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By morning, the relief brought by the rainstorm evaporated with the rising heat. Puddles shrank quickly, and mists of steam swirled from the canvas of the mess tent. The provisional shelter provided enough space for a jumble of rough-hewn tables and hodgepodge of chairs, and like the table at Nonnatus, became the center of the community.

“I do enjoy having our meals al fresco,” Sister Winifred chirped as she settled in at the long table. “The fresh air, the sun, it really is quite lovely. It’s just too bad we can’t do this at Nonnatus House.”

“With our London fog, it might not be so pleasant, I’m afraid,” Sister Julienne commented in her wry voice. “We’d never have crisp toast!”

“We don’t get crisp toast here,” muttered Fred, as he wiped his already damp brow. “And what I wouldn’t give for a nice rasher…” He stirred the bowl before him with a pained expression.

“I know what you mean, Fred. A full English might be the thing I miss the most about home.”  Scooting behind chairs, Patrick slid a bowl of mieliepap, a South African corn mash, in front of Angela as Shelagh sliced her a piece of melon. She looked up in gratitude, and he squeezed his wife’s shoulder before taking the seat next to her.

“Angela, please sit still at the table. You tumble from your perch, angel girl,” Shelagh warned in a gentle voice. The upturned wooden box strapped to Angela’s chair raised the child to table height and allowed her to feed herself, both a help and a hindrance. A large smock made from one of Patrick’s old shirts helped keep laundry at a minimum, and Shelagh considered it her most clever “invention of motherhood” yet.

“Dr. Turner,” Dr. Fitzsimmons low voice came from the end of the table, “I’d like to spend the morning reviewing the hospital schedule with you. If you’re going to be spending most of your time here, I’d like you to take over the training of the staff.”

Patrick glanced up from his tea cup, his eyes flickering to his wife. “I think you’ll find the nurses know more about the day-to-day management of the floor than I do, Doctor.”

“Yes, of course. Mrs. Turner has been very helpful organizing a new file system for us. Hopefully, our lack of traditional office supplies won’t make it superfluous to our situation.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Shelagh answered, “We did consider that, Dr. Fitzsimmons. I believe you’ll find this system minimizes much of the paperwork for that very reason.”

“Nurse Turner’s been quite clever about it, really. By using cards rather than full sheets of paper, there’s very little waste,” Trixie was quick to interrupt. “And we’ve always found that an efficient system of patient notes provides us with the chance to put more of our energies into patient care.”

“I’m sure,” Dr. Fitzsimmons voice dismissed the subject. “The operating room, however, will need the expertise of a medical doctor, as I’m sure you’ll all agree.  After breakfast, Dr. Turner, we shall need to discuss how we can incorporate the changes we’ve been discussing.”

“Of course,” Patrick nodded. “We’re all here to help.”

Anxious to break the tension, Barbara announced, “Looks like Angela’s made a friend.”

Heads turned to see the little girl hand a piece of melon to a small vervet monkey. She giggled and reached for more fruit from her bowl.

“Angela Julienne, no!” Shelagh stood. “Shoo, Biscuit! Shoo!”

The monkey calmly looked up at the small woman and continued to savor his ill-gotten gains. Patrick stood and took the melon from his daughter’s hand. “No, Angela, this is for people. We do not feed wild animals at the table.”

Irritated, the monkey sauntered away. Angela let out a wail of frustration, great tears welling up in her eyes. “Dadda, Bizkit come back! Pease, Dadda? Bizkit come back.” Her arms reached up for comfort, and Patrick, never one to resist, lifted her up into his arms. He glanced down at Shelagh. Twin creases of worry formed between her brows, and she pressed her lips together tightly.

“Biscuit seems a very brave little monkey, to come so close to humans,” Sister Julienne noted, diplomatically steering the conversation.

“They’re little thieves, vervets. It won’t do to encourage the animals, Mrs. Turner. Once he thinks it’s acceptable to approach the table, he’ll be in the kitchens in no time.” Clearly, Myra Fitzsimmons had an opinion about animals near the table.

Two pink spots appeared on Shelagh’s cheeks. “Of course not, Doctor. It won’t happen again.”

Angela was in full throttle by now, and Patrick soothed, “Shhh, sweet girl, Biscuit only went up to his tree. See? Up in his perch.” The little girl lifted her head, her face blotchy and wet. “See there? Biscuit’s watching you right now, but a monkey’s place is in the tree, not at the table with people, sweetheart.” He tapped his daughter’s nose. “Come sit with me, Angela. Daddy needs his tea after facing the fierce beast.”

Angela giggled, her tears drying as quickly as they appeared. “Bizkit watching, Mama,” she sagely informed her mother. She reached out for a fresh piece of fruit and settled into Patrick’s lap more comfortably.

“Yes, dearest. Biscuit can watch from the tree, but no more Biscuit at the table.” For a moment the frustration and embarrassment that came of parenting with an audience dissolved and she pressed a kiss to the child’s sticky hand.

A sudden shout came from the front yard, followed by the sound of feet pounding on the hard earth. “Doctor, Doctor, you must come!” A tall thin man ran around the front of the building and came to a halt before the tent. He gasped, “It is time–Themba’s time has come!”

Dr. Fitzsimmons stood abruptly, her face tight. “Umakhulu sent you? When did it begin?”

“At the daybreak. Come doctor, you must help her!” His desperate eyes took no notice of the crowd of strangers staring at him.

Dr. Fitzsimmons turned to Patrick and rattled off the vitals. “Prima gravida, not quite full-term. It’s a little early, and the family has a history of breech births. Themba’s lost one child already, and her own mother died in childbirth when she was born.”

“Will you try to turn the baby?” Patrick asked. He rose and handed Angela to his wife.

“I’ve not had success with turning a fetus, I’m afraid. Midwifery is not my strength, Patrick. It’s rare for the women to turn to me for assistance; they prefer to keep it within the family. Her grandmother must be very worried to send for me. I’ll need you to assist me. Jacob, bring the rover up front, please.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Fitzsimmons,” Nurse Crane interrupted, “but perhaps this task might be better suited to a midwife.” Her polite words did little to mask the conviction of her tone.

“I agree,” Sister Julienne added. “We must consider as well that it’s not likely a man would be welcomed into the birthing room here, especially a white stranger.”

Trixie added her voice to the chorus. “Shelagh should go. An early baby is bound to be small, and if it is a breech, there’s none better than her to turn him. When we delivered the Meg Carter’s twins, Sister Bernadette was a marvel, remember Doctor Turner?”

A small smile lifted his mouth at one side. “I remember.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Turner is quite capable. But a caesarean section will be the best option. We’ll drive out and bring Thembe back here to the hospital.”

Shelagh stood, all her former discomfort gone. “Forgive me doctor, but a caesarean section will have a far greater risk. There’s not enough blood supply, and the chance of sepsis is too high. More importantly, there may not be time. I can turn the baby and keep him in the proper position until he’s safely in the birth canal. Patrick–”

A look passed between the two, and Patrick nodded. “Go.”

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