Jenni peeped back at her favourite sketch, drawn soon after she had arrived at the Mission: it showed Ross, seated on the edge of a wooden chair outside the Clinic entrance, wearing nothing but a pair of brief shorts revealing an expanse of sun-bronzed muscle-packed leg. A small boy was patiently holding up a mirror for the doctor to see his own reflection as he shaved in honour of Sunday.
Ten more days! Jenni shivered beneath the hot sun and her charcoal stick trembled in mid-air. 'Hold still, miss!' protested her hairdresser.
Ten more days and Ross would be gone. Impossible to imagine the Clinic without him.
But an African doctor, trained at the Royal Free Hospital in London and with several years' general experience under his belt, was coming to take permanent charge of all medical work.
That night after supper, doctor and priest smoked cigars together in a rare moment of quiet companionship. Jenni curled up in a wicker chair almost hidden behind one of the ceiling-high Kentia palms, pretending to read a two-year old copy of
Hello.
She overheard Ross remark to Paul that working here in the bush had been the finest experience of his life. Superb training for coping with anything life might throw at you, he added with a wry grin, tapping cigar ash into the potted palm and narrowly missing an eavesdropping ear.
'But as you well know, Paul—because you and I have attempted to thrash this one out before—introducing Western medicine is bound to affect the African culture. Therefore,' the forceful voice continued, 'it's profoundly important that European doctors and nurses are aware of the implications.'
Jenni pulled a face and wished she had a better view of these two tall and charismatic men, so similarly dressed in their jeans and dark sweaters, so different in temperament and personal style. 'Oh yes, it's all very creditable coming out here teaching basic health education and hygiene, improved nutrition, the importance of clean drinking water and family planning. No, hold on, Paul, let me get this off my chest ...
'
Apparently
beneficial—and all credit to Sylvia, Jenni and all of us for working all the hours God sends. We haven't come here with the intention of bulldozing over all those native customs and traditions. Yet without realising it we may be doing exactly that!' His cigar stabbed the air in emphasis. 'I'm mighty relieved James Matayo is coming to take my place. He'll do a far better job and with greater sensitivity than I, with the best will in the world, can ever hope to.'
Jenni was intensely interested to hear this. Ross's reasons for coming here to Africa—and his reasons for leaving—were less puzzling now. He had worked to relieve suffering, taught his specialist skills to more inexperienced surgeons, and now must leave before his own enthusiasm for medicine sought to change a way of life that must be preserved intact.
'You know well enough you are preaching to the converted, Ross.' The priest had been listening with close and sympathetic attention, long fingers massaging bearded chin. Now he was nodding his head in total agreement. 'That's why I held out for them to replace you with a long-term appointment, and an African doctor as the
sine qua non
.' He gave a short laugh. 'Next one to go will be me, Ross. I am dispensable, and for all the reasons you quote. I shall be replaced within the next couple of years — and by a local man.’
‘Father Thomas, perhaps?’
‘No, I think not, good chap though he is. The Bishop wants him to take over a smaller set-up and get that experience under his belt.'
There was a pause … then Ross's voice again, pitched low and private. 'So, tell me your plans, Paul. Once you're married, will you two go back to the UK?'
From behind the potted palm came a gasp - and a thump as Hello hit the ground. Jenni leaned down to pick up her copy and completely missed Paul's reply. Ross's astonishing question had blocked her ears to all other sound but the confident ‘once you're married.’
A thousand bees buzzed inside her skull, then all of a sudden turned into butterflies which tickled the back of her throat before fluttering down to her stomach, leaving her queasy with shock.
Paul's intention must surely be to pop the question just before she left for London! It would have to be very quietly done. He wouldn't want to make a big scene of it, dear Paul. And he'd be well aware that one look at her ecstatic face and the Mission workers would guess his time here was coming to an end.
With such a heavy weight on her mind, Jenni needed to be alone. She muttered to the others about an early night and simulated one of her hippopotamus yawns.
By skulking behind a parked Land Rover she managed to avoid Matt Blarney as he came whistling out of the Clinic carrying a torch and a sheaf of papers. Matt would urge her to stay up late, and Jenni just didn't want to get involved in an argument and hurt his feelings with her indifference.
As soon as Matt was out of sight she sped to her room while the coast was clear.
As she rubbed moisturiser into her face and set about undoing all those plaits in readiness for the early morning start, strangely it wasn't her future husband who dominated her thoughts but the steel-spined Ross McDonnell with his uncompromising manner and heavy-lidded eagle stare.
Jenni wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he'd scared her from the first. Good-looking housemen with smooth manners and predictable lines in chat—that was what she'd been used to and that was what she could handle with one arm tied behind her back. Dr McDonnell was a very different proposition.
You needed to be pretty grown-up to tangle with a man like that! she frowned, brushing her hair till it frizzed about her troubled head in a great bush of tiny waves. I wonder what his wife is like?
She swallowed her malaria tablet, then slithered between coarse linen sheets and rearranged the mosquito netting so there were no gaps.
Spreading her hair out on the pillow, she hoped it would calm itself down before morning—along with her pounding heartbeat. Well, she hadn't given Ross's secret away. It was none of her business if he had up to now chosen to conceal the one thing that, as far as Jenni was concerned, put him on a whole new unattainable plane.
No, Jenni was more concerned with her own secret and how much of that she had inadvertently revealed in Ross's arms. Poor Sylvia! One consolation—she was no mouse and certainly old enough to look after herself.
Jenni rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling, willing back the way she used to feel about her sister's ex-fiancé.
'As for me and Paul ...' she confided to the whispery darkness, 'well, it's come as a bit of a shock. I mean, I'd stopped hoping because it just didn't seem meant to be. Once I get used to the idea again I know I'll be truly happy.'
She bit her lip, fearful of revealing her precious secret to the listening night. Hell's teeth, she just had to confide in someone. 'It's just that I fell rather headily in love with Ross McDonnell and I'm afraid it's given me …' a little breathy gasp at her own diagnosis, 'given me a sort of emotional concussion so that I'm feeling kind of numb. Don't get me wrong, though!' Her two hands thrust into her hair as she struggled to convince herself, 'Being in love with Ross isn't at all the same thing as loving Paul. In love ... that's just a crush on someone. Loving means true caring. So just give me time and I'll get over this numb feeling and be absolutely (yawn) deliriously (yawn) happy ...'
And unaware that delirious happiness was not yet to come her way, Jenni drifted into welcome sleep.
'Ouch!' muttered Paul, swatting at his left thigh.
'What is it?' questioned Jenni, leaning forward to get a better look at the crushed remains in his palm.
'Blue-bodied wasp
! Paul, that could be nasty,' worried Sylvia.
The two girls cooed anxiously over his bare brown leg. 'There's a nasty red lump coming up. I bet that's painful. Ross, would you take a look at this?'
Paul would have none of it. 'Leave him alone, he’s got his new comic and he’s a happy man.’
Ross was sitting nearby, his head in his copy of the BMJ, brought over with the mail from Dar that afternoon. He didn’t stir though he must have heard it all.
‘I've had painful experience of a good many bites over the years, and survived 'em all.'
'Perhaps you should wear long trousers more often,' suggested Jenni, thinking what a shame to cover up those hunky legs.
'In this climate? I couldn't stand it.'
Sylvia was sewing a button on Matt's shirt while Matt lounged bare-chested, cowboy boots stuck up on a chair, slurping Coke from a refrigerated can. She put down her needle and prodded the angry red spot on Paul’s thigh with a dubious forefinger. 'I think I'll pop across to the dispensary and get you something for that.'
'Woman, don't fuss!' Paul protested in tones of mild exasperation.
'Someone out here for you, Father,' called Sister Bea from the door.
'I'm coming.' The eyes of the two nurses followed as he limped outside to see who wanted him. Though neither of them said anything, their faces told a story.
Ross McDonnell noted all this from behind his BMJ. He had been sitting right beside Paul—and years of clinical experience had shown him something that gave cause for concern. Late that evening he collared the Mission priest, who was burning the midnight oil in his office.
'How long,' he asked, 'since you had a thorough medical?'
'Ross, what a question!' Paul ran a hand over his shorn head. 'I don't know... before I came out to Africa, I guess. I haven't had time to be ill. Why do you ask?'
Next morning Jenni was surprised when Paul presented himself in the clinic for a medical. In the treatment room Ross gave him a thorough going over. Jenni, bringing in a tray of elevenses, smiled thankfully to hear the doctor's verdict. 'All in all, old chap, you're remarkably fit. But I want you to let me remove that blemish above your right knee.'
The mugs rattled on the coffee tray. With dread premonition Jenni read the doctor's mind. He must suspect a skin cancer. While she and Sylvia were fussing over that wretched wasp sting, now no more than a scarlet pinprick, the hawk-eyed doctor had seen something far more important—potentially life-threatening—and was wasting no time in dealing with it.
'That?' Paul shrugged carelessly. He was a busy man, too busy to notice or to care about trivialities.
They all peered at the small mark. Jenni was trembling. She saw a speckled brownish blotch with a jagged irregular outline. 'D-does it itch?' she asked anxiously.
'No—yes, I think it may have ... why?' Paul looked up into the two concerned faces. Jenni, bless her heart, seemed on the verge of tears! Genuinely puzzled, he turned questioningly to Ross, who patted his shoulder and handed him his coffee.
'Nothing to get steamed up about, old chap,' he said kindly. Calling Paul
old chap
, thought Jenni wretchedly. Ross sounded genuinely concerned.
But he couldn't be, could he? He had no heart.
Ross was thinking quickly. Back in the UK, skin cancer and the dangers of sunbathing had lately received a lot of publicity. Paul probably knew nothing of this. That little growth on his knee had very likely been produced by the sun's rays. Running around in shorts all day gave the sun plenty of chance to do what it liked to a fair Anglo-Saxon skin. Paul was just the type to be at risk. And so was Jenni Westcott with her fiery hair and delicate milky skin.
Ross's head swung towards the nurse, noting the pallor beneath the freckles and judging the girl too emotionally involved for rational thought. No need for panic, silly girl.
The doctor explained. Paul looked startled. Ross said he would remove the growth, and that once he had done so, all should be well. But he warned Paul to be on the look-out for further blemishes that might develop in future.
'When do you want to do it?' asked Paul, astonished rather than perturbed by the speed of it all.
Ross checked his watch. 'Anything you can't cancel this afternoon?'
Paul thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'I guess not.'
'You want to help,' Ross asked Jenni, 'or shall I ask Sylvia?' When Jenni bravely said she would scrub, Ross was relieved. The last thing he wanted was to tell Sylvia until all was satisfactorily over.
'Let's keep this between the three of us, eh?' he suggested. 'It's just a minor op. No need to put the Mission in a panic.'
So after lunch Paul went straight into theatre and Ross injected a local anaesthetic. 'Hope that stuff works,' their patient joked as Jenni handed Ross the scalpel.
'Do let me know if it doesn't,' murmured Ross with a pleasant grin, setting the seal on an atmosphere which was lighthearted and far from dramatic.
In no time Ross had excised a boat-shaped piece of skin and was putting in a few neat stitches.
Jenni covered the wound with a small dressing, and it was all over. She felt a debt of gratitude towards Ross out of all proportion to the simple technicality he had performed. If Ross hadn't noticed that one small blemish ... but thank God that he had.
'I'll change into my cassock,' said Paul, sure this was all a fuss about nothing, 'then no one will notice anything amiss. There's a week's post waiting to be dealt with in the office.' He shook his surgeon by the hand. 'A thousand thanks, my friend.'
He walked gingerly to the door, turned back for a moment and included nurse and doctor in one of those smiles that melted Jenni's heart. Such a precious, gentle man.
She sought refuge in work, busily clearing away instruments and preparing the theatre for its next use. 'I'll just take these to be sterilised,' she said in a very small voice, quite unlike her vivacious self.
Ross eyed the ashen-faced nurse with sympathy. The last couple of hours must have held a special torment for Jenni Westcott. He stripped off his surgical gloves, and touched her wobbly chin with a questing finger. Smile for me, he wanted to demand of her, selfishly, and his touch left a trace of powder from the inside of his glove, scarcely whiter than her pallor.
'All over now,' said Ross softly. 'Nothing to worry about, eh Jenni?'
His unexpected tenderness was more than she could bear. She picked up the tray of instruments and fled to the autoclave in its monstrous den, loading the thing willy-nilly, slamming the lid shut and sheltering there while the steam poured in and the great metal tub rattled and rolled and she indulged in a good cry, using a pillowcase for a handkerchief.