The Hospital in Buwambo

by Anne Vinton

  THE HOSPITAL IN BUWAMBO

  Anne Vinton

  “Junior Surgical Officer required for small West African bush hospital, ninety miles from the nearest township with plagues, wild life and atrocious climate thrown in.” Sylvia Phillips, a newly qualified surgeon applied for the job and got it, but was disconcerted on her arrival to find the Superintendent hadn’t expected a woman. What’s more, he didn’t want a woman and wasn’t going to let her stay at any price.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “All seems to be in order, Sister. What a wonderfully organized ward you always have!”

  The small Irishwoman drew herself up to her full height, her black eyes glowing. Sister Magaffigan never actually smiled. It was rumored her dentures had fallen out on one too mirthful occasion many years ago.

  “Thank you, Dr. Phillips. There are those who notice and those who don’t, but I’m not above doing what I ask my staff to do if there’s a rush on or they get behind with their work.”

  “And all credit to you,” smiled her companion as they walked slowly from the big ward into the small adjoining office.

  “Who would think of navy blue as a color to turn heads?” demanded Sister aggressively, as though she had been challenged. “But some of these young and flighty ones are nauseated by the thought of a bedpan when they’re promoted. It doesn’t do, Doctor dear, now does it.”

  “Well”—Sylvia Phillips’s gray eyes smiled—“I’m sure you aren’t thinking of anyone in particular, Sister?”

  “Aye, you’re young yourself, Doctor, of course, and I’m just one of the old ‘uns who missed all the fun of her generation. You remind me of myself, Dr. Phillips, when I was younger.”

  “Do I?” Sylvia’s heart had given an unaccountable lurch. “Do I, really, Sister? I hope that’s a compliment—to you.”

  “I wonder,” Magaffigan’s eyes bored through her. “But you wouldn’t know the seriousness of the question of the unmarried girl in a good Catholic household in Ireland. We were not famed for our beauty, you see. Me father couldn’t get any one of four of us off his hands by marriage, and you never heard of an Irish spinster, did you? No. Wedded we must be, to Holy Church if no man comes asking for us. My sisters, joined the Order of Nazareth, but I had no such leanings. I made an honorable escape into a Dublin hospital and wedded myself to my work. I knew I couldn’t turn back. When you’re as serious as that about things you can’t help but get on. I was the youngest the hospital had known to wear the navy blue. You are the youngest surgeon St. Augustine’s has known, Dr. Phillips.”

  “You have heard, then?” Sylvia asked, with a slight flush.

  “Of course. Who hasn’t? I believe the news came this morning.”

  “Yes. It has seemed an interminable but a very happy day.”

  “I’m sure. But don’t you miss all the fun, now!”

  “Fun?” Sylvia smiled, preparing to move on. “I don’t know that I’m looking for fun, Sister, at the moment. Life’s much too satisfactory.”

  This was true. Sylvia tightened her skirt belt under the loose white coat she wore and went on down the long, antiseptic corridors toward her own room. The impression she made against the austere background was of fragrance rather than color—she cast a vague suggestion of lavender about her. Her hair was fine and black, her eyes gray, but warm in their fringe of dark lashes. She did not add color to her naturally pale cheeks, but touched up her lips when off duty. She photographed as a beauty, but in the vast hospital stood out as an alien type in the current trend of feminine attractiveness.

  It had been a good day indeed. Now it was pleasant to think of tea in her own room, with time to read those congratulatory notes that had been arriving all day since the news broke that she had not only passed the all-important exam in surgery for which she had studied so long and passionately, but that she had passed it with distinction—to the accompaniment of head-patting from the examining body. Today had followed a usual pattern, but sooner or later she would have to realize that a chapter was concluded. She would have to think ahead to the future. But not now, not this moment. There must be a rest after the race, a recuperative period which could be very pleasant, if Martin...

  Knowing a softening in her eyes might reveal more than she wished to share with others, Sylvia willed herself to wear a mask until she opened her own door and shut herself inside the room, only half-seeing the bank of flowers overflowing from the table onto her small daybed under the window.

  Martin, too, overflowed her now. She wanted to cry out his name, bury her face in his shoulder and weep for very joy. So many had congratulated her on her achievement, but not Martin. Not yet. She hadn’t seen him all day.

  She and Martin Shale had met first of all in Edinburgh, where they had studied medicine together. There had been no romance, but rather a mutual appreciation of one another. Martin liked her company, and she enjoyed the ripples of the outer edge of his gaiety. He was ebullient by nature, and always in the midst of a throng ... a leading spirit whenever a “lark” was contemplated, a good fellow and sufficiently impecunious to have to take his work seriously at times. They left the university together and secured twin appointments at this great London hospital of St. Augustine’s, but whereas Sylvia opted for the surgical side and became Dr. MacAlpine’s pupil, protégée and occasional assistant, Martin had shown leanings toward pathology, and still dithered between the laboratory and the science of anesthesia, unwilling to give himself wholly to either.

  He was as popular at the hospital as he had been at the university, a debonair and handsome personality, good at sports, always in the thick of any hospital function and with a passion for fast cars. He liked to be with Sylvia still—it was as though he clung to her as to sanity in his mad world. He liked to talk over a sherry—reminiscence, chiefly. This was all that had been between them until last night.

  At ten p.m. Sylvia had been on duty in the casualty department when Martin was brought in, having been involved in a “bit of a drinking spree.” If she had hitherto doubted her true feelings for him she did so no longer. She felt sick and aflutter as the porters brought in the stretcher upon which he was lying. When he was cleaned up he looked better, and an examination proved that nothing much was wrong, so Night Sister spoke her mind very plainly.

  “He’s asked for all he’s got, and in my opinion he wants to get himself married and settled down. Personally I would like to pour a jug of water over him, but I’ll leave him to you!”

  So Sylvia had watched and waited, and when Martin came around he looked dazedly at her for a moment, then tugged her to him, covering her face with kisses.

  “Martin! Martin!” she protested. “You’ve had too much to drink. Calm yourself!”

  “I’m not drunk, you old blue stocking!” he said, swinging himself off the hard examination couch. “And to prove it I’m going to kiss you again. There—and there! We should have done this a long time ago, Sylvia. Why didn’t it occur to me, I wonder?”

  She pushed him away, partly because she was trembling and could not trust her professional dignity in his arms any longer. She wanted time to think. This was the natural turn for their friendship to take, but she would prefer the next occasion to be without the stimulus of alcohol. If Martin wanted to kiss her tomorrow and every other night he would find her ready and willing. She knew that only too well now.

  As she flung her white coat behind the door, Esmee, the maid, entered with tea on a tray. She also carried a bunch of roses. “From Matron, Doctor. She couldn’t get out before.”

  “Thank you, Esmee. They’re lovely.”

  She sank down into a chair and rummaged through the letters and cards on the table, looking for something from Martin. She wore a little frown of puzzl
ement as she sipped her tea.

  He’ll be phoning, I suppose, she told herself, for she had already ascertained that Dr. Shale was his usual self today and oh duty. She doubted she’d be bumping into him, for St. Augustine’s was so vast it was possible for members of the staff not to meet for days.

  There was a tap on the door and her “come in” was almost too eager.

  Two young residents came in, Drs. Barr and MacPherson. They were nice enough, but not Martin. That was all she had against them.

  “We’ve come to deliver our congratulations in person,” explained Johnnie Barr with a wry smile. “Our florist wouldn’t give credit.”

  “Thanks for the thought, anyway,” laughed Sylvia. “And it’s still very nice to see you. Will you have a sherry?”

  Ian MacPherson held up his hand like a policeman on traffic duty.

  “Don’t tempt the lads,” he forbade. “We’re still working. Just wanted you to know you’re invited to a little gathering tonight, as a guest of honor. Nine o’clock at the George, upstairs. We’ve invited all those you would care to have present. Okay?”

  “Yes, and thank you,” Sylvia smiled. “It’s very kind of you.”

  “Any excuse for a party!” winked Johnnie. “So we’ll see you later. Oh! Nearly forgot to give you this!”

  “This” was an envelope addressed in Martin’s hand, and Sylvia’s heart leapt immediately. She almost pushed the two visitors from her room in her eagerness to read the note.

  Am so ashamed of myself after last night. Please try to forget it and allow us to go on as before. I have a well-deserved hangover today. I had been celebrating, you see. Forgive me?

  Martin

  She read the note with mixed feelings. How absurd that Martin should feel compelled to apologize to her for a few kisses after five years of friendship! She was rather glad he had a hangover, because this meant he would be chastened and so give her opportunity for tenderness. She expected he would be at the party, but felt she couldn’t wait to put him at his ease again. Glancing at her watch, she took writing materials and penned a letter of her own.

  No apologies are needed, I assure you. As you remarked, ‘We should have done such a thing long ago.’ I liked it, my dear. I did, truly! And I am looking forward to the next time. You see, I’m putting my blue stockings away. Please don’t ask me to forget one of the happiest moments of my life.

  Sylvia

  She called Esmee and asked her to deliver the letter. Then, feeling she had committed herself in the words she had written, she almost called her back again. Esmee disappeared briskly, and after a few moments Sylvia sighed with happiness, Martin would now know her heart was his—for the taking.

  It was pleasant to have a bath, fuss about the room putting the tribute flowers in water, and then lie on the bed with the evening paper, anticipating the party to come. She knew everyone present would have fun, that was the primary function of any party with the residents behind it Anybody who wasn’t “fun” wouldn’t be invited. Sylvia sometimes found these parties bordered on lunacy, and felt she was on the outside looking in at another Sylvia who was there because of Martin. He was the grand master of “fun.” She automatically flicked the paper to the column marked, “Hospital Appointments.” Soon she might have to take such reading seriously. There were hospitals in places with magic names like Chungking, Aden, Addis Ababa, Buwambo, and all in need of staff. She smiled at the Buwambo insert.

  Junior Surgical Officer required for small West African Bush hospital, 90 miles from the nearest township. Plagues, wildlife and atrocious climate thrown in. Only the genuinely interested please apply. Appointment six months minimum.

  Surely the Senior Officer can’t have much hope of getting anybody, Sylvia told herself wryly. Buwambo sounds like anybody’s very last straw!

  The George was a pretentious place with red carpeting and copies of Old Masters too closely edging one another along the walls. It had the usual saloon and public bars downstairs and a side door that led to an upper apartment set aside for celebrations of one sort or another. St. Augustine’s kept the “upstairs” of the George quite busy, for, as it was a training hospital, someone was always qualifying, which was duly celebrated, or failing exams, which was doubly celebrated to cheer the unfortunate one to make another onslaught. Ian MacPherson and Johnnie Barr were the official “celebration arrangers” of their year. They saw that no official occasion was overlooked. Even Matron’s broken ankle was duly “celebrated.”

  Sylvia could hear the noise as she approached, and hoped this particular party would not become too rowdy.

  My blue stockings, I suppose, she sighed to herself, as she went up the stairs. I wish I could forget them more often, for Martin’s sake.

  Ian MacPherson thought he had never seen the honored guest looking more lovely. Her hair had the sheen of the raven’s wing; her eyes were like rain pools fringed with the dark rushes of her lashes. She was in a swathed frock of turquoise-blue velvet, and she moved gracefully. Strange he had never thought of her as a beauty before.

  “I called for you, Sylvia,” explained Ian, “and I was told Matron had collared you. More honors? More promotions?”

  “Nothing quite like that.” Sylvia smiled warmly.

  Johnnie Barr came forward and pecked a quick kiss before she could protest. There was a cheer of encouragement, and amid the laughter Johnnie said, “Sorry, Sylvia, I wondered what it would be like to do that. After all, you’re no mere resident now.”

  “Indeed?” Sylvia asked. “I assure you I haven’t changed a bit. Don’t be fooled. Where’s Martin?”

  Johnnie slapped his thigh and yelled, “Oh, lord! You really want to know? Kay”—he called across to fluffy-haired Sister Waters—“what happened to Martin, eh?”

  “I’ll spank you in a minute,” Kay threatened. “Leave Martin alone!”

  “Fact is,” gurgled Johnnie, “Martin was out celebrating last night, and tonight he has gone off to bed with a hangover headache. A scream, isn’t it?”

  Sylvia looked puzzled.

  “But what was there to celebrate?” she asked, with a faint smile.

  “Oh, surely you know?” Johnnie demanded. “The news! This was to have been a double celebration, yours and theirs, but only one of them has turned up!”

  “Do explain!” Sylvia pleaded, a strange, tight little pain at her heart, as though it anticipated the end of the world.

  “You are dense, Dr. Phillips, aren’t you?” Johnnie asked. “Here, have a drink and then you’ll be as clearheaded as I am. I’m trying to tell you that Martin and Kay—or should it be Kay and Martin?—got themselves engaged yesterday. And with you passing your exam on top of that, we thought a bit of a bash was the order of the day. But poor old Kay is having to put up with condolences. Rotten of Martin, you must agree!”

  It was as if her face had turned to stone—and with the smile still on it. She could not stop that idiotic grin, even though the world had ended a moment ago. One sharp pain had seared through her being, then she had grown strangely numb. With amazing clarity she saw the room, noted how the women present were dressed, heard snatches of conversation, and all as though she were in an audience watching and listening to a play.

  This dreadful thing was happening to her, she thought with disbelief. The man she loved was going to marry someone else!

  Realization did not come easily. She was the only one present who knew the true reason for Martin’s non-arrival. He would surely have attended his beloved had he not been nervous about meeting Sylvia. She had sent him a note that embarrassed him and he was hiding away, giving her the opportunity of realizing her mistake and stepping out of the picture with some semblance of dignity.

  Dignity! Sylvia would have gladly given all her dignity at that moment to have Martin take her in his arms and tell her it was all a ghastly mistake.

  Somehow she kept her poise until enough time had elapsed to allow her to plead exhaustion as an excuse for leaving early.

  “
I should think so!” said Theater Sister. “You worked extra late last night and did a full day on top of it. You must be tired!”

  “Shall I drive you back, Sylvia?” Ian asked. “I have my car outside.”

  “If things are continuing I wouldn’t dream of taking you away,” she said, almost too blithely. “It’s a wonderful party and there’s no need for you to miss a moment of it. You’re not suggesting I’m incapable of walking, are you?”

  This was a brittle, gay Sylvia, and the young resident did not quite understand her. So he waved her off and with a shrug rejoined the others.

  That was a haunted night indeed for Sylvia Phillips. The honors so recently piled on her now meant nothing compared with the weight of emotional unhappiness that was bearing down. How could she not have heard or suspected about Martin and Kay Waters? What a fool she must appear! But most of all, how miserable she was in those first hours of realization!

  Sylvia was due for a weekend leave, so she disappeared into the country to think things out and wring herself dry of tears. When she reported back for duty on Monday morning, it was with the amazed realization that she had survived the worst. It had been bad, and she now found it easy to understand the old-time romances where the heroines died from broken hearts. Her sudden awakening in the arms of the beloved had merely been self-acknowledgment of a latent but very real attachment she had nursed in secret for years. That it was fated to be stillborn made the pain none the less, but by the third day she found she could bear it in public, which meant the beginning of recovery at least.

  Hope led her to believe that next year it might not hurt at all. Next year without Martin!

  This thought provoked an onrush as bad as any she had experienced, and she was thankful for a sick patient who required all her attention at that moment.

  Work was the answer. Hard work and a great deal of it. As though deferring to her new status, Dr. MacAlpine turned over to her half of his list, and watched her incise, probe, tie and stitch. Now he seemed to be watching with a fatherly eye, not a critical one.