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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty One

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

“Touch the stars, Mummy!” she cried.

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

Timothy ambled slowly around the corner of the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shelagh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If we fight together,” Onke asserted.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Author’s note

Please forgive any inaccuracies.

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nineteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, nonsense,” Shelagh scoffed gently.

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

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

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

 

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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.

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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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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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 Thirteen

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Previous Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Chapter

Thanks for sticking in there with me, friends. The next chapter will be up soon, I promise!

A Mission of Hope, Deleted Scenes

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SuperfluousBananas issued a fun challenge on Tumblr to celebrate the 100 day marker for the Call the Midwife Christmas Special. Here’s my response, a few bits that explore some of my favorite “Mission” brotps.

A vervet monkey hovered in the tree, watching as Angela nibbled a biscuit on the dormitory steps. The small girl chattered away, a mixture of song and fable only she knew, while her father read this morning’s notes.

The vervet skulked along the low-limbed tree, then dropped to the ground. Silent steps brought him closer, and out of the man’s sight.

A cry from the girl startled him, and he scampered back up the tree.

“Monkey!” Angela cried out. With a giggle, she held out the snack to the little beast.

In that moment, Biscuit and Angela became fast friends.

 

“Mr. Makepeace is certainly very handsome,” Barbara commented.

Trixie blushed, but demurred, “You think so? I hadn’t noticed.” The wardrobe door clicked closed.

“Oh, Trixie, really. You expect me to believe you didn’t notice the Cary Grant type the embassy sent?”

Trixie would not meet her friend’s eyes. “Barbara, we’re here to help, not get distracted by the handsome single men.”

“Single? How do you know he’s single?”

“I–uh–Well, you know–,” Trixie stammered. She sighed and then grinned at her friend. “I asked Jacob Arends. We really should do everything we can to foster good relations with the diplomatic corps!”

.

Fred and Jacob Arends sat upon two upturned crates, trying not to look suspicious as they eyed the police rover.

“That man certainly knows how to leave a cloud over a place, don’t he? I sure would like to stick it to ‘im sometime,” Fred muttered.

“We must be very careful not to attract notice of Sergeant DuPlessis, my friend. But if you notice, we cannot be seen from the hospital. Perhaps I can assist you?” He held up a screwdriver and glanced at the tire valve.

Fred grinned. “Jacob, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”