The Hospital in Buwambo

by Anne Vinton

  She blinked uncomprehendingly.

  “Dr. Phillips, you should take off your dress, you know, before you sleep. Can you manage yourself?”

  She made a little flutter of protest with her hands and turned on her side, her eyelids leaden.

  David Carroll shrugged and saw the zip fastener following the line of her spine. He never performed any operation with such nervousness as now possessed him. He felt clumsy, too. As he finally drew the folds of the dress away from the recumbent figure a flash of tenderness crossed his countenance. She was such a slight little thing to hold this power over him.

  Sylvia stirred, her lips smiling.

  “David!” she murmured, in a tone of sleepy wonder. Resolutely he covered her with a sheet and tucked the mosquito netting around her. The revolver was on the table by the bed. He turned down the lamp to a comforting glow and looked once more around the room before going out into the night.

  Sister was agitatedly pacing the long porch outside the hospital.

  “You’re very late, sir, and you going up-country tomorrow!”

  “Yes, Sister. It’s late. You should be in bed. Good night!”

  “Oh!” she gasped impatiently. “Pray heaven we get back to normal in this place—and quick!”

  Gideon was early on the job the next morning as he knew Master was going off up-country and might need him. A groan brought him quickly to the bedroom. It was daylight but the sun had not yet stabbed through the trees lining the compound. Madame was holding her head. She begged for water, and as the lad brought a bottle from the kerosene-driven refrigerator that stood on the back porch outside the kitchen, she took two white tablets and drank deeply.

  “Thank you, Gideon. You must go now.”

  Sylvia struggled to remember the previous evening. Who had drugged her? Surely she must have been drugged. If not she had been drunk, just plain drunk.

  Suffused with shame, she sank back on the bed and looked around. She didn’t remember taking off her dress last night, but there it was folded neatly over a chair, her silver shoes beside it. She did remember being carried off, though. Whoever had carried her to bed must have removed her dress. What must he think of her not being able to hold a few drinks? Maybe she had hurled herself at him all evening? Certainly she had indulged in wildly romantic and impossible dreams, only to wake up with this dreadful headache.

  Which serves me right! she told herself miserably.

  She heard Dr. Carroll’s voice calling across the compound to a servant.

  “That wretched letter of resignation,” she groaned. “He asked and asked for it. He must want it badly. I’m glad I haven’t to face him today!”

  Opening her writing case she wrote briefly and to the point, sealing the envelope and called Gideon.

  “Dr. Carroll wants this.” she told him.

  “Yes, Madame. He leave in five minutes. Madame wishes him to come?”

  “Oh, no! Just give him that, please.”

  The boy ran off.

  David Carroll read the letter and looked thoughtfully toward the bungalow.

  “Madame is well?” he inquired.

  “Madame takes medicine for sore head,” the lad explained. “Not so happy as last night.”

  “Look after her,” the superintendent instructed, and handed the envelope and its contents over to Kalengo. “Read that and file it,” he said. “We’ll act on it after we get back. More delay. You’d better consider taking up surgery, Kalengo. I may need you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sylvia felt better as the morning proceeded, though she was still troubled by the gaps in her memory of events the previous evening. What a fool she must have made of herself! The senior surgeon had only wanted her resignation, and she had dangled this like bait, luring him on to acts and words that were intended to flatter her ego. Why, he had even said he was afraid of falling in love with her! This must have been mere flattery, for what was there to be afraid of? She didn’t think she would mind having Dave Carroll fall in love with her; her fluttering heart had told her she wouldn’t be indifferent herself. If there had been any truth in his words he would have called in to say goodbye, knowing her to be cold sober this morning, and not have dashed off into the bush carrying her resignation like a looter carrying off his spoils.

  “I hate him!” she half sobbed. “I’m glad he has gone!”

  After lunch she donned her white duty-coat and made an informal tour of the wards.

  “No, thank you,” she told Sister, who coldly inquired if she wished the staff to attend her. “I’m quite unofficial.”

  “That’s right,” Sister Kineton agreed, and went about her business.

  The patients were cheerful and friendly, even those who were very ill. There was no whining or self-pity; they accepted their sickness as their own personal burden, and were grateful for any relief afforded from their pain.

  While Sylvia was in the hospital a gesticulating and troubled procession arrived. A young woman at its head was carrying a small child of about two years, who was wailing pitifully.

  Sister met the party at the porch door. She called one of the nurses to come and take the child, who was whipped away to be bathed, pending an examination. Then the family was dismissed, told to return for news on the morrow. They protested, obviously preferring to wait in the compound, but Sister refused to allow this.

  Sylvia thought this treatment rather harsh and unnecessary, for obviously the small child was sick with pain, and any parent would be gravely concerned.

  As the child was being put into a white smock, Sylvia, who had taken care to keep out of the way during the bathing, stepped forward.

  “Would it help if I had a look at him, Sister? The way he leans over I think his ear may be hurting him.”

  “Certainly not!” said Sister, aghast. “I understand you have resigned, Dr. Phillips, and I couldn’t possibly allow you to—”

  Sylvia raised her hand to stop the tirade.

  “You do have a thing or two against me, don’t you, Sister? You have said enough to make yourself quite, quite clear. I only hope the little boy appreciates your correct behavior. I’ll go now.”

  She returned to the bungalow and read, though it was oppressively hot and difficult to become immersed in fiction. She played some records and wished the time away. The supply truck was much in evidence today, being oiled and greased by a mechanic.

  Just before dusk Gideon darted from the kitchen.

  “What is it?” she asked, noting his excitement.

  “It is the Master! He is back!”

  Sylvia’s heart turned quite over. Going to the doorway she saw Kalengo wiping his face with a large red handkerchief. Bearers were carrying a litter upon which lay the superintendent.

  “What’s the matter?” Sylvia asked, approaching at a run.

  “It is malarial fever, Dr. Phillips. Dr. Carroll has recurrent attacks, and when he is overworked he has less resistance to them. This morning he complained of giddiness, but insisted he would shake it off. However...” Kalengo indicated the litter.

  Sister click-clacked down the porch stairs.

  “It never rains but it pours,” she complained, and looked pointedly at Sylvia. “He would have been better in his bed last night. Which brings us to the point. Where can we put him?”

  “The bungalow, of course,” Sylvia said quickly. “I am leaving in the morning, so I can shake down for one night somewhere. Tell the boys to put him to bed, Dr. Kalengo.”

  Gideon took charge of the party and Carroll was carried into the bungalow.

  “What is the treatment?” Sylvia asked Kalengo.

  “You are asking me?” The Nigerian couldn’t believe his ears.

  Why not? I’m sure you know all there is to be known about malaria. I’m also sure you know a lot more about medicine than I do. You have the look of the born physician.”

  “You are very kind,” bowed Kalengo, and he proceeded to prescribe the most modern drugs and dosages used in the virulent f
orms of malarial infection. “Tonight and tomorrow he will be in a high state of fever,” he explained. “Then, as the temperature drops rapidly, there is the period of weakness and debility to overcome. Dr. Carroll is strong, but his fever is now habitual. Approximately twice a year I have to treat him, but this is a bad attack compared with some. I had to inject him to get him back at all. He was quite violent.”

  “But this means the hospital will be without a surgeon—how long?”

  “Two days, miss. Dr. Carroll will stagger back on duty long before he is fit.”

  “An impossible state of affairs!” she mused.

  “Quite.”

  “Then you are temporarily in charge of the hospital, Dr. Kalengo?”

  “Nominally, yes. Actually—”

  “There’s a rather sick child awaiting you, Dr. Kalengo. Diagnosis is out of Sister’s province, surely”

  Having grown an inch taller, Kalengo went into the hospital. Sylvia set about finding a place to sleep. The smaller bungalow across the compound was now completed, and though smelling of paint and cement, it was weathertight. When Gideon was available he and another boy brought a mattress and bedding over, also a mosquito net, a precaution Sylvia loathed. When her personal belongings were brought across she began dispiritedly to pack. The great adventure was so nearly over.

  David Carroll was certainly an intriguing person, and she would have liked to know him better, but he had made it quite clear that he wanted her away from Buwambo at the first possible opportunity, that being three days after their initial meeting. In those three days Sylvia felt she had lived a very long time.

  A pity she could not say goodbye to him. At this moment, coming out of the morphine Kalengo had given him, he was writhing on his bed, his eyes wild, and he knew no one. When he was better they would tell him she had gone.

  Suddenly, just as she was thinking of going to bed, she was aware of a presence in the doorway of the tiny bungalow. It was Dr. Kalengo.

  “Dr. Phillips, I am much troubled. Do you mind my coming to you? You are so understanding.”

  “Not at all. Can I help?”

  “This child, this very sick child. He has an infection in the middle ear. Unfortunately, no doubt due to delay, the infection has spread inwardly...”

  “The mastoid?” Sylvia asked, her heart sinking.

  “So it seems. His temperature is very high. I don’t know what to do! I could incise an abscess, or remove tonsils, but this is really beyond me. I fear the child might die.”

  “Dr. Kalengo,” Sylvia asked firmly, “are you afraid to request my help? Don’t you believe in my surgery, either? You have the right to consult whomsoever you wish. Are you going to take advantage of my presence while you can?”

  “I must ask your help, Dr. Phillips. A human life is at stake.”

  “No more need be said.”

  They went into the hospital together. Women patients were weeping silently in sympathy for the tiny child who lay fighting for his life behind the screens in a corner.

  Sister appeared, brisk and forbidding as ever, looking coldly on while Sylvia made her examination.

  “Prep him for theater immediately, please,” she instructed.

  “But, Dr. Phillips, you have no right...”

  “Dr. Kalengo has called me in,” Sylvia said quietly. “Need we brawl on the ward again, Sister? I will answer for my deeds to the correct authority. Now, Doctor, if you will prepare an intravenous injection, please? I am going to scrub up.”

  It was a tense scene in the little theater, and the most trying operation of Sylvia’s career. She, who had so recently operated in one of the most modern theaters in the world, now worked by the light of kerosene lamps and aluminum reflectors. It was appallingly hot, and a Nigerian nurse, a pretty little thing who gave her name as Tundi, was detailed to keep the surgeon’s face clear of perspiration.

  At last it was all over.

  Sister had attended sullenly but efficiently, and Kalengo was all open admiration.

  “I have never witnessed a mastoidal operation before,” he said. “Thank you very much Dr. Phillips.”

  “I think he’ll do,” said Sylvia, looking down at the unconscious child who was being transferred to a stretcher. “Will you keep an eye on him tonight, Doctor?”

  “Certainly. I will take my sleep by his bed.”

  “No need for that,” Sister snapped. “I don’t intend to leave the child myself. I’ll call you if it seems necessary.”

  “Well, thank you, Sister!” Kalengo smiled.

  “May I say, Dr. Phillips,”—Sister Kineton looked even more sour than usual as she addressed the surgeon—“I think you worked beautifully. Credit where credit’s due, that’s my motto.” Quite unable to respond, Sylvia went dazedly to the changing room.

  She was now very tired. Nobody knew she had not operated for mastoidal infection before, though she had many times assisted Dr. MacAlpine. Her eyes pricked with the tears of relief and fatigue. She would have enjoyed a good, honest cry.

  She had taken off her cap to shake her hair loose, hair which was plastered to her head with perspiration and must be washed before she could know relief, when she heard Dr. Kalengo’s excited voice coming from the porch.

  “Oh, dear! Dr. Carroll has left his bed! He’s coming here! He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

  David Carroll lurched up the hospital steps, his eyes wild. “Stop!” commanded Sister, but he pushed her aside, and Kalengo after her. He then collapsed into Sylvia’s arms, pinning her against the wall.

  “There, there,” she said soothingly, speaking as she would to a child. “What’s wrong with this boy, then? He should be in bed.”

  “He seems to hear your voice,” said Kalengo, wonderingly.

  “Rubbish!” Sister almost spat. “He hears nothing.”

  “Stand up a little,” pleaded Sylvia, ignoring the other woman. “Come along, now. We’re going to take you back to bed. Everything is all right. Dr. Kalengo! Gideon!”

  Among them they managed to persuade the sick man back to the bungalow. Sylvia talked to him every step of the way, encouragingly, though his weight nearly made her crumple.

  “There, now, that’s better, isn’t it?” she asked, as they finally got him into bed. “I’ll leave him to you, now Doctor...”

  But as she made to leave the room the invalid again leapt up, his eyes wild. “Very well,” she said, in answer to Kalengo’s beseeching glance. “I’ll stay with him if it will keep him quiet.” She took the superintendent’s hand in hers and sat down by the bed.

  “I will bring Madame Doctor strong coffee,” said Gideon, a new respect in his voice.

  The Nigerian doctor cleared his throat. “Dr. Phillips, before I go, I must tell you that I was given a certain document this morning to file, a document bearing your signature...”

  “Yes?” Sylvia prompted.

  “Unfortunately I did not file this document, and I appear to have lost it somewhere in the bush. To all intents and purposes you are on the staff of this hospital, unless you care to write a further letter of resignation. But I feel personally that this hospital needs you, and I ask you to reconsider your decision.”

  Sylvia looked from the patient, quiet now, to the physician. “This savors of a plot, Dr. Kalengo,” she said quietly. “Did you really lose my letter of resignation in the bush?”

  The man lowered his eyes.

  “No, I burned this same letter before I came to you to ask help for the child. This way I intended to force your hand—should you refuse—by stating you were on the staff and must act.”

  There was silence broken only by the stertorous breathing of the sick man.

  “I would never refuse to do my job,” she said. “You surprise me, Dr. Kalengo. I thought you and I understood one another from the start.”

  “But will you stay, Dr. Phillips?” he persisted eagerly. “This hospital, this man, needs you. I know he has some personal reason against employing you, but I also know he
will not be able to replace you. For two years we have been trying to get help. Now you go away—I do not understand.”

  “Do you honestly think I could go off to Lagos tomorrow without knowing the result of my night’s work on that child, Dr. Kalengo?” Sylvia asked. “I couldn’t rest with him on my mind. I had already decided to see that case through, and there are a few other things I’ve had second thoughts about too.” She looked at Carroll as she spoke. He was gripping her fingers as though at a lifeline.

  “So you’ll stay?”

  She held out her free hand and they shook on it.

  It did not take Sylvia long to realize that Buwambo was not going to be a holiday resort. There was plenty of work always, the sick and injured being brought or wandering in from the bush. And Sister Kineton—having lost the first round, she thought, in that fate had played a trick to keep the newcomer on at the hospital because of the superintendent’s untimely sickness—had no intention of bowing to the inevitable graciously. She grimly decided to give “that Dr. Phillips” a run for her money, and piled work ruthlessly on the young shoulders, watching for the sagging that might lead to breaking point and a riddance. Though she would never have acknowledged jealousy as her motive, Sylvia’s beauty, freshness and youth all stabbed at the older woman, who possessed none of these assets. Sister Kineton was clean, yes, but not with the fragrance that emanated from Sylvia. Most of all she resented the young surgeon’s efficiency. This, surely, should be the hallmark of the faithful servant, and not inherent in a chit who had just arrived on the scene. Discipline had not been lacking from Sylvia Phillips training, however, and on many occasions her tired body was made to serve her mind long after she believed herself to have reached the point of exhaustion.

  Sister did not spare herself in driving the other. She could stay up half the night and still rise for duty on the wards at seven in the morning, maliciously refreshed by the knowledge that she had kept Sylvia up with her, and could trump up some item to bring Dr. Phillips on duty and keep her there all day if it so pleased her. She watched the fair, young face appear on the scene heavy with weariness. The eyes were deeper and burned in their sockets, yet not once on the wards or in the theater did Sylvia yawn or complain. Sister Winifred Kineton was put to shame for the first time in her life.