Monthly Archives: December 2016

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Five

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In the morning, bags would be packed up onto the old Mission bus. In the morning, handkerchiefs would wipe away tears. In the morning, promises would be made that might one day be fulfilled.

But that was in the morning. Now, as the sun began to drop in the sky, preparations for a small farewell celebration was underway at the Mission. Fred and Jacob piled wood high for a bonfire, while the nuns and nurses set the long tables for a feast. Food had come from all ends of the region, as well as small gifts and tokens of thanks. The sadness to come at tomorrow’s parting was forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Patrick stepped out of the clinic office and took it all in, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The permanent medical team had arrived only that morning, a feat of timing he hadn’t expected of the Mission Society, and he had spent the better part of the last day helping Myra prepare the young doctor and nurses for the task ahead. The new team was more than qualified, and Hope Mission had a bright future.

He scanned the yard for his wife. While he knew he wouldn’t have been much help packing today, he wanted to make it up to her. He slipped the key to the truck into his jacket pocket and went in search of Shelagh.

He found her sitting on the steps to the dormitory, watching Timothy teach Angela how to play mancala.

“You’re just in time, Dad,” Tim informed him. “We just finished packing.”

“Sorry, Tim. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll do all the unpacking when we get back in Poplar.”

“You most certainly will not,” Shelagh chortled. “I’ll never find my new dresses.”

Patrick reached down and scooped Angela into his arms. “And what about you, little girl? Did you help Mummy pack?”

“I packed Bizkit baby, Daddy.” She held up the homespun monkey doll Kholeka had presented her with that morning. “Bizkit baby come with Angela.”

“He certainly will, sweetheart. Tim, keep an eye on your sister for a little while, would you? I want to show Mum something. Then the night’s yours. I promise when Steven comes you won’t have to do a single thing.”

Patrick reached for Shelagh’s hand. “Come along. Mrs. Turner.”

The ride wasn’t long, and soon Patrick pulled the truck to the side of the road. Miles ahead, the Great Escarpment rose blue and grey out of the flat yellow veldt. A small herd of zebras grazed in the grasses before turning away to a hidden place to sleep.

Patrick reached again for his wife’s hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Close your eyes,” his voice grew husky. “Wait for me.”

He ran around the truck’s bonnet and helped her down, then led her towards the back of the truck. “You’re always busy with Angela this time of day, but you can’t leave without seeing this. Open your eyes.”

Shelagh looked up at his smiling face. He shook his head and placed a light kiss to her lips. “No, look up, Shelagh.”

Shelagh lifted her eyes to the sky and a short breath caught in her throat. Reaching past the edge of the world, the diluted blue of the western sky gave way to a cotton wool of mottled pale pink and yellow and purple.  She spun in place, her hand tight in his, “Patrick, it’s–I don’t have the words for it. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky.”

He pulled her close up against him, her back warming his chest as the temperature began to drop. “I have the word for it, Shelagh,” he whispered, her name a sigh on his lips. “Inspirational. It’s like this whole place–the opposites of the grey mountains and the yellow plain, white and black, both kept so distinct, and yet, somehow, there’s this incredible beauty right above them.”

They swayed together in silence as they watched the colors shift, yellow dissolving into orange, purple finally deepening until the first star appeared. Shelagh turned to face him and lifted her face to his. Their lips met in a long, slow kiss, intimate and secret. After long moments, they parted, their breath still mingling as they hovered close.

“Thank you, Shelagh,” he whispered before he kissed her lower lip lightly. Unable to stop, he deepened the kiss again, and the passion rose between them. They could have each other, here in the gloaming, far from the others, and for a wild moment, they might have done. But reason returned, and Patrick put his hands on her waist to allow for some air between them.

“I’m not naive, Shelagh. Six weeks here hasn’t made all the darkness go away. We’ll leave, and our friends will still have to face this awful system. Back in Poplar, Susie Mullocks will still have those terrible deformities, and God knows what else we might see.” He paused, and Shelagh stroked his cheek and slid into the hair at the back of his head.

“The world can be so very hard, Shelagh, but there’s always hope. You’ve helped me remember that, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Shelagh tucked her head under his chin. “There’s always a place for hope, dearest.”

The End

Thank you all for supporting me as I worked through this piece. As we all wait for the Christmas Special to be aired, I hope this has helped pass the time.

Please forgive any cultural or historical errors. They are unintentional.

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-four

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Creating a mobile clinic with one old truck and a bus necessitated optimism and strong backs. Fortunately, both were in good supply at Hope Mission. Timothy and Steven joined the team and the next morning, a large canvas tent was set up near the well site. Trixie and Barbara took two horses out and travelled through the community to spread the plan, while Phyllis joined Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred in the relocation efforts.Fred proved his worth yet again and was able to lay his hands on enough horns to create a network of timekeepers that would make Greenwich jealous.

Within days, rotating teams of men began to break through the shale. For three hours, the men would hammer away at the stone, then transport the rubble to a nearby pile to be used later. As Zakhele promised, a few men from the settlement came to help, but never spoke with the other teams, nor even with the clinic staff. The would work silently, then leave.

Fred’s vuvuzela system kept a slow stream of patients at the clinic, each getting far more attention than any patient in busy Poplar ever received or indeed wanted.  One at a time, patients would step under the tent awning and have the combined efforts of at least one doctor and several nurses.

For three days, the system seemed to hold up well. The slow train of patients meandered through the off-site clinic, and the well grew deeper. Each day, Zakhele Obi would make the journey out to the site and nod his grizzled head. Not tomorrow, he promised, but soon, they would see water.

By the third tomorrow, however, enthusiasm began to wane, and not simply for the men digging. The medical staff began to get bored, restricted to the small space with little to occupy themselves but the guilt they felt watching the men work in the blazing sun.

Patrick and Shelagh sat at the makeshift examination table tending to a young woman with a severe cut on her hand. It was the first near-emergency the clinic had seen for days, and the nurses had drawn straws to see who could clean away the blood. Disappointed, the others turned back to sorting patient cards and re-boiling water.

Trixie walked over to the edge of the tent and watched the stone dust and rubble fly in the air above the well hole. “It must be dreadfully hot working there, but the men never ask for a break. I’m dying to get away for a breather and all I’m doing is busy work. It makes a girl feel quite useless.”

“Never useless, Nurse Franklin.” Ever industrious, Sister Winifred sat by peeling the potatoes for the evening meal. “We all have our roles in this plan.”

Trixie sighed. “I know. But I feel like I need to be doing something.” Pushing away from the pole, she determined, “At the very least, I can bring them some fresh water.”

As Trixie lifted a bucket to fill, Henry Makepeace entered the tent. “Good afternoon, all!” He looked about the tent and grinned. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get bored. It’s not much fun being the smokescreen, is it? Here’s hoping today is the tomorrow Mr. Obi has been talking about!”

As he turned to visit the well site, Trixie called, “Just a moment, Mr. Makepeace. I’m on my way over as well. I’m sure they could all use a break.” She lifted the heavy water bucket and made to follow.

Henry stopped in his tracks. “You can’t do that, Nurse Franklin. What if the police came by? Imagine what they would say at the sight of a white woman serving water to the black laborers?” His face was stern. “We’ve talked about this, Trixie. The rules are different here. We can only push them so far. It’s one thing for you to speak with the women and children, it’s quite another for a white woman to be seen spending time with black men.”

Trixie’s eyes grew round. “I was only going to give them some water, Henry, not the plans to take down the government.”

His face softened. “I know that. But it could get you into trouble, and it certainly would not be good for the men. We have to work from within this system if we’re going to get anywhere.”

“I just don’t want them all to think we believe in any of this apartheid nonsense.” She blinked hard.

“You’re here, helping. They know that.” Henry glanced about, noting the eyes upon them, then reached out for her hand. “Little steps, Trixie.”

 

Zakhele was right, and tomorrow did finally arrive. Five days into the project, the teams broke through the bedrock and into the aquifer. With the water supply secured, it was time for the clinic to begin its slow crawl back to the Mission.

Each evening the team would move the tented clinic twenty-five yards closer to their goal, and finally a sense of success began to build. The mood lightened, and the clinic took on the anticipatory feeling of the last week of Advent. The patient train was still managed to a trickle, but rather than fill the hours with busy work, the medics cautiously joined in.

As Umakhulu’s favorite, Shelagh was often coaxed to join in with the young mothers as they bonded over the joys and fears of motherhood. Watching them balance the two, Shelagh finally relaxed and allowed Angela to rejoin her new playmates.

Heeding Henry Makepeace’s warnings, Trixie and Barbara cautiously began to interact as well. Music needed no interpreter, and the two young women found that the traditional dances were an easy way to pass the time spent waiting. Phyllis Crane, always game for a new experience, may have provided more amusement than she intended when she learned some of the new steps.

After school, Timothy and several older children would start up a game of football, and each day, Patrick would watch as the old ball would fly down the small field. On one such day, Steven Obi came to meet his father for the long walk home.

“Doctor Turner, you should join the game. You must grow tired of always watching.”

Patrick laughed. “Oh, no, thanks. My days as a footballer are long gone, I’m afraid.”

Timothy ran over to join them. “Dad’s really a cricket player, Steven. If we had a cricket pitch, he’d be out every day with us!”

“Cricket?” Steven buzzed with excitement. “I have always wanted to learn to play. Perhaps you could teach me, Doctor?”

“You could, Dad. We’ve got a ball similar to a cricket ball back at the schoolhouse. And we could use a branch for a bat.” When Patrick made to demur, Timothy pushed him. “Come on, Dad, you know you want to. I’ll send–”

“Joseph has already run to get the ball, Doctor Turner, and Timothy is right. We can make do with one of the old boards the crew is using. One day, I should like to say I was a cricket player. You will not take that chance from me, will you, Doctor?”

With a chuckle, Patrick shed his lab coat and rolled up his sleeves. “You’ve quite a career in diplomacy ahead of you, Steven. Well, then, come on, lads!”

For a time, Patrick used his bowls to instruct Stephen and the other village boys on the skills needed to successfully bat in cricket. Soon, each striker was successfully making contact with the ball.

Shelagh returned from a call and stopped to watch. She waved over to her husband, and he stopped to lift his sunglasses and wave back.

“Tim, your turn,” Patrick announced. “Let’s show the lads a little more steam.”

Timothy left the wicket and took the bat from Steven.

“You are a good cricket player like your father, Timothy?” Steven asked.

A grimace crossed Timothy’s face and he didn’t answer the question. He took position and waited for his father to bowl. Four pitches went by, each one an over, each one far faster and better placed than the bowls thrown earlier. With each pitch, Tim grew more irritated.

“Dad, you know no one can hit those bowls with a cricket bat like this. Stop showing off for Mum!”

As laughter rose up from the small crowd, the poor boy muttered, “Sometimes parents can be so embarrassing!”

Next (and final) Chapter

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Three

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The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

“You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we’re talking to him at all, the better.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered. “I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Obi. I–I don’t have the words, sir. You saved my daughter’s life today; I will always be in your debt.” Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

“You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today.” He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. “I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

“You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government’s lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

“Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace.”

He paused for a moment. “When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school.”

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. “I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that.” He glanced up at Patrick.

“DuPlessis would never allow its use.”

“Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives.” Zakhele sat back in his chair.

“So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?” Patrick leant over the drawing.

“It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists.”

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. “We’ve been digging in the wrong places.”

“Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you.”

Myra shook her head. “Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?”

“The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope.”

“I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change.” The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. “It’s a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you.” A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

 

“I can’t believe we never thought of it before.” Myra Fitzsimmons considered. “If it works, we could do so much.”

“That’s the question,” Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. “As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he’s no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he’ll see right through it.”

“It’s a chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try.”

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele’s plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project,  the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

“We never considered a spot so far from the Mission,” Tom Hereward explained. “Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We’d have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave.”

“You’re sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down.” Patrick dropped into a chair.

“We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there’s no congregating. It’ll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches–or even have clocks in their homes–and the school bell only travels so far. If there’s even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down.”

Fred spoke up. “Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what ‘bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was.”

“A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We’ll need several, and put them at intervals. You’ll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough.”

“Never fear, Doctor,” Fred puffed out his chest. “You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man.”

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty Two

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In the next several weeks, a new pattern began to emerge at Hope Mission. While the Zulu people of Zakhele Obi’s settlement continued to reject any and all invitations to attend clinic, word of the clinic began to spread through the region. Each morning soon after the sun rose, the doors would already be opened to those trying to make the long walk before the heat of the day. All the medics were now on the home visit rotation, including Patrick, and there was a growing sense that when they left, Hope Mission would thrive.

As in Poplar, the clinics became a social gathering place. Women clustered in groups for a good gossip while children ran about– the toys different, but the play the same.

Shelagh placed her handful of patient cards in the wooden box file and turned to see what was next. Sister Julienne sat in one corner attending to a very pregnant young woman flanked by several children, the oldest barely seven. Trixie tended the broken arm of a boy who, like all other boys, thought he was bigger than he really was and had tried to climb the wrong tree, and Nurse Crane, Sister Winifred, and Barbara were deep in a line of people anxiously awaiting their polio inoculations.

“Just like home,” Shelagh marveled. The waiting list seemed to have died down for the moment, and she decided it was time for a break. Jacob Arends learned early on that the key to the nurses’ hearts was a ready pot of tea, so she poured two mugs and sugared one well. Since Patrick had given up cigarettes, Shelagh was more inclined to indulge him with his sweet hot tea.

Patrick knelt on the ground, listening to the lungs of a patient. Satisfied, he sat back and reassured the small man, and patted him on the shoulder. As the man turned away, he thanked Patrick in Xhosa, and Patrick gamely responded. Good humored laughs rose up around them as he butchered the language.

“It’s brave of you to keep trying, dear.” Shelagh teased.

He grinned crookedly and accepted the cup of tea she offered.  “I just can’t seem to manage it. The words always come out with extra syllables. Are we finished for the day?”

“We may be. Twenty-three more polio vaccinations today!” She sipped her tea.

“Good. My worst fear is that those vaccines would go to waste. Myra had a patient this morning that’s presenting with what may be appendicitis, she’s checking him into the hospital ward now. Can you make sure–”

“I’ve already sent Fred in to help get the operating room ready. Imagine ever seeing Fred in scrubs back in Poplar–what would Sister Evangelina have said!”

“Poor Fred. I’m sure he’d much rather be out digging for that well. Tom said they’ve made no progress whatsoever, and Henry Makepeace is concerned enough to make another trip out again today to discuss it.” He gulped his tea down.

Shelagh grimaced at his bad habit, then glanced at Trixie. “I’m not quite so  sure the well is his only reason for coming out here so often, Patrick.”

His eyes followed hers, his eyes squinting with uncertainty. “Do you really think so? She’ll be returning to England soon.”

“There’s always letters, Patrick. I’m told they can be a very effective method of courtship.” Her eyes gleamed.

His face softened, and she felt as if he touched her with his look. “I’m a big believer in letter writing myself,” he said.

Shelagh blushed, then deliberately changed the subject. “Angela has made new friends.”

They both turned to the table set up under the tree. Clusters of children played with the box of toys the team had brought along on their journey. Angela and a small boy sat beneath the table building a tall tower of blocks that never seemed to grow as high as they wanted. Above them, Biscuit hovered on a low branch of the tree, idly chewing on a leaf.

“How are we going to leave here without bringing that monkey home with us?” Patrick wondered aloud yet again.

Suddenly the little vervet sat up very still, then let out a screech. In an instant, worried mothers called out in Xhosa and children moved with the practiced movements of experience. All children but Angela, that is.

Before Shelagh and Patrick could understand what was going on, an old lion appeared at the Mission gates. Mangy and thin, he had none of the supple grace they had seen in other animals out on the veldt. His mane was patchy, and an old battle had left him with only one eye. Long past his prime and rejected by the pride, the beast had an air of unpredictability about him.  

Patrick moved towards Angela, but a hand reached out to stop him.

“Wait, Patrick,” Myra’s voice was low behind him. “He hasn’t seen her. If you move, it could be disastrous.  Jacob’s gone for the gun–”

He jerked his arm away but the woman wouldn’t free him.

“Patrick, don’t. He’ll make it to her before you do. Only a moment, I promise you.”

“Don’t move Angela, darling,” Shelagh whispered. “Please God, don’t move.” Time stopped as the little girl stacked block upon block, oblivious to her friend’s departure and the strange silence.

Hearts pounded as the old lion stretched and slowly shifted his head to see more of the yard. In one instant, Angela’s tower of blocks came down, but just as the old lion’s head began to turn towards her, there was a loud screech and a blur of grey fur flew in front of his face. The lion shifted his body and lurched for the animal, and Patrick threw off Myra’s restraining hand. In the space of four heartbeats he had his daughter in his arms and inside the mission.

A loud crack echoed in the trees and the old lion dropped to the ground. Zakhele Obi lowered a gun nearly as long as he was. The only sound each person could hear in the silence that followed was the pounding of blood in their own ears.  

Finally, Zakhele called out in Xhosa, then in English, “Keep away from the body. He is as much a danger now as he was before.” Even the intense curiosity of the children, brave now the danger had passed, was not enough to make them defy his order.

Angela struggled from the tight clasp of her parents. “Too tight, Daddy. Down now, play time.”

Shelagh choked a laugh through her tears. “Mummy needs hugs, Angel Girl. Stay with Mummy a while longer.” Her legs could no longer support her, and she dropped into a chair.

The small grey blur wound about their legs and Patrick looked down at the monkey. “Well done, Biscuit. Very well done.”

Jacob Arends came from the mission holding a rifle of his own, but took one look at the scene before him and muttered, “I’ll get my shovel.”

Zakhele Obi put the safety on his gun and came forward, his hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.

“This old beast found his way to our settlement last night and got into our chickens. I had a feeling he would make his way to you.” His limp was more pronounced than ever.

“You walked all that way?” Myra Fitzsimmons demanded.

“My son does it every day. Do you think I am such an old man that I cannot walk a few miles myself?” He laughed, the adrenaline of the moments before lightening his tone.

“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Myra assured him, her tone sardonic. “There are others that could make this trip easier than you, Zakhele. Why did you not send one of your young men?”

Conscious of the many eyes upon him, Zakhele hesitated. Myra considered him for a long moment, then decided. “I insist upon examining you. Jacob–”

The small man didn’t pause in his path. “I know, take Master Obi’s gun and put it somewhere safe.”

As the clinic began to return to normal, mothers passed by Shelagh, each aware of the terrible fear she still struggled to control. Hands squeezed her shaking shoulders, fingers stroked the soft cheek of the little girl that had finally relented to her mother’s embrace. Murmurs in melodic Xhosa drifted about the space, finally overtaken by the shouts of children returning to normal chaos.

Umakhulu stopped before Shelagh and lifted her hands to her heart. “Do not worry about what might have been, Nurse Uhmlobo. Your girl was meant to stay with you, but you will not have to hold her so tight. You chose your man well, he will help you keep her safe.” She leaned in and whispered something in Shelagh’s ear, causing a blush of deepest pink to flood her cheeks. With a laugh, the old woman called to her grandchildren and began the slow walk home.

“Nurse Uhmlobo? Doctor Turner, you are the husband of Nurse Uhmlobo?” Zekhele paused as he entered the Mission.

Patrick reluctantly turned his attention away from his wife and daughter. He tilted his head in confusion.

Zakhele laughed. “Even in our settlement, we have heard this tale. The women, they talk of the little nurse that saved Umakhulu’s granddaughter with her magic hands that can turn a baby inside its mother. Now they will speak of the Monkey Girl, who can send the beasts to her bidding. Perhaps we have underestimated the English, Doctor Fitzsimmons.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years, Mr. Obi.” Myra gestured to the clinic office. “Doctor Turner, I could use your help.” Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the building.

Patrick knelt down to meet Shelagh’s eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked. He grasped her hand in his while he checked for signs of shock.

“Go, Patrick. I’ll let go of her soon, I promise, just not for a little while yet.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Take care of Mummy for me, Angela.” He stood, and smothered a groan as his knees creaked. “And remind Mummy I’ll want to know what Umakhulu said to her that made her cheeks so pink.”

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty One

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Shelagh leant against the verandah post, idly watching as Barbara taught Angela a new song they had heard at the clinic that morning. The little girl twirled around, giggling, and raised her hands to the sky.

“Touch the stars, Mummy!” she cried.

“Be careful you come back down to us, Angel girl.” Shelagh called. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her bare arms. She still wasn’t used to revealing so much skin, but the heat made her modest cardigan impractical. She knew she shouldn’t complain, she’d passed enough Poplar heat waves in her heavy nun’s habit to appreciate the cooler shift she now wore. A secret smile played across her lips. She knew Patrick liked the dress, but truth be told, he needed little encouragement.

Timothy ambled slowly around the corner of the house.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Shelagh said. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d be back in time for dinner.”

“Timofee!” Angela cheered, and wrapped her little arms around his knees.

The tall young man reached down to pat her head. “Careful, Ange.” Tim stretched his back and then he answered his mother. “It took a lot longer to get out there than we thought. Dad said not to wait dinner for him, he wants to get some work done in the lab before dark.”

Shelagh considered his tired face. “Alright, then. You look like you could use a bath, dear. Why don’t you go ahead and sneak a quick one in before we eat, then you won’t have to race Trixie to the hot water.”

He nodded in response, then trudged up the steps to the dormitory.

Shelagh squeezed her hands together. Patrick’s retreat to the lab worried her. There had been a return of his old enthusiasm this morning at the clinic, and she felt a glow of pride as she watched him care for the families that came to his examination table. If she were completely honest with herself, it wasn’t simply a warm glow of pride she felt.

“Really, Shelagh,” she muttered to herself. She turned back to the verandah. “Barbara, could you keep an eye on Angela for a few minutes? I’d like to check on Doctor Turner. The man will forget his dinner if I let him.”

“Of course, Shelagh. Angela, will you be my playmate until dinner?”

The child considered her words carefully. “Yes, Nurse Hibert. You find Bizkit for me.”

The lab was situated in the back of the hospital, a dark room with a single microscope that pre-dated most of the nurses’ births. Patrick sat hunched over a slide, his eyes squinting into the lens, and Shelagh grimaced at the sight of his hands clenched tightly on the table. His tie was loose around his opened collar and the suit that had looked so crisp and cool this morning was now rumpled and creased.

He didn’t seem to notice her arrival, so she softly cleared her throat. He looked up, and she could see the fatigue deepening the lines on his drawn face. He had lost so much weight these last few months and was more apparent  when he was tired.

“Shelagh.” He exchanged one slide for another.  “I told Timothy to tell you not to worry. I’ve got to get these tests done.” The clinic had revealed several possible cases of diabetes, a disease that was difficult to treat in an area with little refrigeration, or indeed, access to insulin.

“Yes, dearest, he told me. I wanted to see you, that’s all.” She smiled warmly and moved around the table. “May I?” she asked, sliding her glasses to the top of her head. Keep things professional, she thought to herself. He’ll open up when he can.

He stepped back and let her peer into the scope. “Nothing serious,” he informed her.  “We’ll have to be more diligent with our warnings about chewing on imphe.” The sugarcane-like plant grew rapidly here, and Fred assured them all it certainly scratched the itch when you needed a Quality Street.

“Well, that’s good news. Clinic went so very well today, don’t you think? While you were gone, I counted thirty-two new patient cards! That might be a slow day in Poplar, but I was really very well pleased.” She began to sort the test tubes for cleaning in the morning. “And thank goodness the water heater is up and running, or we’d be here until Christmas sterilizing all this equipment!”

“Shelagh.”

She continued, growing more chatty as her nervousness grew. “Biscuit seems to have set himself up as Angela’s guardian angel. The wee thing follows her from place to place, and won’t let poor Nurse Crane anywhere near her. It was quite funny, really-”

“Shelagh. I’m fine. I simply have work to do. Stop fretting over me.” He turned back to a large medical tome that looked very nearly as old as the microscope.

Shelagh winced at his tone. Patrick was very far away right now. As she felt her own anxiety begin to grow, she fell back on a favorite Psalm to find peace. With eyes closed, the words came to her like an old friend. “Whenever I am afraid, I will trust in you.”

She moved closer and placed her hand on his forearm. “Patrick, it won’t do anyone one bit of good if you work yourself too hard. Come clean up for dinner.”

“How can I work myself too hard when no one will let me near them?” he asked sharply, pulling his arm away.

Shelagh took a deep breath. “Alright then, I’ll leave you to it.” She turned away towards the door.

Patrick reached out and grabbed her hand. “Wait, sweetheart. I’ve had a rotten afternoon, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

She moved closer. “Was it so very bad, dearest? Myra worried that there might be some trouble.”

He looked away, his eyes flat. “There was no confrontation if that’s what you mean. We were safe the entire time, though that had something to do with Utitshala’s presence.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head. “As soon as we arrived, it was immediately obvious we weren’t truly welcome. I thought perhaps that I could connect with them the way you did, but…These people have had everything taken from them from the very government that should be working to improve lives. Damn!” His anger flared up, and he slammed the book on the table.

“We have this responsibility to help people, and when we don’t–when we forget to think about the consequences of our actions, we bring it all down. It’s no wonder they don’t trust us.”

Shelagh’s hand slid up the length of his arm to his shoulder and she inched her body closer. “Patrick, I know how difficult this is for you, but you mustn’t let it get in the way of the good work you’re doing here. We’re making real progress in the inoculation program, and the clinic is finally on solid ground. When we go back to Poplar, we’ll have made a difference to these people.”

“But there are so many more we could help, if only…” he sighed heavily. “ When I spoke with the men at the settlement, I didn’t come close to reaching them. There’s too much distrust.”

“The world is different all over, Patrick. It used to be that we could expect trust just because of who were are. My nurses uniform, your medical bag, even Sergeant Noakes’s uniform, they all told people we could be trusted, simply because of our job. Now we all must earn that trust because of what we do.

“Dearest, we can’t repair all the damage that’s been done here, but we can make a start. We have made a start.”

His lips tugged into a reluctant smile. “Thank you, Shelagh. What would I do without you? Forgive me?” He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her fingers.

Pink color rose in her cheeks, his familiar gesture a salve to her own anxiety. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Yes,there is.  I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. Warn Angela her dad’s a mean old bear, would you?”

Shelagh’s hands slid up around his neck. “He’s not a mean old bear, he’s a good man that wants to do good in the world.” With a gentle tug, she pulled his lips to meet hers and for long moments the worries of the world were forgotten.

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty

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Plumes of dust followed the truck as it crossed the wide savannah, a barren landscape quite different from the trees and green bushes that surrounded the Mission. In the heat of the early afternoon, there were few animals visible. Only a lonely black-winged kite soaring in lazy circles gave proof to life on the plain.

“I thought you said Steven lived three miles away?” Patrick squinted, his forehead furrowed despite the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing outside. He shifted gears awkwardly with his right hand, grimacing at the grinding sound.

“It is three miles on foot, Doctor,” Utitshala informed them, “but to travel by car, it is much longer.”

“That makes no sense, whatsoever.” With each minute, Patrick’s confidence was starting to fade and with it, his patience.

“The settlement Steven lives in isn’t at all like the rondavels we’ve seen near the mission, Dad. Steven says–”

“I know, Tim. I did the same research you did before we arrived.” As soon as  the sharp words flew out of his mouth, Patrick shook his head in regret.

“I do not think “sense” was the primary motivation in building this road.” Utitshala waved his hand towards the plain. “This road was created when the government began the relocation to the Bantustans. Out here, so far from the cities, we have very few roads, as you know. There is the road into the village where our Mission is situated, and then we have this one. The roads converge far to the North, making a direct route between the settlement and Alice. Do you understand why that is?” As he asked Timothy the question, Utitshala’s old eyes clouded over with emotion and he looked away to the tan landscape.

“I’m not sure, sir. It seems as if the road is meant to make travel more difficult, not less.”

The old teacher’s silence compelled Patrick to reconsider his own tone. After a moment, he began to speak.

“It was to keep the people apart, Tim. The government wanted to isolate the people they were transferring to the homelands. They took advantage of the differences between the tribes and used it to defuse any possible alliances.

“The Xhosa farmers that were already here had their village, they had an entire history here. The Homeland Act didn’t require them to leave, but thousands of others were forced from their homes and their livelihoods and pushed out here on land no one else wanted. These people are poor in ways we’ve never seen, Tim. They have so little power in their own lives.Now imagine that happened to you. How would you feel?”

“I’d be furious.” Tim’s righteous heart shone out of his eyes.

“Precisely. The last thing the government wants is one angry group to start talking with the others.”

Tim considered his father’s words. “So that explains why so few of the children Steven knows come to school.”

“Yes. They are forced to stay home to help the family survive.” Patrick glanced over at the old teacher. “Did I get that right, Utitshala?”

“Yes, Doctor, you are correct.” Composure returned to the old man’s wise face. “I am afraid the government’s plan has worked, to a very large extent. Because of men like DuPlessis, we will find a great deal of suspicion and anger when we arrive. It is my hope that your father’s plan will help make a change, young Timothy.”

Through the ripples of heat hovering above the road, the shantytown came into view. Barely more than shacks, these homes were assembled from scrap wood and rusted corrugated tin. Few had windows, leaving families to shelter in dark, unventilated spaces.

As they drove through the settlement, suspicious faces turned to watch them, eyes full of reproach. In a small clearing, two boys faced each other with two long sticks, their arms up as if to duel. They paused for a moment before one boy called out to them.

“That’s Zinwe, from school. He comes with Stephen sometimes,” Tim said.

“Not often enough. I am afraid that boy could fall in with the wrong crowd if we are not careful,” Utitshala answered. He waved, and the two boys turned their back on the truck to resume their game.

“You’re sure I was right to bring Tim?” Patrick asked, his voice uncertain.

“Yes, Doctor. We are safe here, though I cannot promise we will be successful. Turn here.”

The truck turned down an alley so narrow homes on each side could be reached from the truck windows. At the old teacher’s direction, Patrick continued down a labyrinth of alleys.

“Perhaps we should have left the truck back at the start of the town and walked in,” Patrick wondered aloud.

“I am afraid Doctor Fitzsimmons would have been none too pleased when we returned on foot because her beloved old truck had been stripped down to the ground, Doctor. It is better we keep close. Zakhele Obi is an important man here. No one will bother us if they know we are his guest.”

Patrick downshifted as they pulled along an open lot. Men sat in makeshift chairs clustered in small groupings, some playing cards or mancala, while others loitered about with no direction. Every set of eyes turned toward the visitors as the climbed down from the truck. A small man stepped forward, his eyes on the teacher. He walked with a limp, but his back with straight. His hands touched his chest, moving out from his heart in greeting. “Molo, Utitshala!”

The two men clasped hands and exchanged greetings in Xhosa, their manner that of two veteran soldiers from old battles. They broke apart, and Utitshala introduced his companions to the small crowd that had gathered around them.

“Zakhele Obi, I wish to make known to you my esteemed new friend Doctor Patrick Turner, and his son, Timothy.”

Shrewd eyes passed over the two visitors before Zakhele spoke. “Timothy Turner. My son Steven speaks most highly of you. He has grown complacent in his schooling of late, so I must thank you for the challenge you offer.” He called out to a young boy on the edge of the clearing, issuing an order in Xhosa. The boy dropped his ball and ran off down a side alley.

“I have sent for my son. He would be most displeased if he were not here to greet you properly.”

Timothy’s face flushed with the attention. “Thank you, sir. I’ve already learnt so much from Steven during my stay.”

“It is good to know the boy has done some good himself, then. And this is your father.” He extended his hand for Patrick to clasp. “I am Zakhele Obi, sir.”

Patrick shifted on his feet, aware of the watchful glare from several of Zakhele’s companions and took the other man’s hand.  “Thank you for your welcome, Mr. Obi. I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but we don’t have much time here, and I was hoping to have a moment of your time.”

A momentary flash of distrust in Zakhele’s eyes and one of the men behind him spoke softly in his ear. Utitshala answered sharply, all signs of the gentle teacher gone. Zakhele considered for a moment, then answered his companion. The man gave a sullen shrug but kept his eyes on Patrick.

“Forgive us, Doctor,” his voice was smooth and cultured. “My friend Onke is a nervous sort. We do not have many friendly visitors out here, as you might imagine, but a friend of Utitshala is a friend of mine. Let us sit and share a moment of this glorious day.”

At his word, a battered table of crates and plywood was cleared and the three men took seats. Zakhele’s Timothy hovered behind his father, his eyes on the lookout for his friend.

“Mzingisi and I are friends from long, long ago, Doctor Turner. Young lions we were, ready to change the world! Now look at us, eh, my brother? Old and toothless.” He laughed, but the sound was mirthless. “But old lions can still rule the pride. We are not so feeble, after all.”

“Perhaps we would be better off guiding the young ones, umhlobo.” Utitshala’s voice grew weary.

Zakhele sighed heavily. “Doctor Turner, your boy Timothy, here, he is an excellent student, I am told. He will one day go on to university, perhaps be a doctor like his father. It is as it should be. But my boy Steven, he has had to fight for the right to go to school at all. He has had to take many exams and speak before long tables of old white men to try to prove he is adequate for their mediocre school. My Steven, he would be the top student any one of the great universities of South Africa, even your Oxford. He could be a doctor, or an engineer, or even a great statesman, but he will never have the chance.”

“Timothy.” Steven Obi approached the small group, worry across his face. “I did not expect you to come out here today.” He held out his arms in the same manner his father used, his gesture of welcome diffusing the tension around the table. He greeted the other men and turned to his father.

“Tata, I will go to the Academy. If I study very hard, I may be one of the lucky ones to go on. It is what you wanted for me.”

The man rubbed his face, wiping away the emotion he wanted to hide. “You can understand why my old friend and I do not agree, Doctor. He would have us work with the enemy, whilst I would fight him.

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Obi,” Patrick leant in. “I think I may have come up with a way that we can do both. I know you don’t trust me, all I ask is for the chance to earn that trust.”

“Tata, please listen to him. He is here to help our people.”

Onke fired up. “He comes to bring help, but how much does he demand from us? The Mission, they need workers to tend to these missionaries, they take food that should go in our children’s mouths, and for what? So that they may return home feeling proud that they made an effort to fix the poor black man.”

Zakhele placed a warning hand on his deputy’s arm. “Doctor Turner, you can see that we are of very strong opinions here. I am certain you mean well, but you must see how we feel.”

Patrick’s face was earnest. “I do see, Mr. Obi. All my life I have been trying to fight the ills of poverty. Until very recently, most of my patients lived in squalor, homes barely habitable. Change has come to England, and the welfare state has given our poor health care, better living conditions. But none of that just happened. It took hard work, efforts of so many people. We have this chance to make a difference here.”

“But it is not for you to make the change, Doctor. We must be self-sufficient if we are to gain the rights we deserve. Handouts only serve to undermine our independence.”

“Good medical care is a never a handout, sir.” Patrick’s voice was determined. “We can help counteract the problems you face here, and make you stronger.”

He shifted in his chair, and his hands moved with excitement. “We can help another way, one which I think will make both you and Utitshala happy. I’ve spoken with Henry Makepeace, and he assures me that the laws against congregation will not reach to medical clinics.”

Patrick’s words hovered in the air as his plan began to reveal itself. Zakhele squinted as he strove to understand, and Utitshala nodded his head.

“Yes, my old friend,” he explained. “His words are true. If you were to come to the clinic, you could meet with the chief of the village, the people of both worlds could listen to each other. The only way we will win is if we work together.”

“If we fight together,” Onke asserted.

“Perhaps. I cannot support political meetings at hospital, but first you must find some common ground,” Patrick echoed the words of his wife the night before.

Onke was still suspicious. “How do we know it’s not a trap? If we were to gather at your clinic, and the SAP were to arrive, surely we would be taken away.”

“I’m sorry you have such good reason to distrust us, sir,” Timothy spoke for the first time since their arrival. “The British haven’t been entirely respectful of your country, I know. But my father came here to help, all of us did. If we can establish a permanent mission hospital, we can get more funds from the Mission Society in London, enough to give medical treatment to so many people. We can work together, all of us, to put things to rights.” He finished, his face flushed with passion.

For long moments, the only sounds were those of a child crying in a dark hut along the way. Zakhele stood.

“I will speak with my men and we will consider your offer, Doctor Turner. I cannot promise you more.”

 

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Author’s note

Please forgive any inaccuracies.

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nineteen

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“I would have thought, Mrs. Turner, that without the hustle and bustle of Poplar your husband would have an easier time of it arriving at clinic on time.” Phyllis Crane impatiently folded her glasses and slipped them into her pocket.

“It’s not as if there’s a terrible crush of patients, is there?” Barbara piped in. “I’m sure Doctor Turner will be along any time now.” In the weeks since their arrival in South Africa, Barbara’s spine had stiffened, particularly around Nurse Crane. No one was sure if it was meant to impress the formidable older woman, or to spite her.

“Doctor Turner wanted to speak with Timothy’s teacher this morning. He’ll be along shortly.”  Shelagh held back a sigh and turned back to organizing the vaccines it seemed they wouldn’t be administering yet again. The warm sense of accomplishment brought back from Thembe’s delivery had all but faded as yet another clinic was ignored by the community.

“How is Timothy finding school here,” Sister Julienne asked in the bored silence.

“Oh, you know Timothy,” Shelagh rallied. He thinks the world of Utitshala, and he’s made a very firm friend in Steven. I know it was an imposition on all of you to bring the children along, but it’s been so very educational for Timothy.”

“The broader the minds of our youth, the better we will all be,” Nurse Crane interjected. “The world is changing quicker than we grown-ups can keep up. It’ll be up to them to blaze the trails!”

“Indeed, Nurse Crane,” Sister Julienne responded quietly. Her eyes travelled around the small group. “One can only hope that like Timothy, they will work hard to understand the new without rejecting all of the old ways, as well.”

“I, for one, am grateful the children came along, Shelagh. Angela and her monkey friend have become quite a source of entertainment for us all!” Trixie flounced over to the intake table next to Barbara. “I hardly even miss the Coronation Street.”

Barbara sparked up. “You should come out with me this afternoon, Trixie. Tom is working with Fred and Jacob Arends to plot out the pipeline from the new well, and I thought I would bring them a bit of a tea. You know, to keep their spirits up.”

As Trixie made to cry off, Barbara added. “I think Tom mentioned Mr. Makepeace might be coming out to help read the plans.”

Suddenly fascinated by the pile of empty patient cards in front of her, Trixie’s voice was cool. “I suppose I could. It might give me a chance to take one of the horses out for a ride. I’m feeling a bit restless, I must admit.”

“I think we all are, if we’re quite honest,” Nurse Crane admitted. “We haven’t made much of an impact in the weeks since we’ve arrived.”

“I think we may have been going about it all wrong, Nurse Crane.” All heads turned as Patrick swanned in through the double doors that opened onto the yard. “We’ve been expecting the community to come to us because it’s the most efficient use of time and services. We thought they would accept our way of doing things, when it’s really quite foreign to them.” He approached his wife’s table. “You were right, Shelagh. They have good reason to be wary of strangers, especially white strangers. Very little good has come from Colonials, so, of course they’ve turned inward, even at the expense of their own health.

He paused and looked about the clinic. “We have to earn their trust. When we first arrived, I didn’t think it was possible, especially after we met Sergeant DuPlessis and saw what sort of authority we were dealing with, but Shelagh’s midwife call yesterday has given me hope. If we can make some sort of connection, build a sort of bridge between us, then perhaps we can prove to the community that we really are here to help.”

“But how, Doctor? We’ve gone out into their homes, we’ve explained how a clinic here at the Mission will help everyone. We can’t make them trust us.” Sister Julienne’s voice betrayed her discouragement.

“No, we can’t, Sister. What we can do is show them who we are as people. Shelagh, when did you feel you had gained Thembe’s trust last night?”

As she looked in her husband’s face, Shelagh felt her heart begin to pound. His eyes glittered with excitement and purpose. “When she knew I had a little girl waiting for me at home.” She took a deep breath and told the group, “Thembe would have done whatever her grandmother told her, but when she knew I was a mother as well, she gave me her trust.”

“Exactly. You made a connection with those women, Shelagh, one that showed them you were more like them than they knew. Apartheid has kept people so locked away from each other that they’ve forgotten that basically, we’re all the same. Same hopes and fears, same loves and dreams.

“What we need to do is work at building on what Shelagh started. We need to show our own humanity. When we do, we’ll finally reach them.” His hand reached out and took hers. “After clinic, Timothy and I are bringing Utitshala out to the shantytown to meet with Stephen Obi’s father. I think I may have a way to get Fred some help with that well, but for now, let’s come up with a plan to get people to trust us.”

“I think you may get an earlier start on your plan than you thought, Doctor Turner,” announced Sister Winifred. “We’ve got company.”

Ahead in the near distance, a growing number of women, children running about their feet, strolled towards the Mission hospital.

“What on earth–” Trixie exclaimed. Her face grew determined. “All right, doctor. Let’s put your theory to the test!”

As the women gathered closer, the yard filled with their friendly chatter. Shelagh and Patrick exchanged a look, and after a gentle squeeze, released each other’s hand to take a place by the tables.

Nurse Crane’s voice rose above the rest, and in minutes, the clinic was in full swing. Nonnatuns relied on old habits and skills and soon not only were inoculations being administered, but minor ailments and childish illnesses were sorted as well.

Shelagh gazed out over the crowd. The women seemed so different in some ways to the women they were used to seeing in Poplar, their clothes lighter and rougher than the woolies so often seen in England, the shaped felt hats of the local milliner replaced by intricate headwraps, even the rhythm and tone of their language sounding the same in the large group. She smiled as she overheard Sister Winifred trying bravely to replicate the sounds necessary for her patient’s name.

Myra Fitzsimmons’ truck pulled in through the gates, and the medic jumped down. “I’ve brought you a visitor,” she called over to Shelagh as she came round and opened the passenger door.

Umakhulu climbed down from the truck, then reached in to take a large bundle of cloth from her granddaughter before the doctor helped the young woman out.

“Thembe!” Shelagh cried. “You should be home resting!”

“Life in the kraal doesn’t provide much chance for bedrest, Nurse Turner,” Doctor Fitzsimmons noted dryly. “Thembe was prepared to walk the mile and a half to come and thank you herself. I was lucky to get her to agree to ride back with me.”

Thembe reached out and grasped Shelagh’s hands tightly. “Nurse Umhlobo, I owe you so much. My daughter is safe and with her family, and I must thank you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Shelagh scoffed gently.

“There is no nonsense, Nurse Umhlobo,” Umkhulu chided. “You have helped our family and now we must help you.”

“Umkhulu is the reason why these women have all come to our clinic,” Myra explained. “It’s no small thing that she used her influence to convince them we can help. She’s the single best hope we have to make this clinic a success.”

A warm glow of pride shown in Shelagh’s face. “Thank you for letting me into your home, Thembe. Here,” she coaxed as she placed her arm about the young woman’s shoulders. “Let’s get you sat down and we can have Doctor take a good look at this beauty.”

 

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