The Sweetest Dream (41 page)

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 action 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 was 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.'

Now there did appear a kind of smile. ‘Yes, it would be a
good thing if we–got on.'

‘I take it you didn't get on with the one who left. By the
way, was he a white doctor or a black doctor?'

‘A black doctor. Well, perhaps not a real doctor. But he drank
too much. He was a skellum.' ‘A what?' ‘A bad man. Not like
you.' ‘I hope that at least I won't drink too much.' ‘And I hope
so too, doctor.' ‘My name is Sylvia.' ‘Doctor Sylvia.'

He was still stooping and swaying, and now his face was set
in a scowl. This was as if he had decided: Now I must show
antagonism.

‘Doctor Sylvia is going up to Father McGuire,' she said. ‘He
told me to be there when it got dark, for supper.'

‘And I hope Doctor Sylvia will enjoy her supper.' He went
off on a path into the bush, laughing. Then she heard him singing.
A rousing song, she thought: it was a revolutionary song from
the war, insulting to all whites.

Father McGuire sat at the table, a hissing paraffin lamp beside
him, drinking orange juice. A glass of it waited for her.

‘We do have electricity, but there's a power cut,' he said.

Rebecca appeared with a tray and the information that Aaron
sent a message that he would stay with his friend that night down
at the hospital.

‘Why, does he live here?'

The priest, not looking at her, said that Aaron had a family
in the village but he was going to sleep in this house at nights
now.

Rebecca's face and his told her that here was a situation they
were embarrassed about, so she enquired. It was an absurd thing,
said Father McGuire, a ridiculous thing, and he could only
apologise, but the young man would be living in the house for the
sake of appearances. Sylvia had not understood. The priest seemed
impatient, even offended at her, making him spell it out. ‘It is
not considered suitable,' he said, ‘for a priest to have a female
living with him.'

‘
What?
' said Sylvia. She was annoyed, as he was.

Rebecca commented that people always talked, and that was
a thing to be expected.

Sylvia said bitterly, and primly, that people had dirty minds,
and Father McGuire said placidly that yes, that was so.

He then went on to say, but after a pause, that it had been
suggested Sylvia should live with the nuns up the hill.

‘What nuns?'

‘We have the good sisters, in a house up the hill. But since
you are not a religious, I thought you would be better here.'

So much was not being said, and Sylvia sat looking from him
to Rebecca.

‘Our good sisters are supposed to be helping in the hospital,
but not everyone is cut out for the dirty work of nursing.'

‘They are nurses?'

‘No, I would not say that. They have done courses in basic
nursing. But I suggest you arrange for them to wash bandages and
dressings and bedclothes. Well now, you will not be having stores
of disposable dressings? No. You should arrange for Joshua to
convey what needs to be washed to the sisters' house every day.
And I will instruct them that they should do this work as a service
to God.'