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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twenty-Five

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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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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!”

Next (and final) Chapter

 

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 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 Nineteen

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“I would have thought, Mrs. Turner, that without the hustle and bustle of Poplar your husband would have an easier time of it arriving at clinic on time.” Phyllis Crane impatiently folded her glasses and slipped them into her pocket.

“It’s not as if there’s a terrible crush of patients, is there?” Barbara piped in. “I’m sure Doctor Turner will be along any time now.” In the weeks since their arrival in South Africa, Barbara’s spine had stiffened, particularly around Nurse Crane. No one was sure if it was meant to impress the formidable older woman, or to spite her.

“Doctor Turner wanted to speak with Timothy’s teacher this morning. He’ll be along shortly.”  Shelagh held back a sigh and turned back to organizing the vaccines it seemed they wouldn’t be administering yet again. The warm sense of accomplishment brought back from Thembe’s delivery had all but faded as yet another clinic was ignored by the community.

“How is Timothy finding school here,” Sister Julienne asked in the bored silence.

“Oh, you know Timothy,” Shelagh rallied. He thinks the world of Utitshala, and he’s made a very firm friend in Steven. I know it was an imposition on all of you to bring the children along, but it’s been so very educational for Timothy.”

“The broader the minds of our youth, the better we will all be,” Nurse Crane interjected. “The world is changing quicker than we grown-ups can keep up. It’ll be up to them to blaze the trails!”

“Indeed, Nurse Crane,” Sister Julienne responded quietly. Her eyes travelled around the small group. “One can only hope that like Timothy, they will work hard to understand the new without rejecting all of the old ways, as well.”

“I, for one, am grateful the children came along, Shelagh. Angela and her monkey friend have become quite a source of entertainment for us all!” Trixie flounced over to the intake table next to Barbara. “I hardly even miss the Coronation Street.”

Barbara sparked up. “You should come out with me this afternoon, Trixie. Tom is working with Fred and Jacob Arends to plot out the pipeline from the new well, and I thought I would bring them a bit of a tea. You know, to keep their spirits up.”

As Trixie made to cry off, Barbara added. “I think Tom mentioned Mr. Makepeace might be coming out to help read the plans.”

Suddenly fascinated by the pile of empty patient cards in front of her, Trixie’s voice was cool. “I suppose I could. It might give me a chance to take one of the horses out for a ride. I’m feeling a bit restless, I must admit.”

“I think we all are, if we’re quite honest,” Nurse Crane admitted. “We haven’t made much of an impact in the weeks since we’ve arrived.”

“I think we may have been going about it all wrong, Nurse Crane.” All heads turned as Patrick swanned in through the double doors that opened onto the yard. “We’ve been expecting the community to come to us because it’s the most efficient use of time and services. We thought they would accept our way of doing things, when it’s really quite foreign to them.” He approached his wife’s table. “You were right, Shelagh. They have good reason to be wary of strangers, especially white strangers. Very little good has come from Colonials, so, of course they’ve turned inward, even at the expense of their own health.

He paused and looked about the clinic. “We have to earn their trust. When we first arrived, I didn’t think it was possible, especially after we met Sergeant DuPlessis and saw what sort of authority we were dealing with, but Shelagh’s midwife call yesterday has given me hope. If we can make some sort of connection, build a sort of bridge between us, then perhaps we can prove to the community that we really are here to help.”

“But how, Doctor? We’ve gone out into their homes, we’ve explained how a clinic here at the Mission will help everyone. We can’t make them trust us.” Sister Julienne’s voice betrayed her discouragement.

“No, we can’t, Sister. What we can do is show them who we are as people. Shelagh, when did you feel you had gained Thembe’s trust last night?”

As she looked in her husband’s face, Shelagh felt her heart begin to pound. His eyes glittered with excitement and purpose. “When she knew I had a little girl waiting for me at home.” She took a deep breath and told the group, “Thembe would have done whatever her grandmother told her, but when she knew I was a mother as well, she gave me her trust.”

“Exactly. You made a connection with those women, Shelagh, one that showed them you were more like them than they knew. Apartheid has kept people so locked away from each other that they’ve forgotten that basically, we’re all the same. Same hopes and fears, same loves and dreams.

“What we need to do is work at building on what Shelagh started. We need to show our own humanity. When we do, we’ll finally reach them.” His hand reached out and took hers. “After clinic, Timothy and I are bringing Utitshala out to the shantytown to meet with Stephen Obi’s father. I think I may have a way to get Fred some help with that well, but for now, let’s come up with a plan to get people to trust us.”

“I think you may get an earlier start on your plan than you thought, Doctor Turner,” announced Sister Winifred. “We’ve got company.”

Ahead in the near distance, a growing number of women, children running about their feet, strolled towards the Mission hospital.

“What on earth–” Trixie exclaimed. Her face grew determined. “All right, doctor. Let’s put your theory to the test!”

As the women gathered closer, the yard filled with their friendly chatter. Shelagh and Patrick exchanged a look, and after a gentle squeeze, released each other’s hand to take a place by the tables.

Nurse Crane’s voice rose above the rest, and in minutes, the clinic was in full swing. Nonnatuns relied on old habits and skills and soon not only were inoculations being administered, but minor ailments and childish illnesses were sorted as well.

Shelagh gazed out over the crowd. The women seemed so different in some ways to the women they were used to seeing in Poplar, their clothes lighter and rougher than the woolies so often seen in England, the shaped felt hats of the local milliner replaced by intricate headwraps, even the rhythm and tone of their language sounding the same in the large group. She smiled as she overheard Sister Winifred trying bravely to replicate the sounds necessary for her patient’s name.

Myra Fitzsimmons’ truck pulled in through the gates, and the medic jumped down. “I’ve brought you a visitor,” she called over to Shelagh as she came round and opened the passenger door.

Umakhulu climbed down from the truck, then reached in to take a large bundle of cloth from her granddaughter before the doctor helped the young woman out.

“Thembe!” Shelagh cried. “You should be home resting!”

“Life in the kraal doesn’t provide much chance for bedrest, Nurse Turner,” Doctor Fitzsimmons noted dryly. “Thembe was prepared to walk the mile and a half to come and thank you herself. I was lucky to get her to agree to ride back with me.”

Thembe reached out and grasped Shelagh’s hands tightly. “Nurse Umhlobo, I owe you so much. My daughter is safe and with her family, and I must thank you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Shelagh scoffed gently.

“There is no nonsense, Nurse Umhlobo,” Umkhulu chided. “You have helped our family and now we must help you.”

“Umkhulu is the reason why these women have all come to our clinic,” Myra explained. “It’s no small thing that she used her influence to convince them we can help. She’s the single best hope we have to make this clinic a success.”

A warm glow of pride shown in Shelagh’s face. “Thank you for letting me into your home, Thembe. Here,” she coaxed as she placed her arm about the young woman’s shoulders. “Let’s get you sat down and we can have Doctor take a good look at this beauty.”

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Eighteen

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Shelagh could feel the fog of exhaustion drift back as she slowly woke. There was a sound she recognized tapping in her head, a sound she couldn’t ignore, and the last mists of sleep evaporated. She sat up, confused, and pushed her hair from her face.

A gentle tap at the door set her to action. In the bright moonlit room, she reached for her nightgown and slipped it over her head. She moved from the warm bed and shimmied the fabric down the length of her body, and frowned at the complicated garment. It was pretty, but it was a bit ridiculous.

“Mum?” she heard Timothy’s voice come through the crack of the door.

“Coming,” she whispered back. She padded in her bare feet across the room and opened the door.

Timothy stood before her, holding his small sister by the hand. In the dim light he was all angles, and even without her glasses Shelagh could see the boy was asleep on his feet. A sniffle from somewhere around the level of his knee drew her attention.

“There, there,” Shelagh crooned, kneeling before her teary daughter. She pushed Angela’s tangled hair back from her damp cheeks. “Did my little monkey have trouble sleeping?”

“I tried to settle her, but she only wanted you. Sorry, Mum, I know you must be tired after today.” Tim’s newly deepening voice rumbled in a way that recalled his father’s.

Shelagh wrapped her arms around Angela, then stood. “That’s alright, Timothy. I’ve got her now. You go back to sleep.”

He accepted her kiss, then turned back to his own room.

Shelagh closed the door and carried Angela over to the small desk in the corner. Deftly, she poured a small drink of water and watched as the little girl noisily gulped it down. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this break from the “no drinks after bedtime” rule  before morning.

Angela finished her water, and handed back the glass with a satisfied “Aaah!”

Shelagh giggled. “Whisper voice, sweetheart! Everyone’s sleeping.” She glanced over at her husband, who was, in fact, sound asleep. Shelagh rolled her eyes. She envied his ability to sleep through so much. Only the ring of the phone could stir him once he was asleep, an odd trait that had enabled him to miss many night-time child visits and feedings. She hated to wake him, but she would have to.

“Patrick,” her voice rose ever so slightly. She squeezed  his foot through the bedcovers. “Patrick, I need you to wake up for a moment.”

He woke suddenly, upright in an instant.

“It’s alright, dearest, no need to worry. You’ll need to dress for visitors.” She pushed his pyjamas through the opening in the netting.

“What’s wrong?’ he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Angela’s been upset. I’ll bring her to the lav, you get dressed. We’ll be back in a jiffy.” The door closed behind her, her husband’s grunts of mild disapproval making her smile.

When they returned a few minutes later, a pyjama-clad Patrick had the bed straightened and the pillows set for the new sleeping arrangement.

“I suppose it was a rough day for everyone,” he agreed. He lifted the girl into his arms. Angela’s head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, then popped up. “Bizkit’s a monkey, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Yes, Biscuit’s a sleeping monkey, Angela. If we bring you into bed with us, will you sleep, too?”

The blonde head tucked itself back in place. “S’eeping  now, Daddy.” She pretended to snore.

They slipped into well-rehearsed positions, and in moments, Angela had fulfilled her promise.

“It doesn’t seem quite fair how she can do that,” Patrick whispered through a yawn. “Tell me about the delivery.”

Shelagh curved her body around Angela and slipped her toes under his calves to warm. Worry over the unexpected visit from DuPlessis and his men shifted attention away from Shelagh’s first call off the mission grounds, and they had yet to discuss it.

“The baby needed quite a bit of convincing, but we finally turned her right. Poor Thembe must have been in such terrible pain. You know, Patrick, they used the same tricks so many of our mothers in Poplar use to keep from making too much noise. It’s quite funny how similar the fundamentals are when you think about it. Thousands of miles apart, and yet we’re all still the same.”

“I thought that during the war; no matter where a soldier was from, he always had the same requests. Send love to his girl, ask his father to be proud. Here too, I suppose.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pained.

“How did you get her to trust you, Shelagh?”

Shelagh chose her words carefully. This wasn’t a tender ego talking. Trust was integral to a doctor’s practice. Without it, Patrick could not help anyone, including himself.

“It was Umakhulu–the grandmother. The thought of losing her girl was impossible, and they were just desperate enough to give me a try. But there was something else, Patrick. Myra told them I was a mother, too; that I had a little girl of my own. It made me a little less strange, somehow, and they let their fear of me go.”

Patrick sighed heavily as he considered her words. After a moment he turned to his side to face her and brushed his hand lightly along the curve of her hip. “You should sleep, my love. We can talk in the morning.”

She nodded as weariness began to overtake her. “We’ll find a way, Patrick. I know we will.”

As the night slipped into silence, an idea began to form.

A Mission of Hope, Chapter Sixteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She?”

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

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

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

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

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Twelve

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The final melody of a lullaby cocooned the little girl in her mother’s arms, the soft notes sending her to sleep. Her chest rose in a slow, deep breath that bound the two ever closer and peace filled the room.

Shelagh felt her own heart rate slow, her blood pressure calm, and she knew contentment for the first time all day.  She grazed her fingertip across the soft, rounded cheek of her daughter and pushed back a lock of damp hair. Angela would likely wake with a tangle of curls in the morning, but the bath had helped settle the fractious child. The late hours and time away from her mother had made Angela fussy these last few nights, and the shortage of family time and space had not helped. The routine that kept the family balanced had disappeared, and the strain was starting to show.

A twinge of resentment flickered and took hold. Each night since their arrival, she had been the one to stay with Angela, while her husband and son gathered with the others at the Mission house. She had never desired a life of social gatherings, but the intimate hours spent with her family were so very important. Quiet conversations about ordinary life, discussions about medical questions, even silent time together bound her to her family, and she felt the lack sorely.  Would she always be the one to make these small sacrifices? With little help, she had tried to make a home from two small dormitory rooms. Both Patrick and Timothy seemed more interested in the world beyond this space, and neither spent much time there anyway.

It had been her idea, hadn’t it? Patrick had been more than willing to let the issue drop when Dr. Fitzsimmons’ letter arrived last December. It was Shelagh that pursued the possibility, her plan that made it possible, her efforts that made the trip a reality, and for what? Patrick seemed no more confident in his abilities than before they left Poplar, Angela spent most of her days in the care of others, and Shelagh found herself more of a clerk than ever before.

She felt her forehead contract in tension, and a new worry crossed her mind. When would those lines become permanent? She wasn’t a vain woman, but of late she had noticed some changes. Fewer people expressed surprise that she could possibly be old enough to be the mother of a maturing boy. Were others starting to notice as well?

Angela sighed and buried her head deeper into her mother’s  neck. Her lips moved as if she were trying to finish a conversation, lifted in a quick smile and then stilled. The effect was comical, and Shelagh giggled.  “Mummy’s being silly, sweetheart. It’s just a few more weeks. And who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

The wooden chair Patrick had brought over for her from the Mission house creaked as she stood and transferred Angela to her cot. The little girl settled in, turning to her tummy and her pink cotton-covered bottom in the air. Shelagh’s lips pressed together in a smile as she ran her hand along Angela’s back and felt calm return. She moved about the room, putting clothes in their place and folded back the cover to Timothy’s bed. She dimmed the oil lamp and closed the door gently behind her.

Though it was early yet, she wouldn’t join them others.  Angela could still find a way out of the cot. Reluctant to retire, Shelagh made her way out to the veranda.

The air was heavy with humidity, a harbinger of the storm they had been promised would give a reprieve from the heat.  A vervet monkey coughed its last cry of the night as the hum of insects rose in the trees. Soon, the rain would pour down on the metal roof of the dormitory, as loud as any train in Poplar, and Shelagh wondered how she ever could have thought of this place as quiet.

A laugh carried across the courtyard, and she craned her neck to better see the mission house. Through the large double window, she could see the nurses, Tom and Fred playing cards. Timothy sat under the brightest lamp revising, determined to return to Poplar more than prepared for his exams in the spring. He thoughtfully chewed on the end of his pencil, a certain sign that the books before him were maths.

The nuns had long retired for the night. The regular schedule of offices had been firmly maintained, and the Great Silence observed strictly as well. Though she could not see them, she knew Patrick and Dr. Fitzsimmons would be in the hospital offices, struggling to find ways to extend outreach into the community.

Night time calls were infrequent at Hope Mission.  Bicycles did not travel well on the rutted roads of the territory, and  horses were too much of an attraction for the local nocturnal predators. Petro was hard to come by as well, so the untrustworthy Range Rover was only called out for the most dire of emergencies.

None of that seemed to be true source for their evening doldrums. The poor attendance at the clinics gave proof to that. After years of service and dedication Myra Fitzsimmons and her staff had secured the trust of the community, and were considered distinct from the oppressive government. The interlopers from England had not earned that same faith.

Shelagh took a seat on the bench and let her mind clear of all but that one fact. Until the people of Hope Mission accepted them, this trip could not find success. Change would not come from the medical supplies they had brought, or the convenience of the clinic hours. The people they were trying to help had good reason to distrust them. In Poplar, Shelagh well knew the distrust many had of British society, and by association, the National Health. She also knew that the surest way to tear down the walls of  built by distrust was to dismantle them one brick at a time.

The slam of the Mission house door surprised her, and she turned to see Patrick approach her. She warmed at the sight of him, his linen jacket tossed over his shoulder, his white shirtsleeves wrinkled and rolled up to his elbows. Even in his weary state, he still radiated an attraction she felt difficult to ignore.

“Angela asleep?” he asked quietly. His footsteps rasped on the sandy steps and he came to a stop on the steps below her.

Shelagh nodded. “She took some time to settle. Poor Piglet was entirely surrounded by water three times tonight, I fear.” She reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. “You look tired, dearest. Making an early night of it?”

He settled on the bench next to her. “I had hoped to spend some time with my girls. It’s been ages since we’ve had a nice cuddle, the three of us.”

Shelagh smiled and took his hand in hers. His words slipped behind her earlier anxieties. “It’s been eleventy ages, as Piglet would say. We’ll have time when we go back to Poplar, Patrick. There’s work to be done.”

He grunted. “There’s always work to be done, but none of it’s doing any good. Not any real, lasting good, anyway.”

“Patrick, you know that’s not true. It takes time to build trust.”

His chest rose in a smothered sigh. “It does. I can’t say as I blame them, if I’m honest. If you could see the people when we approach their farms, Shelagh, it’s devastating. I know I can help them, but they won’t let me.” He sighed and looked down at their clasped hands. “Myra and I have decided I’m best used here at the hospital. The patients here have little chance to be choosey, certainly.” He turned his head to stare into the darkness of the trees.

“Patrick,” her voice was consoling, “it has nothing to do with you as a doctor or as a man, you know that. Men like DuPlessis have done such harm, they wield hatred and bigotry like weapons. We’ve got to find a way to make the people trust us.”

He turned back and smiled crookedly. “From your lips to their ears.”

“You’re not going to talk about lips, are you?” Timothy’s voice interrupted. He carried his books over his shoulder much the way his father held his jacket. “I think I’ve suffered enough. I’ve just spent the last hour listening to Fred teach everyone how to play poker. Nurse Crane beat him every time, though I’m fairly certain she’s a ringer.”

“A ringer?” Patrick asked, surprised.

“Yes, it’s someone who pretends–”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know what a ringer is, Timothy. I did spend five years in the Army. Though I suppose if you’re going to spend the evenings with Fred, I shouldn’t be surprised at some of your vocabulary.”

The mood on the veranda became light-hearted, and Shelagh wondered how much the boy had overheard. The years of sadness had made their mark on Timothy, and he was quick to soften its edges.

“Any success with your Latin tonight?” she asked.

“Nearly finished. I want to concentrate most of my time on learning Xhosa. Steven’s said he’ll bring me to his family’s homestead, if you agree.”

Shelagh and Patrick exchanged glances, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Of course, dear. They live several miles away, don’t they?”

“Nearly three. Steven runs to and from school every day,” Timothy boasted.

Patrick squinted. “In this heat? It’s been over ninety degrees everyday this week!”

“Stephen says you get used to it.” He shifted his books and climbed the remaining steps. “I’ll go to bed now. I was going to read for a bit, is that alright, Mum?”

“Yes, dear, not too late.” She offered her cheek for a kiss. “Angela should sleep through, but call me if you have any problems.”

The screened door creaked as it closed behind him. “Maybe whenever we want Tim to do something unpleasant, we should have Steven ask him.” Patrick commented dryly. He stood and held out his hand. “Come on, then. Lights out for us soon as well.”

Their room still had a temporary feel to it. The hard edges of the wardrobe and steel bed made it seem even more austere than her old cell in Nonnatus, Shelagh thought as Patrick closed the door behind them. The only softening was the airy mosquito netting draped over the bed. She sat at the only chair in the room and began to take down her hair.

Patrick stepped over to the wardrobe and hung his jacket up, then stretched and let out a groan. He tugged at his necktie and pulled the length of silk from around his neck. His waistcoat followed, placed neatly on the top shelf. Shelagh knew his housekeeping skills had been exhausted, and watched as he parted the netting to make a space to sit upon the bed. The springs creaked noisily as he sat to remove his shoes, and he grimaced at the sound.

“This heat is oppressive,” he complained. His shoes thunked as they hit the floor.

Shelagh stood. “Don’t forget to put your socks back in your shoes or you’ll have a nasty surprise in the morning,” she advised, and turned her back to him. “Zipper, please.”

He tugged the pull down and asked, “How do you manage to look as cool as a cucumber?”

As he spoke, the air pressure changed and a cool breeze pushed through the room. Shelagh faced him and answered, “I can be patient, dearest. The rain is coming.”

His hands came to rest on her hips and his brow furrowed in frustration. “Well, I can’t. First we had to share a room with Angela, and now this bloody squeaky bed. We never get any privacy.”

She reached behind him and folded the netting away further. “Listen, Patrick.”

In the distance, they could hear a wall of rain like an approaching drumline. In moments, the downpour arrived, its steady pounding on the metal roof creating a cocoon of white noise.

“It’s raining, Patrick,” Shelagh leaned in to whisper. Her nose brushed against the nape of his neck.

His forehead crinkled in response. “Yes, my love. I can hear it.”

“Patrick, you don’t understand. The rain is so very loud.” She hooked her thumbs at the top of his braces and pulled them from his shoulders.

His laugh was cut short by her lips pressing against his. He fell back on the bed, pulling her down with him and let the netting close around them.

 

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Ten

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A large Range Rover pull in front of the hospital, stirring up great clouds of dust.  A man in uniform jumped nimbly down from the driver seat and called out a sharp command. Immediately, a young woman appeared at the mission entrance. Her eyes never met his as she answered him in Afrikaans and gestured to the east wing of the building.

The man had all the bearings of one confident in his own authority. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform as an emblem of dominance.  His face was strong-boned, nearly leonine, with a closely cropped moustache and his hair combed severely from his face. His expression did not attempt to hide his disdain for his surroundings.

“The less you all say, the better,” Dr. Fitzsimmons advised the team as they watched him advance up the front steps. Her spine had stiffened more than before as if she were arming for battle. “He is not our friend.”

Clipped footsteps echoed in the hall, coming to a halt at the large glass-paned doors.  “Dr. Fitzsimmons! I am so very sorry to have missed your guests when they were in Alice. They must think me so very rude.” The smooth words seemed incongruous with the harsh timbre of his voice, and a chill came over the room.

“Sergeant Du Plessis, how kind of you to come all the way to our Mission to greet our guests. We’re honored.” Dr. Fitzsimmons’ voice was cool.

The police officer cocked his head slightly. “I am glad to hear it, Doctor. I wouldn’t want to think they were avoiding me. They haven’t even met me yet!” A laugh forced itself out. “Let us make up for the…omission… and make a new start.”

He turned towards the group. “If I may introduce myself, gentleman and ladies, “I am Sergeant Willem Du Plessis. I serve as Commandant of the Alice Branch of the South African Police. As such, you can understand why I am most concerned that I was unable to greet you upon your arrival in my jurisdiction.” His eyes swept over the occupants of the room, measuring up each person. He let his eyes rest on Trixie for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to Patrick and extended his hand.

“I’m glad to see another man here to take charge,” he greeted.

Patrick’s eyes were flat as he grasped the hand before him. He had encountered enough misogynistic bullies in his day to know that it was better to manipulate them than antagonize them.

“Dr. Patrick Turner, London. It’s a pleasure to be here, Sergeant. I’m certain we’ll be very grateful for any assistance you can give us during our stay.”

“And exactly how long is your stay, Doctor? I like to keep informed of these things, you understand.”

Dr. Fitzsimmons interrupted. “Dr. Turner and his team will be here only long enough to help us set up a new clinic and then they must return to England, I’m afraid. You’ve caught us just as we were about to move the furniture about, Sergeant.”

The sergeant slowly turned his face back to her. “You’ve asked them to come all the way from England to move furniture?” A threat lingered in the air. “I am aware that your guests came with more than a few trunks of linen suits, Myra.”

She stiffened at the use of her first name. “Some bandages and cotton wool, that’s all, I’m afraid. Times are hard for missionaries, I’m afraid, Sergeant. We’re fortunate to simply have warm bodies to help.”

The policeman bristled. “I have not come all this way to be hoodwinked, Dr. Fitzsimmons. Surely you do not expect me to believe that the Mission Society has gone to such expense to send a few nurses to coddle your…patients. I fully expect you to share the bounty of your visitors with the people who truly have need in our community.”

Sister Julienne stepped forward. “Sergeant Du Plessis, please allow me to extend our most heartfelt thanks for your assistance in our mission.  The Reverend Hereward is occupied at the Mission Church, and will be so very disappointed to have missed you this morning. I am Sister Julienne, and this is Sister Winifred.  You can be assured that we will remember you in our prayers.”

Unable to ignore the nun, Sergeant Du Plessis gave her his full attention. “Of course, I am honored, Sister. And I would consider it most helpful if you were to turn your efforts to influencing the Mission staff to be as cooperative.”

During this exchange, Shelagh slipped behind Fred, his size shielding her from the police officer’s view. “Fred, don’t move,” she whispered. “Just follow my lead.”

The Sergeant continued, his voice now more controlled. “The Mission is quite fortunate to have such support from the English. Of course, I would not begrudge you any assistance, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We are fortunate to have all the medical personnel we require for our goals in Alice. As you can imagine, however, we can always use medical supplies.”  His eyes fell on the clipboard clasped in Shelagh’s arms and held out his hand. “Surely there is something here you could share with us?”

Reluctantly, Shelagh passed the paperwork to him. Long moments went by as they all watched the man scan the sheets of inventory. He looked up and handed the clipboard back to Shelagh. “There, you see? Plenty of medical supplies here for us all. You certainly wouldn’t mind sharing some of your bounty, would you, Nurse–?” His eyes passed over Shelagh insolently.

“Nurse Turner, and of course, we’ll be happy to share, Sergeant. Fred, will you please help Sergeant Du Plessis with one or two of those boxes?”

Doctor Fitzsimmons stiffened with shock. Du Plessis smirked triumphantly, and his voice oozed into pleasantness. “That won’t be necessary, Nurse Turner. There are plenty of kaf–”

“I’ll call Jacob to help, Sergeant,” Myra Fitzsimmons’ voice broke in.

He turned quickly back to face her, their eyes locked in a challenge. After a moment, Du Plessis’s eyes blinked slowly and an unpleasant smile crossed his face. “Of course, Myra. Jacob will do just as well. Doctor Turner, I look forward to working with you again.” He gave a sharp salute and left the building. Without being called, Jacob Arens and two young women slipped into the room and carried the boxes out to the vehicle.

The truck roared as is left the yard. “Well,” Trixie breathed, “That was rather an unfriendly welcome committee.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be the last time you see him, especially if we’re giving away precious supplies. We’ll never get antibiotics from the government, and now Du Plessis knows the Mission is sending them, he’ll be on every shipment.” Doctor Fitzsimmons face was tight with anger.

“I offered no medications to the Sergeant, Dr. Fitzsimmons. We’ve sent him off with a few crates of bandages, that’s all.” Shelagh crossed the room and held out the clipboard. Accepting it, the mission doctor  rifled through the pages, then gave it back in distaste. “I rather thought you were bringing more than a few plasters and cotton wool, Patrick.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Phyllis Crane wondered aloud. “Why was he content to leave the antibiotics behind?”

Fred sauntered up to the front of the group. “Perhaps because he didn’t know they were there?”  He drew a sheaf of papers from his back pocket and put them back on the clipboard.

“Fred? How on earth–” Patrick asked.

He grinned at Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner’s quick thinkin’, Doc. While his nibs was yammerin’ on, yer wife slipped the papers in me back pocket.”

“Shelagh! What if you’d been caught? Du Plessis is a dangerous man. If he finds out you kept antibiotics from him, there’ll be hell to pay. You promised there’d be no danger, and our first day, you walk right into it.” His eyes glittered with concern.

“No one here will say anything, Doctor Turner,” Phyllis’s brisk voice blanketed the room in calm. “I rather think we all know what we’re up against now.”

 

Next Chapter

Historical note:

*The South African Police served as more than the police force of South Africa in the years  1913-1994. “Beyond the conventional police functions of upholding order and solving crime, the SAP employed counter-insurgency and intimidation tactics against anti-apartheid activists and critics of the white minority government.”  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

Please see the following websites for more information:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_African_Police

http://www.nytimes.com/1997/03/25/world/apartheid-s-feared-police-prove-inept-and-corrupt.html?pagewanted=all

http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/06/world/africa/mandela-life-under-apartheid/

Sergeant Du Plessis is based on this tweet from location filming in South Africa:

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A Mission of Hope, Chapter Nine

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Previous Chapter

At precisely ten minutes before eight that morning, a young boy scampered up the stone steps to the Mission. He peeked in the entrance, then called out a few words in his native tongue. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to his assigned task and unwound a length of rope from a cleat on the stuccoed wall. He stayed there motionless until he heard a voice call out, then with a swift yank of the rope, he used his four-stone weight to ring the morning bell.

Almost instantly, children came running into the open yard from every direction, their voices filling the air with cheerful chatter. By the time the last bell had sounded, the children were lined up in orderly rows, smallest to tallest, and stood silently as they awaited the start of the day.

The newest student watched from the side, nerves beginning to show.  He glanced at his mother. “I’m older than all of them,” Timothy muttered.

“It does seem that way,” Patrick answered. “But you’ll be working on your own assignments, it won’t matter much anyway.”

“Yes, but Dad, we’re here for so long. I thought maybe I’d meet some people my own age. I can’t spend all my time with Angela and Nurse Crane.”  He shifted his bookbag on his thin shoulder.

An elderly man shuffled out from the dim school building. His white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his skin and despite his slow gait, he held himself erect.

“Good morning, children,” he called out in a deep and melodious voice.

“Good morning, Utitshala!” Twenty young voices called in return.

The teacher stood to one side of the doorway. “You may come in now.”

Obediently, the children proceeded into the little school house. As the last child entered,the old man turned to Timothy. “You must be my new charge,” the man said. “I am Philip Nkosi, but you may call me “Utitshala,” which means ‘teacher.’” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I must say I am very excited to have you here, young friend. We shall learn much from each other, I am certain.”

His easy manner seemed to relax Timothy, and the boy smiled. “I’m sure I have much more to learn from you, sir.”

Utitshala smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “You will do, Timothy Turner. And soon, you shall meet my young friend Stephen. He will come soon, and you shall have a friend.” He turned to Patrick and Shelagh and held out his hand. “Thank you for the gift of your son, Dr. and Mrs. Turner. I shall do my best to stay out of the way of his progress.”

Patrick shook his hand gratefully. “Thank you sir. We appreciate you accommodating our son during our stay.”

“We have much to learn from one another, Doctor, far beyond the academic. But there is a daughter, I was told.” He looked to Shelagh.

“Yes, Utitshala, but she is quite young. Angela will stay with Kholeka whilst I am at the hospital.”

The teacher nodded sagely. “Kholeka is a wise choice. She has raised four of her brothers and sisters already. She was quite a good student herself when she was in my school, but her family’s need was great. Well, then, Timothy Turner, shall we begin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I shall follow you, as all good teachers must. Good day, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner.”

They watched as their son entered the building. Patrick glanced at his watch impatiently. “We’ll be late, Shelagh.”

Her clear blue eyes turned their focus to him. He was nervous, she knew. She reached her hand out to his and gripped it tightly. “Then I shall follow you.”

 

Despite Patrick’s fears, the team had yet to gather in the empty east wing of the hospital. Only Fred and Nurse Crane had arrived, and both had taken the time to settle in according to character. Whilst Nurse Crane stood by the crates of medical supplies taking inventory, Fred had settled himself in a cool corner, his worn pack of cards already spread out before him.

“Mornin’, Doc, Mrs. T,” he called. “Looks like we’ve got our work set out for us, don’t it?”

The room, though clean, had all the hallmarks of a long-abandoned hall. The plaster walls were yellowed with age, the institutional brown paint on the lower half chipping away like an old fresco. Natural light glowed from the large windows and doors, the brown mullions creating a patchwork of glass. Ceiling fans circulated the air.

“It certainly does, Fred. Hopefully, we can get this place sorted and then you can get started on the water supply situation. The Mission Society promised to send a hot water heater, but apparently it’s not yet arrived.” Shelagh walked along the rows of rough-hewn furniture stacked against the back wall, creating a plan as she went.

Patrick lifted the lid of an ancient Red Cross bin and peered inside in distaste. “I’m not sure even you can make something of this place, Shelagh.” He dropped the lid and brushed the rust from his hands.

Shelagh glanced back over her shoulder. “Have no fear, Doctor Turner. This place has good bones, I’m sure we’ll make it work.” She teased, “Remember what I did with you.”

Fred chortled. “I’m afraid she has ya there, Doc.”

Phyllis looked up from the clipboard in her hands. “Between what was here already and the supplies we brought along with us, it seems we have nearly enough to set up as soon as possible, Mrs. Turner.” She handed the papers to Shelagh.

Shelagh nodded and her shoulders lifted with excitement. “We’ll have this place sorted in no time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Turner,” Trixie’s voice interrupted as she and Barbara Gilbert came through the door. “I simply had to get my “Keep Fit” exercises done this morning, and I convinced Barbara to join me. Just because we’re on a different continent is no excuse to let ourselves go.” A quick giggle took the edge off her words.

“I’m hardly letting myself go, Trixie,” Barbara muttered.

“You always thank me in the end,” came Trixie’s response. She turned about, taking in the room.

“I’m always thankful that it’s over, anyway.” Barbara dropped a bag filled with pamphlets on the nearest table.

Trixie turned about in place, taking in the room. “What a perfectly inspiring place. I can imagine Clark Gable wooing Grace Kelly in a place exactly like this.”

“I’m not certain a double feature of Mogambo and The African Queen was a good idea the week before we left, Nurse Franklin,” Phyllis Crane admonished. “We’re not likely to run into any Hollywood types here, I’m sure.”

Trixie sighed in resignation. “Yes, I suppose my dating life will be even more disappointing here than it was in Poplar. Oh, well. More energy for this!”

“I can’t imagine you not having energy for anything, Nurse Franklin,” Sister Winifred teased.

“Thank you, Sister. I must say, the two of you look so much cooler in these new linen habits. Can you imagine how frightfully uncomfortable your heavy blue habits would be right now? And it’s still morning!” Trixie continued to chatter, filling the silence.

Sister Julienne smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. “Sister Winifred and I spent some time in hospital this morning. It’s rather bereft of patients at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“That’s precisely our problem, Sister.” Dr. Fitzsimmon’s voice answered. Immediately, the focus of the room shifted. “The community is reluctant to come to us, therefore,  we must go out to them, and our resources are stretched beyond their limit. We seem to be putting out fires rather than preventing them in the first place. It’s my hope that by creating this clinic we shall bring the community to the Mission.”  

Her face remained impassive as she glanced about the room, measuring each newcomer in a look. Her eyes came to rest upon Shelagh. “Mrs. Turner, I did not realize you would be working with us as well. Though, of course, we are happy to accept any assistance.”

Shelagh felt the air leave her lungs. Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon her, her voice was composed. “Yes, Dr. Fitzsimmons, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I think you’ll find, Dr. Fitzsimmons, that Mrs. Turner is precisely the person you want setting up your clinic. We couldn’t do without her in Poplar.” Sister Julienne’s eyes met Shelagh’s for a quick moment, and for the moment, the tension that had existed between the two women for the last months disappeared.

Further discussion was interrupted by the insistent sound of a horn blaring in the front yard.

“Damn,” Myra Fitzsimmons muttered. “I’d hoped he wouldn’t descend upon us so soon.”

She turned to the team before her. “I’m afraid you are all about to see the dark side of South Africa.”

Next Chapter