Category Archives: Call the Midwife

In Favor of a Date

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A/N:  A special thanks to ThatGinchyGirl for her work beta-ing this fic.  Her insight was they key to getting a little bit of nonsense make sense.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the cinema on a Thursday night, Patrick!”  Shelagh could barely contain a giggle.  

Patrick smiled back and squeezed her hand.  “I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?  Now that Tim’s on the mend, we should take a moment to let off some steam.  Before we know it, he’ll be coming home, and a weeknight out will be impossible.”

“He’s so much better now, I can hardly believe it.  All that hard work–I’ve never met a boy with such determination.  To think he’ll be on his feet in a month!”  Her hand slid up around his forearm and she pressed just a bit closer.  

Patrick’s eyes were warm, causing Shelagh to blush ever so little.  “I think he’s nearly as eager for us to get married as I am.”  

The blush deepened.  “There’s plenty of time, Patrick.”

The theatre was quickly filling up with people.  “Where would you like to sit?” Patrick asked as he scanned the large open space.

“Oh, I don’t mind, Patrick.  I’ve not been to enough films these last years to really have much of a preference.  Why not there?” She pointed up the staircase towards the last row, empty of any theatergoers but a couple at the far end.  “Right on the aisle?”  Her question was more a statement of fact.

She climbed the steps, fully expecting Patrick to follow, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he did.  At top row, Shelagh turned to let him help her with her coat.

“I’m starting to notice a bit of a pattern, my love.  You ask me to decide and somehow I end up following you.”

A dimple appeared.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick.”  She smiled archly and settled into her seat.  

He shook his head in resignation.  “I’d like to point out from the very start that you chose these seats.  I had nothing to do with it.”  He shrugged his own coat off and sat beside her.

Two lines of confusion appeared between her eyes.  “Is there anything wrong with these seats, Patrick?  I’m sure we can find something else just as suitable if you like.”

He leaned in, his face close to hers.  “I’m not so sure, my love.”  His voice grew husky.  “You may not realize it my dear, but we’re in the snogging section.”

“The sno–Oh, Patrick you’re teasing me!”  She swatted at his arm playfully.

“I most assuredly am not teasing you, Shelagh.  We are in fact right dab in the center of it.”  His eyes smiled as she blushed fiercely.  “Don’t worry, Shelagh.  Nothing’s going to happen up here.”  He leaned in even closer, and she could feel his breath against her ear.  “I can’t say as much for when we’re alone, however.”

The blush raged to a bright red.  “Patrick!”  She squeezed her hands together tightly in her lap.  

He pulled away and patted her hand.  “I know, I shouldn’t tease, but when you pink up so prettily, I can’t help myself.  I promise.  I’ll behave.”

The lights dimmed and the newsreel started.  News of Cyprus’s Independence flashed by unnoticed as Shelagh tried to regain control of her breathing.  She knew Patrick enjoyed making her blush in the rare moments they were alone, but he would never embarrass her.  Besides, she assured herself, there really weren’t many people this far back in the theater, anyway.

She turned her attention to the screen but was distracted by the pairs of silhouetted couples in the rows before her.  For years, all ideas of courtship had been far from her mind but as the detachment required by the Order began to wane, thoughts of nights just like this one began to sneak into her dreams.  A tingle of awareness ran through her.  This wish had come true.  Tonight, she sat in a darkened theater, not with some man, but with Patrick, the man she loved.    

Shelagh felt her body flush with the thrill.  She twisted her hands together as she tried to concentrate on the screen.  Images reflected off the lenses of her glasses, and she found her focus drifting to Patrick’s hand on the armrest, so close to her.  She knew its touch, loved the feel of his smooth dry palm against her softer hand.  Her eyelids fluttered closed as she remembered the first time he cradled her hand in his, her own pain forgotten even before he pressed his lips to her palm.  That gentle touch felt so right in that moment in the kitchen, even as she fought against it.

Patrick’s hand stretched over and clasped her clenched hands.  He seemed to understand her confusion.  She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.  Their hands seemed to fit just so.  Hers was so much smaller, and yet it didn’t feel swamped in his.  No longer even trying to watch the film, she studied his long fingers with their neatly trimmed nails and large knuckles, the short hairs on his fingers and along the back of his hand leading up under his sleeve.  His wrists were fine, elegant even, and she wished for a moment that she could roll his sleeves up and gaze at his forearms.

A hot blush flooded her cheeks.  What was she thinking?  Roll up his sleeves!!  A crowded movie house was certainly not the place to indulge in such thoughts.  She sat up straight in her seat and felt the tug of his hand as he refused to relinquish hers.  

“It’s alright, Shelagh,” he assured her, his voice a husky whisper.  “We’re only holding hands.”

She resisted the urge to meet his eyes and instead kept hers locked on their entwined fingers.  How could “only holding hands” feel like so much more?  

The warm stillness of his hand soothed her, and in the flickering darkness she gave in.  She spread her fingers wide and delighted when he mimicked the movement.  Her palm shifted against his and she grazed the tips of her fingers against his palm, brushing its coarse surface.  Her hand turned in his and they began an intimate dance, hands stroking, nestling, seeking closeness.

Her breath shuddered again.  Her body felt tense, every nerve ending focussed on their joined hands.  She swallowed thickly, trying to gain control of herself.  For the first time since the picture started, she let herself look at him.  He was nearer than she realized, his face close enough to block out all other images.  His eyes glittered brightly with something she recognized but could not name, and she felt her heart race.  Blood rushed in her ears and all sound was blocked but the quiet sussing of her own breath.  Her gaze travelled lower and came to rest on his mouth.  

Oh! She wanted to kiss him.  She wanted to press her mouth to his, breathe him, taste him.  But they couldn’t, a voice whispered.  Patrick had only been teasing.  Snogging in the cinema was for young lovers, not two mature, reasonable adults.  Even when she had been a teenager herself, she hadn’t done such things.  School had been her single-minded focus in those years, keeping company with the boys from the local school not a priority.

He moved his face closer, not more than an inch, and in that moment, Shelagh forgot she was a mature, reasonable adult.  Their surroundings faded from her attention.   Her free hand slid around his neck and pulled him closer, her fingers lingering against the warm skin above his collar.   For a moment they hesitated, their faces a scant inch apart as their breath mingled.  Unable to resist any longer, Shelagh kissed him.

His lips were soft and gentle, but she felt something in his response that emboldened her.  Her fingers slipped into the short hair at the back of his neck as she deepened the kiss.  His scent filled her head, the roughness of his evening stubble teased her to a state of heightened awareness.  

Gently, Patrick broke the kiss.  With a sigh, he rested his forehead against hers. She had not noticed how his arms wrapped around her as they embraced, but she felt their lack when he withdrew them.  

“I’d like to kiss you all night,” he whispered.  She could hear the regret in his voice.   

Her fingers shifted around to trace his jawline, and she whispered, “I think perhaps it’s time for us to set a date, dearest.”

 

Losing Her Breath

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2016-07-02

The crisp efficiency of the weekly Mother and Baby Clinic began to lag as the Parish Hall began to empty.  Sister Bernadette glanced about the room and wondered how they would ever manage to have the place set to rights in time for Madame Rocco’s dance class.  She noted with approval that Nurse Miller seemed to have the screens on hand, and Nurses Franklin and Lee were nearly finished storing the baby scales.  Stacks of chairs stood like soldiers awaiting an order, quickly arranged before Sister Evangelina left with Sister Julienne for chapel.  Even Sister Monica Joan played her part, amusing–and being amused by– the little ones.  

Her eyes drifted to the kitchen, where a lone figure leaned against the hatch, weary head resting upon his hand.  Her breath hitched and she turned away.  It was no business of hers if Doctor Turner looked so dreadfully tired.  Briskly, she walked to the play area on the far side of the hall.

“I’m sorry, Sister, do you mind if I sit here for just a moment longer?  My back is that tired.” Margie Peterson asked from a chair beside the dollhouse.  Her son, barely more than a baby himself, chattered at her feet.  “Of course, Mrs. Peterson, we’ll put your chair away last.”  She smiled at the tow-headed boy.  “Little Gregory has certainly grown these last few months.  Has he started walking yet?”

“Hasn’t he just!  Not a step for fourteen months, and last week he up and runs across the flat.  I can’t keep up with him.  I’m not sure what I’ll do once the baby comes.”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure, but if you have any trouble, please be sure to come to us at Nonnatus.  You can count on us to help.”  With her hip, she shifted the toy chest away from the small boys reach and began to pile toys away.  

Single-minded as only a child can be, the tot struggled to his feet and waddled over to investigate.  He reached in and pulled out a block then handed it to the nun with a grunt.  

“Why thank you, Gregory.”  Her soft burr grew a bit more pronounced in its tenderness.  “You’re a good wee boy. Can you help me put the toys back into the box?”

With a gurgling laugh, the boy shook his head. “Da!” he waved the doll in her face. “Da!”

“Is that your dolly, then?  He’s very nice. May I see him?”  

He looked up at her, a coy expression coming over his face.  He held the doll out just a bit, then tapped her palm.  His eyes widened with mischief, and he swerved out of reach, then made a break for it.  His mother pushed against the toy chest, valiantly trying to go after him.  “Listen to ‘im, his feet are like thunder when he takes off like that!”

“You stay there, Margie, I’ll get the little scamp!” Light on her feet, Sister Bernadette was up and after the child.  

Her eyes fixated on the bright head before her, running around in wide circles about the Hall.  She saw him zip by the kitchen, but would not let her eyes glance to see if the doctor was still there.  She darted about after him, conscious of a trill of laughter from her elderly sister.  She knew she must look ridiculous, running after the child in her habit.  Frustrated, Sister Bernadette pulled up short.  She would keep her dignity, even if she could not catch her breath.

Blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sounds in the room for a moment.  She watched the boy complete another circle about the room and felt her embarrassment grow.  

“Hello, Gregory,” Doctor Turner’s husky voice called across the room.  He kept his eyes on the boy.  “What have you got there?”

With a crow of laughter, the boy held out his doll and thumped towards the doctor.  He stopped short at the kitchen hatch and gazed up at the tall man, then pushed his doll forward.  

Sister Bernadette took the moment to move quickly and scooped the boy up into her arms.  Her firm voice belied the breathlessness she felt.  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, Gregory, it’s time you went back to your mother.”

Gregory cried out, “No!’ and shook his head vehemently.  “Da!”  He pointed to the doctor.  “Da!”

Sister Bernadette pressed her lips together.  All she wanted at that moment was to be somewhere–preferably a very far somewhere–away from this scene, away from him, but to resist the child would only make the scene more humiliating.  She drew in a deep breath and waited for the boy to calm himself before returning to his mother.

Young Gregory Peterson had little empathy for her predicament.  Sure of his victory, he again pushed the doll towards Doctor Turner and asserted, “Da!”

“I think he’s talking about his doll,” Sister Bernadette told him, her voice clipped.

“Is that right?” the Doctor asked, his eyes fixed on the boy.  “Well, I’ve learned never to negotiate with a toddler.  Come show me your doll, Gregory, I’d like to see him.”

With little choice but to move closer, Sister Bernadette shifted the toddler on her hip and approached the hatch.  Gregory stretched out an arm and passed the doll over the opening.  Doctor Turner accepted the offering, careful not to touch the sticky parts.  

She tried hard not to notice the softening lines in his face as he examined the toy.  “He’s quite nice, old chap.  I reckon he’s one of your favourites.  My Timothy had a doll much like this one when he was your age.”  He glanced up, a crooked smile lighting up his face.

Thoughts of Timothy, and three-legged races, and kitchen hatches, flooded her mind and she sent a small prayer up for strength.  It was so confusing to be near him and hear his voice rasp quietly as if there was no one else in the Hall.  She grew agitated and tried to make her escape.

Again, Gregory would have none of it.  He twisted back to the doctor, his empty hand extended expectantly.  He shook his head vehemently as the doctor made to return the toy.  “No!”

“He wants your cigarette case, I’m afraid.  For a trade.  All the children play that way, he must have picked it up from them.”

Turner picked up the gold case.  “This?” His brows climbed up in surprise.  “I’m afraid you’re a bit too young for these nasty things, Gregory.  Here,” he opened the case and removed the sole remaining cigarette, tucking it into his shirt pocket.  A red brace peeked out for just a moment, and Sister Bernadette was grateful that the distraction caused by the child hid her blush.

“I only had one left, that’s why I was standing here moping,” he confided, his voice a bit over-cheery.  “The shops’ll be closed, and I didn’t think to get more.  I seem to let things slip through the cracks these days, I’m afraid.”  He nodded quickly.  “Let him have the case for a few moments.  It’ll give you some peace, and I’ll get it back just as his mother’s ready to leave.”  His hazel-green eyes tried to meet her blue ones.

“Thank you, Doctor.  Your help is much appreciated, as always.”  Resisting the urge to meet his look, she walked the little boy back to his mother.  Was he watching her go?  No, she would not look back to see.  

The young mother stood waiting with Sister Monica Joan.  “Here you go, Mrs. Peterson.  Doctor Turner will meet you at the entrance.  Gregory can return the case then.”  She brushed down her habit smoothing it into order.   

“You two make a good team, Sister.  Thanks for the help with my boy.  Come on, then, Greggie.”  She reached her hand down and took the tiny one in hers.  Gregory looked back and waved as his newest conquest watched him leave.

“He’s quite a lovely child, isn’t he?” Sister Monica Joan’s voice came from over her shoulder.  “I never felt the desire to have my own.  That was no sacrifice in my vow of chastity.”

Sister Bernadette glanced up in surprise, uncertain of her response.  “I’m sure we must all determine our own sacrifice, Sister.”  

The elderly nun moved to the door.  “Ours is a life of spiritual fulfillment, my dear sister.  We have chosen a larger family, and it is time for us to rejoin our sisters in prayer.”

Sister Bernadette watched as Sister Monica Joan glided to the doors, past the last of the mothers and children, past the busy nurses and the arriving dancers.   A breath fluttered past her lips and she bent her head in a moment of prayer then followed her sister from the Hall.

 

A/N:  Special thanks to @thatginchygal.tumblr.com for her help as my beta for this.  She really helped me reconsider some things, and the title is all her.

The Call the Midwife characters do not belong to me, alas.  However, any mistakes, writing flaws, etc you find are purely mine.

Pitch of Dreams

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This bit of nonsense came about from an Ask on Tumblr from alice1nwond3rland.

“Here’s to the “Never Have I Ever” ask (this will be a silly one)! Well, you’ve written all sorts of CtM and Turnadette (even a bit of AU)  😍! So, have you ever written a category of AU in which Patrick gets to live out one of his childhood dreams? For instance, Patrick being the Captain of his own ship or traveling to space!”

(Any mistakes regarding the game of cricket are wholly unintentional.  While I have a vast appreciation for the traditional attire of the game, I understand few of the rules.  If you see something, say something.)

Once upon a time, Patrick Turner dreamed of such a moment.  As a young boy, the makeshift pitches on the cobbled streets of Liverpool had been his Lord’s, his dusty wool knickers and cap his whites.  The old shed in his parents’ garden wore the scars of his years of bowling practice bore witness to a young boy’s tenacity.  Those dreams faded as new ones bloomed, but never completely disappeared.

Today he stood at the edge of it all.  His eyes roamed the stands as fans poured in for the test match that could help turn everything around for England.  They had a fighting chance, he knew.  Australia was strong,  but he knew better than to underestimate an underdog.  

“Ready, then, Dad?”

He turned to look at his elder son and nodded.  “As I’ll ever be.”

Tim smiled in return.  “Imagine, Dad.  If you’d been on time to meet with my teacher, we’d never have been there when Mr. Baxter fell into that ditch, and none of this would be happening.  We’d just be home watching on the telly.”

At that moment, Ted Baxter, England team captain approached them. “We’ll be off to the toss in just a moment, Doc, then it’s all you two.  Father-and-son first bowl–God, it’s what cricket was made for.”  

“I can’t thank you enough for this, Ted–” Patrick began.

Baxter slapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Don’t thank me–you’re my good luck charm.  It was our quick thinking saved my ankle.  Why I wouldn’t be on this pitch today without you.  Must say, the whites do you credit, old man.  I’ll bet the little lady found you a treat, the ladies always do.”  

Patrick thought of the blush that flooded Shelagh’s cheeks when he came downstairs that morning.  “She’s become more of a fan than I expected.”

The team captain winked.  “Perk of the job. Now, don’t you grimace Tim.  You’ll see one day.  You can’t fight the lure of the flannels.”

Tim’s eyes rolled skyward.  “Really, Mr. Baxter, don’t encourage him. It’s bad enough Dad’ll be walking around like this for weeks.”

A voice called the teams out to the field.  “Come on, then,” Baxter whistled to his team. Patrick and Tim followed to the pitch, and shook hands with the two captains and umpires and called the toss, sending the players to their positions.

Patrick took his place and let his eyes scan the crowd.  He knew Shelagh was there, though he couldn’t see her in the stands, and tipped his cap in her direction, then turned to face his son crouching behind the wickets. The load roar faded and he could hear the shouts of children in the streets of his old neighborhood, he could feel the cobbles under his feet.  He clenched his fingers around the seam of the ball and delivered.

A/N:  Now come on. Would it be so hard to write a cricket scene or two, HTMcG?  Throw a fan a bone!

No Secret Anymore

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In s6e8, Shelagh and Patrick sing “Secret Love,” which got me thinking. How and when did this become a special song? 

Patrick looked up from the files before him and sighed.  He’d have to stay up for hours if he was ever going to catch up with the diabetes clinic notes, and he simply did not have the concentration he needed.  For years this quiet time in the evening had been his most productive, and efficient use of it kept paperwork from overwhelming him.

In the last few weeks, however, he hadn’t made much headway in the bureaucracy of his practice. Tim needed more attention since coming home from the hospital, and time for exercises and practicing with his calipers kept them occupied.  If it weren’t for Shelagh, Patrick was sure they’d fall behind in that area, as well.

The quiet hum of her voice passed over the hatch from the kitchen as she set about making their last cup of tea for the night.  A smile lifted the corner of his mouth and he leaned back in his chair.  If he were completely honest with himself, Shelagh was the biggest distraction of all.  What power did a sheaf of paper have compared to the feel of her cuddled next to him on the sofa?  Or the sound of her sigh in his ear as he nuzzled her neck?   He couldn’t possibly be expected to slave over ink and paper so soon after their honeymoon.

He clicked the cover back on his pen and stretched.  He’d get to the diabetes clinic in due time. Resting his forearms on the hatch, he watched his wife spoon sugar into his tea cup, just the way he liked it. Her eyes glanced up at him, and a faint pink color stole across her cheeks.  He supposed he wasn’t hiding his thoughts well.

“What’s that song you’re humming?” he asked.

A secret thought crossed her face, and the pink deepened to rose.  Shelagh bent to fuss with the tea tray. “Just a silly thing I heard on the radio this morning. I–I’m not certain what it’s called.”

He shifted his body away from the wall and approached her at the kitchen table. “It sounds pretty, whatever it is.  I’ve always thought you have a lovely voice.” He stroked his finger over the curve of her ear and then reached for her hand.  “Sing it for me?”

“Pish, Patrick, don’t be silly.” She pulled at her hand, but he only tightened his grip and pulled her close.  

“I’m not being silly.  I want to dance with you.  We haven’t danced together since our wedding.”  

In her effort to conquer her embarrassment, Shelagh’s voice became prissy.  “We both have too much to do, Patrick.  We’ll have some tea and get to those insulin charts.”  She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back.

He laughed softly. Despite her words, the flush continued to travel down the length of her throat.  Shelagh was not in as much control as she was pretending.  He placed his palm to hers,  flesh to flesh, and entwined their fingers.  A shuddering breath escaped her lips as he gave a light kiss to her fingers, then he pressed their hands to his heart.   Her eyes flashed up at him, startled by the intensity that came over her so quickly, and she hid her face in the lee of his shoulder.  

His other hand snaked around her waist and he murmured,

“I don’t want any tea.”

Over the course of the next week, the little tune ran through Patrick’s head, but he could not place it.  He’d hum a few bars and stop, his mind on Shelagh’s blushing cheeks.  On the few occasions that Shelagh caught him humming the tune, she’d bustle away in search of a task.

“Dad, you’ve got to stop humming. It’s the same four bars over and over.  It’s really quite irritating,” Timothy scolded on the drive to school.

“Sorry, son,” Patrick responded, his hands gesturing in defeat.  “It’s stuck in my head, no matter what I do.  I don’t even know its name.”

“Ask one of the nurses, they’re sure to know.”

Shelagh’s embarrassment was a bit of a puzzle. Despite her previous life of celibacy, his wife was no prude. In the private darkness of their room, she welcomed the new intimacies of marriage. She was still a bit shy about more public displays, but with each week grew more secure in her new role as a wife.  Still, there was something intriguing about her response to that song, and Patrick had a feeling that she wasn’t ready to share with others.  He’d have to discover the name of the song another way.

The green car pulled up before the school gates. “You’ll be late if you don’t hurry, Tim. I promise I won’t keep humming. I’ve got an idea.”

The record shop door bell tinkled as Patrick made his way into the bright room.  He couldn’t recall how many years had passed since he’d purchased a record. Marianne had been the real music lover, and he had been content to listen to whatever she put on the record player. He didn’t listen to much music in the car, either.  Sometimes it seemed driving was the only quiet time he could snatch during the day.

Mr. Graham came out from behind his counter. “Doctor Turner!  I never thought to see you in me shop. I ‘ope you’re not here to bring me some bad news, eh?”  

“No, Mr. Graham, no news. Possibly because you haven’t been to see me for a physical in a few years?” Patrick teased.

“Ah, well, you know how it is, Doc, busy, busy! What with this Elvis Presley bloke I can’t keep the records on them shelves! You should see this place of an afternoon– full o’ teenagers it is! I just turn down me hearing aid, though, and all’s well.  So what can I do for you today?”

Patrick cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak and then cleared his throat again. Taking a deep breath, he forced the words out. “I’ve come to find the name of a song. It’s been tickling in the back of my head all week and I thought that perhaps if I heard the song, it’d leave me be.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place then, haven’t you?  The wife says I know every song there is, just you ask her. So, er…  Where did you hear this song, then?  The radio? The pub?  Though what with you being newly married and all, I don’t doubt you’ve not had time for the pubs of late, ” he asked in a conspiratorial tone.

“My wife was humming it earlier this week. She said she’d heard it somewhere but couldn’t place it.”  Patrick’s fingers drummed on the counter’s edge.

“Well, I never was one to turn down a challenge. You’ll have to hum a bit for me.”

If Patrick was nervous to bring up the subject, the idea of humming out in the middle of a Poplar shoppe, when anyone could walk in, was daunting. Yet, he had to know the song Shelagh was humming if he would solve the secret of her blushes.

“It’s a bit like this:

Dum dah dum dee dum dee dum

Dah dum dee dah dee dum dee dum…”  

Heavens, please let that have been enough of the song, Patrick thought.  He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could withstand. The image of Shelagh’s pink cheeks appeared before his eyes and strengthened his resolve.

Mr. Graham leaned his elbow on the counter and rubbed his chin in concentration. For a long moment, he hummed the tune to himself, working out its origin.  He glanced up suddenly.  “Can you hum it one more time, Doctor?  I have an idea, but–it can’t be…”

With a sigh, Patrick rushed through the tune one more time. Really, this was the silliest thing he’d done in a very long time.

Patrick watched the other man stare at him for another moment, and then a deep laugh rolled up from the shopkeeper’s belly.  For long moments he struggled to stop, but the chuckles grew into guffaws, and finally slid into wheezing roar.  His hands flew about his face as he strained to get control of himself until finally, the old man started to regain his breath. Still chortling, he held his hand up asking for a moment and walked between the aisles of records. He stopped in front of one section, thumbed through the record sleeves and pulled one out. A quick nod of his head and walked back behind the counter.

Mystified, Patrick watched as the man slipped the album into a paper bag and folded over the edges. He shook his head to gather himself and said, “Here you go, Doctor Turner. A belated wedding gift, as it were. You bring this home to the missus and you enjoy it.  Song number four.”

Outside in the car, Patrick slipped his purchase from the paper sack. His eyebrows scrunched over his nose in consternation as he flipped the album jacket from front to back.

At that moment, he was more than grateful he had waited to open the bag.  He could feel his face flood with color and he began to at last understand his wife’s embarrassment. The song was appropriate, certainly.  A slow grin crossed his face as the implications become apparent.  He’d have to trade on-call duty with Greenwood.  

Tonight, he was dancing with his wife.

“It’s a good thing for us Dr. Greenwood needed to switch his on-call with you tonight, Patrick,” Shelagh announced as she carried Timothy’s calipers into the sitting room. “There’s still so many files to be gone through before we open the new maternity home, and Timothy spilt some milk on his calipers today.  I’m afraid they’re going to need a polishing.”

Patrick took the metal and leather straps from her hands and placed them on the table. “I’ll get to them in the morning.  I have something I want to show you.” He handed her the paper sack. “Go ahead, open it.”

Shelagh looked up at him, curious.  “Patrick, there’s no need–” Her breath caught in her lungs as the record slid out. The telltale flush flooded her pale skin and her shoulders tensed.

“My love–Shelagh, look at me.”

Shelagh shook her head and placed the record on the table face down.

Patrick considered how far he should push his point.  In the early weeks of their engagement, Shelagh had struggled to face the eyes of the community, and he didn’t want any old awkwardness to resurface.  His instinct told him this was different, however,  that there was something new about her blushes of late that spoke more of awareness than shame.  

“Shelagh, it’s just a song.” He cupped her face in his hands. “We’ve nothing to be ashamed of, my love, I hope you know that.”

Her eyes darted to his in surprise.  “I’m not ashamed, Patrick.   Never that.”  Keeping her eyes downcast, Shelagh struggled to find words.

Perhaps he should change tacks.  “Shelagh? Will you dance with me?”

Her tiny nod was enough for him.  Taking her hand, he drew her to the record player.  She stood passively by as he gently lowered the needle to the spinning disc, his touch light.  The silence of anticipation enveloped them, and Patrick turned to her.  Not shy, but somehow tentative, Shelagh moved into his arms.  

He could feel the restraint in her. No, restraint wasn’t the right word, yet he knew she was holding something back.  He could push for more and she would give herself to him, she would allow him to lead her to their bedroom and would give herself to him.  Why was he hesitating, he wondered? He could feel the desire hum between them.  Yet he waited.

Her soft voice stole his heart.  “I love you so, Patrick.”

His nose brushed lazy curves against her forehead.  He forced himself to wait another moment. This was about her confusion, not his; it was not his place to lead her to her own conclusion.  He would trust that Shelagh loved him and would find her own answer.

“There’ve been so many changes these last six months–my whole life is different.”  Her thumb caressed the palm he held to his heart.   “It’s more than leaving the Order to marry you.  I always had to be the stoic one, growing up– I think it’s part of what drew me to the religious life in the first place.  I was able to channel my emotions to God, and they became so much less troublesome. But now–”

“Now?” he breathed.

She moved closer and rested her head against his chest.  He held her close, not really dancing but simply swaying to the music. “I’m not afraid to feel anymore.”

“That’s good, then?”

She lifted her face to his and smiled. “That’s lovely.”  In a slow movement, she slid her hands around his shoulders and threaded her fingers through his hair.  With a gentle tug, she pulled his face to hers.  Happy to comply, Patrick met her lips in a soft kiss.  The swayed together, the song winding through an instrumental section.  Shelagh broke the pressure of her mouth under his to glide her mouth across his lined cheek and whispered, “This song makes me want to be in your arms.”  She returned her mouth to his, her lips eager to show him her pleasure.  The tip of her tongue flicked against his lips, coaxing them to part.  She tugged his lower lip between hers and sucked gently.

A deep groan rose up from Patrick’s chest as he let her take the lead.  Her boldness aroused him and he delighted in the feel of her body pressed tightly to his.  How far would she take this?  His hands twitched as e tried to hold himself back.  His patience was beginning to fade.

It seemed Shelagh was more in control than he.  She pulled away, her hands against his chest to put some air between them.  Her cheeks were flushed with desire, but her eyes were clear, and he began to understand. Shelagh loved him, she loved being a wife in every way.  There had been so many changes for her, more than he realized.  As a nun, she had harnessed her womanhood in service to others and found the solidarity she sought in prayer and community.  By her own choice, Shelagh had turned that fierce devotion towards her husband and stepson and made her own happiness.

She rested her palm against his cheek.  “I’m learning to let myself show what I feel.  I can watch you–or Timothy–and not concern myself with what others will think. But–oh, I was silly, Patrick.  The song is lovely, truly it is, and I could never be ashamed of loving you.”

His eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Then why the pink cheeks?”

“Promise not to tease?”

He chuckled.  “I can try. You know how I love watching you blush.”

Shelagh rolled her eyes, trying to appear stern, then gave up.  “The song makes me forget everything else but you, and then I catch myself being romantic.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “See? I told you my little secret was silly.”

The song faded into the soft hiss of the needle spinning in the record’s final groove.  Patrick’s hands pulled her close as she tilted her lips to his.  “Never silly, my love…and no secret anymore.”

 

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 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.”

 

Next Chapter

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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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Eighteen

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Shelagh could feel the fog of exhaustion drift back as she slowly woke. There was a sound she recognized tapping in her head, a sound she couldn’t ignore, and the last mists of sleep evaporated. She sat up, confused, and pushed her hair from her face.

A gentle tap at the door set her to action. In the bright moonlit room, she reached for her nightgown and slipped it over her head. She moved from the warm bed and shimmied the fabric down the length of her body, and frowned at the complicated garment. It was pretty, but it was a bit ridiculous.

“Mum?” she heard Timothy’s voice come through the crack of the door.

“Coming,” she whispered back. She padded in her bare feet across the room and opened the door.

Timothy stood before her, holding his small sister by the hand. In the dim light he was all angles, and even without her glasses Shelagh could see the boy was asleep on his feet. A sniffle from somewhere around the level of his knee drew her attention.

“There, there,” Shelagh crooned, kneeling before her teary daughter. She pushed Angela’s tangled hair back from her damp cheeks. “Did my little monkey have trouble sleeping?”

“I tried to settle her, but she only wanted you. Sorry, Mum, I know you must be tired after today.” Tim’s newly deepening voice rumbled in a way that recalled his father’s.

Shelagh wrapped her arms around Angela, then stood. “That’s alright, Timothy. I’ve got her now. You go back to sleep.”

He accepted her kiss, then turned back to his own room.

Shelagh closed the door and carried Angela over to the small desk in the corner. Deftly, she poured a small drink of water and watched as the little girl noisily gulped it down. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this break from the “no drinks after bedtime” rule  before morning.

Angela finished her water, and handed back the glass with a satisfied “Aaah!”

Shelagh giggled. “Whisper voice, sweetheart! Everyone’s sleeping.” She glanced over at her husband, who was, in fact, sound asleep. Shelagh rolled her eyes. She envied his ability to sleep through so much. Only the ring of the phone could stir him once he was asleep, an odd trait that had enabled him to miss many night-time child visits and feedings. She hated to wake him, but she would have to.

“Patrick,” her voice rose ever so slightly. She squeezed  his foot through the bedcovers. “Patrick, I need you to wake up for a moment.”

He woke suddenly, upright in an instant.

“It’s alright, dearest, no need to worry. You’ll need to dress for visitors.” She pushed his pyjamas through the opening in the netting.

“What’s wrong?’ he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Angela’s been upset. I’ll bring her to the lav, you get dressed. We’ll be back in a jiffy.” The door closed behind her, her husband’s grunts of mild disapproval making her smile.

When they returned a few minutes later, a pyjama-clad Patrick had the bed straightened and the pillows set for the new sleeping arrangement.

“I suppose it was a rough day for everyone,” he agreed. He lifted the girl into his arms. Angela’s head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, then popped up. “Bizkit’s a monkey, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Yes, Biscuit’s a sleeping monkey, Angela. If we bring you into bed with us, will you sleep, too?”

The blonde head tucked itself back in place. “S’eeping  now, Daddy.” She pretended to snore.

They slipped into well-rehearsed positions, and in moments, Angela had fulfilled her promise.

“It doesn’t seem quite fair how she can do that,” Patrick whispered through a yawn. “Tell me about the delivery.”

Shelagh curved her body around Angela and slipped her toes under his calves to warm. Worry over the unexpected visit from DuPlessis and his men shifted attention away from Shelagh’s first call off the mission grounds, and they had yet to discuss it.

“The baby needed quite a bit of convincing, but we finally turned her right. Poor Thembe must have been in such terrible pain. You know, Patrick, they used the same tricks so many of our mothers in Poplar use to keep from making too much noise. It’s quite funny how similar the fundamentals are when you think about it. Thousands of miles apart, and yet we’re all still the same.”

“I thought that during the war; no matter where a soldier was from, he always had the same requests. Send love to his girl, ask his father to be proud. Here too, I suppose.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pained.

“How did you get her to trust you, Shelagh?”

Shelagh chose her words carefully. This wasn’t a tender ego talking. Trust was integral to a doctor’s practice. Without it, Patrick could not help anyone, including himself.

“It was Umakhulu–the grandmother. The thought of losing her girl was impossible, and they were just desperate enough to give me a try. But there was something else, Patrick. Myra told them I was a mother, too; that I had a little girl of my own. It made me a little less strange, somehow, and they let their fear of me go.”

Patrick sighed heavily as he considered her words. After a moment he turned to his side to face her and brushed his hand lightly along the curve of her hip. “You should sleep, my love. We can talk in the morning.”

She nodded as weariness began to overtake her. “We’ll find a way, Patrick. I know we will.”

As the night slipped into silence, an idea began to form.