by Andrew Garve
“He has a reputation for toughness, of course,” said Susan, “but I’ve always put it down to his desire to get on with the good works. This sounds like sabotage. I’m very surprised.”
“It was outrageous,” said Martin. “I can still get angry about it. I told him I thought his conduct was unprofessional, and he looked as though he was going to assault me. He was as near losing all control as I want to see him. I suppose the fact is he’s backed this Tacri scheme a hundred per cent and thinks that if anything happens to it now his prestige will suffer. That’s natural enough, but you’d think that where lives were at stake he’d put his pride in his pocket. I was very shocked. Then, just as I was going to walk over to your father’s office, he suddenly gave in completely. He became Dr. Jekyll again and was as amiable as could be. If that isn’t odd, I don’t know what is.”
Susan was still dubious. “I can’t help thinking,” she said, “that perhaps he didn’t realise just how ill those people were. He may have thought you were trying to make decisions that were really his to make. He hates anyone to oppose or disagree with him. Daddy’s often found that. If he feels he’s being pushed he digs his toes in and won’t budge.”
“He budged this time, anyhow,” said Martin grimly. “Complete surrender—and that was almost as odd as the rest of his behaviour. He said he was tired and overworked.”
Susan raised her eyebrows at that. “Garland admitted being tired? Well!”
“That’s what he said. We had a rather embarrassing reconciliation after that; I felt he’d put me at a disadvantage by more or less appealing to my sympathy. I’d arrived at the department more than half inclined to make the storm the ground for a real showdown, but when he gave way on the evacuation I let the opportunity go by. He’s quite disarming when he’s friendly.”
“Oh, well,” said Susan in a lighter vein, “it’s just as well you made it up. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked you to come on this trip.”
“Would you have minded?” asked Martin recklessly.
Susan stubbed out her cigarette and pressed the starter. “I’m sure it will be an invaluable experience for you professionally,” she said, “and there’s a splendid beach for swimming.” She gave him a mischievous look. “Or perhaps you fish?”
Chapter Twenty-one
The district chosen by Garland for the special health drive was a remote rural area known as Fontenoy, with a total population of about eight hundred people scattered around the single village of Faux. The only access to the district was along twelve miles of tertiary road which snaked its way through dense “bush” and was studded with deep potholes along its whole length. No one ever traversed that road for pleasure. The people of Fontenoy almost all got their living—such as it was—from agriculture. In narrow valleys between the low hills they worked on plantations of citrus and cocoa and tapped the rubber trees when the price was sufficiently high. A few of them fished, but without enthusiasm, for the market was a long way off and the sea was treacherous. They lived in huts of the most primitive pattern but were not conscious of lacking modern amenities, except perhaps a reliable water supply in the dry season. Possibly because they had so little contact with the outside world, they dwelt together in complete amity. There were two very modest churches, but the main external influence in their lives was the school—a tiny broken-down building in charge of a Negro headmaster who rose above all his material difficulties and enjoyed the trust and affection of the whole community.
Partly, but not entirely, because of its remoteness, Fontenoy had
been barely touched by public health measures. Very occasionally a divisional medical officer or a district nurse would bicycle laboriously to Faux, but the visits were too infrequent to have much effect. The village midwife, kindly but unskilled, attended all the births; one or other of the parsons attended all the deaths. Between birth and death, Nature took her course. Disease flourished because no one did anything about it. It was something that had to be borne with fortitude, like the storms that blew in from the sea. The health record of Fontenoy was blotted by malaria, hookworm, yaws, syphilis and gonorrhoea, tuberculosis and tropical ulcers, scabies and head lice, malnutrition and anaemia and bad teeth. In other respects, as a Colonial Report might say, it was satisfactory.
Garland had singled the place out, not because there was any reason to suppose that its health was very much worse than that of many other rural areas, but because of its isolation. It was the perfect spot for a test-tube experiment. Here, in a week or two of intensive effort, it should be possible to examine everyone, to let no one at all slip through the net. Here, a survey could be complete and treatment thorough. At one time Garland would have hoped that dramatic results achieved in this one district would pave the way for more generous expenditure and an extension of effort to other parts of the Colony. Now, his interest was narrower. He had the single-minded curiosity of the research worker; he simply wanted to know what would happen if the knowledge and drugs available to modern science were suddenly applied to a closed, disease-ridden community. Or rather, he wanted to see what would happen; he wanted to observe the miracle. Though his mind had been increasingly occupied with personal anxieties in recent weeks, there was still a compartment of thought and concentration set aside for this campaign. It might well be his last major activity in Fontego, his final achievement; its lessons might be wasted by his successors; but he would still carry it through with conscientious efficiency because he was technically interested and could work in no other way.
The task of organisation was already far advanced. By the time Susan and Martin arrived on the scene the field crew were well established in the Spencers’ house. In addition to Garland himself there were two medical officers, a ward sister and a couple of nurses, a medical orderly, a follow-up worker, and a driver. Garland believed in concentrating his forces, and the personnel was hand-picked and spoiling for the engagement. The old house made an excellent headquarters. It was a large square wooden building, lavishly equipped by a wealthy planter in the heyday of cocoa, but now showing signs of age and depleted family fortunes. At its centre was a vast sitting-and-dining room, opening at one end on to a veranda. Around the other three sides numerous bedroom were arranged, opening in their turn upon another veranda. The place was somewhat gloomy, especially when the daily storm clouds gathered; and the “bush” seemed to be brooding over it and pressing in on it, as it had invaded and crushed and overgrown so many other famous houses in the past century. Still, the building had survived and was hospitable—a monument to an almost forgotten age when a shilling was a good day’s pay for a labourer and planters carried whips.
It took Susan only a short time to get the domestic side of the enterprise running smoothly, for the Spencer’s had left plenty of servants for the house and an odd-job man named Obadiah to attend to the water pump and the electricity plant. There was a little trouble at first about laundry, for in this soaking heat great demands were made on it and the Negro maids declared that if they washed and ironed on the same day they’d get a “fresh cold.” They also believed that if they crossed water after laundering, misfortune would befall them—a conviction which was all the more awkward because several of them lived in huts which could not be reached without crossing water. However, a little tact and persuasion on Susan’s part soon put these matters right. She was used to the local superstitions and accepted them with tolerant amusement. In a day or two the staff couldn’t do enough for her, and Obadiah in particular had become her devoted slave. He made a point of giving her car a more brilliant polish than any of the others, and in the heat of the morning he would often come in out of the plantation with his cutlass under his arm and the delicious water of a decapitated coconut as a token of his esteem for Susan. He was always seeking for some new way of pleasing her, and told her of a place he knew where there were some baby alligators he would like to show her when she could spare the time. The Spencers’ coloured steward called once to make sure that everything was in or
der, but for the most part he was busy running the plantation from his own house and no one saw much of him.
From the start, Martin found Garland very friendly. Whatever the man’s real feelings, he was certainly behaving as though he’d forgotten the sharp quarrel they had had in Fontego City. Martin couldn’t help mentally contrasting the Secretary’s unexceptionable attitude to the Fontenoy health drive with his incomprehensible prejudices about Tacri, but he was tactful enough not to voice his thoughts. Garland proved enthusiastic, interesting, and informative about the work in hand, and was evidently anxious to carry Martin along with him and win his approval. As the only two white men in the party, their relationship had a special quality. The only trouble about all this, Martin felt, was that it would make it more difficult for him to return to the attack over Tacri when they got back to Fontego City. Perhaps Garland realised that, and was being consciously disarming. Anyhow, Martin had accepted the invitation and had an obligation to be civil. As long as he didn’t think about Tacri it was easy, for Garland at the moment was very much the Jekyll, and Martin was finding the whole enterprise immensely stimulating.
The first problem was to win the co-operation of the villagers. Their interest had already been aroused. The descent of the field crew was quite the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Fontenoy, and on the first evening, when work in the fields was over, all of the eight hundred inhabitants except the babes and the bedridden congregated in the open space beside the school to hear what was going to happen to them. Susan had slipped down to join the party and stood beside Martin watching the faces of the wide-eyed, open-mouthed multitude, squatting on the ground. Garland, far from appearing tired, seemed very much on top of the situation. Whatever his private views about the black people, he could certainly handle them when he liked. He stood in the middle of them, a strong, almost handsome figure, one foot raised on a fallen log, his hands thrust into the pockets of his shorts, his manner casual and chatty. He couldn’t talk the coloured man’s patter, but he spoke with a simple directness which they understood. In case there should be any doubt about that, he was followed by the headmaster, who with much gesture and an incredible vernacular seemed to be promising a new Heaven and a new Earth. When the talking was over, a film unit was brought on to the scene, and the impact of the propaganda films was unmistakable. No one in Fontenoy had ever seen a moving picture before.
“You’ve certainly got them on your side,” said Susan to Garland after dinner that evening. “They think you’re some sort of witch doctor. Don’t you agree, Martin? They expect magic.” The field crew had dispersed throughout the house, and the three of them were sitting alone on the veranda.
“As a matter of fact,” said Garland, “that’s just what they’re going to get. I’ve complete confidence in the results. What you ought to do, Susan, is to come down here in a few weeks’ time and see the difference. Phillips, the head teacher, complains that the people here are listless and apathetic. Of course they are, but when we’ve finished with them he won’t know them. They’ll be doing twice the work in the fields.”
“That should please Mr. Spencer,” said Susan. “I remember Dubois used to argue that all our efforts at health improvement were really designed to get more work out of the labourers.”
“H’m,” Garland grunted. “That’s the sort of thing he would have said.”
Susan remembered that Garland hadn’t been particularly fond of Dubois. He had been a bit of a worm, of course, but he’d certainly taken a good deal of work off Garland’s shoulders and according to his lights he’d worked hard for the Colony. She found herself resenting Garland’s offhand contempt.
“You must miss him, all the same,” she said. “Unless, of course, you prefer being without him. I suppose he might easily have been a thorn in the flesh of some people.”
Garland’s eyes flickered with annoyance. How the devil had they managed to get on to the subject of Dubois, he wondered. He got up, pushing his chair back sharply. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said abruptly. “We start work at six. I’ll see you at the clinic, West, if not before. Good night.”
Martin grinned as Garland walked away, “You seem to have put your foot in it, Susan. Dr. Jekyll caught off balance!”
“Oh, he’s just prejudiced,” said Susan. “Eke had a lot of faults but he was keen, and I suppose Garland thought he might take some of the credit for the department. Odd, though, that he should rush off like that. He is getting a bit short-tempered these days.”
“My dear Susan, you should see him when he’s roused.”
“Oh, well, you’re a bit prejudiced too. He’s probably worried. It must have been a frightful ordeal for him when that servant of his was drowned.”
“I hope he was more concerned about the servant than he was about my patients.”
Susan was still inclined to find excuses for Garland. “You must admit he’s doing a fine job here. I think he’s rather terrific; I admire him.”
“I think it’s time I went to bed too,” said Martin. “I’m not in the mood to listen to a panegyric on Garland.” He said good night rather sulkily.
Left alone, Susan sat watching the fireflies dancing against the mosquito wire. She felt slightly guilty, and couldn’t understand why. Everyone seemed to be very touchy all of a sudden. Her thoughts dwelt on Martin, and presently she found herself wondering what it would be like to live with him on a leper island. When drowsiness forced her to her own bed she had still reached no definite conclusion on the subject.
During the next few days, work from dawn till dusk left no time or energy for social exchanges. A couple of bell tents had been erected in a clearing to serve as an improvised clinic. The one hundred and fifty families had been organised into groups and attended the clinic in orderly rotation, shepherded and exhorted by the tireless head teacher who had set his heart on a full muster. Garland was anxious to get the examinations over quickly, for the slides and specimens had to be sent into Fontego City for report and the staff there were standing by.
The general health picture was already clear enough. Nutrition was extremely poor; at least a third of the people were anaemic; many were suffering from yaws and syphilis; one in eight had scabies and a quarter were troubled with head lice. Martin was immersed in the work, which had temporarily driven all other thoughts out of his head. For him, this campaign was a unique and memorable experience. Sometimes in the evenings he and Susan would take their chairs on to the veranda and discuss the work of the day, or simply sit peacefully listening to the night sounds and watching the gorgeous moon. But not for long; early to bed was the rule.
Once the examinations were completed there was a brief respite. Treatment had begun for the complaints that had been already diagnosed, but the tempo was quieter. The people with scabies were painted; those with head lice were dusted with D.D. T.; the obvious yaws and V.D. cases were given a rapid course of penicillin injections. The villagers were still cooperative, for the first results of the treatment had impressed them. They were free from body parasites for the first time in their lives.
As soon as the laboratory reports came in, the pressure of work rose quickly. More than a third of the villagers needed treatment for malaria, and such a high proportion had hookworm that Garland decided the simplest course would be to dose the whole population over two years of age without exception. Difficulties were encountered for the first time. The patients seemed to have no objection to the rather painful shots of penicillin, but they didn’t like their medicine at all. Rumours began to circulate that some people, having drunk their draughts of tetrachlorethylene, had turned giddy and felt tipsy, and attendances at the clinic became ragged. Garland got hold of the head teacher and together they toured the area with a loudspeaker mounted in a station wagon, urging the people to take their medicine. As there was still some reluctance, the hookworm unit was established in one of the cars, and from morning till night huts were visited individually and the draughts administered at the roadside by
the nurses.
The moment came when even Garland was satisfied. The back of the work was broken, and there was little more to be done except to clear up and await results. The field crew gathered at the house before dinner on that first free evening, tired but triumphant, and Susan suggested that they should celebrate the end of the campaign by taking the cars down to the beach and having a swim and a cocktail before dinner. The idea was received enthusiastically, and a few minutes later the convoy of cars and wagons was rolling along the sandy track beneath the coconut palms which lined the long open beach. Night had fallen, but the moon was brilliant and the water at blood heat. For fifteen minutes the whole party made merry in the surf, and then Susan went off to her car to get the cocktail flask and Martin went with her.
He was unusually quiet, and after a sidelong glance at him Susan said, “Is anything on your mind, Martin?”
To her surprise he looked confused. “Lots of things, some more than others.”
“It’s been worthwhile, hasn’t it?”
“The trip? Good Lord, yes. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. There’s only been one thing wrong with it.” He looked at the line of surf, the yellow moon, the gracefully waving palm fronds above their heads. “It seems a pity to have wasted all this.”
Susan laughed. “Must you have a romantic back-cloth?” she asked, and dimples Martin hadn’t seen before lurked near her mouth. Her smiling eyes met his, and with a swift movement he gathered her into his arms. “Darling Susan,” he murmured, “I think I’m in love with you.”
She pressed close to him for a moment, her head against his shoulder, her mouth upturned to his. Then she released herself and resumed her usual bantering tone. “Well, take the cocktails,” she said, “and make up your mind on the way back. I’m going to remove this wet costume.”