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.
My Little Yellowbird 