Tag Archives: Call the Midwife fan fiction

Getting Out the Vote

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I wrote this fic/civics lesson as a thank you to Nonnatuns that made voting (whenever, wherever) a priority.  Initially, it was posted with a password for them, but I have opened it up to all.   Thank you!

 

Teddy Turner was not amused.  A man liked his routine, after all, and enough was enough.  The high chair meant food, or at the very least, a wooden spoon to band on his tray.  The wall of newsprint before him was a poor substitute for a warm slice of toast to gum and his mother’s pretty smile.  Gathering all his strength, he arched his body in protest against his high chair and kicked his feet.

The newspaper rustled as a voice hushed him from behind its barrier.  “Keep your shirt on, Teddy dear. Mummy’s nearly finished, you’ll soon have your breakfast.”

Not appeased, Teddy made to fuss again when he was alerted to the sound of reinforcements on their way down the staircase.

“What’s this?”  Patrick teased. He pulled his chair up to feed the disgruntled moppet.  “Has Mummy abandoned you for the Times yet again, son?” He stifled another protest with a spoonful of pablum.  “If Sir Alec doesn’t call for an election soon, you’re going to have to learn to make your own breakfast!”

With a huff, Shelagh refolded the newspaper.  “It’s a subversion of democracy,” she snapped.  “There’s absolutely no reason why that man doesn’t call for the vote.  There’s been no confidence in this government for months now.”

“I’ve never seen you so fired up about politics, Mum,” Timothy remarked as he and Angela took their places at the table.  

Bright blue eyes flashed behind Shelagh’s glasses.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timothy.  I’ve always been interested in the state of the world.” She placed the paper beside her husband’s plate and stood to pour out tea.  “Cornflakes again, Angela?”

Timothy shrugged and swallowed a gulp of tea.  “It’s just that I’ve never seen you read the paper except to clip advertisements or coupons.”

Silence cloaked the room.  Teddy leant back in his chair, his expression matching the wary look on his father’s face.  Even Angela paused, spoon halfway to her mouth.

The teapot returned to the table with a muffled thunk.  Shelagh’s voice was controlled. “Simply because I don’t discuss a topic in your presence doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion on it, Timothy.  I do exist outside this family.”

Even Tim seemed to understand he’d stepped in it.  “I know that, it’s…well…” His voice trailed off in confusion.

“I’ll have you know that I have voted in every single election since I came of age.  I’ve even canvassed for candidates.”

“Even when you were at Nonnatus?”  Timothy was incredulous.

“It’s like watching someone in quicksand,” Patrick whispered to Teddy.  The tot chewed his fingers in response.

“Certainly at Nonnatus!”  

Timothy flailed, his debate training abandoning him in the face of a superior adversary, and he resorted to vocabulary tricks.  “But—but I would have thought the nuns would be too busy with…with less temporal tasks than politics.”  

Shelagh was in no mood to encourage the teen.  “There are few things more “temporal” than tending to the sick or ailing, young man.  In order for us to take care of the community, we need support from the government. The best way to ensure that is to work is to help put those in office sympathetic to our cause.”

Shelagh stirred her tea.  “The Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus is not a cloistered community–they strive to improve this life as well as the next.  Sister Monica Joan was a suffragette, you know. She was on the frontlines fighting for women’s right to vote.”

“I can remember the Nonnatuns coming in to the polling place back in ‘45, soon after I’d arrived in Poplar.  Like a wave of blue, determined to make a change.” Patrick smoothed margarine on a slice of toast as the natural order returned to the room.  “The Nonnatuns have the best voting attendance record of any group in Poplar, I imagine.”

Tim grabbed the lifeline, grateful for the distraction.  “Which groups don’t vote?”he asked.

Patrick lowered his brow in concentration.  “Young people. And women. The numbers are improving, I’ve heard, but—“ he shrugged in resignation.

“But young people should be voting!  We’ve got the most at stake, when you think of it!  Were the ones that will have to live with the consequences the longest.”  He slumped over his cereal.

“Yes, but many young voters aren’t engaged in the process.  They think it’s for stuffy old men.”

“That’s because it is stuffy old men.”  Shelagh sighed. “When nearly every politician looks and sounds like someone’s grandad, it’s hard to think there’s a place for others at the table.  Why, many women that do go to the polls simply vote the way their husbands tell them. It’s hardly inspiring.  Women need to see that they have their own voice, and they need to use it.”

Teddy was finished with both his breakfast and the conversation, and began to fuss.  Shelagh pushed back her chair.

“I’ve got him,” Patrick told her.  “Finish your tea.”

Shelagh watched as her husband released the boy from his confinement and sighed. “Too many women have so little support at home that there’s no time for them to think of the world beyond their door.  Im afraid the simple act of voting can be quite complicated when you’ve little ones at home.”

Teddy’s feet thundered over the kitchen floor as he ran in restless circles.  “See?” Shelagh asked. “Imagine toting a pack of children along to the polling place and then trying to concentrate on your ballot.  I’m lucky enough to have your father to help, and you, too,” her voice was warm. Her anger was gone.

“Voting is a good deal more than simply showing up, Tim,” Patrick returned to his own cooling tea.  

“I’m starting to understand that.”

“Timmy could babysit.”  Angela’s bright voice offered.

“Babysit?” Three voices answered in unison.

Without looking up from her breakfast, Angela offered a most reasonable solution.  “Timmy babysits for Teddy and me. If voting is so important, he could help the other mummies.”

“Babysit?”  Tim moaned.

Patrick chuckled,  “Civic responsibility has a price, Tim.”

Pounding feet came to a sudden stop, and with a wobble and a whoop of laughter, Teddy Turner settled next to his mother to finish his breakfast.   

***

 

Clinic was over, and as the last of the patients wandered out, the nurses began to gather in the small kitchen for a cup of tea before setting the place to rights and moving on to the next task of the day.  

“We’re lucky Sir Alec didn’t call for the vote on a clinic day,” Patrick said, leaning back against the countertop.  “This cold season is starting a bit earlier than I’d like, and closing the clinic, even for a day, could put us so far behind it’d be spring before we caught up.”

Shelagh unplugged the electric kettle and filled the teapot.  “Yes, that’s the problem with relying so entirely on one space for all our community needs.  Having the polling here makes it a tad bit easier for Timothy’s cause, however. We’ll have Fred move out all of the examination beds from the alcove and he can keep the children occupied there whilst the mothers come in to vote.”

As if summoned, the boy appeared in the doorway, haggard and rumpled from a long day of canvassing the neighborhood.  With a dramatic flourish, he dropped into a chair.

“It’s impossible!”  He bemoaned. “I’ve had dozens of mums sign up for the babysitting service, and I’ve no one to help!”

Trixie’s mouth puckered as she struggled to control a giggle.  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Surely some of your friends will help.”

Tim leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand in defeat.  “That’s what I thought. I was certain the girls I asked would help.”

“No willing conscripts?” Trixie asked.

“I wonder if you’re aware of the irony that’s on display here, Master Turner.”  Phyllis Crane looked up from her clipboard. “Exclusively asking girls to help care for children is hardly supporting your cause for women’s voting rights.”

Tim rolled his eyes.  “I know that now.  Caroline Gillespie made her opinion perfectly clear when I approached them at the bus stop this morning.  But how am I to get boys to help take care of children?”

“You seem to be rather proving my original point, Tim.”  Shelagh crossed the room to pour him some tea. “These mums you’re trying to help, they have husbands—grown men perfectly capable of caring for their own children for an hour or so while their wives go vote…or do some shopping…or even get their hair done!” She stirred her tea vigorously as she continued.  “It’s not babysitting when they’re your babies!” She harumphed.

Patrick reared back in his seat, arms wide.  “Don’t look at me!” He defended. “I’ve given the littles a bath every night this week!”

“Yes, dear.  You’re quite liberated.”  Shelagh patted his hand. “Not all mothers are as fortunate as I am.”  Mischief gleamed behind her glasses.

Trixie giggled, then grew serious.  “You’re right, Shelagh. Somehow, there’s always another chore to be done, or person to be taken care of before a woman can stop being someone’s something or other and exercise her rights as an individual.”

Timothy squirmed in his seat.

“It’s all rather casual, this male chauvinism,” Phyllis removed her glasses to study the young man more closely. “It’s not like in America, what with those officials trying to block people from voting with poll taxes or literacy tests simply because of their skin color.  There, the enemy is out in the open, the lines are drawn quite sharply. In Britain, women have had the right to vote for decades, and because of the way society discourages our participation, we’ve yet to be a force within the polls.”

Patrick spoke up.  “I wouldn’t say women are discouraged, precisely, at least not officially…”

Three sets of eyes glared at him.  

“Then how would you say it, Patrick?”  Shelaghs voice was clipped. “Our paid workers—mostly men, mind you—are given time off from their places of employment in order to participate in elections.  There are no such opportunities for women that stay home to care for others. And how many political meetings have you attended that were held at men’s-only establishments?”

“I’ve offered to take you–“

“That’s hardly the point, and you know it.  It’s the way it’s always been done, and men have come to expect it to be the way things will always be done.”  Shelagh reached out and covered his hand with her own.  “I shouldn’t be so hard on you, dear. You’ve done tremendous work to help everyone have a voice.”

A glance passed between Trixie and Phyllis, and the older nurse stiffened her spine.  “Of course, we’re all grateful for the support we receive from men like you, Doctor Turner, but we’ve moved beyond that.  It’s time for the male population to recognize theirs is not the only perspective on the world.”

Patrick swallowed thickly and nodded his understanding.  

“This is all very interesting,”  Tim’s voice broke the tension. “But none of you have told me how I’m to find help taking care of all those kids.”

Chuckles broke the tension, and the group began to break up.  “You’ll think of something, Tim,” his father assured him.

“What if I told the other—“

Patrick placed a hand in his son’s shoulder, silencing him.  “You heard the ladies, Tim.” He exhaled a quiet laugh. “Do not tell the other lads it’s a good way to meet girls.”

 

***

Shelagh stood vigil at the community center doors, a worried crease between her brows.  There was no need to check her watch, the dwindling number of voters in the open space told her there wasn’t much time.  She pressed her lips together and held in a sigh. If he was late, there was an excellent reason.

“Good evening, Mrs. Turner,” Fred Buckle ambled in, tool kit in hand.  “Heard there’s been a good turnout today. Bodes well fer change, don’t it?”

“Fingers crossed, Fred.  There’s a fresh pot of tea in the break room if you’d like.  We can’t start taking down the polling booths until after the final votes cast.”  She craned her neck to peer around the large man.

Wisely, Fred kept his own counsel.  He tugged at his ear and said, “Right, then.  You’ll know where to find me.”

A rush of cold air filled the hall, and Shelagh turned expectantly to the entrance.  A woman burst in, a toddler on her hip and two young children dragging behind her in their pajamas.

“I’ve made it, ‘aven’t I?” She puffed.  “Himself only just left for the pub. I thought he’d never get out in time for me to come!”

Shelagh nodded, her arm outstretched to usher the woman in.  “Let me take the children. We have an eager group of teenagers ready to keep an eye on the wee ones as you cast your vote.”  She took the youngest in her arms. “Now come along, children. I think we’ve still plenty of coloring books that need an artist’s attention.”

An impromptu play area occupied the alcove they used for examination beds during clinic.  “Timothy, dear,” Shelagh called over. “We’ve got some little friends for you to play with.”

Tim unbent from the task of collecting wooden blocks from the low table.  Despite his fatigue, a broad smile crossed his face, and he held out a blue one to the littlest child.  “Brilliant. You can help me build London Bridge. Teddy keeps knocking it down.” He pulled out two chairs.

“Teddy always knocks down the towers,” Angela announced.  In an effort to prove his sister wrong, the little scamp snatched a crayon from the table and scribbled on its surface.

Caroline Gillespie scooped him up.  “Come on, little man. Let’s make the tower one more time.”

Shelagh smiled.  “Thank you, dear.  You’ve been a tremendous help this afternoon.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Turner.  Timothy May have told you, but I wasn’t…supportive of his efforts when he first told us about it.” She rolled her eyes in a way that made her feel for the girl’s parents.  “It seemed like he was only asking us girls to be babysitters! But as I passed by after school today, I watched Mr. Stacey try to climb the steps outside. He needed two men to help him manage, poor thing.  I never really considered how the world excludes so many, just with simple things like stairs.”

Teddy was impatient to get at the new block tower, and Caroline set him down again.  “Each day is a lesson, as my nan says.”

“Indeed,” Shelagh grinned at the girl’s serious tone.  “I’ll pass this little one off to you as well, if you don’t mind.  I’ll go start on clearing out the voting stalls. Angela, Mummy will be right back.”

A dozen wooden stalls lined the wall of the main room, offering privacy to voters as they filled out their ballots.  Most of the poll workers, all tired volunteers, were gathered in the break room. Shelagh paused at the ballot box table.

“You go get a cup of tea, Mr. Lewis.  It’s only two minutes to seven, I can manage any last stragglers.”  She held in another sigh. Patrick wouldn’t be voting this time around.

Her heels clipped sharply on the Lino as passed from stall to stall.  Really, she wondered to herself, how could people be so messy? She collected stray paper and gum wrappers into a bag and dropped the marking pens in a can.

At the far end, she noticed someone had written a campaign slogan on the wooden surface, a clear violation of campaign rules, but decided not to pursue the matter.  It was unlikely Mickey Mouse had much support in the House of Commons.

“Busy today?” Patrick’s husky voice startled her, and she spun around.

“Patrick! You made it!  I was so worried you’d get here past time.  Let’s get you a ballot then-“

He stopped her with an outstretched hand.  “It is past time,” he told her. “It’s just gone seven.”

She struggled to hide her disappointment.  “Oh. I’m sure it couldn’t be helped. You had a long list for rounds.”

“Yes, I did.  That’s why I stopped in right after surgery and voted then.”

Her smile was wide.  “You did! Oh, Patrick. I’m so glad!”

“I’ve only ever missed one vote, and that was during my training.  A rather large baby was reluctant to hurry his arrival. I learned then to vote as early as I could.  Besides,” his eyes were warm, “I know how important it is to you.”

Shelagh felt her cheeks flush.  Had they somehow moved farther back into the booth?  He bent, his nose close to hers, and said softly, “We should head home.”

She could not hide her dimple.  “I suppose we should. Fred might ask us to help with the take-down.”

“Mm-hmm…” Patrick murmured, tracing her downy cheek with the tip of his nose.  “Let’s get the children home and into bed. Poor Tim’s so tired, he’ll be asleep before Teddy.”  He tugged her earlobe between his teeth. “It’ll be hours before they announce any results.”

She sighed.  “Hours? I do hope they take their time.”

 

 

 

Encouraged in Love

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This fic is set immediately after “Knit Together.”  It shifts in tone a bit, and may simply be kettles for the sake of kettles (not that there’s anything wrong with that!)  Actually, it’s definitely KWP (Without Purpose).

I’d say 3 1/2 kettles are on the hob for this one.

Shelagh felt a warm glow rise up through her body.  He wanted her, and the rest of the world, all her worries fell away.  She moved closer, so their bodies were almost touching and breathed his scent in deeply.  “You smell clean.”  Her finger traced the pattern on his pyjama top, then pressed against his heart.  

His hands covered hers and he looked her squarely in the eye.  “Shelagh, you don’t have to do this.  It’s only natural if you need more time.  Your body’s been through so much-”

“All is as it should be,” she answered.  “You’ve been wonderfully patient for so long, darling.  I’d started to forget how important this is.  Not simply the…the sex,” her whisper grew softer on the word,  “but being us, together.  A couple.”  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his chest.  “Even if you don’t want to tonight, I’d like to be near you.”

A rumble deep in his chest made her smile.  “I think you know I want to,” he teased.  His voice grew serious again and he bent his head to meet her eyes.  “Are you certain?’

She raised her face to his.  “I am completely certain.”

Patrick stepped back and grinned appreciatively.  “I was right, you should wear my jumper.  It suits you.”  He twirled her in a tight circle before him, letting his gaze trace her form.  “You’ve got the legs for it.”

A dimple appeared.  “Ridiculous man,” she giggled.  She wove her arms around his neck and tugged his face close to hers.  They lingered for a long moment, their lips a bare inch apart.  Long dormant feelings rose to the surface and she felt a familiar ache grow within her.  Unable to wait any longer, she pushed up on her toes to kiss him.  This was no longer simply about being available to him.

His lips were warm and firm, yet she knew instantly that he was holding back.  She sighed against his mouth, excited by his restraint.  Even now he would let her take the lead, let her offer what she was ready for.  She tugged gently on his lower lip, darting her tongue against its fullness before she pulled it into her own mouth.  Their tongues met and grazed against each other, deepening the kiss.  She stretched even taller, eager for more contact, and she protested when he pulled back.

“Bloody hell, Shelagh, I’ve missed you.”  He let his gaze wander over her again, and she thrilled at the passion she saw there.  His arms pulled her tight to him and he pressed his face against her hair.  “It’s taking all I have not to push you down on our bed and ravish you,” he murmured.  

They stood together for a long moment.  Then with a deep breath, he sat back on the edge of the bed.  Catching her by the hips, he tugged her to stand before him.  

There were no words, no sounds but for the soft suss of their slow breathing.  She grazed the back of her fingers against his cheek, up along the sharp edge of his temple and into his dark hair.  Her lips followed her fingertips, lingering at his temple, her nose in his hair.    

When his hands slid in gentle circles along the backs of her thighs, she exhaled in pleasure.  They kissed, intimate and slow.  She moved again, her head lowered to his and her arms about his shoulders, and she gasped at the scratch of the coarse wool against her sensitive skin.  Her breasts tingled, and she leant lightly into him.  

He moaned softly into her mouth and slid his hands beneath the jumper, cupping her bottom and Shelagh gasped.   “Yes, Patrick, please,” she whispered.  

His hands skimmed over the smooth skin of her arched back, fingertips tracing along her spine, and she felt the heat build deep inside her.  She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again, humming with pleasure.  Her back arched in an invitation and felt his hands slide around to cup her breasts.  

Suddenly it wasn’t enough. Breaking their kiss, she straddled him.  She pressed herself tightly against him, her arms wrapped around him, and gloried at the feel of him between her legs.  “I love you, Patrick,” she purred.  “Whatever else there is there will always be us at the center.”  She kissed his cheek and sat back.  Lifting herself up, she reached down and pulled the jumper off and tossed it to the side.

“Let me ravish you, Patrick.”

His smile was dazzling.  “That’s my girl.”

 

Later, after their hearts had returned to a steady beat, they lay facing each other in a cocoon of blankets.

“Teddy will be up soon,” Patrick whispered.  “I’m afraid we won’t get much sleep tonight.”

“Mm-hmm.”  She stretched her legs so that her toes found the tops of his feet.  “We’ll simply have to go to bed early tomorrow night, dearest.”

“I’ve got rounds, I’m afraid.”  He rolled onto his back with a sighed of regret.  

She followed him and nestled against his chest, her sigh echoing his.  “Angela has a dress rehearsal, and Timothy asked me to help him with revising for his Trigonometry exam.  Oh, and I simply must get into those patient files—they’re a mess!”

“Sometimes I wish we were workers on the clock like everyone else.”  He gently massaged her back.

“A rain check, then?”  she asked, then pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Absolutely.  Especially if you take to wearing all my jumpers.”  His shoulders shook with laughter.  “Perhaps I should get a blue one…”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick.”

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Five

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BBN9PK

Previous Chapter

In the morning, bags would be packed up onto the old Mission bus. In the morning, handkerchiefs would wipe away tears. In the morning, promises would be made that might one day be fulfilled.

But that was in the morning. Now, as the sun began to drop in the sky, preparations for a small farewell celebration was underway at the Mission. Fred and Jacob piled wood high for a bonfire, while the nuns and nurses set the long tables for a feast. Food had come from all ends of the region, as well as small gifts and tokens of thanks. The sadness to come at tomorrow’s parting was forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Patrick stepped out of the clinic office and took it all in, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The permanent medical team had arrived only that morning, a feat of timing he hadn’t expected of the Mission Society, and he had spent the better part of the last day helping Myra prepare the young doctor and nurses for the task ahead. The new team was more than qualified, and Hope Mission had a bright future.

He scanned the yard for his wife. While he knew he wouldn’t have been much help packing today, he wanted to make it up to her. He slipped the key to the truck into his jacket pocket and went in search of Shelagh.

He found her sitting on the steps to the dormitory, watching Timothy teach Angela how to play mancala.

“You’re just in time, Dad,” Tim informed him. “We just finished packing.”

“Sorry, Tim. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll do all the unpacking when we get back in Poplar.”

“You most certainly will not,” Shelagh chortled. “I’ll never find my new dresses.”

Patrick reached down and scooped Angela into his arms. “And what about you, little girl? Did you help Mummy pack?”

“I packed Bizkit baby, Daddy.” She held up the homespun monkey doll Kholeka had presented her with that morning. “Bizkit baby come with Angela.”

“He certainly will, sweetheart. Tim, keep an eye on your sister for a little while, would you? I want to show Mum something. Then the night’s yours. I promise when Steven comes you won’t have to do a single thing.”

Patrick reached for Shelagh’s hand. “Come along. Mrs. Turner.”

The ride wasn’t long, and soon Patrick pulled the truck to the side of the road. Miles ahead, the Great Escarpment rose blue and grey out of the flat yellow veldt. A small herd of zebras grazed in the grasses before turning away to a hidden place to sleep.

Patrick reached again for his wife’s hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Close your eyes,” his voice grew husky. “Wait for me.”

He ran around the truck’s bonnet and helped her down, then led her towards the back of the truck. “You’re always busy with Angela this time of day, but you can’t leave without seeing this. Open your eyes.”

Shelagh looked up at his smiling face. He shook his head and placed a light kiss to her lips. “No, look up, Shelagh.”

Shelagh lifted her eyes to the sky and a short breath caught in her throat. Reaching past the edge of the world, the diluted blue of the western sky gave way to a cotton wool of mottled pale pink and yellow and purple.  She spun in place, her hand tight in his, “Patrick, it’s–I don’t have the words for it. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky.”

He pulled her close up against him, her back warming his chest as the temperature began to drop. “I have the word for it, Shelagh,” he whispered, her name a sigh on his lips. “Inspirational. It’s like this whole place–the opposites of the grey mountains and the yellow plain, white and black, both kept so distinct, and yet, somehow, there’s this incredible beauty right above them.”

They swayed together in silence as they watched the colors shift, yellow dissolving into orange, purple finally deepening until the first star appeared. Shelagh turned to face him and lifted her face to his. Their lips met in a long, slow kiss, intimate and secret. After long moments, they parted, their breath still mingling as they hovered close.

“Thank you, Shelagh,” he whispered before he kissed her lower lip lightly. Unable to stop, he deepened the kiss again, and the passion rose between them. They could have each other, here in the gloaming, far from the others, and for a wild moment, they might have done. But reason returned, and Patrick put his hands on her waist to allow for some air between them.

“I’m not naive, Shelagh. Six weeks here hasn’t made all the darkness go away. We’ll leave, and our friends will still have to face this awful system. Back in Poplar, Susie Mullocks will still have those terrible deformities, and God knows what else we might see.” He paused, and Shelagh stroked his cheek and slid into the hair at the back of his head.

“The world can be so very hard, Shelagh, but there’s always hope. You’ve helped me remember that, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

Shelagh tucked her head under his chin. “There’s always a place for hope, dearest.”

The End

Thank you all for supporting me as I worked through this piece. As we all wait for the Christmas Special to be aired, I hope this has helped pass the time.

Please forgive any cultural or historical errors. They are unintentional.

 

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-four

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BBN9PKPrevious Chapter

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!”

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Three

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The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

“You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we’re talking to him at all, the better.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered. “I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Obi. I–I don’t have the words, sir. You saved my daughter’s life today; I will always be in your debt.” Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

“You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today.” He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. “I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

“You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government’s lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

“Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace.”

He paused for a moment. “When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school.”

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. “I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that.” He glanced up at Patrick.

“DuPlessis would never allow its use.”

“Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives.” Zakhele sat back in his chair.

“So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?” Patrick leant over the drawing.

“It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists.”

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. “We’ve been digging in the wrong places.”

“Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you.”

Myra shook her head. “Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?”

“The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope.”

“I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change.” The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. “It’s a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you.” A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

 

“I can’t believe we never thought of it before.” Myra Fitzsimmons considered. “If it works, we could do so much.”

“That’s the question,” Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. “As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he’s no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he’ll see right through it.”

“It’s a chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try.”

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele’s plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project,  the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

“We never considered a spot so far from the Mission,” Tom Hereward explained. “Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We’d have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave.”

“You’re sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down.” Patrick dropped into a chair.

“We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there’s no congregating. It’ll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches–or even have clocks in their homes–and the school bell only travels so far. If there’s even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down.”

Fred spoke up. “Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what ‘bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was.”

“A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We’ll need several, and put them at intervals. You’ll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough.”

“Never fear, Doctor,” Fred puffed out his chest. “You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man.”

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty Two

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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.”

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty One

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

“Touch the stars, Mummy!” she cried.

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

Timothy ambled slowly around the corner of the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shelagh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If we fight together,” Onke asserted.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Next Chapter

Author’s note

Please forgive any inaccuracies.

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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BBN9PKPrevious Chapter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She?”

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

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

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

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

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