Lamplight accentuated the harsh lines etched into the planes and hollows of the priest's grave countenance. He gestured with long-fingered hands as he spoke. 'We’re working among a fearful and superstitious people who believe that during
usiku
—the hours of darkness—dangerous spirits roam the land and magic is rife. There's a world of anxiety here in the bush. You've noticed it yourself, haven't you, Ross? How they mull over your every word and expression: "Did the doctor frown when he was speaking to me? Is that why I'm not getting better?" They love and fear you at one and the same time.'
Ross was nodding, and his face mirrored Paul's grimness.
Jenni sat very still.
She was beginning now to have some inkling of the complex nature of Paul's work in Africa. It wasn't how she'd imagined it—a simple matter of going round preaching and everyone seeing the light and saying 'Praise the Lord!' Here was a challenge far more profound than some love affair that had gone wrong. No wonder Paul was physically altered, no wonder he had grown contemplative and ... and ...
Wise, decided Jenni in awe. It was no longer so easy to picture him as a married man with a wife and family of his own. The children of the bush were his children; their families were his families. She had a peculiar feeling that he would never want to leave Africa and come home—and that suspicion gave rise to a disquiet she hastily pushed to the back of her mind, to be worried over in total privacy, some other time.
'Well, our Jen, not regretting your decision?'
'Not in the least!' she said fervently. Then lapsed into silence.
Ross was bound to consider her gushing and ingenuous if she babbled on about why she was so sure, so soon, that she'd made the right decision in coming to Africa. Sure about the satisfactions of her work; far less certain, though, about her relationship with Paul.
Ross was flicking through an old copy of Private Eye but Jenni was acutely aware that he was listening and ready to pounce.
'I'm not being much use at the moment,' she acknowledged—well, if she didn't say it first, Ross surely would. During the afternoon session whenever the doctor had asked for a specific item—a pair of surgical gloves to replace the ones he'd just split, or a tongue depressor — while she had bumbled around uncertainly, one of the African helpers had brought what Papa Mganga required within seconds.
Ross quirked an eyebrow and Jenni thought she detected a slight grimace turn down the corners of that steeltrap mouth. She waited tight-lipped for him to tell Paul she was more hindrance than help.
But Ross wasn't rising to the bait. His heavy-lidded gaze slid back to the printed page.
In his affectionate way Paul reached over and gave her hand a warm brotherly squeeze. ‘Give it time, sweetheart, give it time.'
‘After a big London hospital, I think—well, there's a simplicity about life at Mbusa Wa Bwino… It’s going to be deeply satisfying working here.’ Nothing like making yourself a hostage to fortune, but Jenni knew she meant every word and if the doctor was silently sneering
‘Dream on, ginger!’
that was just too bad.
'It's totally different from anything I've ever known. The experience of a lifetime. Already I'm asking myself if I'll ever want to go back to the UK.'
Golden eyes flicked challengingly to the doctor's face. Only to find herself defying the back of his head since he had swivelled round in his chair to hold out his coffee cup for a refill.
Paul gestured to her empty cup. 'More coffee, sweetheart?'
He used to call her that when she was doing school exams and very reluctantly wore prescription reading glasses because dad couldn’t afford to pay for contact lenses. It was Paul who comforted her when the Year Ten boys called her 'sexy spexy'.
'No, thanks. I need to get a really good sleep tonight.'
'Would you mind passing me the sugar,' interrupted Ross's deep voice.
'Of course,' Jenni murmured ambiguously, handing him the bowl of brown sugar.
Take two
big spoonfuls to sweeten you up
. But then she felt contrite, for hadn't he been reasonable company this evening, and shouldn't he be given some credit for that revelation about the
uchavi
incident?
Trouble is, considered Jenni, frowning and perplexed, I just don't know what to make of this man. He hasn't an ounce of charm - but there is a certain magnetism there. Could this be what they mean when they talk about
charism
a? …
I'd really like to find out more about Ross McDonnell. For starters, how’s he picked up that trace of an Aussie accent. And what motivates him—apart from living for his medicine? What could have driven Ross McDonnell to the Good Shepherd Mission? Who's he running away from?
So many questions …
'Hear that, Ross?' grinned Paul.
He clearly liked and respected his medical colleague and the two men seemed to have an easy, even jocular relationship. 'Nurse here wants her beauty sleep, so none of your Miles Davis tonight.'
Suddenly there was a flurry at the door and Sylvia Anstey came in, a navy cardigan slung across her shoulders and the smell of hospitals clinging to her white uniform. 'Ross?' she called sharply. 'You're needed on the men's ward. Matt's having a spot of trouble with the old man.'
Ross got to his feet, stretching his big frame as if there were all the time in the world. A few people looked up, but it seemed an emergency was nothing special, and most, after a cursory interest, returned to their games of chess or Scrabble, their dog-eared copies of Hello or their letters home.
Sylvia's ponytail was collapsing in an untidy mass of tendrils. She looked attractively flushed, if rather harassed. ‘Come on, Ross,’ she said crossly as if keen to get him away from the new nurse’s side. Disturbing visions of witchcraft abroad in the dark of the night reeled through Jenni’s over-active imagination. 'I’ll come,' she offered tentatively.
'Don't bother,' the other nurse said curtly. 'Just be on time for the morning shift.' Clearly it was Ross she wanted and Ross alone.
Quite understandably, thought Jenni, trying not to feel hurt. Sylvia was tired. And hours of long night stretched ahead. Anyway, she realised on a flash of intuition, they were probably having an affair—bossy doctor and the only British and available nurse on the scene. Sylvia, no doubt, saw a new arrival as competition. If she did but know, there was no love lost between the doctor and the flame-headed nurse …
ginger indeed!
'Paul, could you ... ?' Sylvia fluttered her eyelashes. 'There's a language problem.'
Ye gods, Paul too
! Jenni pouted visibly, her guard down.
Paul's response was crisp where Ross's was laconic. 'Right away.'
He clasped Jenni in a bear-hug, looking down on the sweet-smelling top of her head - no higher than the middle button of his shirt. 'Sleep tight, God bless,' he said.
Ross had strolled over to the door. He said something to Sylvia, and she gave a backward glance at the freckled redhead.
Hell's bells, Sylvia, you don't have to worry about me, muttered Jenni to herself as she followed the trio through the compound at a discreet distance. You're welcome to your doctor. Just wish I dared tell you about me and Paul and set your mind at rest. If I get the chance I'll drop a subtle hint ...
The others went into the hospital and Jenni made her way alone to the sleeping quarters. Single electric bulbs strung out along a line in hazy patches of light guided her way.
She was so pre-occupied she didn't even notice that after the warmth of the common room she was shivering.
Then for an instant the generator faltered— causing Jenni to bite back a shriek. Automatically her arms shot out and her heartbeats drummed a wild tattoo. Gone the rational world of the Mission as she plunged from her reverie into
usiku
—the mystical, fear-charged blackness of the African night.
No more than a second of sheer blind terror ...
As the lights flickered back on, Jenni for the second time that day sped for dear life across the compound—to the uncertain safety of her room.
Most Africans lived in tribal villages, cultivating annual crops on very small plots of poor land. It was one thing doing her research in the calm of the British Library in St Pancras and quite another coming face to face with reality…
Jenni and Matt, strolling past the village on a rare and precious lunch break, could see the adult men lolling about among the huts in the midday heat. Down by the river in the parched stony fields were the women - toiling away, bashing at the hard ground with a sort of short-handled hoe and digging up what looked like dahlia tubers. 'That’s disgraceful,' exclaimed Jenni, indignant at such unfair division of labour. 'All that hard work, Matt. Why don’t the men help out instead of lazing about like that?’
‘No good asking me, kiddo,’ shrugged Matt with a grin. ‘That’s the way it goes over here. Not for us to interfere with their daily routine.’
‘What's that plant over there? How can it get that tall when there’s no rain?’
'Easy to tell you're a city girl, Tadpole. They’re digging up roots of the cassava plant. Personally I like sweet potatoes but maybe they don't do well in these parts. The tall stuff’s maize. Down here by the river the soil's better and they can irrigate the young plants. It's quite easy to grow and the birds tend to leave it alone. East Africans are real keen on maize. They make flour from it as well—'
'And look! It’s great for a game of hide and seek!' interrupted Jenni, pointing to some children playing among the tall leafy plants. 'Oh-o, there's one of the mothers telling them to pack it in, what a shame. Phew, here's a bit of shade, Matt, let’s sit and eat here and admire the view.'
They munched contentedly at sweet, stubby bananas and home-baked rolls filched from the dining room. Below them, its muddy edges imprinted with a confusion of animal tracks and footprints, flowed the sluggish brown river, low between its banks.
'And what work do the boys do when they aren't in school?' demanded Jenni with a frown.
'Matt was leaning back against the tree trunk, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. 'Quit agitatin' about the inequality of African women! The boys do their bit too. You must've seen 'em early every morning, driving the village's communal herd of cattle past the Medical Centre and down to the grazing grounds on the far side of the Mbusa Wa Bwini. Hey, don't give all your lunch away!' he protested as a little girl sneaked herself on to Jenni's lap for a cuddle, a piece of banana clutched in her small plump fist. 'These people don't eat in the daytime.'
'Oh, the children must do, surely. Look at this poppet, she’s hungry?' The child was attempting to share her food with Jenni, smearing banana mush all over her freckled face. Jenni just laughed but Matt said, 'Ugh, don't know how you could. C'mon,' he urged with a glance at his watch, 'we better get along back.'
That break by the river was a rare treat. As a general rule each waking hour was crammed to the minute with activity. Grab a meal, get to the ward, rush to a clinic, speed by Red Cross truck to visit the village settlements. Don't waste a second. So little time, so much to do. And the doctor's all-seeing eye scrutinising her every move, ready waiting for the first sign of weakness, of not being up to the job. Like hell she'd give him the opportunity to fire her!
'Let's clear the floor and have ourselves a disco!' suggested Matt after supper on Saturday night. Too late—Jenni's head was already nodding over the mango pudding.
She was finding out the hard way that for a nurse newly arrived from England it required a superhuman effort to work efficiently in the tropical heat. And she seemed permanently thirsty. The flies particularly got her down. They were everywhere—a plague.
But Nurse Westcott was not going to show publicly the extent of her fatigue. Not a murmur of complaint should escape her determinedly smiling lips.
Kindly Sister Beatrice, perceiving the hollow-eyed glitter of exhaustion, insisted Jenni take the occasional hour’s breathing space. 'Can’t have Paul accusing me of working you into the ground. Now be off with you. Out of my sight. Who told you you were indispensable around here?’
Jenni grinned, unabashed. 'Oh, thank you, Bea! OK if I nip over to the school and hand over the letters I was telling you about? The ones from the kids in Dad’s Sunday School, asking for pen-friends? And I have photos too. I must show you them.' There had been no further mention of her supposed weeks of 'trial'. It appeared to be strictly between the doctor, the priest, and the by-nature-rebellious Nurse Westcott.
Not much romance about the whole adventure now. Paul was no longer the lover-boy of a young girl's dreams. In fact he was causing the mature Jenni the occasional nightmare from which she awoke with a start, struggling to remember where she was, and why. Generally it took the form of a harassed and heavily pregnant Jenni, her swollen form draped in a batik-printed kanga, surrounded by freckled blond toddlers, all boys and all kicking footballs round the one room of a wattle-and-daub hut while she struggled to support a wriggling baby on one hip and stir the cooking pot with the other - at the same time trying to discipline children who scarcely knew their father from Adam and who seemed intent on turning their wretched mother's fiery hair snow-white.
Dear old Paul. Any woman sharing his life would have to accept that she took second place, and Jenni knew she was too volatile to put up with that. Perhaps, she found herself pondering, she'd never marry. After all, if in twenty-four years she had never found Paul's equal, then in all probability she never would.
It was at this point, as she lay flat on her back, meditating in the darkness and shrouded by mosquito netting, that the image of a tall sweaty unshaven man, leaning bold-eyed and insolent against her door jamb, superimposed itself so remarkably on her inner vision that Jenni sat up, open-mouthed and wide awake, clutching the thin sheet to her throat and almost convinced Ross McDonnell himself was right this moment, there, just outside her room—
What an extraordinary trick of the imagination, when it was Paul she was thinking of and the doctor was the very last person on her mind … but listen!