Tag Archives: Call the midwife

Losing Her Breath

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2016-07-02

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Pitch of Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, then, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Secret Anymore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His other hand snaked around her waist and he murmured,

“I don’t want any tea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a bit like this:

Dum dah dum dee dum dee dum

Dah dum dee dah dee dum dee dum…”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, he was dancing with his wife.

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

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

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

“My love–Shelagh, look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?” he breathed.

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

“That’s good, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Promise not to tease?”

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

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

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

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nineteen

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BBN9PK

Previous Chapter

“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.

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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.

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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.”

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twelve

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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:

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