Mission

by Philip Spires

  “I got up especially early. I just couldn’t wait to get into town. I was ready to set off at seven. It was then that Boniface arrived looking very flustered, the poor sod.”

  ***

  Wednesday

  My dear Michael

  I shouldn’t really be trying to write this - I’m in no fit state. If it all sounds a bit strange, then put it down to the Valium. I’ve been on them for a week - but I thought I’d better write to keep you in the picture. I know you’ll be worrying, but really there’s no need.

  Funny, I can hardly remember where I got to in the last letter. Oh yes, I need to explain all that first. I tried to finish that letter dozens of times, but I never really succeeded. I kept having to add bits as things developed. It must have given you quite a shock. In all, that letter covered over a month - about five weeks, I think, between the first and the last tests. I really was in a terrible state when I first got those results. I knew I was pregnant all along. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to believe the negative results of the others. My periods always have been irregular, but somehow I knew it was different this time. But even then, when I’d seen it written down in black and white, I still couldn’t accept it was going to happen. I suppose I wasn’t quite with it anyway. Pete, bless him, got me some Valium, because my nerves were just so on edge. I can remember sitting in front of the doctor’s desk and him handing me a slip of paper with my results on it. I remember that he asked me about Pete and I somehow managed in a few sentences to tell him virtually everything I have ever told you in two year’s worth of letters. God knows how I did it. I can’t remember a word of what I said. Things are just the same, by the way. As usual he has been a godsend as far as helping me to get by is concerned but, again as always, on his own terms. He just refuses to talk about the baby in any way whatsoever. It’s as if it didn’t exist. In fact, you know, you’re the only other person who knows about it apart from him and myself and my doctor. I certainly can’t tell my mother. I just couldn’t face her. I’ve been so stupid. You know I can’t help laughing at times. It’s nearly two years since I saw you but yet I feel I am still closer to you than to any other person on earth.

  Now Thursday. Couldn’t write any more last night. I was falling asleep with the pen in my hand and anyway Pete had to get up early this morning so he wanted the light off. I got your letter this morning - but more about that later. I’ve got some important news. I met Pete for lunch today and we had a really good talk. That’s the annoying thing about him. When I want to discuss something with him, I can hardly prise a word out of him. Any other time he won’t shut up. Anyway the result of it all was that I made my mind up. Whatever happens I can’t envisage myself being tied to him in the future. I don’t trust him. We still get on all right, don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that he’s so immature. Anyway as a result of our talk I’ve made my mind up to have an abortion. The stupid thing is that he now seems to want me to have the baby. He won’t marry me. (Which is good because I won’t marry him). He seems to think that we could carry on just as we are now and the presence of a child would make our relationship stronger. See what I mean about being immature? I’d booked to see the doctor this afternoon and by the time I’d got there my mind was made up. So, it seems, was his. Basically, he produced a couple of forms. I signed them and that was it. It didn’t really hit me until I got home. I simply burst into tears and cried for an hour or more. I feel a little bit silly at the moment, a bit like a little girl crying for her mummy. I really don’t want to have an abortion, but it’s the only practical solution. I just don’t trust Pete so if I keep the baby I’ll have to be prepared to bring it up myself, and I don’t feel strong enough to do that. Adoption? If I went through with it and had the baby, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to give it away. So you see it’s the only choice left. Must go. Pete’s home.

  Oh shit, Michael. Some hours later. What have I done? Pete was furious when I told him. Suddenly he wants to talk about it. He says he wants to marry me for the sake of the baby. I was so surprised I could hardly answer. What came out, almost without my thinking about it, was that I had written to you saying that I didn’t trust him because he was too immature. And then what does he do? He storms off saying that he’s going off to spend the evening with Jenny. I know we decided from the start that living together didn’t mean owning one another, but to offer to marry me in one breath and then to say you’ve got a date in the next is a bit thick. I’m sure he only does it to convince me how lucky I am that he gives me any attention at all.

  I haven’t told you the full story yet. The doctor said he would get me into the clinic some time next week. He’s put me down as an urgent case because he reckons I’m over twelve weeks pregnant. Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? He told me it would all be over within twenty-four hours - that I’d only have to stay in one night. I may even be able to get away without having to tell my mother. I’ll write to you as soon as it’s over. Don’t worry.

  Later in bed. I must try to finish this. It’s about four o’clock and Pete hasn’t come home yet. I’ve been waiting up for him drinking coffee by the gallon and smoking cigarettes two at a time. He must have stayed the night with Jenny. I’ve decided to carry on writing because I want to be awake when he comes in. He’ll have to come home before he goes to work in the morning because all his stuff is here. I’ve got to do something to stay awake because I’ve taken some more Valium. Now where was I? Oh yes. Your letter. I’ve just read it again. Oh Michael, how could you have written that? I wrote to you before because I just didn’t know what to do next. I wanted advice, not a proposal. I was dallying with the idea of having an abortion even then. I wanted you to give me some support by telling me that I had to do what I thought was best, which at that time was to go through with it and have it adopted. You can imagine the shock I got when I opened your reply and realised you were telling me in one breath to have the baby and then in the next asking to marry me! If only it were possible - what am I saying? You are and always will be the closest of friends, but marriage? I thought you were joking at first, but then I realised just how serious you were. I must admit that it made me get very emotional. But surely you know I could never ever accept. I know how much your work means to you - I know how much you love Africa - and how little is your desire ever to come back here for good. Thinking about you has certainly brought back very sweet memories of my time in Migwani. I’ll never forget it … or you … Oh I don’t know. I’m so mixed up I don’t know what I want. I wish you were here. I’m sure it would all seem so much clearer with you around. Here’s Pete.

  Am going to sign off now or I’ll never get this letter sent. Pete asked me if he could read both your letter and this one. He was really upset about what I was writing to you. I think it may have shocked him a little. Maybe he’ll realise now just how little help he’s been of late. By the way, just as an example of how silly he can be, when he read your letter, he just laughed. The fact that you, a priest, were proposing to me for the sake of his baby amused him, but I’m afraid the joke was lost on me. If he finds the idea so silly, then maybe that’s a sign that I should think about it more seriously! Anyway, Michael, please don’t worry about me. I’ll write again as soon as I’ve got anything definite to report.

  Love, Janet

  With a deep sigh, Michael laid the letter aside and leaned back in his chair. He had read it so many times that now he seemed to read almost exclusively between the lines. In his own mind, he had invented so many things that were not said, that they had begun to cloud and obscure those things that were there. Above all other thoughts, however, were those provoked again by the last line, “... as soon as I’ve got anything definite to report...” The letter had been posted almost two months ago. He had heard nothing more from Janet. He himself had written three times asking for more news. At last a letter was waiting for him in his post-box in Kitui.

  After drinking the last of his breakfast coffee, he carefully fol
ded the letter and replaced it in its envelope, tucking it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He then went into the kitchen, where he rocked in turn each of three blue gas bottles stowed away beneath the sink. Two were obviously empty, so he carried these, one in each hand, out of the back door of the mission house and set them down on the baked earth of the driveway next to the car. Back inside the house, he picked up his cook’s shopping list from the kitchen windowsill and then returned to the living room. For a moment he simply stared blankly around the room to make sure he had not forgotten anything. There was nothing more to remember. After a visit to the toilet he would be on the road.

  On returning to the living room, he again looked around pensively. He was convinced he had forgotten something. It was one of those occasions when senses tell you one thing, but something else, much wiser, seems to know better.

  Surveying the confused state of the mission house, he racked his brains for some clue to the source of his indecision. The building site that lay before him offered no help, only more confusion. The place had been in hiatus ever since the fire and, though the debris had all been cleared and even the new roof had been completed, there were still numerous finishing jobs to be done, such as panel fixing, a new ceiling to complete, painting and general decoration. As a result, there were still piles of used paint tins, tools, off-cuts and fixings lying around the edges of the room, some half-covered by dirty sheeting. There was a smell of fresh wood shavings in the air, remarkably strong, even alongside the pungency of paint stripper and putty. The place was in a complete mess, nothing less. The lack of ceiling boards actually also made it rather a noisy place to be, as gusts of Migwani’s incessant dust-laden wind regularly blasted the new and shining sheets of corrugated iron with grit. And even louder, when the metal sheets changed temperature, they would expand or contract and pull against the fixing nails. These were, of course, all so new that the structure had not yet found its own tolerance, and occasionally there would be a sudden and quite immense, unexpected crash when a particular sheet tore a little as its vast internal forces strained against one of the toughened nails. Amidst all this, he was frantically trying to remember some detail he was sure he had forgotten. A minute later he gave up. There was nothing else to remember. It was then that Boniface rushed into the room, panting.

  “Boniface. I didn’t expect to see you today. I’m just on my way to town.”

  He did not wait for Michael to finish. “Father, it is very serious,” he gasped. “I have rushed here on my bicycle to ask you for a very great favour. Muthuu is much worse since last night. This morning he is still very sick. We are very afraid for him. I have come to ask you if you can take him to hospital?”

  Though Boniface was obviously suffering great distress, Michael’s first reaction was one of impatience. This did not seem to cause any surprise. After a quick glance at his watch, he turned to face the young man and said, “Look, I have to get to Kitui this morning. I don’t want to stop on the way.”

  “That will be all right, Father,” said Boniface. “We can go with you and go to the government hospital.”

  “But you ought to go to Muthale. Sister Mary knows the baby. If you go to Kitui you’ll have to stand in queues all day. I’ll drop you in at Muthale on the way into town.” There was a hint of frustrated resignation about these last words. It caused Boniface to feel very defensive.

  “But my wife is in Thitani...” This was a problem. Muthale Hospital would be on the way from Migwani to Kitui, but Thitani was in another direction, and it was near inaccessible by car from Migwani.

  “Oh Jaysus,” said Michael, turning aside and waving his arms in a gesture of despair. “All right. Let’s go. You can leave your bike here.”

  There was no point driving to Thitani and then back to Muthale. That would take about as long as going straight to Kitui on the main road. Within a couple of minutes they were under way, the car trailing a swirl of red dust from the dirt road. The noise of the road, the bangs of the bottoming suspension in the potholes and the rattling shudder of corrugations precluded any further conversation. Michael’s mind began to wander through the memories of that night, almost a year before, when Boniface and his heavily pregnant wife had arrived at the mission house together. Momentarily, he remembered the two forgotten blue gas bottles that he presumed were still standing by the kitchen door.

  ***

  “Good evening, Father. My wife, she is ready. You promised you would take her to Muthale.” Boniface stood proudly upright to make his announcement. He smiled broadly as he spoke.

  Having his child born in hospital was a kind of ambition for Boniface. It had become part of his way of proving that he was the epitome of the modern Kenyan. Owning a bicycle was another part of the same phenomenon. The fact that he, himself, had been born in his father’s homestead, dropped by his mother onto bare earth cushioned by banana leaves, was enough to convince him that his own children must expect something different. This image had become merely the progress to which he was now entitled. Besides, his wife, Josephine, had already lost one child, which he believed would have survived in hospital. He was determined not to leave anything to chance this time. The fact that the accomplishment of this ambition would necessitate his already labouring wife walking six or seven miles just to get a lift from Father Michael to the hospital did not seem to worry him. As Michael looked out along the cone of light which spread from the open mission door, she stared pleadingly back at him, her breathing heavy, yet her breath light, her back rounded as she stooped with pain.

  The twenty-minute drive to Muthale she bore with great discomfort. While Boniface sat proudly upright alongside Michael in the front, his wife lay on the back seat, uttering a low groan every time the car lurched over a bump. Michael drove as quickly as he dare. If he jolted her too violently, or, on the other hand, took too long over the journey, she would probably give birth on the back seat of the car and Michael possessed no confidence whatsoever in his midwifery skills. Boniface, however, seemed little worried by anything. His gaze, throughout, remained fixed on the road ahead, a hint of a smile displaying his pride.

  Michael drove straight up to the main entrance of the hospital. When a nurse came out to greet them, he told Boniface to help his wife out of the car while he went to find Sister Mary.

  “Father Michael, what brings you here? Come in, come in.” Sister Benedict began to withdraw back into the sitting room.

  “I’ve got an urgent case for Sister Mary.” He was panting heavily. “My catechist’s wife is about to give birth.”

  With no more than a business-like nod, Sister Benedict acknowledged Michael’s words and then quietly, efficiently, disappeared into the rear of the convent to find Sister Mary. It seemed that even before Michael had time to regain his breath, the doctor and her assistant were already prepared for action and despatched. Benedict returned to find Michael lying on the settee.

  “A cup of tea, Father?”

  He nodded.

  Some minutes later he was aroused from his dozing by the clinking of china. With a tired groan, Michael sat upright on the settee.

  “That’s marvellous, Sister. Just the job.”

  “And how are you, Father? Keeping well?”

  “All right,” he replied, “but I’m having a fierce crisis with my celibacy.”

  Sister Benedict eyed him with a disciplined air, tantamount to gentle maternal distrust. Shaking her head, she said, “What are we going to do with you?” Michael smiled. “Now don’t you laugh,” she continued sternly. “I know your game. You and Father Patrick must have got together over a beer at some point and said ‘Now next time Sister asks “How are you?” tell her that you’re having trouble with your blasted celibacy’. You’re like a pair of children at times.”

  Michael smiled and raised his eyebrows in surprise as he reached across the low table for a biscuit.

  “Don’t come over all innocent with
me. I know your game.” She remained serious, but still smiled broadly as she spoke.

  Still Michael said nothing. With a hint of a smile creasing his face, he took a bite from his biscuit and a mouthful of tea. The slight slurp seemed almost deliberate.

  “And don’t go trying to change the subject. Father Patrick came here yesterday on his way home from Kitui. He came through the door,” she said, gesturing vaguely across the room, “and sat down exactly where you are now. ‘How are you, Father’, says I and, just like you, he comes out with, ‘OK, but I’m having a fierce crisis with my celibacy’. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”

  Michael now burst out laughing.

  “Go on with you. You’ve had your joke. Sister Benedict is always good for a bit of crack. I know.”

  “And what if it really were true?” Michael was still playing the game and Sister Benedict knew it.

  “Go on with you.”

  They both laughed.

  “Seriously, Sister, what if it were true?”

  “What on earth would make you want to confide in me? Surely I’d be the last person to go to?”

  “You’re the right sex.”

  “Nuns don’t have a sex! Go on with you. You’d get nowhere with me, so you might as well get that idea out of your head.”

  Their banter was noisily interrupted by the return of a breathless Sister Mary.

  “What’s your blood, Michael?”

  “Red, Sister.”

  “I’ll strangle you one day. What’s your blood group?”

  “O-positive. Why?”

  “You’ll do. The poor madam is fit to burst and your man Boniface is no help at all. Come on. Follow me.” And she was gone. “Come on Michael,” she shouted from outside. She was already half way across the compound back towards the hospital. Suddenly ashen-faced, Michael rose, thanked Sister Benedict for the tea and followed.