But no. She would be a good girl and arrange for it to be shuttled out here by some very appropriate and not at all scandalous lackey. And he’d better not put a dent in it, either.
Just getting to wear her new tea dress at the Great Eastern was treat enough for Dorothy. The cat’s pajamas, if I do say so myself, she thought as she fingered the tucks and darts of the fresh new tea dress she had designed after scouring the months-old copy of Vogue her sister had sent. Stolen moments here and there at her intrepid sewing machine had paid off. But to give credit where credit was due, it had not hurt that her sewing project fell right at the celebration of the Red Powder Pujah.
February 1935
Yesterday, true to our established custom, we had a sewing bee (it’s the time of the Red Powder Pujah when no one can go outside the compound without risk of having one’s clothes and person covered with this nasty red stain which doesn’t come out easily).
Spent the day at the other bungalow, and I helped Lola cut and fit a dress for herself, made a pair of felt slippers or rather shoes for Leila Forbes’ baby, and did a bit of finish work on my new tea dress. We really had a lovely day.
The dress had turned out handsomely. The dress and the walking suit and the new lingerie she’d brought from Bloomingdales on her fifth-year furlough would make her feel she was showing Calcutta a bit of Fifth Avenue.
Truth be told, perhaps the greatest joy would be in not having to wear the clunky old Oxfords. She dropped her sensibly-heeled but oh-so-lovely strapped leather pumps into the suitcase, wondering idly when she might have last worn them.
In short order her weekender was packed to the gills with everything she would need to get through a week on the coast. She could carry her light linen duster over one arm. No need to risk wrinkling it in the suitcase.
February 1935
Wish there was somebody to go with me, but Ruth Paul isn’t going until the 6th and that would hold things up here too much. However, I think that by tipping the station agent (that is common custom out here) I can have first class accommodations on a second class ticket. That is frequently done for women traveling alone.
Traveling alone.
She didn’t mind it so terribly much, even though the overwhelming wish for a companion sat at the back of her mind and heart most days of late. Someone to share her life. Someone to lighten the burden. Was that too much to ask?
February 1935
I wish that we could have a husband or two—we wouldn’t want more than one a piece, but it would help out on the work so much if we could just have some men around to look after some of the details that take our time. The General Board lets its missionaries have wives to do this, and I don’t think it would be amiss for us to have husbands.
If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. Still, a girl could dream, could she not?
She whistled her way along the path as she headed to the hospital and nearly missed the warning shouts coming to her from the window next to the pharmaceutical dispensary.
“Please, Dr. Kinney, wait! Do not be coming in!”
What in the world? Dorothy gaped for a moment, then chuckled. It was sweet of them, but really, she didn’t need a send-off. She would only be gone a few days.
Dorothy waited with one foot on the cool paved step to the hospital’s front entrance. A gentle breeze had kept a spring in her Garbo gait this morning, and now the cool air wafted about her knees, nudging the rayon pleats of her skirt and sending a welcome coolness beneath her slip. The rayon was clearly the wrong choice for today. Better she had chosen cotton that breathed, cotton that might do justice to this rogue little zephyr. Not cloying rayon that blocked the air, but cotton that welcomed the breeze to cool her to the bone on this warm summer day.
That was the way of it here in early summer. Get chilled through trying to bathe before dawn, and roast ten minutes after the sun comes up. She should have worn something different today. But it was too late now. Everything cooler, except for her travel suit, was already packed.
One hand captured her fluttering skirt and the other captured the small curls at her temple that had turned out rather nicely this morning. She stepped onto the porch slab and stopped again as the little nurse popped her head out of the window and took up waving her arms madly.
A whiff of what the breeze had just carried to her nostrils suddenly triggered understanding. Dorothy no longer needed the flurry of warning. Her own nose had sounded an alarm.
The little zephyr wafting merrily about her brought with it the strong odor of Perigoric.
And vinegar.
And nitric acid.
“Bhuba! Are you all right?” She rushed to the young nursing attendant and grabbed up her hands, flipping them front to back to see if she had burned herself with the acid. At the same moment that she realized the little nurse was not injured, she heard it.
Screeching.
Crashing.
Frantic scolding voices.
And something not quite—
“Bhuba? Oh dear heavens! Tell me that’s not a—?”
Bhuba’s head bobbed up down and sideways. “Yes, Dr. Kinney. A monkey! He has broken everything!”
Dorothy stepped into the vestibule and ducked just as a beaker sailed past her and broke against the far wall. The stench of unhealthy urine flared about her.
Evidently the monkey had quite an arm.
From her vantage point she saw two fellows running around the dispensary, chasing a monkey who easily evaded capture as he sent missile after missile in their direction.
Expensive ammo.
Better he had burned his rascally little hands with the nitric, she thought as she grabbed up a sheet from the linen basket.
“Bhuba! Take the other end of the sheet and hold it like this, high as you can without leaving a gap at the floor.”
Bhuba understood, and together they unfurled the sheet like a sail between them. With a nod to one another, they stepped into the pharmacy and tightened the sail into a rippling white wall that advanced slowly toward the monkey, successfully dividing the small room in half. The daft animal looked them over, as if considering what kind of playground this might be.
Monbahadur, the hospital’s indispensable man of business, and his groundsman, Pavi, crouched motionless, more in a defensive mode than one indicating they thought they could actually capture the diminutive rogue.
“Don’t go near him, gentlemen. We’ll go slowly and work our way across and herd the cheeky devil toward the window. Monbahadur, go outside on the verandah and open the window as wide as you can, please.” She dropped her chin and turned her most non-threatening gaze upon the little marauder.
“Slowly, Bhuba. Very slowly.” She spoke in the lazy speech of one half asleep so as not to spook the monkey. “Then when the window is open we’ll make a sudden move. On my count.”
Without a sound the window swung open.
“All right,” she said. “I will count to three and on three—not after three, but on three—we’ll jump and send the monkey out the window. Ready?”
Bhuba nodded, never for a second taking her wild eyes off the intruding imp.
“One.”
The monkey crouched.
“Two.”
Bhuba stifled a squeal.
“Three.”
The monkey sprang.
At the same instant Dorothy jumped forward, but Bhuba jumped backward, pulling the sheet from their hands. The monkey leaped from the counter and ran between them, catching the sheet in his curling tail.
He fled out the door and made straight for the jungle, trailing the sheet like a ghost on a mission.
Precious sulfa tablets skittered across the floor in the monkey’s wake, drawing the gaping eyes of all four humans back into the room. The tablets stopped rolling when they hit expanding pools of vinegar and began to dissolve. It was mayhem’s finest hour.
Her first instinct was to rush in and gather up the
spilled medicines. But sanity took the upper hand and she reached for a broom.
“It is all sacrificed, Bhuba. Nothing can be used.”
“But, Dr. Kinney, look! Some are dry!” She swept a few up in her tiny brown hand and held them out to Dorothy who swatted them out of the girl’s palm as gently as she could. In the same fluid motion she reached for a bottle of disinfectant that had escaped the monkey’s notice and set to cleaning her own hands and then Bhuba’s.
“Dry yes,” she smiled, “but compromised nevertheless.” Dorothy sighed as she looked about. Was the monkey just an innocent rascal? Or did he carry the horrid disease Kala Azar? It was impossible to know.
“That rascal broke the jars these were in, and may have picked them up and tossed them around, spit on them, sat on them. We can’t take a chance. We can’t risk introducing E. coli or something even worse by administering medicines that have been handled by a possibly disease-ridden monkey. They must go. All of them. Every last pill and tongue depressor and—”
The break in her voice sounded strange to her own ears, so rarely did she give voice to emotion in front of her staff. But this struck wickedly at her confidence, this massive loss. A loss they could ill afford and from which they might take months to recover. Yet in another instant her mind cleared. She knew what she would do.
She’d take the night train to Calcutta, as planned. Then she’d go first to the telegraph desk at the Great Eastern Hotel and get the list of medicines that needed replacing. Doctoroni and Lahaori would have plenty of time to make the list and wire it to her—as soon as the pharmacy was sterilized, fumigated, and restored to order. Somehow she’d get the suppliers to accept credit with a small down payment. And she would not dillydally in the city. No luxurious baths. No movies. No dinners on the hotel terrace.
She’d get there, get the car, get the medicines.
And get home.
CHAPTER TEN
MEN!
The first class compartment to which the porter escorted her had provided a brief haven for Dorothy after the morning’s altercation with the raiding monkey. Minute by minute she felt herself decompress, felt her fingers relax from the clenching fists they’d formed much of the day.
A whole day in Calcutta. That’s what she would allow herself. A whole day free of the demands of the hospital. It wasn’t the week she’d planned on, but a gift, nevertheless. Nothing could sully it. Unless, of course, it kept raining.
She settled into her berth for the night and surprised herself by dropping right off to sleep. By the time she rose, dressed, and breakfasted, the sky was clear, and the day fresh and promising. At least that was the case until just before noon when she stepped off the train at the end of the Assam-Bengal line in Calcutta.
For all the efficient planning she’d done as she rocked her way to the coast, Dorothy’s day soon disintegrated into a bevy of failed missions. First, she’d gone to the Great Eastern Hotel and collected the wire from Gauhati. The list wasn’t actually quite as dreadful as she’d expected.
Then she checked into the hotel. Or rather, she tried. But there was not a single room to be had. The next three hotels down the row gave her the same answer, delivered by scowling clerks who wondered how a single female might dare to come looking for a room without a reservation.
The fourth, for obvious reasons, did have a vacancy. But she’d have to scour the tub five or six times before she dared climb into it. And the bed—well, it appeared a bit cleaner than the tub. A bit.
Not to be deterred by this minor setback, she located the medical supply house and ordered the medicines. It went like a dream at the outset. She was only too happy to discover that Doctoroni’s entire list was available. It would have been a small victory had she been allowed to gather her purchases and head home. But as luck would have it, the actual goods had to be collected from various storehouses throughout the city, and the packages could not be delivered to her hotel until the morning after next.
There went her hopes for a speedy return.
Her next stop was the customs office where the Ford touring car waited for her to claim it.
And that’s when things went sideways.
. . . .
“Yes, yes. It is all understood, Memsahib. And where is Mr. Kenny Kin?”
Horsefeathers! She’d stood here for twenty minutes trying to cajole the man, and his obtuse refusal to understand was making her quite cross.
“For the forty-leventh time, sir, there is no Mister Kenny Kin. Or rather, Mister Kenny Kin is me. I am Dr. Dorothy Kinney. Whoever took this information by telephone put down the Assamese reference ‘Kennykin’. But there is no actual Kennykin, just me. Kinney. Dorothy Joy Kinney. Doctor. And I’m here to collect my car.”
Dorothy cringed. Had she just stamped her foot? Impossible. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Would she?
The man just stood there gaping at her. Oh for pity’s sake. Now she’d gone and frightened him. A quick assessment of her pursed lips, rigid spine, raised eyebrows and driven tone told the tale. Such behavior could only instill a fear that the woman who stood before him was about to attack.
Lord help me, she thought as she drew a slow, measured breath. I’d be afraid of me, too.
Dorothy relaxed her lips and coaxed a smile, lowered her voice and slowed her speech. “You’re so very patient with me, sir. Let me see if I might explain this a bit better. You see,” she hesitated and modestly dropped her eyes. “The Assam provincial officer sent the letter of introduction your people requested. I am here to pick up my Ford touring car which has been bought and paid for. This letter announcing its arrival came to me at the women’s hospital in Gauhati where I am director and chief surgeon.”
She held the letter in front of his eyes.
“But this letter is to Mr. Kenny Kin.”
Dorothy groaned. “Yes. But I am Mr. Kenny Kin. It—”
“No, this cannot be.”
“The letter was incorrectly addressed, Sahib. It says ‘Mr.’ instead of ‘Dr.’ A simple typing error. Now if you will just hand me the form I will sign and pay your customs fee and be on my way.”
“Yes, yes. But this cannot be done without the letter of introduction. You get the letter and all will be well!”
“All will be well. Won’t that be nice?” She smiled to cover her impatience. “But you see, the letter of introduction went to the Federal office.”
And, as it turned out, so did she.
By the time all was said and done, Dorothy made three trips between the customs office and the federal office before the keys to the touring car were finally in her possession. It seemed the federal office couldn’t release the letter of introduction without the title, and the customs office wouldn’t release the car and title without the letter of introduction.
In the end, a congenial British fellow came on duty while the first fellow she’d been dealing with went for afternoon tea and voila! She had the letter in hand and a title to boot, no thanks to the men who had made it a supremely trying experience.
She had been on the verge of embarrassing herself multiple times, but by sheer force of will she maintained her poise, and now that she was the owner of a beautiful motorcar, she wasn’t sure which might be harder to tame—a four-cylinder beast or her own temper .
Yes, it was a Ford. But it was her Ford. She’d figure out the servicing of it somehow. It wasn’t brain surgery, after all. Some clever fellow would surely sort it all out.
Her victory at the customs office seemed to turn the tide. She stopped back in at the Great Eastern to send a cable to the compound to let them know she’d be home on Thursday. Once it was on its way across the wires, she headed to the door where the hotel’s concierge caught up with her and handed her a note from the nice young man at the government office who had been so very helpful.
He had collected her bag at the rundown hotel, paid for the use of the room there for the part of the day it had been occupied by her weekender
and dress bag, and somehow cajoled the imperious clerk at the Great Eastern to find a room for her—at the government rate, no less.
March 1935
I had two tub baths a day while in Calcutta and Oh Boy but they felt good. I lost about two pounds while there and guess it was the extra dirt that came off as a result of real baths. I also had some delicious lamb chops (steaks don’t seem to grow in this part of the country due to the sacredness of the cow. But, never mind, I’ll be coming home one of these years and then—well, you may as well begin to save money for the steaks that I shall ask for.)
The greatest problem solved by her knight in shining armor whose name she couldn’t actually remember truly humbled her. It seemed, he said, that there was a partially filled freight car heading back to Gauhati, and he had taken the liberty of reserving it for her Ford. If, that is, she could deliver it to the loading dock at the train station by five o’clock on Wednesday.
Dorothy hadn’t even realized she’d related her multiple dilemmas to the young man. But apparently she had. And apparently he had some admirable connections in Calcutta.
He had singlehandedly solved her problems and completely redeemed the entire male species and hadn’t even stayed around for so much as a thank you. She’d slept like a dream on the overnight ride, safe in the knowledge that her Ford was carefully strapped onto a flatcar a dozen railcars back.
When she woke and discovered that her walking suit had fallen off the hanger and lay badly wrinkled in the bottom of the dress bag, she didn’t even scowl. Her tea dress had come through without a crease. It was the perfect dress—in fact the only dress—she could imagine wearing for this triumphant homecoming. After all, she was bringing the hospital’s very first motor car back to the Satribari Compound this afternoon. And she would be behind the wheel.
She had shamelessly bribed the fellow who off-loaded her Ford from the railcar into driving it—and her—to an abandoned area in the railyard. After a brief lesson, she spent the next hour driving circles and figure 8’s about the lot, stopping and starting, and signaling turns. It hadn’t occurred to her until she got on the road that she’d forgotten one major element. Backing up. But she would tackle that particular skill at a later date.
Courage in a White Coat Page 7