A/N: I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible with this chapter in order to explain some of the questions I have about how a team of nuns and medics from the poorest part of London could get to South Africa. (Hint: it involves a great deal of suspension of disbelief, a generous benefactor, two planes, a train and a bus, and two nights in hotels–What? you don’t think that’s realistic?? It’s AU, baby!!).
Also, I’ve introduced apartheid and Homelands in this chapter and have tried to do so in a correct historical context of early 1962. Any errors are innocently meant. There are links below that will offer clarity.
One last thing. Did you know that a group of giraffes has two different collective nouns? A group of standing giraffes is called a “tower,” while a group of running giraffes is called a “jenny.”
Sometimes I really love English.
A battered train chugged through the pale yellow bushveld, lacking any of the urgency and determination of its European brethren. Miles distant, the blue shadows of the Great Escarpment jutted out from the veld, sequestering the Eastern Cape from the world. The sky glowed with a bright blue never seen in London, an enormous dome that refused admittance to any clouds.
It was as if God had used an entirely different palette of colors when He created this part of the world. Yellow and blue shimmered here in a way never seen on the sunniest day in England, challenging the eye to see more than it could. Green was deeper, darker and more mysterious than the pale greens of the English oak. Even the greys were different from London greys.
Within the first class carriage, Shelagh watched the scenery pass unchanged for miles. The pale gold of the mid-summer grasses was dotted with clumps of bushes and the occasional sinewy tree. The heat of the midday sun forced animals into shady spots, unseen from the train. In all, the effect was hypnotizing.
Shelagh shook herself from her quiet and stretched lightly. In the bench across from her, Angela lay curled up on Patrick’s lap, the two lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the train. Shelagh smiled as she watched them breathe in tandem, Angela gently sucking her thumb as her father snored.
Not all of the passengers slept in the compartment. Sisters Julienne and Winifred both read from their Bibles. A catch-as-catch-can sort of schedule had been adopted for their daily offices, but both nuns were used to irregular schedules. Fred sat at an end of the car, a game of Solitaire spread out on the seat next to him. Trixie and Barbara sat across from Tom Hereward, a curious sort of trio. Timothy and Phyllis Crane sat in the first row of seats, eyes out the window as they catalogued everything they could see.
Shelagh rose and began to pace along the length of the car. No other passengers had joined them in this car since they had left the port city of East London, despite the activity at each stop. She paused for a moment to observe Fred’s game, then tapped a card. He glanced up, then sheepishly shifted a stack. A moment with the sisters, another quiet conversation with the nurses, and she took a seat with her son.
“It’s hard to believe we were having tea in Nonnatus house only three days ago,” remarked Nurse Crane over the sound of the engine.
“It would have been much longer if we didn’t have the Missionary Society escorting us everywhere,” Timothy replied. Indeed, John Taylor had pulled enough strings to make the team from Poplar feel more like dignitaries than a travelling medical team. Missionary agents met the party each step of the way, paving over the arduous task of international travel. Acclimating new missionaries was a top priority of the Christian Missionary Society. There were struggles enough ahead that could cause attrition, getting the help to Africa was the very least that could be done.
Connecting flights had been arranged between Heathrow, Nairobi and East London, South Africa, effectively minimizing delays. At each stop along the way, a different Society representative greeted them and handled arrangements for nightly accommodations, as evening travel was unreliable. After an early flight to East London, they were escorted to a small hotel near the sea for the night. Worn out from the travel, they were grateful for a day of rest before boarding a train to Alice, situated twelve miles south of the Hope Mission.
Shelagh stretched her back and looked at the stack of books between her son and the no-nonsense nurse. Over the past weeks, Timothy and Phyllis Crane had formed an unexpected bond. While the others spent the last month of preparation in accumulating and packing supplies for the mission, they gathered every book, travel brochure and periodical they could, resulting in a collection of knowledge fit for the British High Commission in Pretoria. Timothy focussed on the flora and fauna of the region. Phyllis Crane was an expert in the unusual laws of the South African people.
“Though I suppose we’ll be spending most of our time in Ciskei, what they call a ‘homeland,’ and not ‘South Africa,’ to be precise,” Phyllis had informed the group at one of the gatherings before the departure. There was so much to organize in such a short time that semi-weekly meetings had been deemed necessary. Nonnatus House became a sort of home base for these meetings and a temporary center for the donations and medical supplies they would bring to Africa.
Patrick had looked up from the large box of medical syringes on the dining room table. “What do you mean, not ‘South Africa’?”
“Just, that, doctor. Officially, we are not going to be working in South Africa. Last year, the government of South Africa created specific areas within the nation with the express purpose of settling blacks within those borders. They’re technically independent.” She walked over to the map she had requisitioned from the Mission Society. “Hope Mission is located here,” using her pen she pointed to a small area of the canvas. A rough outline had been marked in ink on the outdated map. “Just within the eastern border of Ciskei.”
“The government forced people to leave their homes and settle somewhere else?” Trixie’s voice showed her outrage.
“Yes.” Phyllis capped her pen and faced the group.
“But why would they move people in the first place?” Patrick abandoned the syringes. “Why would they go to the effort of moving such a large number of people from their homes? It doesn’t make sense.”
Phyllis sighed, and folded her glasses back up, slipping them into her uniform pocket. “It seems the official stance on the subject is to grant a sort of autonomy for the Blacks. The argument is that by keeping language groups together, with similar traditions, they will be able to govern themselves. However, from what I can determine, there’s a much darker reason, I’m afraid.”
“How do you mean?” Patrick questioned. By now, the attention of everyone in the room had shifted to Phyllis.
“South Africa has a rather difficult history, as you know. The apartheid system,” she glanced around the room and saw the nods of understanding–everyone had done their homework it seemed— “has been in effect in fact if not official doctrine for a very long time. From what I can gather, the resettlement has more to do with sequestering the Blacks away from the Whites than granting independence. Technically, these four regions are independent, and not the responsibility of the South African government. By pretending these regions are no longer part of the official nation, the government can justify eliminating the few remaining political rights Blacks have within South Africa. Not to mention, if they can claim the homelands are not South African territory, the government has no reason to financially support the regions whatsoever.”
“That would explain why Dr. Fitzsimmons sent out the call for help,” mused Patrick. “A growing population and diminishing resources. We’re all too familiar with that set of problems.”
Phyllis looked about the room once more. “Doctor Turner is correct, I’m afraid. The problems of the Hope Mission are likely to be similar to problems we have encountered in Poplar, but I’m afraid that the scale will be on a level none of us have ever seen.”
Less than a day after their arrival in South Africa, the rightness of Nurse Crane’s words was becoming apparent. Signs hung above doors to businesses, hotels and even train carriages directing people along racial lines. Their train compartment was empty but for their party, as few whites were travelling, but the three cars in the rear were near overflowing. And while the medical team from Poplar enjoyed comfortable cushions and a clean car, the cars set aside for the Non-Whites were crowded and uncomfortable. Segregated by the invisible fence of custom and law, the tension here was certainly greater than back home.
Timothy glanced back at his sleeping father and sister. “Dad’s snoring.” he mocked. “He always snores when he sleeps sitting up. I don’t know how Angela can always nap on his lap with that noise.”
Shelagh grimaced. “Timothy, be nice. Your father works very hard. And I think your sister is delighted to spend time with him any way she can.” She poked his shoulder and teased, “Just for that, Mr. Always, you’re on Angela duty when she wakes.”
“I’d mind your mother, Timothy,” Phyllis nudged. “I recall you were none to happy to be following your sister up and down the aisle on that aeroplane to Nairobi. My, that girl does have energy!”
Shelagh stood. “I’d better get back in case she does wake. Timothy, I have the last few biscuits if you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” he quipped.
The scenery outside her window had not varied since her walk, so Shelagh turned her attention to the sleeping pair before her. Angela’s skin was already pink from her afternoon at the ocean yesterday. Hopefully, she would be more willing to keep her dress on when there were no ocean waves to tempt her. One day in the surf and sand had convinced the little girl she should be a mermaid, and they were still finding contraband seashells in her pockets.
Patrick’s face had some color too, and in his sleep, the stress of the last months eased. The new lightweight linen clothes suited him, his lean figure cool and elegant in the pale tan material. Of all the tasks she had completed in preparation for the journey, shopping for a warm weather wardrobe for her family had been her favorite. Shelagh sighed lightly, and her eyes traveled back up to her husband’s face.
His eyes were open, bright with a gleam meant for her alone. The slow smirk that crossed his face showed her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he winked. In an instant, Shelagh’s dimple appeared and she shook her head at him coyly. She glanced about the carriage nervously, then seemed to make a decision. Her eyes on his, she slowly stretched across the space dividing them and skimmed his shin with her foot.
His eyes widened in surprise as he considered a response, but a snuffle from Angela broke the mood. “I’ll remember that later, my love” Patrick whispered.
“Angela,” Tim cried from his bench at the front of the car.
“Timothy,” Shelagh shushed him. She turned to see the members of their group standing to look out the train windows on one side of the carriage. “What on earth?”
“Giraffes! Wake Angela! She’ll want to see them!” Tim called over his shoulder.
Patrick carried his slowly rousing daughter to the wide window across the train. In the distance, marula trees bowed over the bush, their wide crowns of leaves creating pools of shade on the sun-baked land.
“Look, Angela! What do you see?” Like the others, Patrick’s voice was child-like with excitement.
“Raffe!” the little girl shouted. “Raffe!” She began to look about her frantically.
“Here you go, darling,” Shelagh cooed, holding out a small wooden giraffe in her palm.
Angela clutched the figurine in her chubby hand and gave it a noisy kiss. “Raffe, Dada. See?” She pointed her hand at the tower of giraffes lazily nibbling on the bulbous fruit hanging from the branches. Patrick lowered her to stand on the seat next to her brother. “Raffes eating!” Her happy squeal was infectious.
“Yes, Angel girl, the giraffes are eating. And do you know who knows more about giraffes than anyone on this train, sweetheart?” Patrick’s eyes widened in encouragement.
“Timofee!” Angela cheered. None but Timothy would do, now, and the boy pretended a groan.
Fred hunkered down on the next bench and adjusted the window to keep the excited two-year old within the train. “Well, little miss, I gotta tell ya. This sure ain’t Poplar.”
Here are some links to sites that may make this all make a bit more sense:
Photo: The Great Escarpment and the Bushveld
Another response to a prompt suggestion by Like-an-Officer-and-a-Sergeant over on Tumblr. I think the title speaks for itself.
My Little Yellowbird 
