Category Archives: Call the Midwife

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Seventeen

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BBN9PKAuthor’s note: I have decided that while the use of a racial hate word is necessary to a particular character, I will not use it in full. I do apologize if it causes distress.

Previous Chapter

“Oh, Christ,” Myra Fitzsimmons muttered through her teeth. She adjusted the rearview mirror and peered down the valley. “We’ve got company. Hang on, Mrs. Turner.” She shifted the gears and revved the engine, pushing the old truck to a higher speed. She kept one hand on the horn and blared it as they drove the last half mile to the Mission.

Shelagh turned to  look behind them and saw several sets of headlights in the distance.  

“Night-time visits are never a good thing,” Myra told her through the blasts of the horn. “When people hear the horn, they’ll know trouble is coming. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!”

A crowd had already formed outside the Mission when they pulled in minutes later. Patrick ran to the truck, fear plain on his face.

“Shelagh, are you alright?”

She grasped his hand and felt safer for its squeeze. “Yes,  mother and baby are safe and sound. But I’m afraid trouble’s following us.”

Myra’s voice rose through the yard. “There are at least three vehicles headed this way. I don’t know if it’s DuPlessis or not, but we must prepare. Jacob Arend–”

“Yes, Doctor. We are secure.”

“Good. Sister Julienne, we must be sure the medical supplies are safe and will not be found. Please take some of your nurses and assist Nurse Akani with the hospital. She will know what to do. Kholeka, run to your parents and tell them to sound the alarm. There was a meeting tonight, and DuPlessis will use any excuse to take the men. And Mr. Makepeace, I’m afraid we’ll need all your skills tonight.”

Henry Makepeace came forward. “I was afraid this might happen. Doctor Turner and I removed the working parts when I arrived this afternoon, and we’ve hidden them. Fred will be able to reassemble them in another container after they’ve gone.”

A small wail came from the steps of the dormitory as Timothy approached the group, his sister in his arms. “Mummy!” Angela cried.

“Sorry, Mum.” Timothy began.

Shelagh took the young girl in her arms. “There, there, angel girl, Mummy’s here.” She pressed a kiss to the girl’s sleep-pinkened cheeks and pushed the damp locks from her daughter’s eyes. “Stay with Mummy, but you’ll need to be as quiet as a mouse.” Angela buried her face into her mother’s shoulder.

Patrick nodded once to his son. Timothy could not be expected to stay in the room like a child. He would want to help.

The snarl of the engines filled the air. “Follow my lead, everyone,” Doctor Fitzsimmons called. “And remember, he is not our friend. He knows you do not understand the way things are done here and will do his damndest to trick you.” She moved forward to intercept the visitors.

The Rover appeared abruptly, and the sergeant stepping from the vehicle before it came to a complete stop. Four of his men climbed out from the vehicles and stood at attention, their hands ready on their weapons in a clear show of dominance.

“Myra, my dear, I’m flattered you all gathered to greet me,” the tall man’s voice kept cadence with his boot heels as they clipped sharply at the ground. “Unless of course, there’s been some sort of gathering I should be made aware of? But, no, I’m certain you all learned your lesson the last time.” He scowled as he mentally took attendance of the group.

The mission doctor held her ground. “I’m sure there’s no need for you to come rushing out here, Sergeant. You can see it is only our guests here.We’ve just returned from a birth. You agreed that medical visits would not be affected by your curfew.”

“Another k****r,” DuPlessis sneered. “It hardly seems worth the effort.”

The tall man turned from her and walked toward the small group. “Mr. Makepeace,” he called. “It’s too bad you…forgot…to check with me before you made this long trip. If you had done so, you would have known that we find we have great need of the water heater you appropriated from our supplies.” His eyes passed over Trixie in that same insolent fashion he had shown at their introduction. “Although I can understand your keenness to return to Hope Mission, and perhaps even forgive just a little bit your natural desire to impress our new friends.”

Trixie stiffened and was about to retort when Makepeace interrupted. “Of course you know I meant no disrespect, Sergeant. I was assured by your own office that the water heater was of no use to you.”

“But you did not go through the proper channels. You English,” he sneered. “You think you know how to run our country, yet you have no understanding, no respect for the struggles we must face to protect our world. These k****rs will try to cheat you, they will try to kill you in your beds. Fools, the whole lot of you.”

He turned and shouted to his men in Afrikaans and they laughed in response.

“I hope you do not think me rude, but I am afraid I must insist you return the water heater immediately.”

“The hospital needs a water heater, Sergeant.” Doctor Fitzsimmons kept her eyes away from his sight. “We are a mission of God. Surely you see the need-”

“I am tired of this disregard for my authority, doctor. You have your British patrons, ask them. Do not waste the precious resources I must use for true Afrikaners. You can have the water heater returned to me immediately, or perhaps my men and I will find it necessary to stay here for a few days to help you find it?” The sergeant’s voice had regained its smoothness. “With so many pretty nurses here, I’m sure we would find the time quite pleasant.”

Myra Fitzsimmons shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “Jacob Arends, please return the water heater to Sergeant DuPlessis.”

They watched in silence as the rusted water heater was hefted onto the truck flatbed and the police officers piled back into their vehicles.

Before leaving, DuPlessis turned one last time to face them. “It’s a shame we had to make this trip out here. I thought we understood each other, Makepeace, but it appears my trust in you was misplaced.”

He swung himself into the front seat of the Rover, his paw-like hands gripping the open window. “Do not test me. I expect all of our laws to be honored.”

The small team of medics watched in silence as the lights of the convoy disappeared down the road.

Next Chapter

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Sixteen

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BBN9PKPrevious Chapter

Shelagh stood in the open doorway of the rondavel and watched as the new mother held her child to her breast. Umakhulu bustled about the room, putting things in order after the happy birth and Shelagh smiled. For all the strangeness of the setting, they could just as well have been in a two-up, two-down in Poplar. Family was universal, and love too, for that matter.

It had taken all her skill to turn Thembe’s baby and to help keep the infant in the proper position for delivery. A titled maternal pelvis complicated the matter, and Shelagh knew in other circumstances, they would have delivered the baby by caesarean section. She sent a prayer of gratitude that in Poplar they had that option. Poor Thembe suffered greatly to deliver her daughter.

Shelagh picked up the basket of gourds Umakhulu had offered her as thanks and crossed the kraal to the truck. Myra Fitzsimmons leant against the bonnet, weariness in her posture. The end of her cigarette glowed bright red as she inhaled slowly, stress easing from her shoulders. She offered it to Shelagh as she blew smoke off to the side.

Shelagh smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve given them up.”

The older woman’s eyebrows lifted, forming deep lines in her forehead. She took another long drag. “Patrick, too, I see. Used to smoke like a chimney in medical school.”

“Yes,” Shelagh nodded. “He’s only just given them up this autumn. Timothy insisted.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “One of the many complications of having such a clever boy is that it’s hard to get away with anything.”

“I can imagine.” The two women stood in a companionable silence as darkness settled quickly over the valley. Myra dropped the butt of her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her foot. “We should be going. We’ll be safe enough in the truck, but night is really for the beasts around here.”

Their two faces glowed green in the light of the dash, all but the road before them in total darkness. Both women knew the weariness that came from attending a patient at a time of crisis. The physical labor wore down the body, and the sudden drop in adrenaline put emotions nearer the surface. Shelagh opened her medical bag and pulled out a small bar of chocolate.

“It’s not a cup of tea, but it will keep us until we return to the mission,” she said as she broke the bar in half.

Myra nodded her thanks. The silence grew between the two women until Myra said, “Thembe would have lost her baby if not for you.”

“Pssht, no. I’m sure you could have managed, Doctor Fitzsimmons,” Shelagh waved away the compliment.

“No, I couldn’t. I rarely get called in for births. Childbirth is a family issue in these parts, they don’t want outsiders to intervene.  On the rare occasion they do come for me, it’s usually too late.” The older woman’s eyes darted nervously as she drove on. She was not used to making such personal confessions. She searched for another topic. “Who is Sister Bernadette? Your teacher?”

For a moment, Shelagh felt the return of the anxiety she felt in those early days after she left the convent. A long time had passed since she had to explain her past. As she spoke, however, she felt the nervousness pass. “I was Sister Bernadette. I was a member of the Order of St Raymond Nonnatus before I married Patrick.”

Her words were met by a long silence, and then Myra responded, “Well, then. Patrick told me not to underestimate you.”

Shelagh felt herself warm to those words. She knew Patrick loved her and respected her work, but to know he had spoken of her in such terms reminded her how lucky she was to be so well-respected by her husband.

“So you were a nun before, were you?” Myra gave a low, throaty laugh, then sobered. “I’ve been on my own a long time, Shelagh. Oh, I have companions, my nurses and staff, but they’re somehow separate from me. I’ve grown a bit solitary; I chose a path different from most women, and I forget that my way is not the only way. I’m starting to see, watching you Nonnatuns, that women can and should be able to choose different paths.”

A low pounding sound rumbled up through the car, and Myra slowed the car. “Close your window all the way. The babies have a way of reaching in to try to steal food.”

The next moment, the beams of the headlights caught the outline of a high, rounded back, then a large ear and finally the curve of an elephant’s long trunk. Shelagh’s breath caught.

Myra assured her, “It should be just fine, they’re fairly used to us. As long as we idle here and let them pass, they won’t bother us.”

The elephants seemed content to take their time as they crossed the road, one or two taking a moment to shift their enormous heads to better observe the strange metal creature in their path. Shelagh could feel her heart pounding in her chest as the largest turned back towards them.

“It’s all right,” Myra whispered. “Don’t be alarmed. She’s just checking on the children in the back. As long as the babies are safe, she’ll ignore us.”

“She?”

“Yes. Except for breeding times, elephant herds are exclusively females and children. The bulls are much more solitary, and far more dangerous. All that pachyderm testosterone,” Myra joked.

The littlest elephant appeared, and the matron made a scolding noise and wrapped her long trunk around his head. She gave him a gentle tug, and the baby joined the herd as they disappeared into the trees.

“My, but I’ve seen the most amazing things here!” Shelagh murmured.

“Drop any one of us in Poplar, and we’d feel the same way staring up at a double-decker!” Myra put the truck back in gear and resumed the trip home.

Next Chapter

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Fifteen

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BBN9PKPrevious Chapter

The main ward of the Mission hospital was a long and narrow room, barely wide enough for a single row of beds.  The high, dark paneled ceilings and worn paint mimicked the style of the clinic hall, but despite the row of paned windows, the room felt somehow felt more cave-like than that space. Drawn blinds shielded the room from the intensity of the full noon sun as the four patients stirred restlessly in their beds.

Sister Julienne hovered over the dozing patients, stopping to scratch notes on the small chalkboards at the foot of each cot while Trixie sorted medical supplies for the third time that morning. The hospital saw even fewer patients than the weekly clinic, their charges the few villagers that had no family to care for them. Only a slow-healing stomach abscess and the lingering effects of dysentery kept them in hospital, and none needed the care the nurses had hoped to bring to the Mission.

Patrick sat at the lone desk at the head of the room as he reviewed notes. Still unused to the heat, he shifted his chair to take full advantage of the room’s only fan, then  glanced at his watch, impatient for something to do. Not since his days as a medical student had he been tied to one location for days on end. He preferred the constant movement about the community of his practice, the surgery and maternity hospital a gravitational center for his rounds.

Perhaps that was where things had started to go wrong, Patrick wondered. In the years since the National Health formed, he and so many other medical professionals had eagerly embraced the overconfident promises of science. The solutions seemed so much simpler. A few jabs and illnesses could be all but eradicated. If he never saw a case of polio again, it would be too soon.

Since their arrival in South Africa, he had done very little real medicine. The strange atmosphere of distrust hampered their efforts, and he, in particular, seemed to be singled out by the local population as a threat. The reasons were obvious, but he chafed at the idea that his help was not wanted. He wasn’t a fool; he knew Shelagh had championed this journey in order to rekindle his love of medicine. Now it was becoming obvious her hopes would be quashed by a culture of systemic racism.

He glanced about the room and tapped his pencil impatiently against his clipboard. He wondered ow far was the labor progressing. He had every faith in Shelagh’s abilities, but still he worried. Any complication in childbirth was magnified tenfold, even with her skills. He wished he could be with her.

He squelched a small sense of jealousy. At least he had spent some time out in the community since their arrival. Shelagh had somehow been delegated the tasks of organizing the clinic and their crew. While he knew part of her relished in the challenge, he was also aware that Shelagh itched to make a difference out with the people they had come to help. Today was her turn to reach out.

He stood and stretched, then made his way to the window. Angela was enjoying the change of scenery, certainly. Under the watchful eye of Kholeka, she skipped about the yard, watched by a monkey–no doubt her partner in mischief from the breakfast table–chattering from the nearby tree. His eyes followed as Angela stooped to pick a small yellow bloom from the grass and called out, “Bizzzzzz-kit!” She placed the flower at the foot of the tree, then turned to tiptoe back to Kholeka’s side.

The monkey’s chatter stopped and his eyes darted between the small child and the flower. With slow movements, he slid out of eyesight behind the tree.

“Bizzzkittt!” the little girl called again. “Flower for you!”

Suddenly, the little vervet dashed from around  the tree and snatched the flower. He sat still for a moment, then  shrieked what Patrick assumed was a monkey “thank you,” and returned to his sentry point. Angela laughed and began the routine again.

Patrick’s  lips twisted in a half grin. If they weren’t careful, his daughter might find a way to hide the monkey in her suitcase.

The roar of an engine broke the idyllic scene, and Patrick glanced in the direction of the mission gates. Clouds of dust rose in the air as a battered truck entered the mission yard and rolled to a grinding stop.

By the time Patrick began to make his way down the steps, his fears of another confrontation with Sergeant DuPlessis evaporated. Henry Makepeace climbed out from behind the wheel, a warm grin on his face.

“Doctor Turner! So glad to see you!” He took the floppy khaki hat from his head and waved it in greeting. “Come see what I’ve brought.”

Stopping to scoop Angela up in his arms, Patrick crossed the yard to the truck and peered over the side.

“I hope it’s not another crate of bandages. We’ve had a beastly time trying to square away what we’ve already got.” Patrick turned his head to see Nurse Franklin approach, her voice carrying the clipped tone he’d often noticed when she most wanted to be taken seriously. “What is it?” she asked.

“A hot water heater. Or it was, once upon a time. I thought perhaps between Jacob Arends and your Fred, it could be again.” The young man’s eyes studiously avoided the young nurse. “It was all I could do to get this old thing out here. DuPlessis has made it a sort of raison d’etre to keep any and all equipment out of the homelands. He’d rather see a water heater rust away on the bin heap than let it help here.”

“But why? If no one is Alice needs it, surely the Sergeant wouldn’t mind if we use it in hospital.” Trixie’s brows knit together in consternation. “Surely he wouldn’t stand in the way of our helping patients?”

Makepeace dropped his hat back on his head and opened the truck hatch. “Unfortunately, the government’s policies on the homelands rather encourages men like DuPlessis to rule as they wish. As long as he keeps the peace in the white communities, no one really pays much attention to what happens out here. A water heater only means something to him because it means something to us.”

“How dreadful!” Trixie murmured. “It must be so very difficult to cope. I’m sure you must be very brave and frightfully clever to outsmart him for us.”

A slow flush spread over the young man’s tanned cheeks. “It’s not–I mean, I–” he swallowed his words, then regained his composure. “Apartheid is wrong, for all it’s the law of the land. While the British government may not be willing to officially denounce it, we at the consulate can try to help in our own way.” By now he was in full command, and Patrick could see why the young man had chosen the diplomatic corps as a profession. “Medical care should be free from all politics.”

“Hear, hear,” Patrick enjoined.

“I’m glad you agree, doctor. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a task for you.”

He placed Angela on the ground. “Go run to Kholeka, darling. Daddy has work to do.”

Next Chapter 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Fourteen

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BBN9PKPrevious Chapter

The Behle clan occupied a large homestead of several rondavels, circular stucco buildings covered by thick thatch roofs. Surrounded by a thorn bush fence, the kraal enclosed the umzi and offered protection for the cattle. Much like the brick work and courtyards of Poplar, the kraal created a protected world.

As the old rover rumbled up to the gate, a young girl ran from her place guarding the cattle to let them in. She shouted words in Xhosa to the doctor, then returned to her post. Ibo, Thembe’s husband, jumped from the vehicle before it came to a halt, but was stopped before he could enter the main house.

An older woman stood in the doorway. She wore the intricate headdress and beadwork of the first wife, a position that had no greater power than at this moment. The young man tried to push past her to see his wife and was rebuffed. Sister Julienne had been right: Patrick Turner would not have been welcome.

Fitzsimmons turned to Shelagh. “The Xhosa are strong-minded people, Mrs. Turner. They will not suffer British arrogance, nor will they allow you to ignore their ways. Doctor Turner has assured me that you are, in fact, Thembe’s best chance, but I must tell you it’s against my better judgement.” She turned her face away, but not before Shelagh saw a look of anxiety.  “I haven’t delivered a baby in far too long. The chances of this ending badly are extremely high.”

Shelagh took in a breath and held it for a long moment. “I can do this, Doctor, and so can you. Between us, we will deliver this baby.”  

“I hope to God you’re right.” With a shrug of her shoulders, Myra Fitzsimmons erased all sign of fear from her face and stepped from the car.

Despite her confident words, Shelagh felt her earlier boldness begin to wane. As she followed Doctor Fitzsimmons into the dimly lit home, she struggled to clear her mind of fear.

Umakhulu greeted them as they arrived at the rondavel’s entrance, and seemed to immediately accept Shelagh’s presence. Rare as it was for the villagers to call on Doctor Fitzsimmons for the sacred rite of childbirth, it was clear the old woman was willing to sacrifice her own pride for her granddaughter.

As she listened to the two women speak, Shelagh glanced about the room. The floor was hard-packed earth, and several small windows clustered high on the southern curve, their light bouncing along the bright white interior walls. Beds edged the rondavel, and a square table dominated the center. Shelagh quickly absorbed her surroundings, trying to acclimate herself.

A low sound came from a bed at the far end of the room, and she turned to their patient. Thembe was far thinner than she should be despite her swollen belly. The young woman  lay on her side, her body twisted with pain. Shelagh took in another slow, deep breath as she sent up a prayer for courage and she knelt at the young woman’s side.

“Umhlobo,” she said gently as she pressed her hand to her heart. “Nceda.”

The woman’s forehead glistened and her eyes were glazed with pain. “Umhlobo?” Thembe whispered. Shelagh reached out and took the frightened woman’s hand and nodded. Without turning her head, she said, “I’ve exhausted my Xhosa, I’m afraid, Doctor. You’ll have to translate.”

A moment passed before Doctor Fitzsimmons responded. “I think perhaps you know all that’s truly necessary, Nurse.” She spoke softly to Thembe, and the young woman’s grip tightened on Shelagh’s hand. “I’ve told her what you’re going to do, and that it will be painful, but at the end of this long day, she’ll hold her beautiful baby in her arms.”

Thembe gasped as a pain contorted her face. Shelagh placed a cool hand on her forehead and watched as the contraction ran its course.

“I’ll need to examine her, Doctor. The pains sound as if the labor is beginning to progress, and I don’t want to miss the window where I can help. Is she ready for me?”

The old woman approached Shelagh, pointing out the bowl of water set aside to clean her hands. Her voice clicked words of support, her arms gesturing to her granddaughter. Shelagh smiled and said gently, “I can help, Umakhulu. Nceda.”

The bowl of water looked fresh, the bar of soap next to it untouched. Shelagh made a decision, then began to scrub her hands in the cool water. She needed their trust as much as anything else. An insult to the cleanliness of their home would do as much damage as ignorance. The bottle of surgical spirits in her bag would help disinfect her hands.

Her soft voice filled the room as she spoke, her small hands expertly manipulating the tense muscles of the frightened woman’s abdomen. Her eyes kept a close watch on Thembe’s face, noting the fear that never left the young woman’s mind. “Tell her I’ve done this many times before,” she told Fitzsimmons. “Tell her I can feel her baby moving inside her.”

As Fitzsimmons spoke, Shelagh moved lower. She paused and asked Thembe for permission. “I’ll have to examine the birth canal, Thembe. This will feel a wee bit uncomfortable, but I’ll be as quick as I can.” She waited for her request to be translated, then moved when she saw Thembe nod.

Her hands moved swiftly as she visualized the path the baby was taking. Keeping her face impassive, she turned to Fitzsimmons. “The baby is most definitely breech, not quite transverse, but I’m more concerned that the head is wedged under the ribcage. I’ll have to coax the baby down a bit before I can turn.”

She smiled at Thembe. “Your baby isn’t quite ready yet Thembe dear.  Will you trust me, and let me help?” There was another pause for translation, and Thembe nodded.

“Help my girl, umhlobo. Please.”

“So it’s a girl then?” Dr. Fitzsimmons teased. Her own fear seemed to lessen as Shelagh took the situation under control.

Umakhulu laughed, relief clear in the sound. “A girl for my girl. There is little better a woman can know. You, umhlobo, do you have your girl?” She touched Shelagh’s wedding ring.

“Nurse Turner has a beautiful little girl, Thembe,” Myra Fitzsimmons answered.  “She will insist on feeding the monkey at the table, I’m afraid, but she has laughing eyes.”

Shelagh turned in surprise to the doctor, but the moment was cut short by a deep contraction. “I’d best begin, Thembe. Now this will hurt, but I know you are strong.”

 

Next Chapter

A/N: I know!!! Two chapters in one day!!! I finally have a quiet weekend, and the weather is just right for writing. Hopefully I’m back on a roll with this fic, though I can’t promise a chapter a day!

Here is a link to an Airbnb site that features photos of  a traditional Xhosa homestead.

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/12153240

And here are some Xhosa translations for words I’ve used in this chapter:

Umakhulu:  grandmother

Umhlobo:  friend

Nceda:  help

As always, I ask that you forgive any blunders I may have made in my research and interpretation of Xhosa culture. Any mistakes are unintentional. Please do not hesitate to advise me.

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twelve

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Previous Chapter

The final melody of a lullaby cocooned the little girl in her mother’s arms, the soft notes sending her to sleep. Her chest rose in a slow, deep breath that bound the two ever closer and peace filled the room.

Shelagh felt her own heart rate slow, her blood pressure calm, and she knew contentment for the first time all day.  She grazed her fingertip across the soft, rounded cheek of her daughter and pushed back a lock of damp hair. Angela would likely wake with a tangle of curls in the morning, but the bath had helped settle the fractious child. The late hours and time away from her mother had made Angela fussy these last few nights, and the shortage of family time and space had not helped. The routine that kept the family balanced had disappeared, and the strain was starting to show.

A twinge of resentment flickered and took hold. Each night since their arrival, she had been the one to stay with Angela, while her husband and son gathered with the others at the Mission house. She had never desired a life of social gatherings, but the intimate hours spent with her family were so very important. Quiet conversations about ordinary life, discussions about medical questions, even silent time together bound her to her family, and she felt the lack sorely.  Would she always be the one to make these small sacrifices? With little help, she had tried to make a home from two small dormitory rooms. Both Patrick and Timothy seemed more interested in the world beyond this space, and neither spent much time there anyway.

It had been her idea, hadn’t it? Patrick had been more than willing to let the issue drop when Dr. Fitzsimmons’ letter arrived last December. It was Shelagh that pursued the possibility, her plan that made it possible, her efforts that made the trip a reality, and for what? Patrick seemed no more confident in his abilities than before they left Poplar, Angela spent most of her days in the care of others, and Shelagh found herself more of a clerk than ever before.

She felt her forehead contract in tension, and a new worry crossed her mind. When would those lines become permanent? She wasn’t a vain woman, but of late she had noticed some changes. Fewer people expressed surprise that she could possibly be old enough to be the mother of a maturing boy. Were others starting to notice as well?

Angela sighed and buried her head deeper into her mother’s  neck. Her lips moved as if she were trying to finish a conversation, lifted in a quick smile and then stilled. The effect was comical, and Shelagh giggled.  “Mummy’s being silly, sweetheart. It’s just a few more weeks. And who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

The wooden chair Patrick had brought over for her from the Mission house creaked as she stood and transferred Angela to her cot. The little girl settled in, turning to her tummy and her pink cotton-covered bottom in the air. Shelagh’s lips pressed together in a smile as she ran her hand along Angela’s back and felt calm return. She moved about the room, putting clothes in their place and folded back the cover to Timothy’s bed. She dimmed the oil lamp and closed the door gently behind her.

Though it was early yet, she wouldn’t join them others.  Angela could still find a way out of the cot. Reluctant to retire, Shelagh made her way out to the veranda.

The air was heavy with humidity, a harbinger of the storm they had been promised would give a reprieve from the heat.  A vervet monkey coughed its last cry of the night as the hum of insects rose in the trees. Soon, the rain would pour down on the metal roof of the dormitory, as loud as any train in Poplar, and Shelagh wondered how she ever could have thought of this place as quiet.

A laugh carried across the courtyard, and she craned her neck to better see the mission house. Through the large double window, she could see the nurses, Tom and Fred playing cards. Timothy sat under the brightest lamp revising, determined to return to Poplar more than prepared for his exams in the spring. He thoughtfully chewed on the end of his pencil, a certain sign that the books before him were maths.

The nuns had long retired for the night. The regular schedule of offices had been firmly maintained, and the Great Silence observed strictly as well. Though she could not see them, she knew Patrick and Dr. Fitzsimmons would be in the hospital offices, struggling to find ways to extend outreach into the community.

Night time calls were infrequent at Hope Mission.  Bicycles did not travel well on the rutted roads of the territory, and  horses were too much of an attraction for the local nocturnal predators. Petro was hard to come by as well, so the untrustworthy Range Rover was only called out for the most dire of emergencies.

None of that seemed to be true source for their evening doldrums. The poor attendance at the clinics gave proof to that. After years of service and dedication Myra Fitzsimmons and her staff had secured the trust of the community, and were considered distinct from the oppressive government. The interlopers from England had not earned that same faith.

Shelagh took a seat on the bench and let her mind clear of all but that one fact. Until the people of Hope Mission accepted them, this trip could not find success. Change would not come from the medical supplies they had brought, or the convenience of the clinic hours. The people they were trying to help had good reason to distrust them. In Poplar, Shelagh well knew the distrust many had of British society, and by association, the National Health. She also knew that the surest way to tear down the walls of  built by distrust was to dismantle them one brick at a time.

The slam of the Mission house door surprised her, and she turned to see Patrick approach her. She warmed at the sight of him, his linen jacket tossed over his shoulder, his white shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled up to his elbows. Even in his weary state, he still radiated an attraction she felt difficult to ignore.

“Angela asleep?” he asked quietly. His footsteps rasped on the sandy steps and he came to a stop on the steps below her.

Shelagh nodded. “She took some time to settle. Poor Piglet was entirely surrounded by water three times tonight, I fear.” She reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. “You look tired, dearest. Making an early night of it?”

He settled on the bench next to her. “I had hoped to spend some time with my girls. It’s been ages since we’ve had a nice cuddle, the three of us.”

Shelagh smiled and took his hand in hers. His words slipped behind her earlier anxieties. “It’s been eleventy ages, as Piglet would say. We’ll have time when we go back to Poplar, Patrick. There’s work to be done.”

He grunted. “There’s always work to be done, but none of it’s doing any good. Not any real, lasting good, anyway.”

“Patrick, you know that’s not true. It takes time to build trust.”

His chest rose in a smothered sigh. “It does. I can’t say as I blame them, if I’m honest. If you could see the people when we approach their farms, Shelagh, it’s devastating. I know I can help them, but they won’t let me.” He sighed and looked down at their clasped hands. “Myra and I have decided I’m best used here at the hospital. The patients here have little chance to be choosey, certainly.” He turned his head to stare into the darkness of the trees.

“Patrick,” her voice was consoling, “it has nothing to do with you as a doctor or as a man, you know that. Men like DuPlessis have done such harm, they wield hatred and bigotry like weapons. We’ve got to find a way to make the people trust us.”

He turned back and smiled crookedly. “From your lips to their ears.”

“You’re not going to talk about lips, are you?” Timothy’s voice interrupted. He carried his books over his shoulder much the way his father held his jacket. “I think I’ve suffered enough. I’ve just spent the last hour listening to Fred teach everyone how to play poker. Nurse Crane beat him every time, though I’m fairly certain she’s a ringer.”

“A ringer?” Patrick asked, surprised.

“Yes, it’s someone who pretends–”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know what a ringer is, Timothy. I did spend five years in the Army. Though I suppose if you’re going to spend the evenings with Fred, I shouldn’t be surprised at some of your vocabulary.”

The mood on the veranda became light-hearted, and Shelagh wondered how much the boy had overheard. The years of sadness had made their mark on Timothy, and he was quick to soften its edges.

“Any success with your Latin tonight?” she asked.

“Nearly finished. I want to concentrate most of my time on learning Xhosa. Steven’s said he’ll bring me to his family’s homestead, if you agree.”

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Of course, dear. They live several miles away, don’t they?”

“Nearly three. Steven runs to and from school every day,” Timothy boasted.

Patrick squinted. “In this heat? It’s been over ninety degrees everyday this week!”

“Stephen says you get used to it.” He shifted his books and climbed the remaining steps. “I’ll go to bed now. I was going to read for a bit, is that alright, Mum?”

“Yes, dear, not too late.” She offered her cheek for a kiss. “Angela should sleep through, but call me if you have any problems.”

The screened door creaked as it closed behind him. “Maybe whenever we want Tim to do something unpleasant, we should have Steven ask him.” Patrick commented dryly. He stood and held out his hand. “Come on, then. Lights out for us soon as well.”

Their room still had a temporary feel to it. The hard edges of the wardrobe and steel bed made it seem even more austere than her old cell in Nonnatus, Shelagh thought as Patrick closed the door behind them. The only softening was the airy mosquito netting draped over the bed. She sat at the only chair in the room and began to take down her hair.

Patrick stepped over to the wardrobe and hung his jacket up, then stretched and let out a groan. He tugged at his necktie and pulled the length of silk from around his neck. His waistcoat followed, placed neatly on the top shelf. Shelagh knew his housekeeping skills had been exhausted, and watched as he parted the netting to make a space to sit upon the bed. The springs creaked noisily as he sat to remove his shoes, and he grimaced at the sound.

“This heat is oppressive,” he complained. His shoes thunked as they hit the floor.

Shelagh stood. “Don’t forget to put your socks back in your shoes or you’ll have a nasty surprise in the morning,” she advised, and turned her back to him. “Zipper, please.”

He tugged the pull down and asked, “How do you manage to look as cool as a cucumber?”

As he spoke, the air pressure changed and a cool breeze pushed through the room. Shelagh faced him and answered, “I can be patient, dearest. The rain is coming.”

His hands came to rest on her hips and his brow furrowed in frustration. “Well, I can’t. First we had to share a room with Angela, and now this bloody squeaky bed. We never get any privacy.”

She reached behind him and folded the netting away further. “Listen, Patrick.”

In the distance, they could hear a wall of rain like an approaching drumline. In moments, the downpour arrived, its steady pounding on the metal roof creating a cocoon of white noise.

“It’s raining, Patrick,” Shelagh leaned in to whisper. Her nose brushed against the nape of his neck.

His forehead crinkled in response. “Yes, my love. I can hear it.”

“Patrick, you don’t understand. The rain is so very loud.” She hooked her thumbs at the top of his braces and pulled them from his shoulders.

His laugh was cut short by her lips pressing against his. He fell back on the bed, pulling her down with him and let the netting close around them.

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Ten

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A large Range Rover pull in front of the hospital, stirring up great clouds of dust.  A man in uniform jumped nimbly down from the driver seat and called out a sharp command. Immediately, a young woman appeared at the mission entrance. Her eyes never met his as she answered him in Afrikaans and gestured to the east wing of the building.

The man had all the bearings of one confident in his own authority. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform as an emblem of dominance.  His face was strong-boned, nearly leonine, with a closely cropped moustache and his hair combed severely from his face. His expression did not attempt to hide his disdain for his surroundings.

“The less you all say, the better,” Dr. Fitzsimmons advised the team as they watched him advance up the front steps. Her spine had stiffened more than before as if she were arming for battle. “He is not our friend.”

Clipped footsteps echoed in the hall, coming to a halt at the large glass-paned doors.  “Dr. Fitzsimmons! I am so very sorry to have missed your guests when they were in Alice. They must think me so very rude.” The smooth words seemed incongruous with the harsh timbre of his voice, and a chill came over the room.

“Sergeant Du Plessis, how kind of you to come all the way to our Mission to greet our guests. We’re honored.” Dr. Fitzsimmons’ voice was cool.

The police officer cocked his head slightly. “I am glad to hear it, Doctor. I wouldn’t want to think they were avoiding me. They haven’t even met me yet!” A laugh forced itself out. “Let us make up for the…omission… and make a new start.”

He turned towards the group. “If I may introduce myself, gentleman and ladies, “I am Sergeant Willem Du Plessis. I serve as Commandant of the Alice Branch of the South African Police. As such, you can understand why I am most concerned that I was unable to greet you upon your arrival in my jurisdiction.” His eyes swept over the occupants of the room, measuring up each person. He let his eyes rest on Trixie for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to Patrick and extended his hand.

“I’m glad to see another man here to take charge,” he greeted.

Patrick’s eyes were flat as he grasped the hand before him. He had encountered enough misogynistic bullies in his day to know that it was better to manipulate them than antagonize them.

“Dr. Patrick Turner, London. It’s a pleasure to be here, Sergeant. I’m certain we’ll be very grateful for any assistance you can give us during our stay.”

“And exactly how long is your stay, Doctor? I like to keep informed of these things, you understand.”

Dr. Fitzsimmons interrupted. “Dr. Turner and his team will be here only long enough to help us set up a new clinic and then they must return to England, I’m afraid. You’ve caught us just as we were about to move the furniture about, Sergeant.”

The sergeant slowly turned his face back to her. “You’ve asked them to come all the way from England to move furniture?” A threat lingered in the air. “I am aware that your guests came with more than a few trunks of linen suits, Myra.”

She stiffened at the use of her first name. “Some bandages and cotton wool, that’s all, I’m afraid. Times are hard for missionaries, I’m afraid, Sergeant. We’re fortunate to simply have warm bodies to help.”

The policeman bristled. “I have not come all this way to be hoodwinked, Dr. Fitzsimmons. Surely you do not expect me to believe that the Mission Society has gone to such expense to send a few nurses to coddle your…patients. I fully expect you to share the bounty of your visitors with the people who truly have need in our community.”

Sister Julienne stepped forward. “Sergeant Du Plessis, please allow me to extend our most heartfelt thanks for your assistance in our mission.  The Reverend Hereward is occupied at the Mission Church, and will be so very disappointed to have missed you this morning. I am Sister Julienne, and this is Sister Winifred.  You can be assured that we will remember you in our prayers.”

Unable to ignore the nun, Sergeant Du Plessis gave her his full attention. “Of course, I am honored, Sister. And I would consider it most helpful if you were to turn your efforts to influencing the Mission staff to be as cooperative.”

During this exchange, Shelagh slipped behind Fred, his size shielding her from the police officer’s view. “Fred, don’t move,” she whispered. “Just follow my lead.”

The Sergeant continued, his voice now more controlled. “The Mission is quite fortunate to have such support from the English. Of course, I would not begrudge you any assistance, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We are fortunate to have all the medical personnel we require for our goals in Alice. As you can imagine, however, we can always use medical supplies.”  His eyes fell on the clipboard clasped in Shelagh’s arms and held out his hand. “Surely there is something here you could share with us?”

Reluctantly, Shelagh passed the paperwork to him. Long moments went by as they all watched the man scan the sheets of inventory. He looked up and handed the clipboard back to Shelagh. “There, you see? Plenty of medical supplies here for us all. You certainly wouldn’t mind sharing some of your bounty, would you, Nurse–?” His eyes passed over Shelagh insolently.

“Nurse Turner, and of course, we’ll be happy to share, Sergeant. Fred, will you please help Sergeant Du Plessis with one or two of those boxes?”

Doctor Fitzsimmons stiffened with shock. Du Plessis smirked triumphantly, and his voice oozed into pleasantness. “That won’t be necessary, Nurse Turner. There are plenty of kaf–”

“I’ll call Jacob to help, Sergeant,” Myra Fitzsimmons’ voice broke in.

He turned quickly back to face her, their eyes locked in a challenge. After a moment, Du Plessis’s eyes blinked slowly and an unpleasant smile crossed his face. “Of course, Myra. Jacob will do just as well. Doctor Turner, I look forward to working with you again.” He gave a sharp salute and left the building. Without being called, Jacob Arens and two young women slipped into the room and carried the boxes out to the vehicle.

The truck roared as is left the yard. “Well,” Trixie breathed, “That was rather an unfriendly welcome committee.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be the last time you see him, especially if we’re giving away precious supplies. We’ll never get antibiotics from the government, and now Du Plessis knows the Mission is sending them, he’ll be on every shipment.” Doctor Fitzsimmons face was tight with anger.

“I offered no medications to the Sergeant, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We’ve sent him off with a few crates of bandages, that’s all.” Shelagh crossed the room and held out the clipboard. Accepting it, the mission doctor  rifled through the pages, then gave it back in distaste. “I rather thought you were bringing more than a few plasters and cotton wool, Patrick.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Phyllis Crane wondered aloud. “Why was he content to leave the antibiotics behind?”

Fred sauntered up to the front of the group. “Perhaps because he didn’t know they were there?”  He drew a sheaf of papers from his back pocket and put them back on the clipboard.

“Fred? How on earth–” Patrick asked.

He grinned at Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner’s quick thinkin’, Doc. While his nibs was yammerin’ on, yer wife slipped the papers in me back pocket.”

“Shelagh! What if you’d been caught? Du Plessis is a dangerous man. If he finds out you kept antibiotics from him, there’ll be hell to pay. You promised there’d be no danger, and our first day, you walk right into it.” His eyes glittered with concern.

“No one here will say anything, Doctor Turner,” Phyllis’s brisk voice blanketed the room in calm. “I rather think we all know what we’re up against now.”

 

Next Chapter

Historical note:

*The South African Police served as more than the police force of South Africa in the years  1913-1994. “Beyond the conventional police functions of upholding order and solving crime, the SAP employed counter-insurgency and intimidation tactics against anti-apartheid activists and critics of the white minority government.”  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

Please see the following websites for more information:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

http://www.nytimes.com/1997/03/25/world/apartheid-s-feared-police-prove-inept-and-corrupt.html?pagewanted=all

http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/06/world/africa/mandela-life-under-apartheid/

Sergeant Du Plessis is based on this tweet from location filming in South Africa:

IMG_4806

 

Unpinning Nurse Turner

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This fic is a co-production with Rockbird86.com, a favorite Call the Midwife fan fiction writer. Inspired by a Tumblr discussion and a comment by  @missouiser:

“I don’t mind the updo when she is in a suit and managing the surgery, but a scene where she’s walking in the door of the Flat of Requirement, pulls the pins out and shakes her hair down and fluffs it with her fingers would be worth more to me than the time-has-passed proper kiss.”

 

LSS, before you is the first ever collaborative fic by Two Old Bird Productions. I have to warn you, it was so much fun, it won’t be the last!

Summer was in full swing in Poplar. The air was hot and heavy, so much so that the simple act of breathing took effort. Families spilled out of stifling flats, the children caught up in the unaccustomed joy of night games in the street as their parents found their own respite in gossip and cigarettes. A door opened, and light silhouetted the shape of an exhausted Shelagh Turner. With a deep breath, she reached down deep into herself and found the momentum to propel her home.

 

Just three minutes, Patrick told himself as he flopped onto the sofa. Three little minutes and then he’d move. He felt guilty. His last call hadn’t taken as long as he’d thought and really he should have gone back to Shelagh at the maternity home. But she was closing up the surgery and would be here any moment and he’d be better occupied putting the kettle on, taking care of lamps and curtains so that his exhausted wife had a cheery home to greet her. But against the stifling heat of the summer evening, the flat was cool and he felt himself able to breathe properly for the first time that day. And so the kettle stayed empty and the flat cloaked in darkness as his eyes began to close.

 

Seventeen steps, she promised herself. Seventeen steps up the old stone staircase, then twenty-three paces and she’d be on the other side of  the enormous door to their home. Her old counting trick had worked to motivate Timothy as he learned to manage his braces so long ago, and tonight it would get her home to a hot cup of tea and her favorite spot on the sofa. After the extra long day, she was glad they had such a treasure as Mrs. B., and took comfort in the fact that tonight, at least, there would be no night-time parenting duties to demand the last of her energies.

 

It was all so confusing. A moment ago he had been waiting for her to come home to him, now this. Patrick pleaded with her to explain. “Shelagh? Shelagh, I don’t understand, why are you…?”

 

He faltered, the look she gave him was cool. “I’m sorry, but I don’t answer to that name anymore,” she said.

 

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Instead he could only watch as his wife, her trim figure now hidden by the heavy blue woollen habit, began twisting her hair up before covering it with the close fitting white cap and finally, the starched white of the wimple. His head throbbed with fear and confusion and he closed his eyes against the pain. She was going. He heard her footsteps peter out as she reached the end of the long Nonnatus corridor and the heavy slam of the door behind her.

 

After a moment he opened his eyes again, then relief flooded his veins as he felt the soft cushions of the sofa underneath him. The slam had been his own front door.

 

The flat was dark, the only light a dim beam peeping out from beneath the bedroom hallway door. They’d all gone to sleep then, Shelagh realized. She buried a wave of disappointment and stepped to the kitchen.

 

Not only was the kettle cold, it was empty. A tired woman’s worst fear. Could she last ten more minutes waiting for a cup of tea, she wondered. Perhaps she could just leave everything and go to bed.

 

“And pigs will fly,” she muttered. Giving in to the inevitable, Shelagh filled the heavy pot and placed it on the hob. Her eyes drifted close, and her hands crept up to ease the tension in the base of her neck.

 

Patrick watched as Shelagh entered the kitchen, felt the kettle and sighed wearily. His head throbbed, whether from the oppressive heat or the horrible dream he’d had as he dozed he couldn’t tell, but he couldn’t bring himself to move or speak. He was exhausted and wrung out by what he’d just imagined and he couldn’t shake it off. Instead he shifted his position slightly so he could see her through the hatch, watching closely to reassure himself that Shelagh was really there and not about to run off clad in blue wool.

He continued to watch as she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, tension and tiredness in her stance. She drummed her fingers on the worktop a few times and snaked her neck, wriggling her shoulders as she did so. Then she lifted her hands to her head and rubbed her neck. He smiled. She needed one of his massages and it would surely cure his own tension too. He’d see to that.

And then she reached up and pulled out the first hairpin holding that updo in place.

As she slipped each pin from her dark honey locks, Shelagh could feel her body begin to relax. A memory of her mother stirred, her warm hands gently brushing young Shelagh’s hair smooth each morning and night. In the years since her mother’s death, it was the memory of those quiet minutes that Shelagh depended upon to ease her anxieties. She would escape to the privacy of her own room, she would release her hair from its confinements and pull her hairbrush through her hair.

Hairpins clattered softly on the countertop. Shelagh slowly stretched her neck, then shook out her hair. She loved the feel of her hair as it teased her shoulders. Raising her arms from her body, she slid her fingers up from the base of her skull and fluffed through her locks. A slow smile hovered in the corners of her pretty mouth, and a familiar sense of calm flooded her mind.

And there was his cue. He never had been able to resist her hair. In his tortured dreams in the days before she was his, her hair always featured. He’d daydreamed hours away wondering about the colour, the length, how soft it would be against his bare skin. In his bolder moments he pondered how the sisters would feel if they knew that the garment designed to hide the hair was, in its own way, so alluring, drawing more attention to that which it aimed to hide and fuelling his fantasies.

With that last thought he gingerly rose from the sofa, swallowing back a groaning as his back protested against the unnatural angle he’d been lying at, but he didn’t take his eyes off his wife. Shelagh was still fluffing out her hair the way she always did when it had been pinned up all day, especially in the heat, running her fingers through it and shaking out the kinks caused by hours held by pins. He made it in time to see the expanse of her neck exposed to him. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss the pale skin.

“Oh!” she cried out. “Patrick, don’t do that!”

He nuzzled his face against her soft hair and inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, my love.” he whispered.

“You’re not, not really,” she scolded, but there was forgiveness in her voice. Her hands slid down to rest on her husband’s forearms, and she hugged him to her. With a slight tilt of her head, her hair fell away from the line of her throat he never could resist.

A low sound rumbled in his chest. “Shall I do this instead?” he wondered aloud, his voice soft and ardent. Shelagh felt the gentle grasp of his long fingers on her arms as he turned her to face him. His face glowed with desire and she forgot the aches and fatigue and pressures of the long day.

“I love your hair.” His hands traced the outline of her shoulders, her neck, her jaw, then slid to cradle her head. Silken strands slipped through his fingers as he gently massaged her scalp, and Shelagh’s body became taut with the anticipation his attentions always provoked.

Patrick smiled against her skin. Oh yes, he could feel the tension subsiding with every passing moment. He moved one hand away from her hair and carefully removed her glasses, placing them on the work surface behind her.

“Now that’s my Shelagh,” he murmured, continuing his journey from her neck up to her jawline. “Just mine, no one else’s.”

He felt her pull away slightly, and raised his head to see her eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Aren’t I always yours?”

“Oh no my love,” he resumed his quest, lips moving now from jawline to earlobe. “The hairpins, the glasses…they’re for the outside world. They’re Nurse Turner, they’re Sr Bernadette. Your hair and your eyes, they’re just for me.”

He ran his fingers once again through the soft honey tresses. “This neck is for me, this bit here behind your ear is for me. And these lips…”

If this was 1/10th as much fun to read as it was to write, we’re happy.

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Eight

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A bright dawn filtered through the louvered shutters of the room, coaxing Shelagh from sleep. New morning sounds, so different from the street hubbub of the East End, rose in a slow crescendo. Strange birds called into the quiet, and an insect droned outside the window as it hovered in the honeysuckle. The familiar sound of Patrick’s breath sussed in her ear and she smiled. He was pressed up against her, his arm over her side and his nose in her hair. This moment was only for her, no demands, no concerns, just the warmth of her husband’s arms. 

Her eyes flickered open. The room seemed misty, and between the netting and her own poor vision, the blur intensified the sense of seclusion. After days of near constant company, she wanted to enjoy the self-indulgence of this moment. Soon enough, Angela would stir in her camp bed a few feet away and usher in the demands of the world.

Shelagh felt a return of the anxiety she had felt throughout the previous day. Weeks of planning and preparation had in some ways distracted her from the actual mission, and now she felt uncertainty begin to creep in. Why did she feel the need to prove herself yet again?

Down the hall, the nuns would be preparing to leave for morning Lauds in the small chapel on site. Shelagh considered joining them, the decided against it. Perhaps later. Her own morning routine of meditation and prayer filled that void, whilst allowing her to remain with her family. The privacy of her own prayer had become quite special to her since leaving the sisterhood, a moment of serenity and thankfulness for the gift of her second life.

Slow breaths filled her lungs, flooding her body with oxygen. She let the air reach deep into her body as her mind cleared. Worries about the children, about Patrick, even her own worries for this mission faded as the well-remembered Breviary repeated in her head and she found her serenity.

Her prayers came to a close and she returned to an awareness of her place. Patrick was awake now, waiting for her to finish. “Morning,” he whispered in her ear. His voice had a husky tone in the morning that stirred her in ways she knew would not be fulfilled now, but for a moment, she let herself enjoy the warm glow of anticipation. They would have to find a solution to the dilemma of Angela’s sleeping arrangements.

She turned her head to see him and was kissed for her efforts. His long fingers glanced along the vulnerable line of her throat, stroking the length of her neck as it stretched towards him. The kiss was slow and tender, and for a moment, they were lost to the world.

“Mama, up!” Angela’s voiced piped across the fog of desire, breaking them apart.

Startled, Shelagh turned her head. Under a shock of pale blonde hair, a pair of brown eyes peered over the top of the mattress, two chubby arms outstretched.

“Angela! You startled me!”

“Mama, up!” The little girl demanded. Patrick’s answering groan expressed his displeasure, and Shelagh squeezed his hand in support.

“Mama. Up.” Angela was growing impatient.

“Too little to climb up, are we, my wee girlie,” her mother teased.

“That’s one way to keep her out of our bed,” grumbled Patrick. “She goes back to her room tonight, Shelagh.”

Shelagh tossed a wry grin back at her husband and pulled Angela up from under the mesh netting. The child scrambled under the thin covers and pressed against her mother. Giving in, Patrick raised his arm and pulled them both in close.

“Good morning kisses, Angela?” Shelagh coaxed.

Angela’s lips smacked the air loudly, her real attention on the teddy bear in her hands. “Monkey,” she cooed.

“You don’t have to beg me for kisses, my love,” Patrick teased. Shelagh glanced up, her eyes showing her opinion of his taunt.

“Yes, darling. You’re a monkey.” Shelagh turned back and tapped a gentle finger to the girl’s button nose.

“No, Mama. Monkey.” Angela pointed her finger at the window.

Lazily, their eyes followed her direction. Just outside the window was a monkey nearly the size of Angela herself.  It paused in its casual breakfast of palm fronds to turn and look back at them. Shelagh gasped, and moved to block her daughter from the monkey’s sight. Patrick leapt up and released a low growl, and the monkey scampered away.

He turned back to his wife and daughter. “Are you alright?” He asked. He was breathing heavily.

Shelagh began to giggle, and the sound stirred Angela from her silence. “Monkey!” She cheered.

Patrick dropped on the bed. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this!”

A scream rose out from somewhere down the hall.

“Monkey!” Angela crowed again.

Struggling into his dressing gown, Patrick ran out into the hall. Doors along the corridor opened, and tousled heads poked out.

“It came from down there, Dad,” Timothy pointed. He followed his father past nurses and nuns to the last door. About to knock, they were startled when Fred appeared, his face ashen.

“A gorilla! There was a gorilla outside my window!” In his haste to escape some great beast, he had left his dressing gown behind and stood in his unmentionables. He clenched a rolled up copy of the Sporting Life in his hand as if he had discovered its more useful purpose: Safari security.

Patrick blinked and struggled to keep the grin from his face. “A gorilla, Fred? Are you alright?”

The large man sighed heavily and leant against the doorjamb. “My heart is pounding like a train! I had no idea we’d be face to face with King Kong!”

Patrick nodded, his face a study in physician’s calm. “Yes, well, I’m glad you’re not harmed, Fred. I’ll leave you to get dressed, shall I?”

Fred huffed and closed his door.

As Patrick and Timothy returned to their rooms, Timothy muttered, “There aren’t any gorillas for two thousand miles!”

Trixie laughed. “It’s a good thing, too. I have no desire to act the part of Faye Wray, even to save Fred.”

 

Next Chapter

I think we’re gonna see a bit more of this fellow.

Screenshot 2016-05-20 09.47.47

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Seven

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Previous Chapter

To eyes used to the sights and sounds of Britain, there was nothing in Dr. Myra Fitzsimmons’ appearance to make her stand out from a crowd. Of medium height and build, she wore a simple green shirtwaister and sturdy shoes, her chin-length hair severely brushed back from her face. She could have been any woman shopping in the high street in Poplar.

Despite this, she was a handsome woman, her features sharp and strong. There was a squareness to her jaw that was offset by a pointed chin and thin nose, and bright blue eyes peered from beneath her dark brows. Deep lines carved her cheeks and forehead, arcing around her eyes and hinting at a passionate nature kept firmly in check.  The effect gave one the sense that she knew more than she let on.  

The small crowd parted to make a path and Dr. Fitzsimmons strode across the yard to greet the newcomers. She smiled, and her face warmed immediately. “I can’t thank you enough, Patrick.” She reached out her hands, grasping his while she examined his face. “My, it’s been a long time. You’re not the boy you were back in medical school.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “I should hope not! It’s good to see you, Myra. The years have been kind to you.”

She grimaced sardonically and turned to the rest of the group. The moment of lightness disappeared from her face as she became formal once again. When she spoke, her voice was low and throaty. It pulled the listener in and commanded attention in its quietness. “I must thank you all as well. You’ve undergone a difficult journey and set aside your own lives to help us. I hope we can show you how very grateful we are.”

“Your gratitude is unnecessary, Dr. Fitzsimmons,” Sister Julienne answered. “We, all of us, are glad of the opportunity to offer assistance. Let us begin as friends and work together to strengthen your Mission.”

Patrick shifted towards the group, “Dr. Fitzsimmons, I’d like to present Sister Julienne, who runs Nonnatus House and ministers to our community in ways I never can.” He moved through the group, making introductions until he came back to his family. “And this is Timothy, our son, who will be quite happy to learn all he can from you. Feel free to make him toe the line as you did me.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dr. Fitzsimmons,” Timothy said.

“And you, Timothy. You look quite rather like your father, are you as bright as he is as well?”

“I hope to be, ma’am,” Timothy answered. He reached out his hand and was met with a firm handshake.

Patrick lifted his daughter up in his arms and turned to reveal the little face hiding in his shoulder. “This is Angela, whom I’m afraid keeps me very tightly wrapped around her finger. She’s a bit shy at first, but I warn you, if you’re not careful, she’ll be running your entire Mission.”

Dr. Fitzsimmons smiled politely at the child’s head. “I’m sure,” she answered. “ We have a girl ready to care for the child as soon as you like.”

“Yes, we’ll need that, thank you. And finally, I’d like to present my wife, Shelagh.”

The voice that welcomed Shelagh was cool. “Of course. I’m very grateful you could join your husband, Mrs. Turner. I hope that you will enjoy your stay here.”

Two pale pink spots appeared in Shelagh’s cheeks, and when she replied, her voice was strangely formal. “Thank you, Doctor. We’re most eager to offer assistance.”

Before Shelagh could say more, Dr. Fitzsimmons turned to the group. “That’s enough for introductions. I’m certain I shall forget most of your names–you’ll have to forgive me–but we are truly grateful you’ve come. I’ll let you get settled, and tonight at dinner we can all become better acquainted. Our staff here will join us, and you’ll be prepared to begin work tomorrow, as well.

She gestured to the young woman lingering near the bus. “Kholeka will lead you to the dormitory, and you can refresh yourselves after your trip. Jacob, please–”

Jacob appeared from nowhere at her side. “Yes, Doctor. The luggage is on its way to the rooms. But the boxes, I do not know where they should go.”

Shelagh tugged lightly on Patrick’s sleeve. “I’ll manage the children and the rooms, Patrick. You go with Dr. Fitzsimmons and see to the medical equipment. It will give you a chance to catch up.”

A small frown appeared between his brows. “Are you certain, Shelagh? There’ll be plenty of time later, perhaps you and I could take care of the supplies toget–”

“No, Patrick,” Shelagh insisted. “I’ll be fine on my own. I have Timothy, don’t forget.”

He nodded, the frown not completely leaving his face. “I’ll be back to clean up before dinner.” He touched her hand. “Thank you, Shelagh.”

She reached up and took the clinging child, then followed the rest to the long low building. The crowd had dispersed, and the two old friends stood together watching as she disappeared into their temporary home.

“She’s a pretty little thing, your wife.” Myra Fitzsimmons’ voice broke the quiet.

“Shelagh? I wouldn’t let her hear you say that if I were you.” He glanced over, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “I’ve seen her move a pack of dockworkers with a single command, and she’s the most skilled midwife I’ve ever worked with.”

Dr. Fitzsimmons nodded, her face showing a certain skepticism. “She’s much younger than I expected. Your son is–what–fifteen? She must have been very young when you married her.” An implication hung in the air between them.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and regarded her calmly. “Shelagh’s not my first wife, Myra. Timothy’s mother died five years ago–cancer. We were adrift, Tim and I, and then … then Shelagh and I found each other. It was her idea that we come here. She’s the force behind all this, Myra. She convinced me, the Mission Society–it was really quite tremendous. Every person on our team is here because of her efforts.”

“I am sorry, Patrick. I should never have said–I’m too used to speaking my mind before I’ve let it do the thinking. I suppose I’ve grown too used to being lord of my own little fiefdom.” Turning, she began to walk towards the main building.

“You’ll see. Humility was never a cloak I wore well. If we weren’t in such straits, you’d still be back in London.”

 

An hour later, Patrick entered the dormitory. He peered down the long corridor, dim even in its whiteness. The only light came from the door behind him and a single window at the end. The limed walls were covered in planks of wood, the floor finished with the same whitewash, yet the dimness made the space feel cooler. A half dozen transomed doors marched down each side.

He considered calling out, but the quiet hinted that his new housemates were resting and would not welcome his interruption. Nor did he wish to knock on each door as he made his way down the hall. He smiled crookedly as his eyes caught a bright blue scarf tied to a doorknob near the entrance. Leave it to Shelagh to choose the room that gave him best access out for emergencies.

He quietly turned the knob, half hoping to find his wife napping. He loved watching her sleep, almost as much as he loved waking her. The thought of a quiet hour resting against her appealed. Instead of lying in repose, a calm beacon to his anxious soul, Shelagh stood near the single wardrobe, unpacking.

“Always busy,” he teased. He slid his jacket from his shoulders and hung it on a hook behind the door.

Shelagh grinned. “Always much to do.”

“The children?”

“They’re in the room next door. We’ve set up a little camp cot for Angela, but I’m afraid she’ll have to move in with us, Patrick. There’s a bit too much freedom for her over there.”

“Shelagh, we’ve only just gotten our room to ourselves.”

“I know, dearest, but Kholeka tells me they have no cots her size. Apparently children here sleep on the floor.”

His eyebrow flew up.

“No, Patrick,” Shelagh scolded. “We are not making our child sleep on the wooden floor where who knows what manner of creepy crawlies wander about. Besides, what if she got the door open and wandered off somewhere?” She handed him his medical bag. “Here, put this on the desk.”

Outmaneuvered, he gave in and looked about the room. In addition to the broad wardrobe, there were few pieces of furniture in the room. A narrow chair partnered a wooden camp desk, and in the corner, a washstand served as a reminder that the plumbing facilities they could expect would be less than optimal. A large white iron bed stood out from the opposite wall, the space beneath it open and airy. A large mosquito net hung from above, offering the only softness in the room.

“Kholeka told me we would have to share this bed. They don’t have enough single beds for us all, apparently.” Shelagh finished hanging her uniform and gave it a tweak.  She closed the wardrobe and turned back to her husband.

“I think we’ll manage,” Patrick answered. He crossed the room and gathered his wife into his arms. He buried his face in her neck, and the two stood still for a long moment.

Shelagh pressed a kiss to his temple. “How is it?” she asked. “Is it what you expected?”

He pulled away and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m not sure what I expected. The facilities are primitive, certainly. There’s electricity in the main building, but the generator is unreliable, and there’s no hot water. They have a room solely for boiling gallons of it throughout the day. The operating room would make Lister cringe. It’s surprisingly clean, though, and the ward is as efficient as any at the London.”

“Comes from Dr. Fitzsimmons’ years as a nurse, I daresay,” Shelagh teased.

A laugh escaped him. “Undoubtedly.” he grew serious again. “Myra’s the only doctor, though she has a staff of locals that handle much of the care. I’m not certain, but I think one or two of them are working as de facto doctors, simple procedures and the like. The Mission covers ten square miles, most of it without proper roads, so they’ve learned to manage as best they can.”

He exhaled sharply. “We may have bitten off more than we can chew, my love. I hope to God we don’t choke.”

 

Next Chapter

Thank you again for sticking with me. I am very grateful for all the lovely comments.

This pic helped to inspire the character of Dr. Myra Fitzsimmons for me.

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