The Hospital in Buwambo

by Anne Vinton

  The white bungalow was as attractive inside as out, and not nearly as untidy as the office. The floor was of cement, and painted a dull red. There were a few brightly patterned rush mats about the place, obviously of native workmanship. Most of the furniture was of white basketwork, including the table, and looked comfortable and cool.

  Here, Sylvia pondered, one looked for all things to offer coolness as one looked for cozy, warm comfort in furnishings back home.

  Frilly curtains hung at the windows, but did not stir. There was not the breath of a breeze anywhere.

  Obviously Carroll was a bookworm, as one wall was lined entirely with tiers of well-filled shelves, and there was a cabinet filled with phonograph records under the window.

  Kalengo waved a hand in the direction of these amenities, including a shabby, portable record player, and with a polite bow withdrew.

  Sylvia sat down and fanned herself, then jumped in surprise as a boy appeared at her elbow.

  “Madame would like tea?” he asked.

  “Thank you. I would like tea very much.”

  She smiled and the boy was touched. He would make her the best pot of tea in his experience. Not two, but six spoonfuls to the pot. Master would never know of his extravagance.

  Waiting for the welcome brew Sylvia felt uneasy and unsettled. Going to the window she pulled back the curtain to let in more air. A large, loathsome creature fell down dangling in front of her eyes, and she gave an involuntary scream.

  The houseboy was immediately at her side, grinning.

  “Spider will not hurt. You do not have spiders in England?”

  “Yes, but—this is so big...”

  “Let me kill. You will find all is big here. Master tell me England is so small—Africa could put it in her pocket.” He laughed and slapped the side of his shorts. “You have come out of—little pocket!”

  Sylvia began to smile again. “You like working here?”

  “Oh, yes. Very good master. Me come sick boy long time now, and Dr. Carroll he make me better, ask my father no cattle. My father say come along you take my son for doctor, but Dr. Carroll he say too many doctor already, make me for cook. So me cook now. Name Gideon.

  “I hope you’re a good cook, Gideon.”

  The lad began to giggle.

  “Show Madame sometime now. Dinner nearly ready. Are you good doctor? We never have Madame for doctor before!”

  “I am as good a doctor as you are a cook,” Sylvia ventured.

  The lad disappeared almost doubled over with laughter.

  Sylvia took her eyes from the silk-framed fan that swung above her head. The moving draft of air it created, though it did not actually cool, was very welcome.

  Buwambo, she had discovered, was not yet blessed with electricity. Kerosene was the favored fuel, but three such lamps in a room at one time only added to the heat.

  Gideon, seeing her strain her hair away from her face as the hot, bitter tea opened her pores, had wrestled with complicated pulleys and weights and set the fan in motion. Obviously it had not been used for a long time, but once the dust cloud had subsided the motion of the air became pleasant, and Sylvia was duly grateful to the lad.

  She was becoming increasingly nervous of the coming interview with Dr. Carroll. Why was he keeping her waiting so long? She poured out another cupful of the dark tea, and then wondered if she had spilled some, for a black stream was oozing across the floor near her feet. She bit back a cry, and realized she was witnessing a column of ants on an obviously purposeful mission. So long as she watched she was immune from attack, but when she pointed her toe toward the column she was immediately attacked by several “policeman” ants who were shepherding the column across the room.

  Sylvia tucked in her toes before she could be nipped, and saw that the procession came in at the open doorway, bypassed the table, took a rather meaningless stroll around the leg of an unoccupied chair and then disappeared into the kitchen where Gideon was singing and stirring happily in the thick of heat and steam.

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Sylvia stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the ants ignore the lad and stream up the wall to a canister standing on the windowledge. She went over to this and peeped in, recoiling in horror. She could see nothing but the black, swarming bodies of the insects.

  “Madame?” queried Gideon, wondering what was wrong.

  She pointed to the tin and he stared.

  “Madame is not afraid ki-ki too?” he asked. “He sugar ki-ki, always come night. Not harm anybody. Master he put sugar for ki-ki, so ki-ki will not steal Master’s food. Do not trouble, Madame.”

  But Sylvia did “trouble” a great deal.

  She had been in the bungalow for two hours, eaten a lonely, well-served dinner, and still Carroll hadn’t come. She would have liked to be angry, but her great need was for reassurance. Were there more of those huge spiders lurking in corners? What were the horny-bodied creatures that came whirring in from outside to lash themselves unconscious against the lamps? One, partially blinded, flew into her face and she leaped up, her heart palpitating.

  “I hate it!” she declared. “It’s no use. I can’t stand this place!”

  The moon had risen now and outside all was as light as day. She could hear chanting from the direction of the village and realized that Kelso and Connie were there, sane and safe in this terrifying continent. She was halfway across the compound before Gideon saw her.

  “Madame!” he called sharply.

  “I’m going for a walk!” she shouted back, and plunged on. She thought she could find her way down the bush track to the village, but once among the trees there was not even a penetrating glimmer from the moon. There were noises all around, and as the undergrowth entangled her legs and tore her fine stockings, she thought suddenly of snakes. Did they sleep at night or were they lying coiled and silent at this very moment, waiting to strike at the unwary?

  Her breath became gasping sobs as she sought to free herself; then she saw a light, and in the circle of light was a tall, familiar figure.

  “Kelso! Kelso!” she called. “It’s Sylvia!”

  In a matter of moments she was in his arms, sobbing and snuggling like a small child.

  “I was on my way to the hospital,” he said softly. “What happened?”

  “Nothing really. I’m waiting to see Dr. Carroll. He—he couldn’t spare me much time when I first arrived. I—I thought I’d come and see you and—and ... Oh, Kelso, I feel I never want to let you go!”

  He stroked her hair but though his heart yearned to interpret her words as a declaration of love, he realized she had spoken hysterically and that tomorrow she would wake to be herself again. Still he wanted this moment to last as long as it would, for her tremulous heart fluttering against his own both excited and delighted him.

  He did not want to heed the sound of voices, nor the glow of half-a-dozen lanterns giving warning of the approach of a search party.

  “Dr. Phillips,” came Kalengo’s soft, stilted tones into the idyll. “You made us much afraid going off like that. Will you return now, please?”

  “But why?” Sylvia asked, somewhat defiantly. “I have been waiting for a long time for Dr. Carroll, and now I am speaking with my friend here, as you can see. I am quite safe. I will return to the hospital when I have finished my conversation.”

  “Dr. Phillips,” said Kalengo again, “I will deliver your message, of course, if you wish me to do so. Dr. Carroll is already very angry with me, and if I return without you he will again blame my bungling. But this is a small matter. You are with your friend.”

  “Just a minute—” Sylvia looked up at Kelso—“I had better go back with him to save trouble. Will I see you again?”

  “We move off at eight in the morning. Think about joining us, will you?”

  “I certainly will.”

  He wondered if she would offer her lips in parting, but she put out her hand, and he was unnecessarily brutal as he gripped it in his own.

 
“Good night, Sylvia,” he said huskily. “Glad I came along!”

  As Sylvia reentered the bungalow Carroll rose from his chair, his expression thunderous.

  “I’m rather glad to see you are still intact, Dr. Phillips,” he said grimly. “One doesn’t march off alone into the bush at night without fight, hereabouts. Light is a great help. It keeps prowlers off and shows up the snags.”

  “It’s good of you to concern yourself about me,” she said offhandedly, regarding her nails. She had already observed that although he still wore a beard it had been clipped into shape, and that he wore a clean shirt with a plain, black tie.

  “I have to concern myself about you until I get you off my hands,” he told her. “You happen to be my responsibility until I can ship you back to the U.K., and in the meantime you’ll take every precaution for your safety and do as you are told!”

  Sylvia’s nails had been biting more and more deeply into her palms while this speech was going on. Now she took a step forward, her eyes blazing.

  “Dr. Carroll, aren’t you doing a lot of presuming in all this? Aren’t you presuming that I’m willing to be shipped back home just when you wish? Let me tell you that I have signed a contract, a contract drawn up by you to protect you from the type of junior officer who would come to Buwambo to collect atmosphere for a book he wanted to write. That contract has some measure of protection in it for a serious practitioner finding herself subject to the moods and whimsies of an unreasonable superintendent. I have a right to claim my probationary period of six months here at least, and only then can you ask me to leave having proved I am unsuitable or insubordinate.”

  “I don’t need proof,” he glared at her.

  “I can’t quite believe that, having met you and heard you,” Sylvia hurled back. “You can be a great big bully here, but only a very small noise back home. There is my position to consider, which you are deliberately overlooking. I have said my goodbyes to friends and relations and taken this outlandish job with my eyes open. Would I not look rather ridiculous creeping back with the news that my senior didn’t like me? How feeble!”

  David Carroll paced about breathing heavily. The overhead fan had been stopped, and the air positively weighed on one.

  “Believe me, Dr. Phillips,” Carroll began, finally pausing to look at her. “There is no question in this of liking—or not liking—you as a person. You understand? I cannot afford to like people in my position. They are either useful to me in my job or not. You are not.”

  All ablaze Sylvia faced up to him.

  “How dare you?” she demanded.

  Her bosom rose and fell quickly. She had never been so hot or angry in her life before, but all thought of physical discomfort had left her. Injury to one’s pride was worse, far worse, than anything a climate could impose on one’s body.

  Carroll half held up a hand as though to ward her off, then his gaze dropped. He looked uncomfortable.

  “Dr. Phillips, I apologize. When I—so clumsily—state you are not useful to me, I do not mean you are no use in a hospital. I—I hardly know how to put it. It is so long since I was in company, in the company of women, that is. We lead a simple existence—hard and simple. You are so out of your element here that I refuse to consider you as my assistant, and believe me I am sincere when I say this is intended to be complimentary. Please don’t make things difficult. Let’s take a few days to decide, and then you’ll see I’m right. Perhaps you’ll shake hands, now?”

  His eyes smiled first, she noticed, and crinkled. They were nice eyes. Still wounded by his earlier words, she put out her hand and turned away. With his finger he brought her chin round again and up.

  “The final decision shall be yours,” he promised. “Meanwhile—friends?”

  “Very well.”

  The smile broke on lips that were still trembling.

  As though he had been waiting for the treaty, Gideon came in with coffee and biscuits, smiling broadly as though this was a happy family party.

  “Very nice having Madame come for doctor,” he observed as he poured the steaming liquid into the tiny cups.

  Carroll’s reply to this was to raise his foot, and the boy fled. “I must persuade you to leave Buwambo, Dr. Phillips,” said the man, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. “I would like us to come to an amicable arrangement if possible. Obviously I can’t get the man I need while I’m employing you—I am only afforded one assistant. This is Hogan’s doing entirely. I should have flown to London, myself, then I would have interviewed you.”

  “And turned me down, of course?” queried Sylvia.

  “Exactly.”

  Sylvia refused to fan her anger again.

  “Because I’m a woman?” she persisted.

  “You can put it that way.” Carroll bowed slightly.

  “I never expected to meet that particular bias in our field,” she said, curtly. “We do everything nowadays, fly planes, drive taxis, drive trucks, but David Carroll will not tolerate a woman surgeon in his hospital!”

  “You make it very difficult for me,” he sighed. “Always you conclude it is you—as a person—I resist employing here. You are wrong. I don’t know you Dr. Phillips. I don’t wish to know you.

  Sylvia jumped up indignantly. “If you are trying to take away all my self-conceit, you have succeeded admirably. I had better leave Buwambo before my self-confidence goes, too. I came here with my head held high, but—well, what do you want me to do?”

  “If I could have your contract... ?”

  Sylvia handed the document over in silence.

  “Believe me, Dr. Phillips, I know best. You couldn’t stick it out here.”

  “Sister Kineton has stuck it out.”

  “Yes.” He looked past her. “She has stuck it out for eight years. She came out to be my hospital sister. She was twenty-one at the time.”

  The implication struck Sylvia suddenly and her eyes widened. “You mean Sister Kineton is only twenty-nine? Four years older than I am?” She could hardly finish the sentence.

  “I mean fever—the tropics—soon age a woman. The hair grizzles, the skin dries...”

  Sylvia’s fingers stole to her own raven hair, which was still soft to the touch. She tried to imagine it streaked with gray, brittle and bushy, her fair skin hard and the color of parchment.

  There was a little smile playing about the lips of David Carroll as he watched her reactions and read her thoughts. Going over to the record player he selected a record and put it on the turntable, as though absentmindedly.

  Believe me if all those endearing young charms,

  That I gaze on so fondly today,

  Were to fade by tomorrow and melt in my arms,

  Like fairy gifts fading away...

  “Then we have a gentleman’s agreement?” Carroll asked slyly, as Sylvia listened to the words of the old ballad and interpreted them to fit the case of the elderly looking Sister Kineton.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Good. Then to business. You will please write a letter of resignation tomorrow which I will formally accept. You will not be the loser financially, I can promise you that. Our supply truck goes down to the coast on Thursday, three days from now. You will be on it and install yourself at the Palladian until I can get a passage back to the U.K. fixed up for you. No reason why you shouldn’t spend a bit of leave in Nigeria—but you can enjoy it better in Lagos, I assure you. In the meantime do feel free to wander about—in the wards if you like.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My house and bed are at your disposal,” he offered gallantly.

  “But where will you sleep?” she asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he said offhandedly.

  Gideon was collecting the coffee cups and looked up.

  “Master have mattress on bedroom floor?” he asked.

  “No,” frowned Carroll. “Life isn’t as uncomplicated as that, boy. Master sleep another place.”

  “But Madame afraid spider—ki-ki,
” the lad persisted. “Much better Master stay Madame?”

  He didn’t understand the constraint that had fallen between the two, and shaking his head sadly he went into the kitchen. “I’ll say good night, now,” Carroll said, jumping up and stifling a yawn. “You must be tired. Gideon will leave when you want him to, but there is a watchman in the compound, so don’t be nervous. Yell if you need anything!”

  Sylvia found a hip-bath filled in the kitchen when Gideon had gone. It was delicious to plunge into the cool—never cold-water and soak after the dust and heat of the day.

  After drying herself she slipped the gauze folds of her nightdress over her head and went into the living room. Then she saw Carroll framed in the doorway and looked around feverishly for her wrap.

  “Excuse me,” he said, as she fled into the bedroom, “I just brought you this.”

  Something hard banged down on the table.

  “What is it?” Sylvia asked, still trembling.

  “A revolver. You never know. A prowling leopard may come around. Can you work it?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll soon learn if you have to. Well—good night again!”

  “Thank goodness!” Sylvia sighed when he was gone.

  Sylvia donned her white duty-coat the next morning at half-past nine and went across to the hospital in time for ward inspection.

  Carroll was properly attired in a white suit, and Sylvia could not help wondering if her presence had anything to do with his improved appearance. Sister Kineton was as impeccable as ever and nodded a bright good morning at the young doctor, obviously aware that this menace to the hospital’s peaceful existence would be leaving with the supply truck in two days’ time.

  Sylvia had slept late, surprised to have Gideon wake her at eight.

  “Madame has breakfast now,” the lad smiled. “Master say will Madame attend hospital this morning? Rounds are at half-past nine.”

  Rounds was obviously an important event in the steward’s life. He spoke the word slowly, making a huge thing out of it.

  Sylvia had welcomed her luggage, and put on her white duty-coat as an old friend she was glad to see. St. Augustine’s and its clinics seemed as far away in time as in distance. Martin was merely a name, and not a personality at all. Strangely enough, the only personality in her present orbit seemed to be David Carroll. She had met him but briefly, yet it had been a head-on collision. Perhaps from such an impact one never quite recovered.