Previous Chapter

The road to Hope Mission was a relic from the days of British colonialism, a wide byway meant for wagons pulling crops and lumber to the frontier outpost of Alice. Years of neglect had left it barely driveable in parts.  The twelve miles to the mission were not kind to any vehicle, and the Mission’s dusty maroon and tan bus did not make the journey gracefully.

“I never thought I’d miss the top of a double-decker barrelling down the commercial road,” Trixie complained. She gripped the seat in front of her fiercely, trying to keep from tumbling to the floor.  

“Think of it like this, Trixie,” Barbara advised. “It’s better than that old bus Tom uses for church trips!”

The two exchanged grins, ignoring the cry of protest from the vicar. The alliance between the two nurses had strengthened since the autumn, to the point where poor Tom sometimes felt like he was the third wheel.

“You two young ladies are very ungrateful,” Fred wagged a finger from his seat across the aisle. “That ol’ omnibus has a history!”

“Yes, Fred. It’s Pre-Historic!” Trixie quipped.

The bus lurched in the road and sent up a cloud of dust behind it. “Better than an English rollercoaster,” the driver called out with a cheerful laugh. Small and wiry, Jacob Arends drove with more enthusiasm than skill, but his wide grin and friendly manner had done more to settle nerves as the team completed the final leg of their journey than all the polished manners of the Mission Society escorts.

“Soon we will be at our Mission,” he assured them over his shoulder. “We are most excited to have you stay.”

“I would be most excited if he didn’t drive us into a ditch,” Patrick muttered as he swayed with the bus’s motion.

Shelagh’s lips pressed together and she smoothed Angela’s hair. The poor little girl was near the end of her tether with all the travel. “Almost there, darling, and then we’ll let you have a nice run ‘round. Patrick, you’re just nervous. Dr. Fitzsimmons wrote to you for a reason, dearest, you’re sure to help.”

“Some boxes of supplies and a few weeks service. What do I know about bush medicine? I’m a place-filler until the Mission Society can get a trained mission doctor here, that’s all.” His crossed arms and pursed lips gave him a petulant look.

“Patrick,” Shelagh soothed. Sometimes her husband was his own worst enemy. He needed to be busy, and the forced idleness of these days of travel had left him to worry more than she liked. “You’re more than trained for this. Certainly we’ll have challenges, but it’s not just your medical skills that will be of help here, dearest. You want to help people; you want to make their lives better. Dr. Fitzsimmons couldn’t have made a better choice when she sent you that letter.”

He glanced down at her bright blue eyes, full of encouragement and a reluctant grin tugged at the side of his mouth. “What would I do without you, Shelagh?”

“For one thing, you’d eat yourself sick. You certainly made a feast of the bobotie at the hotel last night!” Shelagh teased. Patrick was not the most adventurous of eaters, but their first official meal in South Africa had been a success.

His eyes lit up. “I only ate two servings last night! It’s not my fault is was so much like your shepherd’s pie.”

“Flatterer, you had three servings, and you finished Angela’s, too.”

“I was simply making sure she didn’t let the sultanas go to waste.”

“And the mince, and the crust, too, I’m certain.” A dimple peeked out from Shelagh’s suppressed grin.

Leaning in conspiratorially, Patrick whispered loudly, “Angela, I think Mummy’s asking for a kiss.”

“Dad,” groaned the boy seated behind them. “Please don’t embarrass me at the Mission with that mushy stuff. It’s bad enough I have to see it at home.”

Shelagh giggled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timothy dear.”

Timothy rolled his eyes, then sat forward. “Mr. Arends said the next time he goes into Alice, he can take me to look at the University there. It’s the only library in the whole region.”

“We’ll see, Tim,” Patrick answered. “Let’s get settled at the Mission before we make any plans. We’re here for a purpose, not a sightseeing trip.”

Jacob Arends had other ideas, it seemed, and he slowed the bus to point out features along the way.  As they drove farther from Alice, the terrain began to change. The lonely thorn trees of the veld gave way to low bushes and tufts of pale grasses that swayed in the breeze, creating hiding places for the grazing animals as they took rest from the heat. Miles ahead, the green deepened, making a gradual climb up an imposing forested ridge.

“Up ahead, you see the mountain? That is Hogsback, most beautiful mountain God made. It is three, maybe four miles from our village, and the most lovely green mountain. The rivers there, they make waterfalls and a lake so deep there is no bottom.”

The bus rumbled through a dense copse of trees, upsetting a flock of bright birds. “There!” called out Tom Hereward. “In the tree–monkeys!”

“Those are vervets, Mr. Vicar. They pose no danger to you, but they will steal the food from your hand if you are not careful,” the driver advised.

“It’ll be just like have Sister Monica Joan with us,” laughed Trixie.

“Mr. Arends, what are those funny round buildings? We’ve seen them from the train, but could not place them,” piped in Sister Winifred.  A cluster of round buildings, bright with a white stucco and thatched roofs  sat upon a swell in the plain.

“Those are rondavels. They are Xhosa homes,” his voice clicked on the name.

“But why are they round?” Sister Winifred asked. “It seems a funny sort of shape for a building.”

“Why would they not be round? A square house, it has too many corners for snakes to hide.”

A low groan came from the back of the bus. A self-appointed quartermaster, Fred kept watch over the fragile boxes of medical equipment. “Snakes? ” his voice was high. “I hate snakes!”

Jacob Arends shook his head sagely as he looked back in the rearview mirror. “Then I am very sorry for you, my new friend.”

Another turn and the road moved north from the river. The bus groaned, demanding its rest, and lumbered another hundred yards before it passed under an old iron gate. Blaring the horn, Jacob read the sign aloud, “Welcome to Hope Mission!”

A collection of one-storey buildings, the mission nestled in a large clearing guarded by two gnarled olive trees. The stucco of its white stone walls gleamed brightly in the sun, topped by a steeply sloped tin roof, and was bookended by two symmetrical additions. Tall casement windows segmented the facade, high off the ground. A set of stone steps led up to a low belfry, welcoming visitors.

To the left of the main building, a long dormitory stretched to the back of the clearing, a row of windows chasing down its length.  On the other side of the main building stood several smaller, squat buildings, each with a clear purpose. Located closest to the well-pump, these buildings housed the kitchens, a laundry, and a generator room.

Eleven sets of anxious eyes peered out the bus windows. Six weeks of preparation suddenly did not seem like such a long time.  “It’s square,” gulped Sister Winifred.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick stood and approached the front of the bus.  “Thank you, Mr. Arendt. You’ve been most kind.” He turned to the team before him. “I want to thank you all, as well. I couldn’t possibly here manage without you.”

“We are all behind you, Doctor Turner,” Sister Julienne assured him. “If I might say a small prayer?”

He nodded. “Of course, Sister.”

Sister Julienne stood at her place and began, “Oh. Lord, guide us as we strive to carry out your work. Help us to bring healing and mercy to those in need, and give us the wisdom to learn more than we can teach. Amen.”

Jacob hopped down the bus steps and called out to the people that had begun to gather outside the bus, his voice clicking with sounds still strange to those used to the pattern of English, and a young boy ran to ring the mission bell.

One by one, the weary team stepped down from the bus into the bright sunlight, nervous smiles answering the dark cheerful faces before them.

Jacob turned his attention back to the group. “I am told Dr. Fitzsimmons is in the ward, she will be here quite soon, doctor,” Jacob announced. “Please, you must all follow me.” He stepped toward the main building, but before he could lead the group in, a woman rushed down the front steps.

“Patrick Turner!” she called. “I knew you were the man to count on!”

Next Chapter

A/N: The image I’ve used to base my Mission is that of a missionary school for Bantus near Middelburg, Transvaal, taken in September of 1964. You can find it here.

Xhosa (pronounced Kosa in English) in a South African language that features clicks as part of its phonetics. This video will give you an idea of how the sounds are made. Careful, though. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself practicing for hours!