In the next several weeks, a new pattern began to emerge at Hope Mission. While the Zulu people of Zakhele Obi’s settlement continued to reject any and all invitations to attend clinic, word of the clinic began to spread through the region. Each morning soon after the sun rose, the doors would already be opened to those trying to make the long walk before the heat of the day. All the medics were now on the home visit rotation, including Patrick, and there was a growing sense that when they left, Hope Mission would thrive.
As in Poplar, the clinics became a social gathering place. Women clustered in groups for a good gossip while children ran about– the toys different, but the play the same.
Shelagh placed her handful of patient cards in the wooden box file and turned to see what was next. Sister Julienne sat in one corner attending to a very pregnant young woman flanked by several children, the oldest barely seven. Trixie tended the broken arm of a boy who, like all other boys, thought he was bigger than he really was and had tried to climb the wrong tree, and Nurse Crane, Sister Winifred, and Barbara were deep in a line of people anxiously awaiting their polio inoculations.
“Just like home,” Shelagh marveled. The waiting list seemed to have died down for the moment, and she decided it was time for a break. Jacob Arends learned early on that the key to the nurses’ hearts was a ready pot of tea, so she poured two mugs and sugared one well. Since Patrick had given up cigarettes, Shelagh was more inclined to indulge him with his sweet hot tea.
Patrick knelt on the ground, listening to the lungs of a patient. Satisfied, he sat back and reassured the small man, and patted him on the shoulder. As the man turned away, he thanked Patrick in Xhosa, and Patrick gamely responded. Good humored laughs rose up around them as he butchered the language.
“It’s brave of you to keep trying, dear.” Shelagh teased.
He grinned crookedly and accepted the cup of tea she offered. “I just can’t seem to manage it. The words always come out with extra syllables. Are we finished for the day?”
“We may be. Twenty-three more polio vaccinations today!” She sipped her tea.
“Good. My worst fear is that those vaccines would go to waste. Myra had a patient this morning that’s presenting with what may be appendicitis, she’s checking him into the hospital ward now. Can you make sure–”
“I’ve already sent Fred in to help get the operating room ready. Imagine ever seeing Fred in scrubs back in Poplar–what would Sister Evangelina have said!”
“Poor Fred. I’m sure he’d much rather be out digging for that well. Tom said they’ve made no progress whatsoever, and Henry Makepeace is concerned enough to make another trip out again today to discuss it.” He gulped his tea down.
Shelagh grimaced at his bad habit, then glanced at Trixie. “I’m not quite so sure the well is his only reason for coming out here so often, Patrick.”
His eyes followed hers, his eyes squinting with uncertainty. “Do you really think so? She’ll be returning to England soon.”
“There’s always letters, Patrick. I’m told they can be a very effective method of courtship.” Her eyes gleamed.
His face softened, and she felt as if he touched her with his look. “I’m a big believer in letter writing myself,” he said.
Shelagh blushed, then deliberately changed the subject. “Angela has made new friends.”
They both turned to the table set up under the tree. Clusters of children played with the box of toys the team had brought along on their journey. Angela and a small boy sat beneath the table building a tall tower of blocks that never seemed to grow as high as they wanted. Above them, Biscuit hovered on a low branch of the tree, idly chewing on a leaf.
“How are we going to leave here without bringing that monkey home with us?” Patrick wondered aloud yet again.
Suddenly the little vervet sat up very still, then let out a screech. In an instant, worried mothers called out in Xhosa and children moved with the practiced movements of experience. All children but Angela, that is.
Before Shelagh and Patrick could understand what was going on, an old lion appeared at the Mission gates. Mangy and thin, he had none of the supple grace they had seen in other animals out on the veldt. His mane was patchy, and an old battle had left him with only one eye. Long past his prime and rejected by the pride, the beast had an air of unpredictability about him.
Patrick moved towards Angela, but a hand reached out to stop him.
“Wait, Patrick,” Myra’s voice was low behind him. “He hasn’t seen her. If you move, it could be disastrous. Jacob’s gone for the gun–”
He jerked his arm away but the woman wouldn’t free him.
“Patrick, don’t. He’ll make it to her before you do. Only a moment, I promise you.”
“Don’t move Angela, darling,” Shelagh whispered. “Please God, don’t move.” Time stopped as the little girl stacked block upon block, oblivious to her friend’s departure and the strange silence.
Hearts pounded as the old lion stretched and slowly shifted his head to see more of the yard. In one instant, Angela’s tower of blocks came down, but just as the old lion’s head began to turn towards her, there was a loud screech and a blur of grey fur flew in front of his face. The lion shifted his body and lurched for the animal, and Patrick threw off Myra’s restraining hand. In the space of four heartbeats he had his daughter in his arms and inside the mission.
A loud crack echoed in the trees and the old lion dropped to the ground. Zakhele Obi lowered a gun nearly as long as he was. The only sound each person could hear in the silence that followed was the pounding of blood in their own ears.
Finally, Zakhele called out in Xhosa, then in English, “Keep away from the body. He is as much a danger now as he was before.” Even the intense curiosity of the children, brave now the danger had passed, was not enough to make them defy his order.
Angela struggled from the tight clasp of her parents. “Too tight, Daddy. Down now, play time.”
Shelagh choked a laugh through her tears. “Mummy needs hugs, Angel Girl. Stay with Mummy a while longer.” Her legs could no longer support her, and she dropped into a chair.
The small grey blur wound about their legs and Patrick looked down at the monkey. “Well done, Biscuit. Very well done.”
Jacob Arends came from the mission holding a rifle of his own, but took one look at the scene before him and muttered, “I’ll get my shovel.”
Zakhele Obi put the safety on his gun and came forward, his hand outstretched in a gesture of peace.
“This old beast found his way to our settlement last night and got into our chickens. I had a feeling he would make his way to you.” His limp was more pronounced than ever.
“You walked all that way?” Myra Fitzsimmons demanded.
“My son does it every day. Do you think I am such an old man that I cannot walk a few miles myself?” He laughed, the adrenaline of the moments before lightening his tone.
“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Myra assured him, her tone sardonic. “There are others that could make this trip easier than you, Zakhele. Why did you not send one of your young men?”
Conscious of the many eyes upon him, Zakhele hesitated. Myra considered him for a long moment, then decided. “I insist upon examining you. Jacob–”
The small man didn’t pause in his path. “I know, take Master Obi’s gun and put it somewhere safe.”
As the clinic began to return to normal, mothers passed by Shelagh, each aware of the terrible fear she still struggled to control. Hands squeezed her shaking shoulders, fingers stroked the soft cheek of the little girl that had finally relented to her mother’s embrace. Murmurs in melodic Xhosa drifted about the space, finally overtaken by the shouts of children returning to normal chaos.
Umakhulu stopped before Shelagh and lifted her hands to her heart. “Do not worry about what might have been, Nurse Uhmlobo. Your girl was meant to stay with you, but you will not have to hold her so tight. You chose your man well, he will help you keep her safe.” She leaned in and whispered something in Shelagh’s ear, causing a blush of deepest pink to flood her cheeks. With a laugh, the old woman called to her grandchildren and began the slow walk home.
“Nurse Uhmlobo? Doctor Turner, you are the husband of Nurse Uhmlobo?” Zekhele paused as he entered the Mission.
Patrick reluctantly turned his attention away from his wife and daughter. He tilted his head in confusion.
Zakhele laughed. “Even in our settlement, we have heard this tale. The women, they talk of the little nurse that saved Umakhulu’s granddaughter with her magic hands that can turn a baby inside its mother. Now they will speak of the Monkey Girl, who can send the beasts to her bidding. Perhaps we have underestimated the English, Doctor Fitzsimmons.”
“I’ve been telling you that for years, Mr. Obi.” Myra gestured to the clinic office. “Doctor Turner, I could use your help.” Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the building.
Patrick knelt down to meet Shelagh’s eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked. He grasped her hand in his while he checked for signs of shock.
“Go, Patrick. I’ll let go of her soon, I promise, just not for a little while yet.”
He nodded and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Take care of Mummy for me, Angela.” He stood, and smothered a groan as his knees creaked. “And remind Mummy I’ll want to know what Umakhulu said to her that made her cheeks so pink.”
My Little Yellowbird 