The Sweetest Dream

  ‘I wonder if you know anything about a hospital in Kwadere?’ Rose was saying–was repeating, for he had not heard her the first time. Now this was a solecism indeed. In the first place, at his level he could not be expected to know about individual hospitals, and then this was an official reception, it was not the place or the time. But as it happened he did know about Kwadere. The files had been on his desk that day, three hospitals, begun but not finished, because the funds had been–not to mince words–stolen. (No one could regret more than he did that these things happened, but then, one had to expect mistakes.) For two of the hospitals, angry and by now cynical donors had put forward a plan that if they, the original benefactors, raised half the necessary sums, then the government would have to match them. Otherwise, too bad, no go, goodbye hospitals. In Kwadere the original donor had sent a delegation out to the derelict hospital and then said, no, they did not propose to fund it. The trouble was, that hospital was badly needed. The government simply did not have the money. There was a sort of hospital, at St Luke’s Mission, with a doctor, but a report had not been encouraging. The fact was it was embarrassing, that hospital, so poor and so backward: Zimlia expected better. And then there had been a report from the Security Services, saying the doctor’s name was on a list of possible South African agents. Her father was a well-known communist, hand in glove with the Russians. Zimlia did not like the Russians, who had cold-shouldered Comrade Matthew when he was fighting–or rather, his troops were–in the bush. It was the Chinese that had supported Comrade Matthew. And here was the Chinese Ambassador now, with his wife, a tiny slice of a woman, both smiling away and shaking hands. He must move forward fast now, because where the Chinese Ambassador was, then that is where the Leader would be.

  ‘You must excuse me,’ he said to Rose.

  ‘Please may I come and see you–perhaps in your office?’

  ‘And what for, may I ask?’–said rudely enough.

  Rose improvised: ‘The doctor at the Kwadere hospital is–well, she is a cousin of mine and I heard that . . .’

  ‘You heard right. Your cousin should be more careful with the company she keeps. I have it on reliable authority that she is working for–well, it doesn’t matter who.’

  ‘And–please, wait a minute, what is this about her stealing equipment from . . .’

  He had heard nothing about this, and was annoyed with his advisers that he had not. The whole business was irritating, and he did not want to think about it. He had no idea how to solve the problem of the Kwadere hospital.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, turning to speak as he edged away into the crowd. ‘If this is true then she will be punished, I can assure you, and I am sorry to hear she is related to you.’

  And he went to where the lovely Gloria had appeared, in scarlet chiffon and a diamond necklace. Where was the Leader? But it appeared he was not coming, his wife was doing the honours.

  Rose quietly left and went to a café that was always full of gossip and news. There she reported on the formal reception, on the Leader’s absence, on the Mother of the Nation’s red chiffon and diamonds, and the Under Minister’s remarks about the Kwadere hospital. There was a Nigerian official, a woman, in Senga for the conference on the Wealth of Nations. Told about the spy at Kwadere, this woman said she had heard nothing but spies, spies, since she had arrived in Zimlia, and speaking from her experience in her own country, spies and wars were useful when things weren’t going well with an economy. This provoked animated discussion, and soon everyone in the café was involved. One man, a journalist, had been arrested as a spy, but let go. Others knew people who were suspected of being agents and . . . Rose realised that now they would talk about South African agents all evening, and she slipped out and went to a little restaurant around the corner. Two men who had followed her from the café, though she had not noticed them, asked if she minded sharing her table: the place was full. Rose was hungry, a bit tight, and she rather liked these two men whom she found impressive in a hard-to-define way. Probably anyone in Zimlia would have seen at a glance that they were secret police, but to use that so useful formula, it has been so long since Britain was invaded that its citizens have a certain innocence. Rose was actually thinking that she must be looking attractive tonight. In most countries in the world, that is to say, those with an energetic secret service, it would have been instantly evident that with such men one should keep one’s mouth shut. As for them, they wanted to find out about her; why had she left the café so precipitously when they started talking about spies?

  ‘I wonder if you know anything about the mission hospital at Kwadere?’ she chattered. ‘I have a cousin working there, a doctor. I’ve just been speaking to the Under Minister for Health and he told me she is suspected of being a spy.’

  The two men exchanged looks. They knew about the doctor at Kwadere, because they had her name on their list. They had not taken it particularly seriously. For one thing, what harm could she possibly do, stuck out there in the sticks? But if the Under Minister himself . . .

  These two had not long been in the Service. They had got jobs because they were relatives of the Minister. They were not from pre-Liberation days. Most new States, even though enjoying a complete change of government, keep the Secret Service of the previous government, partly because they are impressed by the range and extent of the knowledge of these people who have so recently spied on them, and partly because a good few have secrets they do not want revealed. These men still had to make names for themselves, and needed to impress superiors.

  ‘Has Zimlia ever had to expel someone for being an agent?’ enquired Rose.

  ‘Oh, yes, many times.’

  This was not true, but it made them feel important, belonging to such stern and efficient service.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Rose excitedly, scenting a story.

  ‘One was called Matabele Smith.’ The other amended, ‘Matabele Bosman Smith.’

  One evening, in the café Rose had just left, some journalists had joked about the spy rumours, and had invented a spy with a name that embodied as many unpleasant characteristics–to the present government’s mind–as they could. (They had vetoed Whitesmith, on the analogy of Blacksmith.) This character was a South African frequently in Zimlia on business, and he had tried to blow up the coal mines at Hwange, Government House, the new sports stadium, and the airport. He had entertained the café for a few evenings, but they lost interest. Meanwhile he had reached the police files. In the café the name Matabele Bosman Smith became shorthand for the spy mania and the agents who frequented the place were hearing the name but could never actually find out more.

  ‘And you deported him?’ said Rose.

  The two men were silent, exchanged glances again, then one said, ‘Yes, we deported him.’ And the other, ‘We deported him back to South Africa.’

  Next day Rose completed her paragraph about Sylvia with, ‘Sylvia Lennox is known to have been a close friend of Matabele Bosman Smith who was deported as a South African spy.’

  The general style and attack of this piece was right for the papers she liked to use as a receptacle for her inspirations in Britain, but she decided to show it to Bill Case, and then Frank Diddy. Both men knew the origin of the famous deportee, but did not tell her. They did not like her. She had long ago outstayed her welcome. Besides, they did like the idea of this famous Smith being injected with new life, to provide an evening or two’s amusement in the café.

  The piece was in The Post, which was not likely to notice one inflammatory paragraph among so many. She sent it to World Scandals, and it reached Colin, under the rule that if anything unpleasant is printed about one then it will be sent you by some well-wisher. Colin at once sued the paper for a hefty sum and an apology, but as is the way with such newspapers, the correction was put in tiny print where few people were likely to notice it. Julia was again branded as a Nazi; the suggestion that Sylvia was a spy seemed to Colin too ludicrous to bother with.

  Father McGuire sa
w the paragraph in The Post, but did not show it to Sylvia. It found its way to Mr Mandizi, who put it in the file for St Luke’s Mission.

  • • •

  Something happened that Sylvia had been dreading all the years she had been at the Mission. A girl who had acute appendicitis was carried up to her from the village by Clever and Zebedee. Father McGuire had taken the car to visit the Old Mission. Sylvia could not telephone the Pynes; either their telephone or the Mission’s was not working. The girl needed an immediate operation. Sylvia had often imagined this emergency or something like it, and had decided that she would not operate. She could not. Simple–and successful–operations, yes, she could get away with that, but a fatality, no, they would be down on her at once.

  The two boys in their crisp white shirts (ironed for them by Rebecca), with their perfectly combed hair, their scrubbed and scrubbed again hands, knelt on either side of the girl, inside the thatched shed that was called a hospital ward, and looked at her, their eyes filled with tears and brimming over.

  ‘She’s on fire, Sylvia,’ said Zebedee. ‘Feel her.’

  Sylvia said, ‘Why didn’t she come up to me before? If we had caught this yesterday. Why didn’t she? This happens again and again.’ Her voice was tight, and rough, and it was from fear. ‘Do you realise how serious this is?’

  ‘We told her to come, we did tell her.’

  It would not be her fault, if the girl died, but if she, Doctor Sylvia, operated and the girl died then it would be judged her fault. The two young faces, washed with tears, begged her, please, please. The girl was a cousin, and a relative too of Joshua.

  ‘You know I am not a surgeon. I have told you, Clever, Zebedee, you know what that means.’

  ‘But you must do it,’ said Clever. ‘Yes, Sylvia, please, please.’

  The girl was pulling her knees up to her stomach and groaning.

  ‘Very well, get me the sharpest of our knives. And some hot water.’ She bent so her mouth was at the girl’s ear. ‘Pray,’ she said. ‘Pray to the Virgin.’ She knew the girl was a Catholic: she had seen her at the little church. This immune system was going to need all the help it could get.

  The boys brought the instruments. The girl was not on ‘the operating table’, because she should not be moved, but under the thatch, near the dust of the floor. Conditions for an operation could not have been worse.

  Sylvia told Clever to hold the cloth she had soaked in chloroform (saved for an emergency) as far as possible from his own face, which he must turn aside. She told Zebedee to lift the basin with the instruments as high as he could from the floor, and began as soon as the girl’s groans stopped. She was not attempting keyhole surgery, which she had described to the boys, but said, ‘I am doing an old-fashioned cut. But when you do your training I think you’ll find this kind of big cut will be obsolete–no one will be doing it. As soon as she cut, she knew she was too late. The appendix had burst and pus and foul matter were everywhere. She had no penicillin. Nevertheless she swabbed and mopped and then sewed the long cut shut. Then she said in a whisper to the boys, ‘I think she will die.’ They wept loudly, Clever with his head on his knees, Zebedee with his head on Clever’s back.

  She said, ‘I am going to have to report what I have done.’

  Clever whispered, ‘We won’t tell on you. We won’t tell anyone.’

  Zebedee grabbed her hands, which were bloody, and said, ‘Oh, Sylvia, oh, Doctor Sylvia, will you get into trouble?’

  ‘If I don’t report it and they find out that you knew you will get into trouble too. I have to report it.’

  She pulled up the little girl’s skirt, and pulled down her blouse. She was dead. She was twelve years old. She said, ‘Tell the carpenter we must have a coffin soon-soon.’

  She went up to the house, found Father McGuire there, just back, and told him what had happened. ‘I must tell Mr Mandizi.’

  ‘Yes, I think you must. Don’t I remember telling you that this might happen?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘I will ring Mr Mandizi and ask him to come himself.’

  ‘The telephone’s not working.’

  ‘I’ll send Aaron on his bicycle.’

  Sylvia went back to the hospital, helped to get the girl into her coffin, found Joshua where he was asleep under his tree, told him the girl was dead. The old man took time these days to absorb information: she did not want to wait to hear him curse her, which he was going to do–he always did, no necromancy was needed to foretell this–told the boys to say in the village she would not come that afternoon, but that they, Clever and Zebedee, would hear the people read, and correct their writing exercises.

  At the house the priest was drinking tea. ‘Sylvia, my dear, I think you should take a little holiday.’

  ‘And what would that do?’

  ‘Give it time to blow over.’

  ‘Do you think it will blow over?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Where shall I go, Father? I feel now that this is my home. Until the other hospital is built these people need me here.’

  ‘Let us see what Mr Mandizi says when he comes.’

  These days Mr Mandizi was a friend, and it was a long time since he had been rude and suspicious, but what was coming was an official doing his duty.

  When he came, there was nothing to know him by but his name. This was Mr Mandizi, he said he was, but really he was dreadfully ill.

  ‘Mr Mandizi, should you not be in bed?’

  ‘No, doctor. I can do my job. In my bed, there is my wife. She is very sick. Two of us, side by side–no, I do not think I would like that.’

  ‘Did you have the tests done?’

  He was silent, then sighed, then said, ‘Yes, Doctor Sylvia, we had the tests.’

  Rebecca brought in the meat, the tomatoes, the bread for lunch, saw the official and said, shocked, ‘Shame, oh shame, Mr Mandizi.’

  Since Rebecca was always thin and small and her face bony under her kerchief, he could not see she was ill, and so he sat there like the doomed man at the feast, surrounded by the healthy.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mr Mandizi,’ said Rebecca and went out to her kitchen, crying.

  ‘And so now you must tell me everything, Doctor Sylvia.’

  She told him.

  ‘Would she have died if you didn’t operate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there a chance of saving her?’

  ‘A bit of a chance. Not much. You see, I don’t have penicillin, it ran out and . . .’

  He made the movement of his hand she knew so well: don’t criticise me for things I can’t help. ‘I shall have to tell the big hospital.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They will probably want a post mortem.’

  ‘They will have to be quick. She is in her coffin. Why don’t you just say it was my fault. Because I am not a surgeon.’

  ‘Is it a difficult operation?’

  ‘No, one of the easy ones.’

  ‘Would a real surgeon have done anything different?’

  ‘Not much, no, not really.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Doctor Sylvia.’

  It was clear he wanted to say more. He sat with his eyes lowered, glanced up at her, doubtfully, then looked at the priest. Sylvia could see they knew something she didn’t.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘Who is this friend of yours, Matabele Bosman Smith?’

  ‘Who?’

  Mr Mandizi sighed. He sat with his untouched food in front of him. So did Sylvia. The priest ate steadily, frowning. Mr Mandizi rested his head on his hand, and said, ‘Doctor Sylvia, I know there is no muti for what I have, but I am getting these headaches, headaches, I didn’t know there could be headaches like these.’

  ‘I have something for your headaches. I’ll give you the pills before you go.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Sylvia. But I have to say something . . . there is something. . .’ Again, he glanced at the priest, who nodded reassurance.
‘They are going to close down your hospital.’

  ‘But these people need this hospital.’

  ‘There will be our new hospital soon . . .’ Sylvia brightened, saw that the official was only cheering himself up, and she nodded. ‘Yes, there will be one I am sure of it,’ said Mr Mandizi. ‘Yes, that is the situation.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mr Mandizi.

  • • •

  A week later arrived a short typewritten letter addressed to Father McGuire, instructing him to close down the hospital ‘as from this date’. On the same morning a policeman arrived on a motorbike. He was a young black man, perhaps twenty, or twenty-one, and he was ill at ease in his authority. Father McGuire asked him to sit down, and Rebecca made them tea.

  ‘And now, my son, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I am looking for stolen property.’

  ‘Now I understand. Well, you won’t find any in this house.’ Rebecca stood by the sideboard. She said nothing. The policeman said to her, ‘Perhaps I will come with you to your house and look around for myself.’

  Rebecca said, ‘We have seen the new hospital. There are bush pig living in it.’

  ‘I too have visited the new hospital. Yes, bush pig, and I think baboons too.’ He laughed, stopped himself, and sighed. ‘But there is a hospital here, I think, and my orders are that I must see it.’

  ‘The hospital is closed.’ The priest pushed over the official letter, the policeman read it, and said, ‘If it is closed, then I do not see any problem.’

  ‘That is my opinion too.’