No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  This momentous achievement occurred last night as I was taking a solitary stroll (or patrol, if I were honest) on the lower deck before retiring. To my astonishment I came across the shadowy hulk of a tall man, cradling some small creature in his hands. He seemed to be grief-stricken. I at once recognised the figure, and without thinking twice I strode towards him to offer my assistance. I was wearing my nurse’s pelisse and white uniform which must somehow have cancelled out my femaleness, for, instead of shrieking in terror and running for his life, Kitchener raised an agitated face and said, ‘Nurse, can we save its life?’ He stretched out the cup of his hands. Inside it wriggled a little flying fish which had leapt on board, attracted by the lights. ‘Well, we could throw it back into the ocean,’ I suggested gently. ‘Oh no, nurse,’ exclaimed he, ‘I should love to have it in my cabin – is there not some container we could use?’ ‘Just a minute!’ I cried, my brain racing. I rushed into the dining room and wrenched a bouquet of exotic blooms from a crystal vase which I then filled with seawater stored in barrels in case of fire. This I presented to the sensitive Lord, who deposited the gasping fish into its new home with shaking hands. ‘Thank you, thank you, nurse,’ he murmured, and then turned to me and bared his teeth as described above. ‘You see,’ he added in a choked voice, ‘this little fish has flown far higher than all the others – it has reached the upper deck which no other fish can do. Does it deserve death for flying so high?’ His red-rimmed ice-blue eyes roved wildly round the deck as he spoke, reminding me of a demented patient who spent some time in my ward before being confined to the local Bedlam.

  Strangely, after this midnight rendezvous, as I like to think of it, I now feel no desire to proceed further with my plans to capture his heart. The poor man was quite unable to establish eye contact with me – one of his eyes has a caste of some sort – but I could see from the range of agonised emotions that flitted across his face that he has no place in his heart for the softness of a woman, unless she happens to be covered in fur, feathers, or fins!

  In fact, I think I shall not tell this story of triumph to Sarah. She will listen politely, then give me her sweet smile and say something really irritating like, ‘But surely the fish will fly out of its vase?’ That’s not the point, Sarah! Let’s have a good laugh!

  Sarah’s Diary

  12 January 1900

  After Madeira, the Fairest Cape could only be an anti-climax. Our boat steamed into Table Bay just as the sun was rising, and everyone rushed to the decks to gawp at Table Mountain – but there was nothing to see above the little scattered city but a screen of grey mist which reached from the foothills of the three mountains (which we were assured do exist) to high up in a cloudy sky. Four decks of passengers groaned in disappointment. How vexing that the mountains should veil themselves today.

  We had to manoeuvre our way among ship after ship bringing in yet more horses and troops, to say nothing of hideous instruments of death. After a lot of bureaucracy on board about landing, we disembarked by means of a number of small boats that came to fetch us, the pretty young ladies squealing in excitement as they climbed down the ladders, and were told where we nurses were going. Louise and I had hoped to sail further north to Durban, which is near the great battlefields, but we were told in very peremptory tones by officious military men that we were to be posted to the general hospitals in grey, dreary Cape Town. To our horror we learnt that we were to be separated – Louise to the number two hospital in a suburb called Wynberg, while I was to go to number three. Louise tried to make a fuss about our separation but was very quickly put in her place by an impatient lieutenant who reminded her she had not come here on holiday but to obey the orders of the army.

  Off we set in our open-ended Cape carts to our different hospitals, feeling bitterly disappointed and suddenly apprehensive. I was taken to the leafy suburb of Rondebosch and dropped off at a large rambling bungalow filled with brisk Australian nurses. Frangipani Villa is to be my home until I am posted north, if that ever happens.

  As I stepped out of my open-air cart and my luggage was balanced (to my astonishment) on the head of the black driver, a wonderful thing occurred. Although the sky had been overcast throughout the journey from the Cape Town docks to Rondebosch, the sun suddenly broke through the cloud and lit up Frangipani Villa as if with a spotlight. All at once the bougainvillea and hibiscus in the garden flamed in welcome and the house seemed to catch fire as all kinds of colourful bushes and creepers blazed in the sunlight. At the same time the front door was flung open and two young coloured girls ran out to greet me and help with the luggage. In their quaint, musical accents they introduced themselves – Rushda and Saleema – and informed me that they had been hired at twelve shillings a week to wash, iron, cook and clean for us. By the time I had entered the cool, clean villa I felt strangely at home; every room had a familiar and welcoming air to it. I could smell a faint aroma of cloves and nutmeg in my bedroom, which I was to share with one of the Australian nurses.

  My pleasure was further enhanced by an introductory visit to the nearby ‘Number 3’, as it is called. It is almost embarrassing to admit that this must be one of the most exquisitely located and cared for hospitals in the world. Seventy-three double marquees, fitted with wooden floors and each holding up to seven beds, are situated beside beautiful pine woods, which emit a warm, nutty perfume and sigh and sway in a rather strong wind, to which I believe Cape Town is prone. Large pots of flowers are placed beside the tents, and easy chairs are scattered beneath the trees.

  I have not yet met the men I shall be nursing. Hard work starts tomorrow, but now Louise and I plan to meet up in Cape Town – there is an excellent rail service – to explore the shops and streets and admire the frontal view of Table Mountain, unveiled!

  Robben Island, January 1900

  The decision to leave the island had come slowly. When he handed the grass seed over to the leper woman he averted his eyes from her grateful, suppurating face. The demon of the Island had entered his breast: it possessed him and made his head ache, his heart beat hot and fast. Was she the demon? In fact, was she the demon mother? He had lied to Dr Simmonds: his heart was not hard. It was soft as Our Lady’s, stabbed with all those swords.

  Unable to resist, he paid her a final visit. She was scattering the grass seed into the runnels she had dug. Her remaining fingers were quick and supple. He leaned over the gate, watching her. Finally she noticed him, and nodded. He pushed the gate open with uncertain hands. It mewed plaintively; he should have brought oil. A surge of emotion drowned his better instincts. ‘And what has happened to your sixth son?’ he cried. A flock of seagulls, after the seeds, nearly drowned his words with their tangled yelps. She had stood up straight; leaned against the nearby spade. ‘He’s the split image of his father.’ Her hair fell over her misshapen, beautiful face. ‘Long since dead now.’ He had swung away on his heel, unable to speak.

  That evening in early January Dr Simmonds heard an urgent knock on the front door of his cottage. Expecting to find an orderly on his doorstep with some hospital emergency to report, he was surprised but pleased to find the young leper guard, Patrick Donnelly. Though the two men had spent several evenings together over the past few months, often without uttering many words, the invitation had always come from the doctor, when he had felt the need for the young man’s company, or an impulse to educate. In silence he opened his bottle of Jameson’s whisky, and poured two glasses of the lovely golden brown liquid.

  ‘Those perforating ulcers,’ the boy had begun as soon as he was settled in the doctor’s second armchair. ‘They don’t mean leprosy, do they? Not if you’ve had them for eighteen years?’

  ‘You’re talking of the self-cured lepers?’ The doctor did not look surprised at the question. Nevertheless, he could not resist an opportunity to lecture. ‘Well, in most self-cured cases the perforation clears up never to return. But sometimes the ulcers remain long after the disease has been cured because the bones have become necrosed – they di
e – through a defect in their nerve supply. They become virtually foreign bodies.’

  The boy was listening intently, the muscles of his face rearranged in an expression of acute seriousness which the doctor, having witnessed previous unsuccessful attempts at solemnity, could see was genuine. ‘So, if the dead bone is removed, the ulcers will clear up?’

  Dr Simmonds swirled his whisky between his cheeks, then sipped thoughtfully. ‘If the patient wishes to prove him or herself to be finally free of leprosy, this would be the course to take. Because even in the cases of self-cured ex-lepers whose ulcers have long disappeared, some medical men consider that the ulceration is only arrested, and if you wait long enough, it will start afresh. But surely there is a limit to everything. Why be Micawbers in dealing with lepers? Why keep the patients languishing in a lazaretto until death removes them from your expectant eye, waiting for something to turn up – waiting for the ulceration to recur? And speaking of Micawber, I have a new book for you to read.’ He reached out for a volume on the sideboard next to his armchair. ‘David Copperfield. Another maltreated orphan: the story of Dickens’ own difficult childhood.’

  The young man glanced indifferently at the offering; then asked, in agitated tones, ‘Have you ever carried out this operation – on the dead bones?’

  ‘Yes. Several times.’ The doctor was silent for a moment. ‘Are you thinking of a particular leper?’ He searched Patch’s eyes but could discover only a green thought in a green shade; the line that always insinuated itself into his head when he looked at the boy.

  ‘No!’ The word was spat out. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’ Patch swallowed the liquid trembling in his glass. The warmth of it calmed him. His face slipped back into the old familiar half-smile as he looked at the book on his lap. ‘You’ll make a bookworm of me yet.’ He flicked the pages, already cut in preparation. ‘I’ve had more education from you than I ever had at the convent.’ There was a valedictory cadence to these words which the doctor noted with a pang of regret.

  On returning to his bedroom, he opened the book called David Copperfield and read the opening sentence. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anyone else, these pages must show. The words entered his very being. He was unable to read further. That Charles Dickens had put his finger on his own dilemma. Was Patrick Donnelly the hero of his own life, or was someone else? The chilling truth was that there was no heroism whatsoever about his life. The Catholic church did not provide heroic opportunities to become a man as did, for instance, the religion of the Xhosa people he had met in the District. How he had secretly envied the young men of his age as they prepared themselves for initiation into manhood in the bush round Cape Town. What challenges to their courage lay before them: their foreskins sliced off, their bodies naked and smeared with clay; fasting for days on end; rituals of manliness. They always came back different, their boyhood gone. They would always be the heroes of their own lives.

  The next day, while gazing at the flotilla in the bay, he knew what to do.

  The doctor was not surprised when Patch (who had considered slipping away on the ferry without saying goodbye) told him of his new plans. He refrained from reminding the young man of his vow never to join up and instead offered some advice. ‘Make sure you always have a billycan of clean water,’ he said. ‘And you’ll find Mr Dickens very good company.’

  Patch left the island the next day. Dr Simmonds had run up to the jetty waving a book wrapped in brown paper just as he was mounting a giant convict’s back. ‘Part two,’ he panted. ‘Keep David ready for emergencies.’ And stood watching the departure of the young man, who himself felt a certain forlornness as the ferry made its way through the anchored ships in the bay.

  General Hospital Number 3, January 1900

  He dropped his suitcase off at the Witbooi’s and paid a surprise visit to Johan’s hairdressing salon. Here he learnt to his astonishment that Cartwright was in the Rondebosch military hospital after being wounded in one of those disastrous battles in Natal. He’d come down from Durban on a hospital train donated by a princess. Johan had been to visit and told Patch how to get there, while applying Vaseline and straightening irons to his client’s tightly curled hair, which gradually assumed the shape of a miniature warship, with six portholes. He recommended taking a bottle of Cape Smoke. ‘Cartwright is very furious because some say he was running away when he got shot.’ A funnel emerged beneath his expert fingers. ‘He says they was wrong, he isn’t a coward. Yes, sir, I can give you a puff of smoke as well.’

  On his way to the railway station, Patch bought a bottle of cheap Cape brandy and a block of tobacco, to keep things cheerful. He’d never been to Rondebosch before, it being inhabited exclusively by toffs, but, once he got there, those snobbish women in their posh clothes still looked at him appreciatively as he sauntered down their roads in his leisurely fashion, his shoulders swaying in time to the melody in his head. Now he peered behind the hedges, where great lawns and floral borders unrolled like carpets to whitewashed houses, each with different kinds of windows, some latticed, through which you could see heavy curtains and framed pictures on the walls. Tomorrow he would sign up to one of those colonial volunteer forces, the same one that Cartwright belonged to. Two weeks training would turn him into a soldier. At least he wouldn’t have to wear one of those stupid pith helmets; the colonials wore slouch hats like the Boers, which gave them a daredevil air suggesting effortless bravery and a physical toughness gained from a lifetime in the open veldt. But you need more than a flattering hat to prove your manliness; perhaps a wound was essential, even if gained while fleeing.

  It was almost like being in church in this quiet, salubrious suburb, and he was relieved to reach the site of the hospital, which was all laid out neatly too. Snow-white tents and marquees ran in straight lines under the pine trees with pots of plants in between them, and nurses running about in their white dresses and veils with little red cloaks draped over their shoulders. After enquiring, he found Cartwright’s tent.

  ‘Hullo, my friend!’

  Well, Cartwright seemed fit enough, not even in bed, striding towards him with one arm in a sling, the other raised in sardonic welcome. A Mauser bullet had gone clean through him; you could see the scars on either side of his chest, one between the right ribs and the other somewhere under his shoulder blade. Though the wounds had healed rapidly, a second bullet had smashed his elbow, hence the sling. Cartwright displayed these badges of apparent valour almost immediately, at the same time trying to get the attention of the nurses with his flashy smile. Patch, remembering Johan’s warning, made no comment. All around in rows of metal beds lay men or, rather, parts of men, for some had their faces missing, you could see their teeth all bared with the cheek blown away, and some had lost their legs but still screamed in agony at the gangrene that was no longer there. It was a relief to get outside and sit under the pine trees drinking brandy and smoking and listening to Cartwight’s stories about the uselessness of the British Army’s commanding officers.

  His battle stories were a little short on detail. It seemed that his volunteer brigade was part of Buller’s attempt to cross the Tugela River so as to relieve Ladysmith, but unfortunately there were rather a lot of well-armed Boers dug into trenches all around, and the Tugela twisted and looped in such a way that, unless you knew the terrain, you could end up crossing it two or three times. The thing was to find the bridges or fords across it, but the scouts gave the wrong information, and the troops ended up milling about chaotically, cannon fodder for the sharpshooting Boers hidden in the ground. The worst of it was that you couldn’t even tell where their sharp shooting was coming from on account of the smokeless gunpowder. Cartwright’s face twisted in contempt as he spoke; if he had been in charge, Ladysmith would have been relieved weeks ago no question, was the underlying message.

  Patch’s thoughts drifted as he listened to his friend’s catalogue of complaints and criticisms. He was think
ing about heroism again. He was frightened by the appearance of the mutilated men in the tents; he was discouraged by Cartwright’s accounts of British leadership; yet wasn’t this what heroism was about: to plunge forward in the face of disaster? To risk everything – not for your country but for your own manhood. Patriotism didn’t come into it at all. He felt no particular allegiance to Britain – the nuns hadn’t tried to hide their antagonism towards England, though he’d never understood why. And he certainly had no truck with the Boers up north, savages with long beards, unable even to speak English, the language of civilisation (though he had to admit that the Loyal Afrikaners he’d come across in Cape Town, or, more precisely, whose boots he had polished as a sideline in Feinstein’s shoe store, had seemed cultured and hygienic, and the nose of a shoeshine boy had the advantage over other noses in these matters).

  ‘So Long abandons his field guns, doesn’t he, you should’ve seen them horses trying to escape but still harnessed to the artillery, talk about panic, then Buller sends in three officers to rescue the guns and one of them’s Freddie Roberts, son of you-know-who, and next thing he’s lying dead with a bullet through his stomach, and Buller orders a retreat. Meantime I’m lying in a heap of bodies, some dead, some alive, some with their guts hanging out like sausages you see in the butchers … let’s have another swig of that brandy, eh, Patch?’

  Patch had a swig himself to steady his nerves; then, just as he passed the bottle to Cartwright, he saw a vision from heaven.

  She was dressed like most of the nurses, with a little red cloak round her shoulders and her hair hidden under her veil, but for a moment he thought she must be Our Lady visiting the hospital in disguise. Like Mary, the young nurse smiled sadly to herself, her eyes downcast, her face perfectly oval and pale as ivory. For all the world, she looked like the statue of Our Lady in the church, climbed down from her niche beside the altar. On her breast a great cross blazed, red as Mary’s blood.