The main ward of the Mission hospital was a long and narrow room, barely wide enough for a single row of beds. The high, dark paneled ceilings and worn paint mimicked the style of the clinic hall, but despite the row of paned windows, the room felt somehow felt more cave-like than that space. Drawn blinds shielded the room from the intensity of the full noon sun as the four patients stirred restlessly in their beds.
Sister Julienne hovered over the dozing patients, stopping to scratch notes on the small chalkboards at the foot of each cot while Trixie sorted medical supplies for the third time that morning. The hospital saw even fewer patients than the weekly clinic, their charges the few villagers that had no family to care for them. Only a slow-healing stomach abscess and the lingering effects of dysentery kept them in hospital, and none needed the care the nurses had hoped to bring to the Mission.
Patrick sat at the lone desk at the head of the room as he reviewed notes. Still unused to the heat, he shifted his chair to take full advantage of the room’s only fan, then glanced at his watch, impatient for something to do. Not since his days as a medical student had he been tied to one location for days on end. He preferred the constant movement about the community of his practice, the surgery and maternity hospital a gravitational center for his rounds.
Perhaps that was where things had started to go wrong, Patrick wondered. In the years since the National Health formed, he and so many other medical professionals had eagerly embraced the overconfident promises of science. The solutions seemed so much simpler. A few jabs and illnesses could be all but eradicated. If he never saw a case of polio again, it would be too soon.
Since their arrival in South Africa, he had done very little real medicine. The strange atmosphere of distrust hampered their efforts, and he, in particular, seemed to be singled out by the local population as a threat. The reasons were obvious, but he chafed at the idea that his help was not wanted. He wasn’t a fool; he knew Shelagh had championed this journey in order to rekindle his love of medicine. Now it was becoming obvious her hopes would be quashed by a culture of systemic racism.
He glanced about the room and tapped his pencil impatiently against his clipboard. He wondered ow far was the labor progressing. He had every faith in Shelagh’s abilities, but still he worried. Any complication in childbirth was magnified tenfold, even with her skills. He wished he could be with her.
He squelched a small sense of jealousy. At least he had spent some time out in the community since their arrival. Shelagh had somehow been delegated the tasks of organizing the clinic and their crew. While he knew part of her relished in the challenge, he was also aware that Shelagh itched to make a difference out with the people they had come to help. Today was her turn to reach out.
He stood and stretched, then made his way to the window. Angela was enjoying the change of scenery, certainly. Under the watchful eye of Kholeka, she skipped about the yard, watched by a monkey–no doubt her partner in mischief from the breakfast table–chattering from the nearby tree. His eyes followed as Angela stooped to pick a small yellow bloom from the grass and called out, “Bizzzzzz-kit!” She placed the flower at the foot of the tree, then turned to tiptoe back to Kholeka’s side.
The monkey’s chatter stopped and his eyes darted between the small child and the flower. With slow movements, he slid out of eyesight behind the tree.
“Bizzzkittt!” the little girl called again. “Flower for you!”
Suddenly, the little vervet dashed from around the tree and snatched the flower. He sat still for a moment, then shrieked what Patrick assumed was a monkey “thank you,” and returned to his sentry point. Angela laughed and began the routine again.
Patrick’s lips twisted in a half grin. If they weren’t careful, his daughter might find a way to hide the monkey in her suitcase.
The roar of an engine broke the idyllic scene, and Patrick glanced in the direction of the mission gates. Clouds of dust rose in the air as a battered truck entered the mission yard and rolled to a grinding stop.
By the time Patrick began to make his way down the steps, his fears of another confrontation with Sergeant DuPlessis evaporated. Henry Makepeace climbed out from behind the wheel, a warm grin on his face.
“Doctor Turner! So glad to see you!” He took the floppy khaki hat from his head and waved it in greeting. “Come see what I’ve brought.”
Stopping to scoop Angela up in his arms, Patrick crossed the yard to the truck and peered over the side.
“I hope it’s not another crate of bandages. We’ve had a beastly time trying to square away what we’ve already got.” Patrick turned his head to see Nurse Franklin approach, her voice carrying the clipped tone he’d often noticed when she most wanted to be taken seriously. “What is it?” she asked.
“A hot water heater. Or it was, once upon a time. I thought perhaps between Jacob Arends and your Fred, it could be again.” The young man’s eyes studiously avoided the young nurse. “It was all I could do to get this old thing out here. DuPlessis has made it a sort of raison d’etre to keep any and all equipment out of the homelands. He’d rather see a water heater rust away on the bin heap than let it help here.”
“But why? If no one is Alice needs it, surely the Sergeant wouldn’t mind if we use it in hospital.” Trixie’s brows knit together in consternation. “Surely he wouldn’t stand in the way of our helping patients?”
Makepeace dropped his hat back on his head and opened the truck hatch. “Unfortunately, the government’s policies on the homelands rather encourages men like DuPlessis to rule as they wish. As long as he keeps the peace in the white communities, no one really pays much attention to what happens out here. A water heater only means something to him because it means something to us.”
“How dreadful!” Trixie murmured. “It must be so very difficult to cope. I’m sure you must be very brave and frightfully clever to outsmart him for us.”
A slow flush spread over the young man’s tanned cheeks. “It’s not–I mean, I–” he swallowed his words, then regained his composure. “Apartheid is wrong, for all it’s the law of the land. While the British government may not be willing to officially denounce it, we at the consulate can try to help in our own way.” By now he was in full command, and Patrick could see why the young man had chosen the diplomatic corps as a profession. “Medical care should be free from all politics.”
“Hear, hear,” Patrick enjoined.
“I’m glad you agree, doctor. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a task for you.”
He placed Angela on the ground. “Go run to Kholeka, darling. Daddy has work to do.”
My Little Yellowbird 
