Outpost Hospital

by Sheila Ridley

  He stood up and put the necklace around her throat, his large hands fumbling with the tiny catch. He had to push her hair aside to fix it, then he smoothed it back into place.

  He took his seat again opposite her and studied the effect. She felt her cheeks grow hot under his keen gaze as he nodded. “Delightful,” he said. “I wasn’t sure which color to choose, because, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what color your eyes were.”

  His confession took away some of her pleasure in his gift; but after all, the main thing was that he had thought about her at all.

  She opened her handbag and took out the paperweight. “I got this in Dakar,” she said shyly, pushing it across the table to him. “I hope you like it.”

  “Why, thank you, Nurse,” he said, removing the tissue paper. “It’s very well made. I’ll use it a lot. Thank you.”

  She smiled, carefully folding the paper that had been around his present to her. Then she put the paper and ribbon into the box and, when they left the dining car, put the box into her case. Tonight she would replace the necklace in its box and there it would stay for the rest of the journey. She did not want to risk losing it.

  The railway came to an abrupt end at a town called Makurdi, and Mark had arranged for a large canoe to be waiting there to take them to their destination.

  The canoe was a hollowed-out trunk of a huge tree, and a dozen boys, with much good-natured argument, began to transfer the luggage to it.

  It was obvious that there would not be room for all the packing cases and the suitcases, and Katherine watched with patient resignation as Mark first of all supervised the loading of his precious medical supplies. Then he made the grinning boys understand, by means of signs, that they would be well rewarded if they got the rest of the luggage to the mission station before nightfall.

  Katherine hoped the cases would arrive soon, as the small bag she carried with her held only the barest necessities. But she had learned enough in the short time she had been in Nigeria to know that it was useless to fret about such things.

  So she stepped gingerly aboard the rocking craft and took her seat at one end under a hastily rigged awning of leaves.

  The dark forest pressed in on each side; massive trees, with smaller palms between; pines and, here and there, the dead remains of a giant tree stood gaunt and black against the lush greenery. The young fellows were in high spirits as they skilfully propelled the heavy boat down the wide, fast-flowing river. They laughed and talked continually and, though Mark and Katherine could not understand them, one word was repeated over and over—“loketa”—and they realized that this must be the word for “doctor.” The dire warning of the colonel on the ship had been nagging at her more and more as the journey neared its end. But no one could think harshly of these people.

  Mark, she could see, was already running a professional eye over their thin bodies. Although they appeared to be full of energy, many of them had sores on their feet and all showed signs of malnutrition.

  When they were within a quarter of a mile of Ngombe, their final destination, they saw another canoe approaching. In it was a number of young boys wearing clean white shirts and wraparounds and, at one end, sat an older white man.

  As the boats drew nearer together, Katherine saw that the man wore a clerical collar. This must be the Rev. Andrew Kennedy, she thought, feeling a little nervous as she always did on meeting people for the first time and hoping he would be easy to get on with.

  “This looks like a reception committee,” said Mark.

  The clergyman stood up and called to them in a pleasant voice with a Scottish accent, “Hullo, there, you’re very welcome. My friends here insisted on coming tae meet the doctor and escort him tae the station. We’ll lead the way.”

  Mark and Katherine waved to him and Mark replied, “Glad to be here at last, Kennedy. Lead on. We’ll follow you.”

  But their crew had different ideas. Pride would not allow them to follow meekly behind. Did they not have the eagerly awaited “loketa” in their boat? So the triumphal procession developed into a race, with each crew determined to get to the station first.

  As the canoe swayed and the large cases wobbled, Katherine began to feel a bit scared, but the gaiety was infectious. When the contest ended in a dead heat at a small landing, she was laughing with them.

  The crew scrambled ashore, helped her to climb from the boat and then started unloading the cargo.

  After instructing his own assistants to help in this work, Andrew Kennedy approached Mark and Katherine. He was 28 years old, but three years in the climate of Nigeria had aged him and his thin face was deeply lined. He was of medium height and wore white shorts and jacket. In all, he was not an impressive-looking man, but as he shook their hands there was such a warmth and sincerity about him that Katherine, at least, took an immediate liking to him.

  “Thank God you are here,” he said. “This is an answer to my prayer. I suppose I’d better introduce myself. I’m Andrew Kennedy,” he smiled broadly, “though I expect you’d guessed that already.”

  Mark introduced Katherine and himself, and then their host came between them, putting an arm through theirs and saying, “Come along up to the house; my sister is waiting for us. We were expecting you a couple of days ago.”

  Mark began to explain the delay but Kennedy shook his head, “Och, don’t bother to explain,” he laughed. “I know something about the way the trains run here.”

  The three of them were walking up a sloping path cut through grass nearly a foot high to where a rather dilapidated single-story wooden house stood on a grassy rise facing the river. It was built on poles, and a covered porch, which seemed to sag slightly, ran around all four sides.

  On the porch, at the top of the steps, stood a woman in a long-sleeved, high-necked black dress. Her brown hair was drawn severely back into a tight bun and, as she waited, hands clasped, for the party to reach her, there was no smile of welcome on her pallid face.

  Katherine’s nervousness, which had largely disappeared after meeting Andrew Kennedy, now returned and increased.

  They had reached the top of the steps now, and the clergyman threw his sun-helmet into a basket chair and took Katherine’s hand in his. “Mary, this is Nurse Marlowe. She’ll be grand company for you. And this—” he put a hand on Mark’s shoulder “—is Dr. Charlton. My sister Mary.”

  Apart from muttering “How d’you do?” as they shook hands, Mary Kennedy said nothing, and her cold expression did not alter. Katherine wondered that brother and sister could be so unlike in manner. There was a superficial likeness in their looks. Both had rather long thin faces, brown hair, though Andrew’s was badly cut and untidy, with a tendency to wave; both had brown eyes, but the woman’s were small and hard, whereas her brother’s were large and gentle.

  “Yes, this is certainly a great day for our wee village,” Kennedy was saying. He seemed a bit uneasy himself now and was trying to make up for what was lacking in his sister’s welcome. “I told you in ma letters how badly we’ve been needing a doctor, didn’t I, Charlton? You’ll be kept busy, verra busy, I fear.”

  “That’s fine,” said Mark. “That’s what we want, isn’t it, Nurse?”

  Katherine agreed that it was and Andrew Kennedy nodded. “Good. I’m glad you both feel like that. Now, I’d better go and see how the unloading’s going while you go inside. You’ll find it much cooler in the house.”

  As he ran down the steps and path, Mary Kennedy turned toward the door. “You’d better come in,” she said over her shoulder.

  As they followed Mary Kennedy’s stiff back, Katherine glanced at Mark, but he showed no signs of having noticed anything unusual about their hostess’s reception of them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mary Kennedy led them into a large, sparsely furnished room. On the cement floor were several brown raffia mats, an upright piano stood in one corner near the wide window that opened onto the front porch. The rest of the furniture was heavy and solid and the stra
ight-backed chairs looked most uncomfortable.

  Although it was still daylight outside, the room was gloomy and forbidding.

  Mark put down his own and Katherine’s case near the door and his sun-helmet on top of them. Katherine took off her cream-colored straw hat and smoothed her hair. Her gray two-piece was crumpled and she longed for a bath and a change of clothes.

  After a moment’s strained silence, the Scotswoman invited them to sit down. She herself perched on the edge of a chair. “You’ll be glad the journey’s over, I daresay," she said, and it was a statement rather than a question.

  “Well, we’re glad to be here, Miss Kennedy,” said Mark. “But the journey wasn’t too bad.”

  There was another silence and, to stop it becoming too long-drawn-out, Katherine said, “No. In fact, I enjoyed it. I’ve never been abroad before so it was an exciting experience for me.” Neither of the others spoke, so she went on quickly, “The people here seem very friendly, er, the Africans, that is.” Oh dear, that was an unfortunate remark. Trust me to say the wrong thing in an awkward situation, she thought despondently.

  “Friendly, is it?” the older woman snorted. “When you’ve been here a while you’ll find out that they’re lazy, dishonest, unreliable and ungrateful.”

  It was difficult to think of anything to say after those incredibly bitter words, and Katherine was relieved when a second later Andrew Kennedy came in.

  “We’ve put all your gear into a spare room I cleared out, Charlton. Now we must celebrate.” He went to the sideboard. “I have a half-bottle of sherry I was saving for Hogmanay, but it’s nearly time so we’ll make it a double celebration.”

  He gave Katherine a glass and then turned to his sister. “You’ll join us, Mary?” he asked.

  “You know I never touch alcohol,” she replied sternly.

  “But this is a special occasion. Come on now,” he cajoled. “Throw caution to the wind.”

  There was no response, however, and he frowned slightly as he poured drinks for Mark and himself, saying, “A woman of strong principles, my sister.”

  When Andrew was seated, Mark said, “Tell me something about the village, Kennedy. I know very little of what to expect. The letters I’ve had from the Mission Society were extremely vague.”

  The clergyman put down his glass and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Well, Ngombe itself is a community of about 200, but there are many other smaller villages in what you might call my parish. Each family has its plot of land producing yams and cassava, which form their staple diet. You’ll find the people easy-going for the most part. They work only as hard as they must to get the necessities of life. A logical way of life, I suppose.”

  “But surely,” Mark protested, “they can be taught that by working harder they can enjoy a higher standard of living?”

  The other man smiled and shook his head. “You see, the Nigerian has an entirely different outlook from the European. He sees no merit in work for its own sake, and will do only as much as he has to in order to get some particular thing he wants. It may be a wife, and when he has saved the bride-price he will relax until he wants something else.”

  “They have to grow enough food for their families, though,” put in Mark.

  Kennedy nodded. “Yes, but in this climate it’s very easy to grow crops. The women do most of the farming. Then there’s palm oil and fish to be had so there’s no need to keep their noses to the grindstone.”

  “It seems such a waste.”

  “Aye, I know fine how you feel, Doctor. I felt the same myself when I first came out here and I tried to persuade them to grow more than they needed for their own use—but without success. I don’t worry about it now. So long as they’re content why should I worry? Goodness knows there’s enough materialism in the world. Perhaps their way is better.”

  Mark Charlton did not look convinced, but he didn’t pursue the subject any further, just then. “I’ll be relying on you to help me, Kennedy,” Mark answered seriously. “You know the people. You can stop me getting on the wrong side of them.”

  While Mark was speaking, Katherine watched Mary Kennedy. She noticed that the other woman’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap, and that her small eyes, fixed upon the speaker, were cold and angry. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was cold and angry, too, but carefully controlled. “My brother has his own work to do, Dr. Charlton. It’s important work and it keeps him very busy. He won’t have time to do that and be your assistant, as well.”

  There was a moment of embarrassed silence, then Andrew Kennedy gave a forced little laugh. “What nonsense, Mary. Of course I shall help Dr. Charlton.” He stood up. “More sherry for you, Nurse Marlowe?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sure? All right.” He came across and took her glass, looking down at her with kindly concern. “You must be very tired after your journey.”

  Katherine admitted that she was, and he turned to his sister. “Mary, show Nurse Marlowe to her room so that she can rest before dinner. How about you, Charlton? Are you tired, or would you like to come and have a look around before dark? There’s a large hut we used to use as a schoolroom that I thought might do as a temporary hospital.”

  The doctor said he would like to see it, and the two men went out.

  Katherine followed Mary Kennedy, picking up her suitcase on the way.

  They went down the passage toward the back of the house and into a small room. Like the living room, it had a cement floor partly covered by dull brown mats. There was a narrow bed draped with mosquito netting, a tall cupboard, a chest of drawers, a little square table and a chair. All the furniture was made of dark unpolished wood.

  The only attractive thing in the room was a yellow pottery jug of flowers on the table. Katherine’s spirit rose. That was a kind thought—to put flowers in her room. Perhaps this grim-faced woman had a softer side to her nature. “What lovely flowers!” she exclaimed. “They’re orchids, aren’t they?”

  “Aye. They grow on the trees in the forest,” Miss Kennedy told her without interest. “My brother gathered them and put them there. I told him they would die directly.”

  Her hopes dashed, Katherine said, “Oh, well, it was very kind of him to think of it, anyway.”

  The other woman sniffed. “There’s some mail for you on the chest of drawers,” she said. “It’s been here a week.”

  “Oh, good. I’ll save it until I’ve changed out of these grubby clothes. I’m longing for a bath.”

  “The help is too busy to carry water for baths,” she was told sharply. “You’ll need to make do with a cartful. Dinner is at seven-thirty.” And with that Mary Kennedy stalked from the room.

  Thankfully, Katherine closed the door and leaned against it.

  What a strange woman the minister’s sister was! She had made it perfectly clear that she resented the new arrivals. But why? Most women living in such a remote spot would welcome company. It must have been a very lonely life, especially as she had such a poor opinion of the Nigerians and was hardly likely to have any friends among them.

  Katherine consoled herself with the thought that from tomorrow she would be too busy to worry about her hostess’s odd behavior.

  She opened her case. The chest of drawers would have to serve as a dressing table, and she arranged on it her toilet things and the silver-backed hairbrush and mirror that had been a farewell gift from her father. Her photographs, one of her mother and father and one of her friend Ann Jameson, she put on the table at either side of the jug of flowers. From her writing case she took the picture of the group containing Mark Charlton, looked at it for a long minute, then replaced it and firmly zipped the case.

  There was a tap at the door and opening it she saw a very small boy holding a very large jug of water.

  He grinned widely. “Watta, missy,” he announced.

  “Thank you ... er ...”

  “Moses,” the boy told her proudly, staggering into the room to put the jug on the cha
ir.

  Then he went to the cupboard, took out a basin and a towel, put the towel over the back of the chair, lifted the jug onto the floor, placed the basin on the chair, emptied the water into it and, with a little bob, trotted out, carrying the jug.

  After washing, Katherine put on her dressing gown and picking up her letters, lay on the bed.

  As she had expected, they were from her father and Ann, and included Christmas cards. One had a traditional snow-laden village scene on the front and, as she held it, she felt a wave of homesickness sweep over her, and she longed to be back in her own village of Dinton. Probably it was snowing there, too. She had never been particularly fond of snow but, at that moment, in the oppressive heat of the strange, dreary room, it seemed the most desirable thing in the world to walk through crisp snow, breathing in the cool country air.

  This was the first severe attack of homesickness she had suffered. All through the journey there had been new sights and experiences; there were people around all the time, too; dozens of people and always movement and change. But now she had reached the end of the journey and she had to settle down for two years at least, so it was stupid to be wishing already that she was back in Dinton.

  Anyway, she had come here to work, not to enjoy herself.

  She read her letters. These were so like their writers: Ann’s, lighthearted, full of small happenings—new clothes, a sticky interview with Matron after breaking two thermometers in one day and a whole page about a new house-surgeon who, according to Ann, was “not quite as feeble as the rest of the breed,” which Katherine interpreted as meaning that she liked him very much.

  Her father’s letter, too, was typical of the man. Neatly written and precise, it was largely taken up with a description of the presentation of the “Messiah” in the church and a message from the vicar asking to send him a monthly report on her work to be read to the Junior Missionary Society and the Sunday school.