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At precisely ten minutes before eight that morning, a young boy scampered up the stone steps to the Mission. He peeked in the entrance, then called out a few words in his native tongue. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to his assigned task and unwound a length of rope from a cleat on the stuccoed wall. He stayed there motionless until he heard a voice call out, then with a swift yank of the rope, he used his four-stone weight to ring the morning bell.

Almost instantly, children came running into the open yard from every direction, their voices filling the air with cheerful chatter. By the time the last bell had sounded, the children were lined up in orderly rows, smallest to tallest, and stood silently as they awaited the start of the day.

The newest student watched from the side, nerves beginning to show.  He glanced at his mother. “I’m older than all of them,” Timothy muttered.

“It does seem that way,” Patrick answered. “But you’ll be working on your own assignments, it won’t matter much anyway.”

“Yes, but Dad, we’re here for so long. I thought maybe I’d meet some people my own age. I can’t spend all my time with Angela and Nurse Crane.”  He shifted his bookbag on his thin shoulder.

An elderly man shuffled out from the dim school building. His white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his skin and despite his slow gait, he held himself erect.

“Good morning, children,” he called out in a deep and melodious voice.

“Good morning, Utitshala!” Twenty young voices called in return.

The teacher stood to one side of the doorway. “You may come in now.”

Obediently, the children proceeded into the little school house. As the last child entered,the old man turned to Timothy. “You must be my new charge,” the man said. “I am Philip Nkosi, but you may call me “Utitshala,” which means ‘teacher.’” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I must say I am very excited to have you here, young friend. We shall learn much from each other, I am certain.”

His easy manner seemed to relax Timothy, and the boy smiled. “I’m sure I have much more to learn from you, sir.”

Utitshala smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “You will do, Timothy Turner. And soon, you shall meet my young friend Stephen. He will come soon, and you shall have a friend.” He turned to Patrick and Shelagh and held out his hand. “Thank you for the gift of your son, Dr. and Mrs. Turner. I shall do my best to stay out of the way of his progress.”

Patrick shook his hand gratefully. “Thank you sir. We appreciate you accommodating our son during our stay.”

“We have much to learn from one another, Doctor, far beyond the academic. But there is a daughter, I was told.” He looked to Shelagh.

“Yes, Utitshala, but she is quite young. Angela will stay with Kholeka whilst I am at the hospital.”

The teacher nodded sagely. “Kholeka is a wise choice. She has raised four of her brothers and sisters already. She was quite a good student herself when she was in my school, but her family’s need was great. Well, then, Timothy Turner, shall we begin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I shall follow you, as all good teachers must. Good day, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner.”

They watched as their son entered the building. Patrick glanced at his watch impatiently. “We’ll be late, Shelagh.”

Her clear blue eyes turned their focus to him. He was nervous, she knew. She reached her hand out to his and gripped it tightly. “Then I shall follow you.”

 

Despite Patrick’s fears, the team had yet to gather in the empty east wing of the hospital. Only Fred and Nurse Crane had arrived, and both had taken the time to settle in according to character. Whilst Nurse Crane stood by the crates of medical supplies taking inventory, Fred had settled himself in a cool corner, his worn pack of cards already spread out before him.

“Mornin’, Doc, Mrs. T,” he called. “Looks like we’ve got our work set out for us, don’t it?”

The room, though clean, had all the hallmarks of a long-abandoned hall. The plaster walls were yellowed with age, the institutional brown paint on the lower half chipping away like an old fresco. Natural light glowed from the large windows and doors, the brown mullions creating a patchwork of glass. Ceiling fans circulated the air.

“It certainly does, Fred. Hopefully, we can get this place sorted and then you can get started on the water supply situation. The Mission Society promised to send a hot water heater, but apparently it’s not yet arrived.” Shelagh walked along the rows of rough-hewn furniture stacked against the back wall, creating a plan as she went.

Patrick lifted the lid of an ancient Red Cross bin and peered inside in distaste. “I’m not sure even you can make something of this place, Shelagh.” He dropped the lid and brushed the rust from his hands.

Shelagh glanced back over her shoulder. “Have no fear, Doctor Turner. This place has good bones, I’m sure we’ll make it work.” She teased, “Remember what I did with you.”

Fred chortled. “I’m afraid she has ya there, Doc.”

Phyllis looked up from the clipboard in her hands. “Between what was here already and the supplies we brought along with us, it seems we have nearly enough to set up as soon as possible, Mrs. Turner.” She handed the papers to Shelagh.

Shelagh nodded and her shoulders lifted with excitement. “We’ll have this place sorted in no time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Turner,” Trixie’s voice interrupted as she and Barbara Gilbert came through the door. “I simply had to get my “Keep Fit” exercises done this morning, and I convinced Barbara to join me. Just because we’re on a different continent is no excuse to let ourselves go.” A quick giggle took the edge off her words.

“I’m hardly letting myself go, Trixie,” Barbara muttered.

“You always thank me in the end,” came Trixie’s response. She turned about, taking in the room.

“I’m always thankful that it’s over, anyway.” Barbara dropped a bag filled with pamphlets on the nearest table.

Trixie turned about in place, taking in the room. “What a perfectly inspiring place. I can imagine Clark Gable wooing Grace Kelly in a place exactly like this.”

“I’m not certain a double feature of Mogambo and The African Queen was a good idea the week before we left, Nurse Franklin,” Phyllis Crane admonished. “We’re not likely to run into any Hollywood types here, I’m sure.”

Trixie sighed in resignation. “Yes, I suppose my dating life will be even more disappointing here than it was in Poplar. Oh, well. More energy for this!”

“I can’t imagine you not having energy for anything, Nurse Franklin,” Sister Winifred teased.

“Thank you, Sister. I must say, the two of you look so much cooler in these new linen habits. Can you imagine how frightfully uncomfortable your heavy blue habits would be right now? And it’s still morning!” Trixie continued to chatter, filling the silence.

Sister Julienne smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. “Sister Winifred and I spent some time in hospital this morning. It’s rather bereft of patients at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“That’s precisely our problem, Sister.” Dr. Fitzsimmon’s voice answered. Immediately, the focus of the room shifted. “The community is reluctant to come to us, therefore,  we must go out to them, and our resources are stretched beyond their limit. We seem to be putting out fires rather than preventing them in the first place. It’s my hope that by creating this clinic we shall bring the community to the Mission.”  

Her face remained impassive as she glanced about the room, measuring each newcomer in a look. Her eyes came to rest upon Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner, I did not realize you would be working with us as well. Though, of course, we are happy to accept any assistance.”

Shelagh felt the air leave her lungs. Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon her, her voice was composed. “Yes, Dr. Fitzsimmons, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I think you’ll find, Dr. Fitzsimmons, that Mrs. Turner is precisely the person you want setting up your clinic. We couldn’t do without her in Poplar.” Sister Julienne’s eyes met Shelagh’s for a quick moment, and for the moment, the tension that had existed between the two women for the last months disappeared.

Further discussion was interrupted by the insistent sound of a horn blaring in the front yard.

“Damn,” Myra Fitzsimmons muttered. “I’d hoped he wouldn’t descend upon us so soon.”

She turned to the team before her. “I’m afraid you are all about to see the dark side of South Africa.”

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