by Anne Vinton
When she reached the bathroom she found a line of five people, all from Simon’s particular wing of duty.
When she was dressed and ready, waiting for Connie to come and tell her they were going down to breakfast, she leaned out of her bedroom window and looked out on a corner of Africa. She saw a study in contradictions. Across the way, above a modern store bearing a Swiss name, was an elegant penthouse with balconies serving every window. There was even a roof-garden with striped awnings and a monkey leaping about at the end of a chain attached to a long pole. A family was taking breakfast in the open, and the monkey was making mischievous grabs at the stewards.
Immediately below this scene of opulence and comfort was a cluster of natives, fishing edible refuse out of the gutters. These gutters revolted Sylvia—they were about three feet deep on either side of the road and smelled alarmingly. They were also a menace to the road users, cars and bicycles alike. Sylvia had never seen so many bicycles in her life before. The young doctor thought she had never seen a more unusual sight than the partially westernized Nigerian, riding his bicycle barefoot, dressed in his native buba— a pajama-like garment with a long shirt over tight trousers—and sporting a peaked cap.
Sylvia was still admiring the scene when Connie came in and said, “It’s quite interesting watching the rest of the world go by, isn’t it? But look at this lot coming down the street! Or rather don’t look if it will make you sad! This is Friday, and the beggars are coming to town.”
Sylvia almost wished afterward that she hadn’t stayed to see, for the sight put her quite off her food. The halt, the maimed and the blind came in a raggedy parade past the hotel, holding out their hands hopefully, and smiling. Life-long cripples dragged their distorted bones with surprising agility out of the way of passing vehicles.
Sylvia was stunned by the sight. She said at breakfast, “Oh, Kelso, why isn’t something being done for those poor people?”
“They wouldn’t thank you, my dear,” he told her, as he refilled her coffee cup. “Their plight is their sole means of support. They live on the pity of others and will resist having hospital treatment. You must hand it to the doctors out here, they have to work against native superstitions and the inevitable victims of fatalism.”
Sylvia began to think of David Carroll.
“Of course, there must be some explanation,” she told no one in particular. “He needs me. I saw the cablegram.”
After lunch the three of them piled into Kelso’s car. A couple of Yoruba men followed behind in the truck that carried the equipment and baggage for the expedition. Sylvia had decided to leave her car garaged in Lagos for the time being.
“We may make Buwambo tomorrow, with luck,” Kelso said after a while. “We’ll spend the night at a government rest house. You haven’t lived until you’ve slept in one of those, Sylvia!”
She remembered his words as she tossed on the hard mattress that lay on the floor of what was little better than a mud hut on the edge of the bush road. She had quarreled with her mosquito net long since and dispensed with it. She had heard the mosquitoes zooming round her ears from the moment she had lain down; the net had made but little difference.
Her head was damp with perspiration and yet she was strangely cold. There was a musty smell that accompanied the mattress and pillows. Kelso said that this was Africa, and she began to dislike it as she thought of the disinfectant-fresh laundry back at St. Augustine’s and the lavender sweetness of her own small room.
Connie was sleeping like a log, the perspiration standing on her "brow in beads. She was a rawboned girl with little feminine charm about her, but she had found her true place in tramping the wilderness among the wild things. In a drawing room Connie Blaine would have looked out of place and miserable, but when Kelso had handed her a loaded rifle that morning, she had handled it as though she loved it and couldn’t wait to get her finger on the trigger.
After two rather miserable hours of trying to sleep, Sylvia arose and walked out of the doorless hut to look at the night. The grass as far as she could see was starred with innumerable fireflies, a wonderful sight.
“It’s beautiful and—bad, somehow,” she said, almost to herself. Turning, she nearly bumped into the tall figure of Kelso.
“Can’t you sleep either?” she asked. “It’s rather comforting to see you there, Kelso. As I came out I had a strange feeling I was alone in all creation!”
“Africa!” he nodded. “It’s more than a continent, it’s a state of mind.”
“It’s a terribly vast place, and, alone, one can feel overwhelmed by it,” she sighed. “But when there are two—”
“Two can kiss, my dear,” he said huskily.
She raised her lips without more ado. A crescent moon hung over the silhouettes of the palm trees.
“That was an illustration, Sylvia,” he said, “of how easy it is to feel romantic in Africa. So if you don’t mean it be careful, will you?”
She didn’t speak.
“You didn’t mean it, did you?”
Still she was silent, but she took his arm and they went back into the house together.
“We should run into Buwambo in an hour,” Kelso said, about four o’clock the next day. “You girls prettying yourselves up?”
“Sylvia’s been doing my hair a new way and I look a little less like a horse!” Connie laughed.
“Oh!” protested the other.
“It’s no use, dear, telling oneself one looks like a film star,” Connie went on, cheerfully. “Kelso is much prettier than I am. But thank goodness he never thinks of getting married.”
“Doesn’t he?” asked her brother.
Sylvia wisely said nothing, though she looked at the tanned, muscular neck of Kelso Blaine and wondered what the future held for all of them.
"Buwambo!” Connie announced later, and Sylvia’s heart seemed to turn quite over. They pulled up in a large clearing surrounded entirely by mud and straw huts.
“Why are we stopping here?” Sylvia asked, as inquisitive natives came and squatted in their doorways.
“This is it!” Connie said, pertinently. “That’s why I was so surprised to think of you coming here. Ten pounds to one you’re back before we are, and we expect to complete our business in eight weeks!”
“But where is the hospital?” Sylvia asked, almost desperately.
“About three hundred yards away in a clearing,” Kelso explained. “I thought you would prefer to go there alone, Sylvia, and announce yourself. I’ll be along later to see how you have fared and you can certainly join up with us if there’s any difficulty.”
“You would be welcome, Sylvia,” said Connie generously.
“We will be camping right here, overnight,” Kelso went on. “The natives know us very well. I’ll send some of them along by and by with your heavy baggage.”
Sylvia waved her hand as she began to move off along the indicated track. She felt small and lonely. After a few minutes she came to a fenced compound and looked about it curiously. There was evidence of cultivation in the flower beds and trimmed bahama grass. Even now a boy was busily watering the blooms. At the end of the compound was a long, low, wooden building, painted green and white, with an overhanging roof of palm-frond thatch. Sylvia realized she was looking at the hospital about which she had thought so much since that day—now seeming very long ago—when she had idly read a notice in a paper. To the left of the hospital was a dapper little bungalow, all white, with its own small, enclosed garden, English style; across the compound was a new, smaller building that a young native was painting. Sylvia guessed these were the staff quarters.
She went through a gate and slowly up to the hospital. There was a wide porch where a few natives were taking the air and gossiping busily. They looked inquiringly at Sylvia.
There was no bell or knocker. The doors, which were really mesh screens, stood wide open. The place was clean and fresh-looking. Sylvia felt a warm glow at her heart for all doctors, as she thought of them making their
antiseptic presences felt even in a place like Buwambo!
There was no sign of any white staff, though she could see two Nigerian nurses in the wards. The men’s ward was on one side of the entrance hall, the women’s ward on the other. The place was full. There was evidence of two blood transfusions at present in progress.
“I might be in St. Augustine’s!” said Sylvia quietly. “Someone is doing a wonderful job here!”
“Yes?” asked a voice sharply, almost harshly. “Yes? What would you be wanting? If you’re a reporter we don’t do any interviews here. Too busy. Good day!”
Sylvia looked on Sister Kineton and smiled a little. She was a starched and militant figure, perfect to the last detail, from her waxed collar to her black-laced shoes. She exuded cleanliness but not kindliness. Sylvia had seen her sort before, and while being admirable they were rather overbearing.
“May I see Dr. Carroll, please, Sister?” she requested.
“Oh...”Rather touched by the respectful tone, Sister Kineton almost relented, but not quite. “At the moment he’s busy with his papers. Never likes to be disturbed unless I call him. May I know your business?”
“I’ll wait until Dr. Carroll is available,” Sylvia said pointedly. “If you are busy, Sister, don’t let me keep you.”
Sister Kineton glared, but could not force the visitor’s confidence. She swept into the women’s ward and dashed out a moment later, knocked on a door and called urgently, “Will you come, sir?”
Sylvia saw David Carroll emerge from his small office. He was a huge man with a raggedy beard and mustache; against Sister’s shiny perfection he was a travesty of a hospital superintendent.
He wore an old shirt and khaki shorts. In the picture of general untidiness was one strange touch of sartorial delicacy—he had on white gloves, and held his hands away from his body, almost fastidiously.
For ten minutes Sylvia watched through the screens, then she stood back as Sister and Carroll came out of the ward together.
“I’ll give her an injection four times an hour then,” the nurse was saying. “That should keep her going until morning when she might have settled down a bit. Sorry! Did I knock your hand?”
Carroll peeled the white glove from his right hand and bent and stretched the fingers for a moment or two. As he replaced the glove he suddenly saw Sylvia. His eyes were keenly blue. She saw in surprise that he was a comparatively young man, and very good-looking. In that moment when their eyes met a sense of timelessness stole over her and she felt as though under a spell until his first words jarred her to reality again.
“Who in God’s name are you?” he demanded.
CHAPTER FOUR
The harshness of the voice, after preliminary contact with the gentlest eyes she had ever seen, stunned Sylvia; for a moment she licked her lips and didn’t reply.
“I asked her business, sir,” said Sister Kineton, “but she wouldn’t tell me. Otherwise I might have saved your valuable time.” She glanced at Sylvia out of the corner of her eyes, maliciously.
“Well?” Carroll demanded. “Are you ill, or something? Is that why you’re here?”
Sylvia felt anger welling up inside here. Her voice trembled as she finally spoke.
“Forgive me if I failed to realize I would have to state my business in the full, public glare, Dr. Carroll. I am new to Buwambo hospital. I have no knowledge of its ways or manners.”
“Er—come into my room,” Carroll said, suddenly noticing the craning heads in both wards, for the mesh screens kept nothing secret. “You, too, Sister!” he called.
The office was even more untidy than the man himself, and it was difficult to move for papers and books lying about in glorious disarray.
“Do sit down!” Carroll waved Sylvia into the only chair the room possessed, and perched himself on the desk. Sister Kineton stood with her back to the door, hands primly folded.
“Now,” Carroll invited, somewhat sarcastically, “is this private enough for you, or shall I send our chaperone away?” He winked at Sister, who did not respond by so much as the twitching of a muscle.
“Since you invited Sister here in the first place,” said Sylvia, coldly, “you must have considered her presence necessary. You ask my business. May I remind you of a vacancy which was advertised in the press?”
“Ah!” said Carroll, enlightened. “You bring news of Phillips, do you? That’s good! Or is it? Did he scuttle off back again? My man Kalengo couldn’t find him after the ship docked.”
“I am Sylvia Phillips,” announced the woman.
“A nice enough name,” nodded Carroll pleasantly, “and suits you. From the Welsh, I believe? What?” he demanded, suddenly. “You’re not Phillip’s wife? Daughter? This is no family appointment. We haven’t the accommodation.”
“Dr. Hogan appointed me,” Sylvia explained quietly, realizing that Mike had left her holding a particularly troublesome baby, in that he had not corrected his early cable which had implied that the applicant was of the male sex. “I am reporting for duty.” The heat hung heavily as the slight breeze dropped for the night, yet still a wave of ice emanated from the statue that was Sister Kineton. Her fingers were clenched, the bones showing white.
David Carroll looked as though a bomb had been exploded in the near vicinity and he was waiting for the blast to hit him. He sat looking at Sylvia, first in disbelief, then in amazement and finally in white-hot anger.
“Where is Kalengo?” he demanded of Sister, sweeping a stack of papers from the desk to the floor. “Get him! Get him immediately!” He paced the floor until a tall individual entered the room, dressed in a neat, white linen suit and wearing both collar and tie.
Sylvia recognized him as the man who had been searching the lounges of the Accra, and who had tried to enter into conversation with her.
“Ah, there you are, Kalengo!” Carroll roared, as though the visitor was not present. “Did you take a truck to meet our new doctor off the mailboat? Did you?”
“Yes, sir. I did so.”
“What did you come back and tell me?”
“That I could not find the gentleman, sir. They tell me there is no man on the boat name of Phillips, only one lady...”
“Meet Miss Phillips,” said Carroll in exasperation, indicating Sylvia with exaggerated gallantry.
“How do you do,” said the young man, bowing formally. “I...”
“You blundering idiot!” roared Carroll. “Why should you presume the province of medicine was exclusive to our sex, to the extent of leaving Miss Phillips still on the ship?”
“But—I—go to meet a man,” Kalengo waved his palms helplessly, as though realizing the tide of wrath would break over his head no matter how justified he might have been in his actions.
“May I speak?” requested Sylvia.
“Silence!” roared the superintendent, then apologized. “I’m sorry, but he must learn he can’t take trips to the coast on my behalf to be bungled as this has been! He was sent to collect a Doctor Phillips. There was never any doubt of this person’s presence on board the Accra; be it man, woman or whatever! Kalengo...!”
Sylvia listened to the ensuing tirade, wishing she could squirm into the earth. It finished thus: “You will never be a physician. You? Pah! You hear?”
“He can hardly help but hear—sir,” said Sylvia. “Dr. Kalenga did approach me on the ship, more than once. I’m afraid I misunderstood. I was expecting you.”
There was a sudden silence after the storm. Beads of sweat stood upon the black man’s brow. He looked gratefully at Sylvia with his soft, brown-velvet eyes.
“Dr. Phillips,” said Carroll, as he cooled off a little, “I still wonder how you reached Buwambo at all. Your tenacity of purpose can only be described as magnificent, but obviously there has got to be some thinking done about this business. I feel Dr. Hogan has deceived me badly, and you. After all, he has seen you and must have realized your obvious unsuitability for the life here.”
Sister Kineton positively ooz
ed agreement with this finding, as her fingers slowly unclenched. “And although I know Hogan likes a joke now and again I feel this particular one is in bad taste. No—Dr. Phillips—do not join battle with me here and now, if you please!”
Sylvia’s eyes were angry, but she swallowed the hot retort on her lips.
“I will have you escorted to my house, where you will please occupy yourself until such time as I am free to join you. You must excuse me now.”
He spoke sharply to Kalengo in a native dialect, and the somber eyes gleamed as the black man replied, “Yes, sir. But I speak English very well, as you know.”
“The devil you do! Not after this business!”
Kalengo beckoned to Sylvia and she followed him out of the room, passing Sister as she was standing, her thin lips curling.
“The very idea!” said this lady, turning on her heel and marching away. “A chit of a girl in our hospital! I should think not, indeed!”
In the confusion of the past half-hour Sylvia had not noticed the darkness descending like a curtain, suddenly and without warning. When she approached the hospital the sun had been a flaming ball sinking toward the west, but now it was gone and the moon had not yet risen. The blackness of the bush pressed on all sides of the compound as she followed the lantern held by the maligned Dr. Kalengo.
Sylvia felt he would not wish her to refer to the scene in the office, so she remarked politely on the heat and asked if the mosquitoes were troublesome at this time of the year.
“Very bad, miss, always. But sometimes it is worse than now. I hope you do not take fever too badly.”
“And I will hope not to take it at all!” smiled Sylvia, while Kalengo treated her to a long, patient stare, as though wondering if this were some new, English joke.
