The Sweetest Dream

  • • •

  Sylvia stood in Senga airport’s Arrivals, which accommodated the luggage carousel, Immigration, Customs, and all the people off the plane, who at one glance could be defined as black, and in thick three-piece suits, and white, in jeans and T-shirts, with sweaters they had left London in tied around their hips. The blacks were exuberant, manoeuvring refrigerators, stoves, televisions and furniture into positions where they could be offered to Customs’ approval, which was being given, for the officials were congratulatory, only too happy to be generous with their scrawls of red chalk as each vast crate arrived before them. Sylvia had a hold-all, for her personal possessions, and two large suitcases for the medical supplies and items Father McGuire had asked for: lists had been arriving in London, each accompanied by: Don’t feel yourself obliged to bring these, if it is a trouble. On the plane Sylvia had heard whites discuss Customs, its unpredictability, its partiality to the blacks who were allowed to bring in whole households of furniture. Next to Sylvia had been sitting a silent man, dressed like others in jeans and T-shirt, but he had a silver cross on a chain around his neck. Not knowing if this was a fashion statement, she timidly enquired if he were a priest, heard he was Brother Jude from the something mission–the unfamiliar name slid past her ears–and asked if she might expect trouble with her big cases. Hearing her story, where she was headed–he knew Father McGuire–he said he would help her at Customs, where she found him just ahead of her in the queue. He was hanging back, letting others go past, because he was waiting for a young black man who greeted him by name, asked if the cases were for the mission, passed them, and then was introduced to Sylvia and her cases. ‘This is a friend of Father McGuire’s. She is a doctor. She is taking supplies to the hospital at Kwandere.’ ‘Oh, a friend of Father McGuire,’ said this youth, all smiling friendship, ‘please give him my best, my very best.’ And he scrawled the mystic red sign on the cases. She did well at Immigration, with all the right papers, and then they were outside on the steps of the airport building, on a clear hot morning, and towards Sylvia came a young woman wearing baggy blue shorts, a flowery T-shirt, and a large silver cross. ‘Ah,’ said Sylvia’s saviour, ‘I see you are in good hands. Hello there, Sister Molly,’–and he was off, to a group waiting for him.

  Sister Molly was going to drive her to St Luke’s Mission. She said there was no point hanging about in Senga, and they should leave at once. And off they went, in a battered truck, straight into the landscape of an Africa which Sylvia was prepared to admire when she had got used to it. It was alien to her now. It was really very hot. The wind blowing through the cab of the truck was dusty. Sylvia gripped the door, and listened to Molly, who was talking all the time, mostly about the male side of her religious establishment, whom she complained were all male chauvinist pigs. This phrase which had lost the relish of novelty in London, came rolling new-minted from her smiling lips. As for the Pope, he was reactionary, bigoted, bourgeois, too old and anti-woman, and what a pity he seemed to be in good health. God forgive her for saying that.

  This was not what Sylvia had expected to be listening to. She did not care much about the Pope, though as a Catholic she knew she should, and she had never found the language of extreme feminism matched up with her experience. Sister Molly drove very fast over at first good roads, then increasingly bad ones until an hour or so later the car stopped at a group of buildings which it seemed was a farm. There Molly unloaded Sylvia and her cases, saying, ‘I’ll leave you here. And don’t you let Kevin McGuire push you around. He’s a sweetie, I’m not saying he isn’t, but all those old-fashioned priests are the same.’ She jolted off, waving at Sylvia and anyone else who might be looking.

  Sylvia found herself invited in to morning tea by Edna Pyne, whose voice, all unfamiliar vowels, had above all a tang of self-pity that Sylvia knew only too well. And the elderly face was dissatisfied. Cedric Pyne had long, burned legs in the shortest shorts she had ever seen, and his eyes, like his wife’s, were blue, and reddened. There was such a glare round the verandah where they sat that Sylvia kept her eyes on this couple, avoiding the harsh yellow light, and really saw nothing on this first visit but them. It was clear that dropping off people and things at the Pynes’ place was part of a regular trafficking, for when they were again in a car, this time a jeep, there were bundles of newspapers, letters for Father McGuire, and two black youths, one of whom Sylvia saw at once was very sick. ‘I’m going to the hospital,’ said the sick one and Sylvia said, ‘So am I.’ The two were in the back and she was with Cedric who drove, like Sister Molly, as if for a bet. They jolted over a dirt road for ten miles or so, and were then in dusty trees, and ahead was a low building, roofed with corrugated metal, and beyond that on a ridge were more buildings scattered about among more dusty trees.

  ‘Tell Kevin I can’t wait,’ said Cedric Pyne. ‘Come and visit any time.’ And with that he was off, leaving dust clouds drifting. Sylvia’s head ached. She was thinking that she had scarcely left London in her life, and this had seemed to her until now quite a normal thing, instead of the deprivation that she now suspected it was. The two black youths went off to the hospital, and said, ‘See you by and by.’ Which sounded relaxed enough but the sick one’s face was a plea for immediacy.

  Sylvia went on to a tiny verandah, of polished green cement, with her cases. Then into a smallish room that had in it a table made of stained planks, chairs seated with strips of hide, shelves of books filling all one wall, and some pictures, all but one of Jesus, that one being a misty sunset view of the Mountains of Mourne.

  A thin little black woman appeared, all welcoming smiles, said she was Rebecca, and that she would show Sylvia her room.

  Her room, off the main one, was large enough for a narrow iron bed, a small table, a couple of hard chairs, and some wall shelves for books. There were nails and hangers on the walls for her clothes. A little chest of drawers, of the kind that once hotels all had, had washed up here. Above her bed was a small crucifix. The walls were of brick, the floors of brick, and the ceiling of split cane. Rebecca said she would bring tea, and went off. Sylvia sank on to a chair, in the grip of a feeling she did not know how to identify. Yes, new impressions: yes, she had expected them, had known she would feel alien, out of place. But what was this?–waves of bitter emptiness attacked her, and when she looked at the crucifix, to get her bearings, felt only that Christ Himself must be surprised to find Himself there. But surely she–Sylvia–was not surprised to find Christ in a place of such poverty? What was it then? Outside doves cooed, and chickens kept up their talk. I’m just a spoiled brat, Sylvia told herself–the word surfacing from somewhere deep in her childhood. Westminster Cathedral–yes; a brick shack, apparently, no. Dust was blowing past the window. Judging from her outside view of it, this house could not have more than three or four rooms. Where was Father McGuire’s room? Where did Rebecca sleep? She could make no sense of anything, and when Rebecca brought the tea, Sylvia said she had a headache, and would lie down.

  ‘Yes, doctor, you lie down, and you’ll be better soon,’ said Rebecca, her cheerfulness recognisable as Christian: the children of God smile and are ready for anything. (Like Flower Children.) Rebecca was drawing the curtains, of black and white mattress ticking, which Sylvia suspected would be found the last word in chic in certain circles in London. ‘I’ll call you for lunch.’

  Lunch. Sylvia felt that it must be already evening, the day had been going on for so long. It was only just eleven.

  She lay, her hand over her eyes, saw the light define her thin fingers, fell asleep, and was woken by Rebecca half an hour later with more tea and an apology from Father McGuire who said he was detained at the school, and would see her for lunch, and he suggested she should take it easy till tomorrow.

  This counsel having been transmitted, Rebecca remarked that the patient from the Pyne farm was waiting to see the doctor, and there were other people waiting, and perhaps the doctor could . . . Sylvia was putting on a white overall, which act
ion Rebeccca seemed merely to be observing, but in a way that made Sylvia ask, ‘What should I wear, then?’ Rebecca at once said that the overall wouldn’t stay white long and perhaps the doctor had an old dress she could wear.

  Sylvia did not wear dresses. She had on her oldest jeans, for travelling. She tied her hair back in a scarf, which made her like Rebecca, in her kerchief. She went down a path indicated by Rebecca, who retired to her kitchen. Along the dusty path grew hibiscus, oleander, plumbago, all dusty, but looking as if they were in their own right places, in dry heat and under a sun in a sky that had not a cloud in it. The path turned down a rocky slope and in front of her were some grass roofs on supporting poles stuck in reddish earth, and a shed, whose door was half open. A hen emerged from it. Other chickens lay on their sides under bushes, panting, their beaks open. The two youths that had been in the back seat of the car sat under a big tree. One got up, and said, ‘My friend is sick. He is too sick.’

  So Sylvia could see. ‘Where is the hospital?’

  ‘Here is the hospital.’

  Now Sylvia took in that lying around under trees, or bushes, or under the grass shelters, were people. Some were cripples.

  ‘A long time, no doctor,’ said the youth. ‘And now we have a doctor again.’

  ‘What happened to the doctor?’

  ‘He was drinking too-too much. And so Father McGuire said he must go. And so we are waiting for you, doctor.’

  Sylvia now looked about for where her instruments, medicines–the tools of her trade–might be, and went to the shed. Sure enough, were three layers of shelves, and on them a very large bottle of aspirin–empty. Several bottles of tablets for malaria–empty. A big tub of ointment–unnamed and empty. A stethoscope hung on a nail on the back of the door. It wasn’t working. The friend of the sick youth stood by her, smiling. ‘All the medicines are finished,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Aaron.’

  ‘Aren’t you from the Pynes’ farm?’

  ‘No, I live here. I went to be with my friend when we knew a car was coming.’

  ‘How did you get there, then?’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘But–it’s quite a way, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not too far.’

  She went back with him to the sick youth, who had been limp and lifeless but was now shaking violently. She didn’t need a stethoscope to diagnose that. ‘Has he been taking any medicine?–it’s malaria,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, he had some medicine, from Mr Pyne, but it is finished now.’

  ‘For one thing, he should be drinking.’

  In the shed she found three big plastic screw-top cans with water, but it smelled a bit stale. She told Aaron to take some water to the sick one. But there was not a cup, or mug, or glass–nothing.

  ‘When the other doctor left I am afraid there was stealing.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid that was the position.’

  Sylvia understood that she was hearing his ‘I am afraid’ as it must have sounded long ago, when it was new made. He was using the words as a statement of apology. Long ago, when they said, I am afraid, did they then expect a blow or a reprimand?

  What a lucky thing she had brought a new stethoscope, and some basic medicines. ‘Is there a lock for this door?’

  ‘I am afraid I don’t know.’ Aaron made the motions of hunting around, as if the lock might be found in the dust. ‘And yes, here it is,’ he cried, finding it tucked into the thatch of the shed.

  ‘And the key?’

  He hunted again, but the key was too much to ask.

  She was not going to trust her little store to a shed without a lock. While she stood, indecisive, thinking that she did not understand anything around her, that she needed a key, let alone the shed, Aaron said, ‘And look, doctor, I am afraid things are not good here–look.’ He pushed the bricks of the shed on the back wall, and they fell out. A patch had been carefully freed of their mortar, so that quite a large hole was possible: anyone could come in there.

  She made a quick tour of her patients, lying about here and there, but it was sometimes hard to tell them from their friends or relatives who were with them. A dislocated shoulder. She put it back there and then, told the young man to stay and rest, not to use it for a bit, but he staggered off into the bush. Some cuts–festering. Another malaria, or she thought so. A leg swollen up like a bolster, the skin seemingly about to burst. She went back to her room, returned with a lancet, soap, a bandage, a basin got from Rebecca, and, squatting, lanced the leg, from which large amounts of pus soaked into the dust, making, no doubt, a fine new source of infection. This patient was groaning with gratitude; a young woman whose two children sat near her, one sucking at the breast, though he seemed to be at least four years old, the other clinging to her neck. Rebecca bandaged the leg, hoping to keep some of the dust out, told the woman not to do too much, although this was probably absurd, and examined a pregnant woman, near her time. The baby was in the wrong position.

  She collected her instruments, and the basin and said she had to talk to Father McGuire. She asked Aaron what he and the malaria patient planned to eat. He said that perhaps Rebecca would be kind to them and give them some sadza.

  Sylvia found Father McGuire at the table in the front room, eating his lunch. He was a large man, in a shabby robe, with a generous crop of white hair, dark sympathetic eyes, and an air of jovial welcome.

  Sylvia was urged to join him in a little tinned herring–brought by her, and she did; and then, urged again, ate an orange.

  Rebecca stood watching, and said that they were saying down in the hospital that Sylvia could not be a doctor, she was too small and thin.

  ‘Shall I show them my certificates?’ said Sylvia.

  ‘I’d show them the weight of my hand,’ said Father McGuire. ‘What impertinence is this I am hearing?’

  ‘I must have a shed that locks,’ said Sylvia. ‘I can’t carry everything down and back several times a day.’

  ‘I will tell the builder to mend the hole in the shed.’

  ‘And a lock? A key?’

  ‘And now that is not so easy. I’ll have to see if we have one. I could ask Aaron to go across to the Pynes and ask for a lock and a key.’

  He was lighting a cigarette, and offered one to Sylvia. She had smoked, hardly at all, ever, but now she was grateful for it.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a long day. It is always the same the first day from home. Our day starts at half-past five and it ends–at least mine does–at nine. And you’ll be ready for your bed then, no matter what you think now, with your London ways.’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘And then you should have a little nap, as I will now.’

  ‘But what about those people down there? May I have a mug, at least, to give them some water?’

  ‘You may. That at least we can do. We have mugs.’

  Sylvia slept half an hour, and was woken by Rebecca with tea. Had Rebecca slept? She smiled when Sylvia asked. Had Aaron and his friend had something to eat? Doctor Sylvia must not worry about them, she smiled.

  Sylvia went back down to the assemblage of sheds, shelters and shady trees where the sick lay about waiting. A lot more had come, having heard there was a doctor. There were quite a few cripples now, without a leg or an arm, old wounds never properly stitched or cleaned. These were the wounded from the war, which had after all ended quite recently. She thought they had come creeping to the ‘hospital’ because here, at least, their condition was validated, was defined. They were war wounded, and entitled to pills–painkillers, aspirins, ointment, anything really, these very young men, no more than boys some of them, they were the heroes of the war, and they were owed something. But Sylvia had so few pills, and was being parsimonious. So they got mugs of water, and sympathetic enquiries. ‘How did you lose that leg?’ ‘The bomb went off when I sat down.’ ‘I’m so sorry, that was bad luck.’ ‘Yes, that w
as too much bad luck.’ ‘And what happened to your foot?’ ‘A rock fell from the kopje, all the way down, and on to a landmine and I was there.’ ‘I am so sorry. It must have hurt a lot.’ ‘Yes, and I screamed and my comrades they made me be quiet, because the enemy was not far.’

  Late that afternoon, when the sun was low and yellow, there appeared a very tall, very thin, angry-faced stooping man who said he was Joshua, and his job was to help her.

  ‘Are you a nurse? Have you trained?’

  ‘No, I have no training. But I work here all the time.’

  ‘Then, where were you earlier?’ asked Sylvia, wanting information, not intending a rebuke.

  But he said, intending insolence, a formal insolence, like the words Damn you, ‘Why should I be here when there was no doctor?’

  He was under the influence of something. No, not alcohol–what then? Yes, she smelled marijuana.

  ‘What have you been smoking?’ ‘Dagga.’ ‘Does it grow here?’ ‘Yes, it grows everywhere.’ ‘If you are going to work with me, then I can’t have you smoking dagga.’

  Swaying from foot to foot, arms dangling, he growled out, ‘I did not expect to work today.’

  ‘When did the other doctor leave?’ ‘A long time ago. A year now.’ ‘What do the sick people do when it rains?’ ‘If there is no room for them under the roofs, they get wet. They are black people, that’s good enough for them.’ ‘But you have a black government now, so things will change.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, or snarled. ‘Yes, now everything will change and we will have the good things too.’

  ‘Joshua,’ she remarked, smiling, ‘if we are going to work together then we shall have to try and get on.’