by Ramsay, Anna
Tonight Ross was going to see the London Jenni, the confident, capable woman of the world.
Tomorrow he would watch her in action. And though she wasn't anything exceptional, she was a nurse with a heart and a skilled pair of hands. What more did the doctor want?
Jenni had inherited her mother’s delicate colouring and artistic hand and eye. A few deft strokes of smoky eye colour and she had made the most of her hazel-gold eyes, adding a subtle browny-pink lipgloss to minimise what she thought were over-full lips.
Defying Ross McDonnell's sinister advice about not bothering to unpack more than she would need for one night, Jenni deliberately emptied her cases. She'd hand over the medical supplies tomorrow; to give them to Ross tonight might look like a peace-offering and her pride wouldn’t stoop to that.
She made a rapid decision over dress: not that the choice was extensive. A long skirt in coffee linen and a loose boxy white cotton top should be okay. No bra. No one would notice.
A hand mirror was all she had to go on. You'll have to do, Tadpole! she informed her image, firmly closed the door of her room and ventured out.
In search of her man.
Chapter Three
Jenni had in mind visiting the tin-roofed Mission church. When Paul arrived he would discover her sitting there quietly, waiting for him in the silence.
But on closer inspection the church was not the peaceful oasis she had anticipated. Across the compound she could hear an enthusiastic session of choir practice augmented by African drums, so she changed her plans and veered in the direction of the medical centre where she would be working in less than twelve hours' time. Might be as well to get some idea of the layout.
She was just telling herself that the window on the left, too high to peer through, must belong to that treatment room she'd been dumped in after her wretched 'accident', when a voice rang out behind her from twenty yards away.
'Jenni!'
Jenni froze in her tracks.
It was several seconds before she could bring herself to turn and acknowledge the speaker. Only to realise her mistake, for it wasn't Paul at all but Matt, stethoscope slung round his neck, vigorously beckoning her over.
She strolled across, trying to look cool and nonchalant, while a telltale pulse-beat throbbed in her temples.
'Paul's here. He's looking for you. He went thataway.'
'Where's thataway?' Her voice sounded oddly strangulated.
Matt pointed to a battered dust-covered truck parked in the shade of a baobab tree alongside a low mud-brick building. 'You'll find him in his office over there in Admin. Guess I have a ward round right now. See y'later, Tadpole.'
Admin seemed a grandiose description for the primitive bungalow which was one of the original buildings and served a dual function as office and bed-sits for Paul and his African assistant priest, Father Thomas. Squinting against the last light of day, Jenni's eye followed the direction of Matt's pointing finger and her heart gave a jump of alarm as two tall broad-shouldered men emerged into the sunshine, each dipping his head to avoid the cross-lintel of the door frame. One was the doctor; the other, surpassing even Ross McDonnell for height and breadth, a bearded priest in a white cassock, a lean hand stroking his chin as he listened to what the doctor had to say.
They hadn't noticed her yet. And though she was too far away to hear, Jenni was filled with foreboding. After all, Ross wasn't bluffing. And he'd beaten her to it in bending Paul's ear.
All of a sudden Paul's hearty laughter rang across the compound, a reassuringly familiar sound. What am I worrying about? Jenni chided herself. That's my champion over there! Paul’s sticking up for me, I’ll bet.
All the same, as she hovered there, mutely observing those two tall powerful-looking figures, she was aware of a sense of acute disappointment. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! The reunion should be private, intimate. Like a seventeen-year-old she had envisaged herself breaking into a run and hurling herself into Paul's outstretched arms. But how could she, with Ross McDonnell not two feet from Paul's side, hands on hips and those hawk eyes swivelling till they rested darkly on the hesitant prey.
Paul's shout broke through her indecision. 'Jenni!' And yes, his arms opened wide, clearly expecting her to come flying across the compound with all the exuberance of the teenager he remembered. His wonderful, kind, encouraging smile never faltered during the long seconds it took for her to reach them, a brave bright answering smile etched on her own face as she willed her legs to take her to him without stumbling.
Ross's expression was indecipherable as he watched the new nurse scurry across and greet Father Paul with uninhibited affection. She looked well enough now; she looked positively fizzing with charm, hugging Paul with eager fervour till it seemed as if her skinny arms would snap, reaching up to kiss him while he stroked her hair and chuckled and hugged her too, as if she were a long-lost relation.
'Well, well, my dearest little Jenni! Let's have a good look at you. Like my own little sister this one's been to me, you know, Ross.' Paul tweaked a shining copper curl. 'Yes, I just about recognise the hair—but as for the rest of you! My, what a lovely slip of a lass, eh, Ross?'
A sidelong glance at the doctor, a peep from the safety of Paul's arms. Triumph flared for one indiscreet moment. Try and get rid of me now! flashed those ecstatic golden eyes.
Jenni lifted her head and returned Paul's laughing scrutiny. As she drank in the inevitable changes her face became solemn and her eyes glistened. This was a much older man than the curly-headed hunk who used to teased her. Was Helen to blame? Or was it the strenuous nature of the life Paul had chosen to lead, in an alien climate, so far away from home and those who loved him?
For the past seven years Jenni had carried in her mind's eye the memory of a big blond exuberant anglo-saxon hero. Oxford Rugby blue, heart- throb of the parish ladies, macho-idol of Holy Trinity Church youth club. Fittest of the fit, his virile six-feet-and-four clad in tracksuit or cassock or mudcaked rugger shorts. And as kind and compassionate as he was tough.
Darling Paul, agonised Jenni, chewing her bottom lip to ribbons. I never anticipated you might have changed. I thought the difference would be in me alone. But you ... you look thirty-eight going on fifty.
Beneath her fingers she could feel the broad bones of Paul's shoulders as she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his hollowed cheek. He might be gaunt, but he still carried the frame of a champion. Some unkind hand had cropped the mop of gilded curls to within an inch of his skull, and seven long hard years had grizzled beard and head with grey. His once golden skin had darkened and weathered, the handsome planes of his face grown disturbingly lean and ascetic. But in spite of the white crinkles formed at their outer edges the eyes hadn't changed: still that familiar heart-piercing blue, still warmed with the love and peace Paul extended to everyone.
And Dr McDonnell—
From the haven of Paul's arms, Jenni looked back to the other man, and flinched to read the blatant interest in his stare. How could Miss Margaret have got it so wrong! Ross McDonnell was cold, insensitive, and ruthless. Concerned to practise medicine, yes—but with not an ounce of consideration for his colleagues.
Defiantly Jenni tried to stare Ross out, her cheek against Paul's sleeve. So what if he guessed how she felt about the Mission priest.
The doctor, she could hardly fail to notice, had showered and shaved and changed. He certainly looked more civilised. But he was a dangerous man for whom love meant nothing but weakness, cynicism in his eyes as he observed their reunion. A man who disliked the look of her and wanted her gone.
She really must talk to Paul in private. 'Can we go inside?' she asked, pointedly ignoring Ross McDonnell and tugging at Paul's leather belt to draw him away.
Ross had seen enough to give him food for thought. His shrewd eyes met Paul's over the girl's head, and his mouth was wry as he heard the Mission priest say, with a wink to the doctor that fortunately Jenni did not see, 'I'll bear in mind what you've told me, Ross. Bet
ween us we can work something out.'
Once they were alone Jenni did a dreadful and most uncharacteristic thing. She burst into tears. It was the change in Paul, the evidence of the wrong her sister had done him.
She's overwrought, he thought compassionately. It's been a long day for poor little Jenni.
In his office Paul sat Jenni on a chair and hitched up one side of his cassock to reveal startlingly brown legs in a pair of cargo shorts whose pockets he was exploring for a handkerchief. Jenni began to giggle. Her emotions seemed to have got quite out of control. She took the large white handkerchief and did as she was told, giving her nose a good hard blow. Paul unbuttoned the top half of his cassock and stepped out of it. ‘The Sisters can say compline without me tonight. It's not every day Jennifer Westcott comes out to Africa.'
Jenni's voice was muffled in the hankie. 'Please please, take no notice of whatever Ross McDonnell's been saying about me. I'm tough as old boots and I refuse to go back...' The words trailed away as she gazed at the still-powerful build now accentuated by clinging white T-shirt and faded cargo shorts. Paul's feet were bare and he had obviously recently changed into open leather sandals because thick socks and dusty boots lay discarded on the floor just inside the door.
Yes, he had changed physically. But once over the initial shock she wasn't sure that he hadn't become even more devastating as a result.
If Helen could see Paul now!
NO! You mustn't think such things, Jenni scolded herself. My sister's happily married with three darling children. From now on I shall devote my life to making it up to darling Paul. We'll make lots of babies and they will all be the image of their father ...
'Penny for your thoughts?' teased Paul, his expression fondly reminiscent as the saw how the golden-hazel eyes drifted off into a world of their own. Young Jenni hadn't changed so much after all - ever the dreamer. And, true enough she did look perfectly healthy and well able to cope with nursing at the Mission. She'd always been pale as milk and on the small side, but nurses weren't required to be of Amazonian proportions.
She'd certainly filled out in all the right places too. Paul smiled and scratched his beard. Wait till Matt clapped eyes on her. Should help to take his mind off Charming's transfer to Moshi.
'I'll be entirely responsible for her, Ross,' he had promised confidently. 'She won't be a liability, not our Jen, and her appearance is very deceptive. Never was one for the soft option either—she had the talent to get into art school but insisted on nursing. Anyway, if she's made up her mind to do something, heaven help the man who tries to stop her! Spirited trio, those Westcott girls... wonderful family—I can't tell you how kind those parents were to me.'
Paul was more used to having others confide in him. But there was something about Ross McDonnell—some quality of strength of character that in spite of the short time the doctor had been working at the Mission had convinced Paul here was a man you could trust with your life.
'I've never mentioned this before, Ross but —'
He bit back the words. He could not do it. To reveal that broken engagement would be churlish now that Helen was the mother of another man's children.
And Ross, who had not missed the hesitation, wondered what secrets of the past this girl would stir up with her presence.
* * *
Supper was bewildering.
Endless introductions, names to match to faces, peculiar food ...
Jenni's face ached with smiling. When the others were lounging about, playing chess and Scrabble and drinking endless cups of coffee as they dissected another day's work, Jenni slipped away to bed.
But who should step out of the shadows to escort her across the ill-lit compound but Ross McDonnell.
'I think you and I should have a little talk.'
On the verge of telling him to get lost, Jenni bit her tongue and straightened her shoulders. Not a moment of physical weakness would she ever reveal when working with McDonnell. That would be exactly the ammunition he would be looking for to justify an 'Told you you weren't up to the job' accusation.
'If it's about your kind offer to drive me back to the coast in the morning,' she retorted, insolent with fatigue, 'forget it. I'm not going. And you can't make me!'
It was a foolish sort of challenge to issue to any man. But to one who had formed such a low opinion of her it was worse than foolish. Ross was reining in his temper on a very short leash. Even in the dark the atmosphere between them crackled with hostility.
'Don't come whining to me when you get sunstroke,' he gritted. 'I've arranged with Paul to give you a fortnight's trial. As far as I'm concerned you're here on sufferance.'
Jenni choked with rage. She could feel her scalp tingle with redheaded passion. A fortnight's trial? ‘That’s ridiculous, Dr McDonnell!' Her thoughts rattled furiously. How dared he sit in judgment on an experienced RGN! The College of Nursing, so generously helping fund her stay, would have something to say to him when she reported this back.
'You know perfectly well I hold a post-registration paediatric qualification and other diplomas. Plus the course in nutrition at the London School of Tropical Medicine.'
They had reached the out-of-the-way corner that housed the generator and she raised her voice shrilly above its ceaseless engine noise. 'I have my own work to carry out, I’m not here to be your dogsbody!'
'Keep your hair on,' sneered Ross, complimenting himself on controlling an overwhelming desire to put this argumentative redhead under a cold shower. ‘It's your physical well-being we’re concerned with. Not your competence.'
Jenni ground her teeth. That 'we' was a masterly touch. A dangerous man to tangle with, Ross McDonnell. She swayed slightly, suddenly aware of feeling limp as a rag. This unwelcome confrontation had drained the last of her resources.
The doctor's forearm brushed hers just above the elbow, and she flinched as the fleeting contact gave rise to a burning sensation searing through her skin to the underlying nerves. He evidently intended to see her right to the door of her room. What was he afraid she'd get up to, left to her own devices? Creep off to Admin and secrete herself in Paul's bed?
Probably jealous. A virile doctor with a bunch of middle-aged nuns for company. No wonder he was so ratty, considered Jenni with a woozy smirk, almost tripping over her own feet again.
They came to the verandah steps. Ross bade her a terse good night.
'Report to Beatrice first thing in the morning - and try to stay in the shade until you get acclimatised. Right, you know where you are now.' Like a gaoler he was waiting to see her enter the doorway, a foot lodged on the bottom step, his shadow menacingly huge against the fitful flickering light. ‘Let’s hope you’re in a more civil mood tomorrow. Good night.' He turned on his heel and strode off into the shadows, apparently heading out of the compound and in the direction of the distant river.
Deprived of the last word, Jenni went seething to her room, where, switching on the ceiling fan to stir the sultry air. she put out her white cotton uniform ready for the new day…
…Which dawned cool and pleasant, the air full of jubilant birdsong and saturated with the smell of strange shrubs. A shy black girl in a red dress several sizes too big brought bowls of hot water to each room. Jenni had slept like a top and been awakened by a nearby radio tuned to the BBC World Service. 'Dammit, I keep getting Radio Moscow!' complained a disembodied voice through the cardboard-thin walls. Someone on the other side was viciously slapping at cockroaches.
The morning clouds glowed red and gold, and Jenni felt absurdly happy as she hurried across to breakfast. People were tucking into fried food, but all she craved was a steaming cup of coffee, and fresh paw-paw with a squeeze of lime, to get the juices flowing. 'Good luck,' encouraged Paul in passing, squeezing her shoulder warmly, 'you can tell me all about it this evening.'
Though she looked for them, there was no sign of Ross or Matt Blarney. Jenni headed for the building glamorised with the name of 'hospital'. The Red Cross truck was gone and the pa
rking space beneath the baobab tree was empty. Peculiar trees, mused Jenni, squinting at the huge swollen water-storing trunk and flattened crown. Most of the European staff, medical and missionary, had been introduced during supper—except for Sylvia Anstey who was taking a turn on night duty, with a newly enrolled African nurse to help her. Ross seemed to be on permanent call. Grudgingly Jenni had to concede that the doctor was certainly setting himself a tough pace for the duration of his East African contract.
She found Sylvia and Bea in the small office that linked the two wards. Bea was welcoming, Sylvia less so. She was a tall girl, in her late twenties, with sun-streaked brown hair that had been short when she arrived at the Mission two years back but which she'd given up trying to cut herself and was attempting to scrape back into a messy ponytail. Her features were handsome rather than pretty and her skin, noted Jenni with a pang of envy, had an even golden quality that wouldn't freckle in a month of sunny Sundays. Jenni wondered if Ross had already bad-mouthed her to his staff. Sylvia didn’t seem friendly and was obviously keen to go off duty as soon as she had given the night report. Bea, though, held her back. ‘One moment, Sylvia, how did you find Nurse Ndogo? She only came to us last month, Jennifer, and this was her first night here on duty.'
'Fine,’ said Sylvia. ‘A bit slow, perhaps. I had to chivvy her a bit to keep her awake, but she's willing enough and competent in all the basic procedures. I'd be happy to leave her in charge after a few weeks.'
'Good,' approved Bea, 'that's what we want to hear. One day,' she explained to the alert-eyed Jenni, 'we shall withdraw and let the Africans take over responsibility for their church and hospital. Paul’s always reminding us that we mustn’t think we’re indispensable.'
The nun looked like any other charge nurse in her white cotton dress, fob watch pinned to an expanse of plump frontage and her stoutish legs in thick support stockings. 'The heat plays murder with my varicosities,' she said in tones of cheerful uncomplaint, waggling a sandalled foot. Jenni looked down at her own bare legs with distaste. They looked even more pallid in daylight.
