Peter Noakes might like one or two as well.

“How ‘bout one fer the li’l princess? This itty bitty one’s not so hot.” The vendor took one from the tray and handed it to Angela. “Sweet fer the sweet, I always say.” He grinned at Shelagh, an appreciative glint in his eye. “One fer her mother, too, eh?”

Shelagh shot a look at the hefty man. “Cheek!” She paid for the pastries and turned the push chair in the direction of the Noakes family’s home.

“Yer husband’s a lucky man, Missus!”

Ordinarily, the baker’s innocent flirting would have cheered her, but for days the letter from South Africa weighed on her mind. Patrick was oddly disinterested, and their discussion that night left Shelagh feeling that there was a larger problem at hand.

“I haven’t heard from Myra in years,” he had said after she finished reading the long letter. “I wonder why she thought to reach out to me? It’s not as if I have the power or connections she needs–or even the skills, for that matter! She’d be better off contacting Jim Pearson, he’s chief of staff at the Liverpool now, or Herbert Crenshaw even. He’s still teaching at St. Thomas’s.” He got up from the sofa and paced the room, his hands threading through his hair. “They’re more likely to be able to send aid.”

Shelagh watched as he opened the case of files he had taken to bringing home each evening. He was nearly finished with a second review, each night searching for connections between patients that had been prescribed Distaval. The late nights were beginning to show on his face.

“Perhaps she thought a general practitioner in the poorest district in London might have some understanding of how to manage in less than ideal surroundings.” Shelagh tried to keep the worry from her voice. While Patrick’s self-confidence had suffered, she was most concerned that he found less fulfillment in his work of late, and less a sense of his own worth.  “Really, Patrick, I should think you’re much more qualified than most. Your ambitions run to helping those most in need of help, not your own advancement.”

He hadn’t turned back to her then, as she had expected. They had a way of accepting compliments from each other, usually with a smile and a wink, but Patrick had ignored her. “I’ll have to answer her of course,” he said, “but I can’t see how we can help. We’ve got enough on our plate here as it is.”

The conversation ended with that, but for the last two days, Shelagh had not been able to forget it. Patrick was right. Things here in Poplar were busy enough as it is, they couldn’t possibly find a way to help, and the thought of Patrick going away for a so long was too much to bear.

Yet the idea kept niggling at the back of her mind. What if, by some miracle, they could do something? What if all the bureaucratic potholes and ordinary realities were all taken care of? There was something in his eyes when he read the letter to her, a gleam of hope she hadn’t seen for weeks.

The effects of the thalidomide scandal weighed heavily upon Patrick’s shoulders, she knew, and he felt the blame sorely. Patrick was more than a doctor. He was a healer and felt a deep connection and responsibility for his patients. It was one of the things she loved the most about him.

It was also the thing that worried her most. Baby Susan Mullucks was always there in his mind, a permanent reminder of his unintentional mistake. While he was able to push through the anguish that caused and continue with his practice, Patrick’s conviction was shaken. Perhaps a trip to Dr. Fitzsimmons’ mission what just what he needed to get it back.

They stopped at the Noakes’ door and Shelagh took a deep breath. “Well, Angela, nothing ever started by staying.” She knocked on the door.

 

The reception room of the Christian Missionary Society was as dark and imposing as any building Shelagh had ever been in. Walnut paneling covered the walls, rich with the patina of years, it had the imposing effect of making her feel quite insignificant. If it weren’t for the tall woman beside her, she wasn’t completely certain she wouldn’t turn tail and head back to Poplar.

“No need to be nervous, Shelagh. Johnny’s quite a grand chap, really.” Chummy assured her.

“Yes, but Chummy, when you said you had a friend here at the Society that could help, I had no idea you meant the Africa Secretary! He must be dreadfully busy. I hate to waste his time.” Shelagh fretted with the handle of her handbag. 

“Oh, Johnny’s never too busy, you’ll see. My brother used to say he’s never known a fellow to be more energetic about more things!”

The large door opened, and a tall, thin man came out. His eyes immediately fell on the two women.
“Chummy! It’s been too long! You told me you’d bring that boy of yours by again. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him he must be ready for Trinity by now!” The stern words were countered by a twinkle in his eye.

“Not quite, though I will say for a three-year-old boy, he’s quite advanced. We have hopes he’ll be Prime Minister one day!”

Mr. Taylor leaned in conspiratorially. “As long as he sends funds to the Mission Society, he’ll get my vote. Least I could do for the nephew of the man that dived into a rugger scrum to save me from the Oxford Huns.”

Shelagh watched the two with guarded eyes. The two obviously had a long history together and spoke a sort of upper-class parlance that set them apart. This man, as much of the ruling class as Lady Browne, seemed to be more comfortable in it, and less concerned with the dignity of station. Perhaps Chummy was right to bring her here.

“Oh,” Chummy cried. “Where on earth are my manners? Mr. John Taylor, may I present Mrs. Patrick Turner.”

With two sets of eyes turned on her, Shelagh felt her confidence falter. What had started out as a simple inquiry was quickly getting out of hand. She reached deep and put on her best Sister Bernadette face.

“How do you do, Mr. Taylor. I’m very grateful you’ve agreed to meet with us. I hope we’re not interrupting your busy schedule.”

“No, no. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Turner. Indeed, I am thrilled! Chummy’s told me about your request, and I must say, it’s gotten my mind in a whirl!”He gestured towards his office. “Come, let’s sit and have a bit of a chat, shall we? Mrs. Mugworth, if you could call down for a tea tray, please?”

Seeing them settled on the leather sofa, he took a seat in a wing chair.

“Your request couldn’t come at a better time, Mrs. Turner. Things have changed a great deal in South Africa in the last year, and the Christian Mission Society no longer has a presence in the area. This could be precisely the opportunity we’ve been looking for.”

He leaned forward. “I’ve taken the opportunity to look into this Hope Mission, and it does seem to be on the brink of closure. Independent missions are shutting down all over Africa, I’m afraid, and without any assistance from the South African government, I’m afraid your friend’s hospital won’t survive beyond the summer.

“Here’s where we can come in. Thanks to a rather large donation year, we have the funds to keep Hope Mission running. The trouble is, we’re strapped for manpower. There’s no way we can get our people out there in time to make a difference. What we need is an advance team that can go out there and do the dirty work, as it were. A group of about a dozen or so people that can bring in supplies, start an education program, perhaps even do something about the water problem. You have no idea how difficult the water problem can be in these places.”

“I can assure you, Johnny, we’re quite aware of the dilemma caused by poor water and sewage in Poplar,” Chummy interrupted. “Even with the new council flats, we still have people living without running water in some quarters!”

The excitement dimmed from his eyes for a moment. “Yes, you’re quite right, Chummy. Our own government has been moving a bit too slowly to care for British poor. There are problems enough no matter where you go, I suppose.”

“Mr. Taylor, might I ask how likely any of this is to happen?” Shelagh could feel a spark of an idea start to form in her mind.

“Oh, I’d say if we could get a team formed quickly, we could have the team out there before February.”

“February!”

He nodded. “Yes, if this is to work, it needs to happen immediately. Hope Mission is barely hanging on as it is. Much more strain and it will go under completely. And let me say, Mrs. Turner, it’s much simpler to improve something we already have than to start from scratch.”

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Author Notes

John Vernon Taylor, Bishop of Winchester, served as the Africa Secretary for the Christian Mission Society in the 1960’s. He was a Cambridge Man, and could very possibly have gone to school with Chummy’s older brother. His obituary is here. I’ve tried to fit my John Taylor into this mold.

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