From the start she had been enchanted by the local children, fizzing over with good health and happiness, their faces polished with smiles, well clothed and tidy as they sat on long wooden benches in the Mission school. Their village was one of the few with access to a year-round supply of fresh uncontaminated water.
Later that afternoon Jenni was led in proud procession headed by the Chief (who habitually walked about in a white robe under a black umbrella wearing a pair of Paul's dark glasses) and his elders, and accompanied by the skipping children fresh out of school. She was taken to admire an electric pump and generator installed through the efforts and fund-raising of Paul and his indefatigable team.
But the overall picture was far bleaker. And the workload was harshly demanding, just as she had been warned it would be. At the same time, to squat in a mud hut among African women and share in the joy of birth was an intensely moving experience. She relished the responsibility of organising talks on nutrition and hygiene in the villages, with the African nurses acting as interpreters; training health workers and birth assistants; prescribing and administering drugs and vaccinations. After all, back home a nurse couldn't even prescribe an aspirin!
During those early weeks, by suppertime Jenni was so weary that she ate like an automaton and would have laid her head on the table and gone to sleep there and then.
Her cheerful smile was the stubborn façade behind which she concealed her exhaustion from the rest of this band of stalwarts. The tropical heat was draining most of her energy.
But it wasn't just the climate, she knew that. If only they had better equipment, drugs, sterile dressing packs—it would make the daily routine so much simpler. Sometimes as she boiled syringes over a makeshift campfire she would shudder, remembering how in her nice modern hospital back home she had heedlessly tossed disposable syringes into the bin. Here in this primitive and isolated village a clean hypodermic was as precious as gold dust.
No packs of pre-sterilised dressings and instruments in an 'outreach' mission clinic. Everything, from bandages to scalpels, had to be packed just so in the big metal autoclave which to Jenni was like something out of the Black Museum. A rattling, hissing monster caged in its own special room and seemingly on the perpetual verge of blowing the Clinic sky-high.
At the end of a twelve-hour working day, Jenni would collapse in the privacy of her room for a precious half-hour before supper. Lying on her bed, dripping with perspiration and dive-bombed by mosquitoes, she could just hear Ross McDonnell's satisfied 'I told you so.'
Oh, the
humiliation
if she should be sent slinking home like some whipped dog beaten by Ross's stronger will.
'Physically not up to scratch. There can be no weak links in our chain. Miss Westcott.'
And disappointment was too feeble a word to describe her distress if she should be separated from Paul—and all because of another man's dislike. Small wonder Jenni found she was automatically going out of her way to avoid situations where she and the doctor might end up alone together.
Came the day when she realised she'd cracked it. Tired, but not exhausted; grimly satisfied with the day's achievements rather than depressed at so much left undone. Gritty realism taking over from the high hopes that she'd started out with. She had come through this ordeal by heat—and she knew now that she would see out the duration of her contract.
No excuse for Demon McDonnell to get rid of her now.
She jumped to her feet and punched the air like a triumphant athlete, threw some funky disco shapes. A huge and wonderful relief surged through her. Today she had worked all the way through from six-thirty to nightfall, showered and changed and was ready for supper with a huge and healthy appetite. Even for that gruesome goat stew! And tonight, for the first time, she wouldn't have to disappoint Matt Blarney with another lame excuse.
As her new friends in Dar-es-Salaam had so confidently forecast—yes, she was getting acclimatised, learning to pace herself in the enervating heat. Paul was away at Mission Headquarters in Dar. Ross was not at supper. Nor was Sylvia. No one knew where they had gone, but the Red Cross Land Rover was missing. Jenni pushed speculation about those two from her mind.
As ever, the common-room radio was tuned to the BBC World Service. No one ever seemed to switch the thing off, but Matt had his own CD player and he cleared a corner of bamboo tables and cane chairs and played his funky music. ‘Shake yo’ shimmy babe, it’s Saturday night! Yeay — Go girl!’
When the doctor and nurse arrived, late and dishevelled and demanding food, Jenni pretended not to have noticed, dancing even more uninhibitedly to demonstrate her lack of interest and her abundance of energy. 'This'll show you, Dr Boss!' she muttered beneath her breath, hips gyrating beneath a brief white broderie-anglaise skirt, Matt stomping away in his cowboy boots, only the limited space inhibiting their antics.
'Come outside,' he panted, 'more space out there. I got plenty of batteries. Tadpole, you are one amazing dancer!'
But Jenni protested that she wasn't going to ruin her white skirt in the red dust of the compound. Peering through the convenient fronds of a six-foot potted palm, she met Sylvia's chilly eye. Ross wasn't talking much; he seemed more interested in his food.
They changed CDs and put on a very old and slow Phil Collins number. Jenni linked graceful arms around Matt's neck and he held her as close as he dared. Sister Joanna was waving a hand to the rhythm and saying, 'You young people mustn't overdo it, you know.'
'Your turn next, Sister Jo!' teased Matt.
'It's the heat,' he murmured, rubbing his cheek against the hazy curls drifting over Jenni's ears and shoulders and gleaming like beaten copper in the lamplight. 'We've all got sex on the brain out here. Care to join me in the bushes, darling?'
'Matt, stop it.’ He was trying to prise up her silky cream top. ‘I say,' she lowered her voice to a whisper, 'Sylvia and Ross don't look very happy. Do you think they've had a lovers' tiff?'
Those two?' Matt gave a snort of amusement. 'Y'must be joking!'
Jenni shrugged. Yes, the doctor was a very unlovable man—but maybe love wasn't what Sylvia was after. What Matt had said about sex on the brain ... Those two must get thrown upon each other's company more than somewhat.
Sylvia's handsome face wore a look of weary petulance. She looked as lethargic as Jenni had lately felt. Perhaps it was the malaria again. Across Matt's shoulder, Jenni intercepted another of Sylvia’s bad-tempered glances at the entwined pair. She lifted her head and gave the older woman a sympathetic smile, only to see her turn her head sharply away.
Ross was ignoring them entirely.
Oh hell! thought Jenni, biting her lip. What more can I do to convince her I'm not after her precious doctor? If Sylvia kept an eye on her own man, she'd realise he's hardly glanced in my direction since he came in—contrary brute that he is. Just when I want him to notice me, he's not interested. Other times he stares as if I'm curiouser than a dinosaur! Can't win, can I, Dr McDonnell?
Another peep seemed permissible. Ross had fetched coffee for the two of them, and from his pocket was producing a hip flask. Unscrewing its silver cap, he dosed both cups, and Sylvia was smiling at him now. Jenni saw her lay her hand over his, as if to say, no more, that's enough. She wished she were close enough to overhear what they were saying. Ross lifted a hand to Sylvia's hair and tucked an untidy lock behind her left ear. An extraordinary pang pierced Jenni to the heart. From such a man it came as a shock, a rare and tender gesture ... imagine what it must be like to be on the receiving end of this disturbing doctor's caresses.
Dwelling on this made Jenni's heart beat faster. She was quite taken aback with herself for letting physical attraction get the better of her judgement.
After Ross and Sylvia got up and left the sparkle disappeared from the evening.
Matt protested when Jenni sighed and said she had really enjoyed herself, but it was time to turn in. 'I'll walk you back, then. Never know what's out there, lurking in the night.'
He laughed when Jenni shivered and pulled her close to his side, his arm reaching right around her small waist.
Sylvia's room was in total darkness. Either she was in the shower or had already turned in. Or else…
Feeling the slight tremor, Matt tightened his grip.
Jenni knew she shouldn't encourage him. Because of the way she felt about Paul, it really wasn’t fair. But when you were lonely and far from home, and Paul wasn't there and—
'Will ya listen to th-at!' exclaimed Matt.
Jenni mimicked his Southern drawl, 'Listen to wh-at?'
They paused on the verandah steps. Lazily, on the smoky night air, throbbed the slow seductive beat of some long-forgotten melody. Jenni began to hum along with it. Were there words? She didn't know them.
'Who's that?' she asked curiously.
'That'll be Ross the Boss loungin' on the verandah and smokin' a mean cigar. Sometimes you could almost believe that guy's ornery flesh'n blood when he sits outside in the dark and listens to his old jazz music. Reminds me of my Pa—he likes Miles Davis too.'
'It sounds very sad.’
'Kind of Blue.’
‘Yes, it does sound kind of blue.’
‘You never heard it before?' Matt grabbed her elbow. 'It’s famous – Kind Of Blue! C’mon we can smooch to this. ’
Jenni wrenched herself from his grasp. That comment about Ross reminding this medical student of his father only emphasised Matt's youth and inexperience. Encouraging the crush he was in danger of developing on her would be downright mischievous. She checked her watch. 'Shouldn't you be doing a round right now? Bea'll have your scalp if you’re late.’ Turning the corner, Jenni saw the doctor and smiled to herself. He had set a deckchair and table plonk in the middle of the square. A half-burned candle guttered on the table, and a small cd player was placed near his elbow. Ross leaned back with his hard-muscled legs stretched out and his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were shut. He hadn't seen her. And there was no sign of Sylvia.
Quietly Jenni opened her door and gathered her washing things. To get to the bathroom she must cross where Ross was sitting, or take the chicken route, creeping round the verandah to escape notice.
The keening melancholy sound concealed the flip-flap of her espadrilles as wrapped in her black-rose kimono Jenni sauntered past Ross in his deckchair. His back was towards her. Neither acknowledged the other.
Sylvia was in the showers. Jenni called out, 'Good night, Sylvia,' and heard the spray switched off, followed by a friendly enough, 'Night, Jen!' that lifted the younger girl's spirits.
Ross's presence had turned a two-minute stroll into a minefield. Wasn’t it typically egotistical to switch off the outside lights and park himself smack in the middle of the open square so one had to weave one's way round him in the darkness. His candle had burned away now to the merest glimmer, but the doctor was so engrossed in his mood music and his reverie that he hadn't noticed. A penny for your thoughts, she'd have liked to offer. Ross drew deeply on his cigar. The glowing point intensified and above it his eyes suddenly glittered in the darkness. You demon Doctor, thought Jenni with a shiver of fascination.
It was still Kind of Blue; he hadn't changed the cd and the combination of music and starlight was sheer magic…
All of a sudden it came to her, the most amusing idea. Dr Boss seems to need cheering up tonight. I'll ask him to dance with me! Why not? He can only bite my head off! And if he turns me down then I'll know for sure that man is inhuman—for who could resist a slow dance beneath the stars on a night such as this?
Hardly dressed for it, are you, you brazen hussy, pointed out the voice of common sense. You haven't even got your knickers on. Remember what Matt said? They're all sex-mad. You'll get thrown into the bushes and—
'Good night, Dr McDonnell,' she murmured as she passed, her eyes demurely downcast, biting her lips to control the laughter rippling through her voice.
'Ah ... good night—' His eyes dwelt on the slender figure, a sylph mingling with the velvety night.
He seemed momentarily to have forgotten who she was, preoccupied by his own deep thoughts. Jenni's mood altered on the instant. Her laughter faded from her lips. She was glad she hadn't intruded with that silly impetuous suggestion. What was it Bea had once said? That she sensed a great unhappiness in Ross's past. At the time, not knowing the man very well and not liking what little she did know, Jenni couldn't have cared tuppence. But now she sensed that he was feeling sad, and she was sorry.
Concealing herself behind one of the wooden posts, Jenni watched the lone figure. Cigar smoke spiralled upward through guttering candlelight just to the right of the shadowy head.
Yes, Ross could be rude and impossible and casual; but these in themselves were provocative qualities and set the adrenalin flowing in a most exciting way. And of course, he was an admirable doctor, she reminded herself as she let herself back into her bedroom.
Every night her hair must be plaited before she got into bed - the only way to tame that riot of curls so it would be easy to style in the early morning. 'My hairbrush!' exclaimed Jenni in annoyance. 'I've left it in the bathroom. Oh, flip!'
She tightened her kimono belt and crept stealthily along the passage. There was no one about. The early-to-beds had been snoring their heads off for hours; the late-birds were still playing Uno in the common-room.
The deckchair was empty and the candle had gone out. And Ross was gone.
'Well! How strange.' Jenni folded her arms and shivered. Something wasn't right, something was ... different. She peered shortsightedly into the dimness as if a clue might lie in the deserted deckchair or the dribble of candlewax.
Her ears proved sharper than her eyes. The music had been replaced by a new and frightening sound, the unmistakable throb of African war-drums, beating in ominous rhythm. And seeming to come from the village down by the river. What could it mean? Should she wake someone? Had Ross gone to investigate, alone, a white man in the mysterious spirit-haunted African night?