The Hospital in Buwambo

by Anne Vinton

  “Of course.” Velda sipped her pink gin and removed her stole. “What are you doing in Lagos, Doctor—er—I must call you Martin now, mustn’t I?”

  “Certainly. May I take the same—liberty?”

  “Do, Martin. I feel—I just feel we’re going to be great friends.”

  “Well, Velda, I didn’t mean to come to Lagos at all. I started out with a unit going to Freetown, but before we docked the pathologist I was relieving came aboard with the pilot in a bit of a flap. They’d had an S.O.S. from the hospital in Lagos for a pathologist.”

  “I do so admire you!” Velda sighed. “The sacrifices you doctors have to make!”

  “When I got here,” Martin proceeded, “there was no urgency at all. In fact I have a month’s leave—on pay—to start with,” he chuckled. “I have more than three weeks left.”

  “Have you any plans for your leave, Martin?” she asked idly.

  “No, not really. I have a sort of friend doctoring up in the bush. I thought I might nip up when I discover how one gets about here. I believe the railways are out. I didn’t bring my car with me.”

  “Would this place be Buwambo?” Velda asked casually.

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “Do I know it!” She sounded very familiar with the place in a single phrase. “You must have been sent from heaven, Martin, dear! I wish to go to Buwambo, and you are going to take me.”

  Sylvia heard David return to the hospital, and his footsteps sounded unmistakably eager. She had just performed a cesarean operation, and was scrubbing up.

  David came into the theater, a whistle on his lips.

  “I hear you have just been busy, Dr. Phillips,” he said, his voice loud for the hospital’s benefit. The door closed. “Sylvia!” he gasped, urgently.

  Because she wanted to turn in answer to that plea, because will and decision melted in the heat of love, Sylvia dipped her face in the cool water before her and didn’t speak.

  “David!” she faced him now, squarely, desperately. “You were going to write a letter...”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t get around to—”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s need for you to write it now. I know what you wanted to tell me, and I’ve naturally given the matter a lot of thought.”

  “Oh? May I ask where you obtained your information?”

  “From Sister.”

  “Oh!” he shrugged. “Of course she knows. Well, I think your attitude speaks for itself, Sylvia. If you can’t countenance such a thing, I quite understand. It’s best to know. One can only supply one’s own courage. Please realize I feel badly enough about having made—certain impulsive advances—without confiding in you first. But my life was decided—dedicated—before I met you.”

  “I quite understand,” said Sylvia thinly.

  “I could desert them and come to you, perhaps,” said David unhappily.

  “I wouldn’t respect you for it,” Sylvia went on, in the same emotionless voice. “And you would not respect yourself. We always have to live with ourselves and face the truth. You are, of course, expecting me to leave after the probationary period of six months, aren’t you, sir?”

  “You will be—leaving?” He asked it as though he had just swallowed a bitter pill.

  “Yes. It’s just impossible, now!” Her voice was choked.

  “I’ll try not to make it impossible for you, Sylvia,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry if you’re hurt, too. I wouldn’t have hurt you for worlds. I do blame myself.”

  A week passed somewhat miserably.

  David seemed to take the full force of the blow caused by Sylvia’s words of denial more than twenty-four hours after the initial impact. He suddenly looked lost, after a busy session in the theater, and wandered off into the bush without a word. When he returned, his eyes looked as if they hurt and were trapped. They focused on some inward vision. Previously it had seemed odd not to meet frequently about the hospital and its environs, but now Sylvia realized she was seeing less and less of David Carroll, and there was never a meeting out of duty hours. There seemed to be a tacit understanding that she and Connie would occupy the larger bungalow, and the superintendent take over the small one.

  That all was not well with the resident staff of Buwambo hospital struck Kelso Blaine forcibly during his period of recovery. He had a screened-off corner in the men’s ward, but between the screens he could watch Sylvia sailing about, erect and beautiful in her immaculate white coat.

  One day Sister cheerfully attached herself to the superintendent in the laboratory.

  “Mr. Blaine will soon be off our hands, I think, sir.”

  “And about time,” grumbled David.

  “I’ve taken his stitches out this morning,” Sister went on, “and he has healed beautifully. Oh! Hello, Dr. Phillips!”

  Sylvia was loosening her coat. It was Sunday and she was off duty for the rest of the day.

  “Is there anything else before I go, sir?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, Dr. Phillips. Oh—there is a bit of news regarding staff. Dr. Hogan’s flying back next week. Hogan’s passed, Sister. Passed jolly well.”

  “Good for him!” Sister granted.

  “I’m glad,” Sylvia seconded. “He must be very happy.”

  “Yes, he deserved to have the honor. He’s a good surgeon,” David said. “Then there’s a letter from this Wilstrop fellow in Lagos. He told Kalengo that Buwambo was a louse-hole, or something equally colorful. Now he asks to come. What do you both think? A pathologist would be valuable to us.”

  “He’d save us a lot of time,” Sister advocated.

  Sylvia looked at Carroll. The relationship was now such that she could not tell him what she suspected Harold Wilstrop’s true interest in Buwambo to be. “If you think he fills the need—send for him, sir.”

  Sylvia quietly went out. A few minutes later there was the sound of a car starting up in the compound. Seeing the superintendent’s questioningly raised eyebrows, Sister took a look out of the lab window and reported back.

  “It’s Dr. Phillips taking Mr. Blaine for a run,” she said casually. “They make a nice couple. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that young man didn’t take her back alive with him!”

  “On what authority do you base that assumption?” Carroll asked rather sharply.

  “Only that they—seem affectionate on occasions,” Sister answered brightly. “Mr. Blaine’s first conscious request was for a kiss, from Sylvia; and he got it! You should have seen him just now tucking his good arm round her. She was scolding him—but laughing about it. I suppose there’s all afternoon for that sort of carrying on without anyone looking on.”

  “Stop!” roared the superintendent, his face livid. “I don’t want to hear any more!”

  She had started at his bellow, and now she looked uncertain. “I’m sorry Sister,” he said, looking at his feet. “It’s really no business of ours what Dr. Phillips does, is it?”

  But Sister Kineton had seen the light suddenly. Now that she came to think of it the superintendent had not openly denied a passion for the fair Sylvia. He had merely emphasized the hopelessness of such a passion.

  Suddenly her anger turned upon Sylvia for not returning Carroll’s affection. How dared she deny him of all people who had already faced—and overcome—so many obstacles in his life?

  Sister, setting her shoulders and pursing her lips, determined to break up the unhappy triangle as quickly as possible.

  Sylvia braked, switched off the ignition and slid out of the driver’s seat.

  “You can drive going back, Kelso,” she said. “You’ll find her quiet and easy to maneuver. She is very responsive.”

  “We’re speaking of the car, of course?”

  “Of course. What else?” Sylvia tried to control a blush, but she was finding Kelso rather difficult these days.

  Kelso’s eyes never left her face. He was enjoying a new sensation of masculine power. Sylvia was nervous, uncertain of him. This was
not a situation of his choosing, but at least she was conscious of him at last.

  He dawdled after her as she went into the shade of the trees. “I am past the age when a man goes into a bluebell wood with a girl for—bluebells.” He caught up with her, pulled her around to face him and felt her trembling in his arms.

  “Don’t you mind?” he asked her, releasing the pressure of his arms.

  “I don’t know, Kelso.” She gave a hard sigh. “Connie says you care about me. But I can’t help not being able to love you. If it helps—I don’t think I mind the little you have taken.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia.” He reached again, but this time only to take her hand and squeeze it in his own, reassuringly. “You are not a bottle of medicine to be taken three times a day. I’m sorry if I was a brute and scared you for a moment. It won’t happen again. The umpire has ruled me out—twice. I’m beginning to think I don’t know the rules of the game.”

  “There aren’t any rules,” Sylvia decided sharply. “Sometimes one is ruled out without having had a chance to play.”

  “I never discussed cricket with a woman before,” Kelso smiled.

  Sister accosted him first thing next morning as he was leaving the bathroom.

  “Oh, Mr. Blaine—”

  “Yes, Sister?”

  “You’re free to leave anytime you know. You’re due for discharge.”

  “That’s fine, but—”

  “We need all our beds for the sick. Shall we say after lunch?” After lunch Sylvia said goodbye to Connie. The Blaines were moving into Buwambo village where their trucks and equipment were stored.

  “Ah, here’s Kelso!” Connie exclaimed, as she walked out of the bungalow and down the porch steps.

  “I just want to say goodbye to Sylvia,” he told his sister. “You go ahead, Connie. I’ll catch you up.”

  The rawboned girl, looking hideous in yellow, gave a final wave and strode off.

  “May I come inside a moment, Sylvia?”

  She dropped her eyes, afraid of showing her nervousness as she led the way into the living room darkened against the strong rays of the sun.

  “I’ll be frank, Sylvia. I want one last kiss to remember you by before I go out of your life. I mean to move down to the coast immediately.

  They were entwined when Carroll entered the bungalow, and neither heard him gasp and stand aside. A tear was on Sylvia’s cheek, a sigh on Kelso’s lips as they finally drew apart. “Goodbye, Mr. Blaine,” said the superintendent coldly.

  Kelso went without replying, and Sylvia turned into the bedroom, her heart thumping.

  “Will you have recovered from all this sufficiently by two o’clock?” David asked from the doorway.

  They glared at one another. David’s gaze softened first.

  Sylvia looked at him searchingly, then lowered her eyes. “You were so wrong a moment ago, David, did you but know it. What you saw wasn’t the truth.”

  “You will have to forgive me, Sylvia. Sight is my specialty, remember? I wanted to make very sure you were not being assaulted.”

  “I was not,” said Sylvia, with a toss of defiance. “He’s gone now. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

  “I am not particularly upset, if that is what you mean. Neither need you be. You’ll be joining him shortly.”

  “I never intend to see him again,” Sylvia vowed.

  “Hence the tears?”

  “No!” she almost struck him.

  Several times a day Sister marched to the bottom end of the compound and quelled the high spirits of the workers who were busy at their cement mixer.

  “It’s beginning to look like a settlement,” Sylvia decided, during lunch one day with David. “What exactly is the new house for?”

  “Bachelor quarters and a dining hall. There’s Wilstrop to house and Kalengo; Mike, also, when he returns.”

  “You will go back to your own bungalow eventually?” Sylvia asked.

  “I doubt it. I’ll leave it for the new superintendent. He may be a married man.”

  Sylvia was startled. Was David, then, leaving Buwambo?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Like a great red snake the road twisted along between the gum trees, here and there relieved by a shady, fragrant jacaranda bearing clusters of creamy-white, pink-tipped blossoms.

  Velda had been very confiding last night, and Martin now knew all about the two Davids, the elder and the younger; he also learned of the hotels she owned in Majorca, where she lived when she was not visiting, as now. He knew how cruel the elder David had been to her, and how misunderstood she was by all. She had told him that she kept pet dogs and cats because she had so much affection to give, but no understanding human person upon which to lavish her abundance.

  “I thought I loved Dave once,” she was continuing now, where she had left off. “I even named my son after him. But he turned out to be cold, cruel and inhuman. I have tried to convince him his need is for a woman in his life, but he never forgives me for all that happened so long ago. You will see how he treats me, Martin, when we reach Buwambo. I am but a naughty child who merely irritates him in the middle of his great work. I sometimes wish I had been poor and dependent on him.”

  “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Martin, rather too vehemently. “But a wealthy woman is always a lonely woman, Martin. Her friends love only her riches.”

  “You will frighten me off if you talk like that, Velda,” Martin said promptly.

  He sounded affronted, and she smiled.

  “Martin

  “Yes, Mrs. Carroll?”

  “Do you really think I’m attractive?”

  Martin was palpitating in the knowledge that this situation could lead to the wildest of his dreams coming true. He mustn’t overplay his hand, or lose a trick.

  “I asked if you found me attractive, Martin?”

  “I’m going out, Velda,” he said, allowing his voice to catch a little. “Dammit, I’m only human!”

  As he stood on the roadside and lit his cigarette Martin chuckled. Velda—content—curled up like a kitten, her feminine ego temporarily satisfied.

  Now it was afternoon, and only a couple of trucks had passed their stationary car, ignoring the flares Martin displayed as an appeal for help.

  “Are you asleep, Velda?”

  “No. I don’t think I can sleep, thank you, Martin. Would you like to take your arm away?”

  “Not if you find it more comfortable than the upholstery.” She gave him a blue-eyed smile, followed by the quiet fall of lashes. When she looked again she asked, “Would you like to kiss me, Martin?”

  His grip tightened about her shoulders.

  “I would like it, but I’m not going to, Velda. It’s too dangerous a thing to start.”

  “I want you to kiss me, Martin, really.” She was appealing to him now, wanting assurance of her attraction for him.

  “What would your Dave say?” he asked gruffly.

  It would be as well to keep the affair at warm until one was safely at Buwambo, Velda decided. Dave might have changed toward her, and she had always loved Dave, though at the moment, with Martin beside her, she had to remind herself of this fact. Even so, Dave would not fit into things at Majorca. He would be rude to her friends and critical of her amusements.

  With an even greater affection Velda looked at Martin and decided to hang on to him at all costs for the time being.

  There was a spurt of dust on the road behind. Martin leaped out of the car and flagged the approaching vehicle wildly.

  “In trouble?” asked the driver cheerfully.

  “We are, rather,” Martin said. “We have a flat. I would have changed the wheel but there’s no jack in this car. A rented job.” He smiled distantly. He realized he needed the man’s help and had better butter him up a bit. “If I could borrow your jack, old chap, or your strong right arm, perhaps?”

  Between them the men changed the wheel, then the stranger insisted on pumping air into all the tires. He looked over the engine, tested the batter
y and brakes. He displayed such concern over their plight that the travelers were quite relieved to see him go. Martin even urged him on his way, saying he had been delayed quite long enough. He didn’t ask whither the good Samaritan was bound or did he even take the trouble to exchange an introduction with the stranger who, in parting, had introduced himself as Harold Wilstrop.

  Things were just tolerable, Sylvia decided. It was a help to see David.

  “I’ve finished all this reading you gave me, David,” Sylvia said after dinner one evening, indicating a pile of textbooks on the sideboard. “Your notes were very clear on the whole. There’s just this one paragraph on the subject of cataract in infancy.” She quickly thumbed some papers over in the topmost volume.

  “So you’re still interested?” he asked in surprise.

  “What do you mean—still interested?”

  “Of course you are. You would be.” He felt a surge of affection and pride. “I mean we hadn’t done anything about it recently. I thought the subject shelved.”

  “I was shelving it in here,” she tapped her head. “You must have been wonderful in your day, David. I found a sheaf of clippings in one of your books.”

  “Now I don’t get even a mention in the press,” he smiled wryly. “Do you want to go on even further, Sylvia? I can bring you a baby tomorrow, suffering from that very thing.” He tapped at the photograph where she had opened the textbook.

  “Oh, no, David!” she panicked. “A baby isn’t a monkey. I’m not up to it! I’m not!”