Creating a mobile clinic with one old truck and a bus necessitated optimism and strong backs. Fortunately, both were in good supply at Hope Mission. Timothy and Steven joined the team and the next morning, a large canvas tent was set up near the well site. Trixie and Barbara took two horses out and travelled through the community to spread the plan, while Phyllis joined Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred in the relocation efforts.Fred proved his worth yet again and was able to lay his hands on enough horns to create a network of timekeepers that would make Greenwich jealous.
Within days, rotating teams of men began to break through the shale. For three hours, the men would hammer away at the stone, then transport the rubble to a nearby pile to be used later. As Zakhele promised, a few men from the settlement came to help, but never spoke with the other teams, nor even with the clinic staff. The would work silently, then leave.
Fred’s vuvuzela system kept a slow stream of patients at the clinic, each getting far more attention than any patient in busy Poplar ever received or indeed wanted. One at a time, patients would step under the tent awning and have the combined efforts of at least one doctor and several nurses.
For three days, the system seemed to hold up well. The slow train of patients meandered through the off-site clinic, and the well grew deeper. Each day, Zakhele Obi would make the journey out to the site and nod his grizzled head. Not tomorrow, he promised, but soon, they would see water.
By the third tomorrow, however, enthusiasm began to wane, and not simply for the men digging. The medical staff began to get bored, restricted to the small space with little to occupy themselves but the guilt they felt watching the men work in the blazing sun.
Patrick and Shelagh sat at the makeshift examination table tending to a young woman with a severe cut on her hand. It was the first near-emergency the clinic had seen for days, and the nurses had drawn straws to see who could clean away the blood. Disappointed, the others turned back to sorting patient cards and re-boiling water.
Trixie walked over to the edge of the tent and watched the stone dust and rubble fly in the air above the well hole. “It must be dreadfully hot working there, but the men never ask for a break. I’m dying to get away for a breather and all I’m doing is busy work. It makes a girl feel quite useless.”
“Never useless, Nurse Franklin.” Ever industrious, Sister Winifred sat by peeling the potatoes for the evening meal. “We all have our roles in this plan.”
Trixie sighed. “I know. But I feel like I need to be doing something.” Pushing away from the pole, she determined, “At the very least, I can bring them some fresh water.”
As Trixie lifted a bucket to fill, Henry Makepeace entered the tent. “Good afternoon, all!” He looked about the tent and grinned. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get bored. It’s not much fun being the smokescreen, is it? Here’s hoping today is the tomorrow Mr. Obi has been talking about!”
As he turned to visit the well site, Trixie called, “Just a moment, Mr. Makepeace. I’m on my way over as well. I’m sure they could all use a break.” She lifted the heavy water bucket and made to follow.
Henry stopped in his tracks. “You can’t do that, Nurse Franklin. What if the police came by? Imagine what they would say at the sight of a white woman serving water to the black laborers?” His face was stern. “We’ve talked about this, Trixie. The rules are different here. We can only push them so far. It’s one thing for you to speak with the women and children, it’s quite another for a white woman to be seen spending time with black men.”
Trixie’s eyes grew round. “I was only going to give them some water, Henry, not the plans to take down the government.”
His face softened. “I know that. But it could get you into trouble, and it certainly would not be good for the men. We have to work from within this system if we’re going to get anywhere.”
“I just don’t want them all to think we believe in any of this apartheid nonsense.” She blinked hard.
“You’re here, helping. They know that.” Henry glanced about, noting the eyes upon them, then reached out for her hand. “Little steps, Trixie.”
Zakhele was right, and tomorrow did finally arrive. Five days into the project, the teams broke through the bedrock and into the aquifer. With the water supply secured, it was time for the clinic to begin its slow crawl back to the Mission.
Each evening the team would move the tented clinic twenty-five yards closer to their goal, and finally a sense of success began to build. The mood lightened, and the clinic took on the anticipatory feeling of the last week of Advent. The patient train was still managed to a trickle, but rather than fill the hours with busy work, the medics cautiously joined in.
As Umakhulu’s favorite, Shelagh was often coaxed to join in with the young mothers as they bonded over the joys and fears of motherhood. Watching them balance the two, Shelagh finally relaxed and allowed Angela to rejoin her new playmates.
Heeding Henry Makepeace’s warnings, Trixie and Barbara cautiously began to interact as well. Music needed no interpreter, and the two young women found that the traditional dances were an easy way to pass the time spent waiting. Phyllis Crane, always game for a new experience, may have provided more amusement than she intended when she learned some of the new steps.
After school, Timothy and several older children would start up a game of football, and each day, Patrick would watch as the old ball would fly down the small field. On one such day, Steven Obi came to meet his father for the long walk home.
“Doctor Turner, you should join the game. You must grow tired of always watching.”
Patrick laughed. “Oh, no, thanks. My days as a footballer are long gone, I’m afraid.”
Timothy ran over to join them. “Dad’s really a cricket player, Steven. If we had a cricket pitch, he’d be out every day with us!”
“Cricket?” Steven buzzed with excitement. “I have always wanted to learn to play. Perhaps you could teach me, Doctor?”
“You could, Dad. We’ve got a ball similar to a cricket ball back at the schoolhouse. And we could use a branch for a bat.” When Patrick made to demur, Timothy pushed him. “Come on, Dad, you know you want to. I’ll send–”
“Joseph has already run to get the ball, Doctor Turner, and Timothy is right. We can make do with one of the old boards the crew is using. One day, I should like to say I was a cricket player. You will not take that chance from me, will you, Doctor?”
With a chuckle, Patrick shed his lab coat and rolled up his sleeves. “You’ve quite a career in diplomacy ahead of you, Steven. Well, then, come on, lads!”
For a time, Patrick used his bowls to instruct Stephen and the other village boys on the skills needed to successfully bat in cricket. Soon, each striker was successfully making contact with the ball.
Shelagh returned from a call and stopped to watch. She waved over to her husband, and he stopped to lift his sunglasses and wave back.
“Tim, your turn,” Patrick announced. “Let’s show the lads a little more steam.”
Timothy left the wicket and took the bat from Steven.
“You are a good cricket player like your father, Timothy?” Steven asked.
A grimace crossed Timothy’s face and he didn’t answer the question. He took position and waited for his father to bowl. Four pitches went by, each one an over, each one far faster and better placed than the bowls thrown earlier. With each pitch, Tim grew more irritated.
“Dad, you know no one can hit those bowls with a cricket bat like this. Stop showing off for Mum!”
As laughter rose up from the small crowd, the poor boy muttered, “Sometimes parents can be so embarrassing!”
My Little Yellowbird 
