Doctor's Assistant

by Celine Conway

  At last, on the Monday of her second week back at work, she tackled him point-bank. She folded away her apron and cap, tidied her hair and walked into the surgery to tell him she was going. He looked up from his case book.

  “Finished? Did you leave out the Belton card? Thanks.”

  “Ben.” She tried to keep her voice absolutely even. “Would you rather I didn’t work for you any more?”

  He laid down his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. The lines in his face were suddenly very deep, yet his whole expression was of concern for something outside himself.

  “Good Lord, no. I don’t know what I’d do without you. What made you think that?”

  “Well, you haven’t been too cordial lately, and I came to the conclusion that if you’d feel better without me around. I’d try to find someone else for you.”

  “But I won’t have anyone else!” For Ben, the retort was extraordinarily emphatic, but he waited a moment before adding more quietly, “If I’ve been bearish it’s because I’ve hit a patch where nothing seems to come right. There’s that boy, for one thing; our massage won’t do him any good. He must have electrical treatment and I’ve no means of giving it to him. The clinic can’t handle his sort of case and his parents won’t agree to his going away to a hospital.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Ben.”

  He shrugged despondently. “It was a mistake to bring him here. His people are expecting a miracle but he’ll go back to them as he came, a cripple.”

  “It isn’t your fault. You tried.”

  He stood up and pushed back his chair. “In medicine, trying isn’t enough. You’ve got to show results, particularly to Africans.” He came round the desk and gave her shoulder a pat. “No more talk of walking out on me. I need you.”

  Oh an impulse she said, “May I go with you to the mission tomorrow? You did promise to take me some time.”

  “All right. Get your father’s consent, though. He may not care for the idea.”

  Laurette walked home that afternoon feeling vaguely relieved. She understood Ben’s situation. Among the African community in particular he was presented with a tremendous variety of cases. He was a conscientious general practitioner, and as such would have given a good deal, on occasions, for a specialist’s opinion. But there was no one with whom he could consult, not even another G.P. nearer than Umtopo.

  The old doctor had been the sort to get through with the least possible trouble; calomel had been his unfailing remedy for the natives’ ailments. But Ben’s ideas were modern and he was something of an idealist. If he lacked the drive necessary to make good his ideals he was not to be blamed. He worked against odds.

  John Delaney did not object to his daughter’s visiting the native mission. “Don’t go getting notions, though,” he warned her. “You’re not the missionary type. And stay with Ben. I don’t trust those hills since they swallowed us that night.”

  “I’ll be careful.” She paused. “Charles hadn’t better know. He’d disapprove.”

  “If you’re late back he may ask.”

  “It won’t matter then. I’m quite looking forward to going.”

  At eleven next morning they set out. Oddly, it was the first time Laurette had ever sat with Ben in his car, and seemingly he found it refreshing, for as they threaded along the river road he often looked her way and smiled.

  “What a difference companionship makes,” he said. “I anticipate a sticky day in the clinic, but I can’t get irritable over it, as I usually do. You’re a wonderful influence, Laurette.”

  “You should use me more often. I could do a lot more work than you give me.”

  “Who’s talking about work? I like it better when you’re just looking sweet and doing nothing. That’s what I used to enjoy about having tea at your bungalow. I miss those treats.”

  “They’ll start again as soon as we get back there.”

  “You could go back soon,” he said. “If the long chair were put on wheels Bwazi could manage it.” He was silent for some seconds. Then: “What’s the arrangement—that you stay at Kelsey’s till Charles leaves for Basutoland?”

  “I think so.”

  “You don’t mind him so much now, do you?”

  “No. He can be charming.”

  “And ruthless.” Ben swung the car from the rough road on to the rougher track to the mission. They bumped on for a bit before he said, “To a woman he must be an unsettling sort of man. He has everything they most admire, yet he remains aloof and tantalizing.”

  She smiled and looked out at the familiar kraals dotted about the miles of little mountains. “Being an overlord in the untamed hinterland has made him a law unto himself. One has to accept it.”

  Ben drew up on the beaten earth forecourt to the mission. Under the extended thatch of the roof sat many natives awaiting his coming. They had trekked in as they always did on his visiting day, and were passing the time in gossip. They murmured a greeting in dialect and the women turned curious glances upon Laurette’s blue tailored frock and white sandals; blanketed as they were, they loved European clothes.

  The mission building was not imposing. Its grey mud walls were relieved by a few high windows and the immense thatch was beautifully finished, but the place had an atmosphere of poverty, possibly because it was undenominational. Mr. and Mrs. Lockley had felt an urge to start the work on their small capital and, outside of Port Quentin, they had been unable to attract contributors. There were thousands of natives in the district but only a handful of white people to pay for the mission’s upkeep.

  Inside the building was divided into two. Two-thirds of it formed a hall furnished with native-made chairs for simple religious services and social affairs, and the remaining space, beyond a partition, was equipped as a clinic. Most of the medical apparatus had been donated by Mr. Kelsey; the trouble was, said Ben, that two or three doctors were required for its employment.

  Laurette met the thin missionary and his amazingly enthusiastic wife. She was introduced to a large African midwife and two smaller African nurses, and made the acquaintance of a coffee-skinned young man whose burning ambition was to become a doctor to his own people. The place was filled with fervour, yet it could not help but arouse one’s pity. The mission fought against colossal barriers: lack of money and European workers, the natives’ apathy and unwillingness to be taught. Mrs. Lockley admitted that more than half the people came only for free meals and medical attention, but while even a few were keen to learn carpentry and leatherwork, needlework and baby care, the classes would continue.

  At twelve-thirty the children turned up in hundreds and made an orderly queue from a trestle table in the forecourt. Each was given a bowl of soup, a piece of bread and a section of papaw or watermelon, and they sat down in groups in the hot sun to eat. Many were nearly naked and a few wore tidy print frocks or khaki shorts, but when they had eaten they all lay about replete and smiling. This kind of scene was the Lockleys’ reward, thought Laurette; it kept them going.

  In the afternoon Mrs. Lockley demonstrated the prowess of one of her pupils on an old sewing machine.

  “You see how clever she is,” she said in her high, purposely-bright tones. “Turning the corners, keeping a straight seam. She has made many frocks for the schoolchildren.”

  The girl went on stolidly working the handle, but another girl, sitting nearby, giggled into her embroidery. Mrs. Lockley’s lips tightened, and she moved Laurette away.

  “One needs patience,” she said in a loud and vibrant whisper. “They’re like children.”

  “The whole mission is a credit to you,” Laurette replied sincerely.

  But by the end of that day she felt desperately sorry for the Lockleys. Both lived on their nerves. They slept in a tiny separate hut and spent all their waking hours in the mission. There were no flowers about them, no shrubs; only beaten, sun-drenched earth, worn grass and a line of skinny blue gums about two hundred yards away.

  Ben was hard at it the whole of that day. He br
oke off for twenty minutes at lunch-time, but Laurette did not see him again till the sun was going down and Africans could be seen plodding away down the footpaths in all directions.

  He washed his hands, they both said good-bye to the Lockleys and the car moved off along the track.

  “No wonder you’re always tired out after your days there,” Laurette commented. “It’s too much, Ben. Is there really a lot of sickness among those people?”

  “A fair amount, but half the patients are spurious—they love the importance attaching to a sick person and to display a bottle of medicine. But among the others you find serious cases. I did three hernia ops. today.”

  “Poor Ben.” And he was going home to the loneliness of that dim old house. “Let’s stop above the river and watch the last of the sun.”

  He threw her a quick, pleased glance. “That sounds like the prescription for a tonic. Say when.”

  She chose a ledge which overlooked a green valley and a curving stretch of river. With the engine switched off they could hear the cicadas tuning up for their night-songs and the distant throbbing of a motor-boat. Across the river a mountain rose sheer from the water’s edge, its side densely packed with tree-ferns and wild fruit and nut trees. Branches moved, indicating the presence of monkeys, but the creatures were too small to be seen at this distance.

  Ben sat sideways, his arms crossed on the wheel. The attention he gave to the view was perfunctory, for Laurette’s head was in the way; golden-brown curls and a little ear, her small clear profile against the dark greenness framed by the window.

  Ben was not a man to hoard illusions. He knew himself fairly well, and he also knew Laurette rather better than she thought he did. Sometimes he was amazed at his having allowed himself to fall in love with her; he couldn’t possibly give her any of the things she wanted, because in buying the Port Quentin practice he had carved for himself a hard and precarious future. To sell it again would take years, and he was not the sort to cut his losses and start elsewhere from scratch. Nor would his conscience permit him to move out and leave the place without a doctor. Yet he loathed the practice. Nobody suspected that, of course, not even Laurette; but being frank with himself was his only means of survival. He had to admit to being embittered by the frustrations of the practice, and to loving someone totally outside his reach. The sane, medical man in him was then able cynically to retort, “Well ... so what?”

  Laurette said softly, “We’re looking east, aren’t we? Don’t you think the first darkness is a heavenly color? Dark hyacinth shading to a rich purple. I love that purple tint in the night sky, don’t you?”

  “I seldom notice it. This is my country, you know. My parents emigrated from England when they married, and I’ve lived in the south-east of Africa most of my life, though before taking over the practice I’d never been to Port Quentin. I’m afraid I’ve always accepted purple night skies.” He shifted to make himself more comfortable. “Are you doing the things you want to do, Laurette?”

  She puckered a smile at him. “What do you mean—living here with my father, working for you?”

  He nodded. “Do those things satisfy you?”

  “Of course,” she answered readily, then hesitated and added a qualification, “I’m happy now, but I shouldn’t care to go on this way for ever.”

  ‘That’s fair enough. None of us would. In time you’ll find Port Quentin too small and restricting, too full of middle-aged and old people—not to mention the cranks who shun a wider life! You’ll want gaiety and young friends.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted, “but Port Quentin will always be a marvellous place to come home to.”

  They were silent, while darkness suddenly fell. Ben drew a breath.

  “These moments are too rare,” he said quietly, “yet everyone has a right to them. I’m glad I shared this with you, Laurette.”

  “So am I.”

  Presently, they slipped back on to the road and he drove down from the hillside into the little town of winking lights. He slowed at the Kelsey gates.

  “Shall I run you up to the house, or would you rather I didn’t?”

  “I’ll walk, thanks, Ben. And thank you for taking me to the mission. I’ll work twice as hard tomorrow to make up for what I haven’t done today.”

  He smiled. “You’ve done more today than you’ll ever know. So long, Laurette.”

  She stepped from the car and flitted away round the drive. Ben moved on, thinking of her, much to his own surprise, as a flower about to be exposed to a merciless floodlight. Now why should he imagine a thing like that?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHARLES was standing in the hall, lighting a cigarette. He flicked out the match and placed it in an ashtray, stared enigmatically at Laurette as she stood framed in the doorway.

  “Hello, there,” he said. “Didn’t you invite your escort in for a drink?”

  “He has a couple of patients to see before dinner.” She shook back her hair. “I feel grubby and sleepy. I think I’ll take a shower.”

  “Have a cocktail first.” He indicated an open door. “There’s no one in there yet.”

  She passed in front of him, blinked a little in the bright light of the lounge. “Is my father still chirpy?”

  “Quite. He and I did several hours’ work together this afternoon.” Charles filled glasses and handed one to Laurette. “He told me you’d gone to the mission.”

  “It was my first visit—rather an education.”

  “But very tiring. Need Ben have kept you there so long? It’s nearly seven.”

  “He couldn’t get away, and then when we did leave the sun was setting so we watched the night come in over the river.”

  “How romantic,” he said. “I hope you embraced at the appropriate moment.”

  She tasted her drink and looked up at him. “Are you being nasty?”

  “No, I’m merely interested. After all”—with a mocking twist to his lips—“you’re a member of the household—a junior, feminine one whose well-being we all have at heart. Is the drink all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  His glance narrowed. “You really are tired, aren’t you? No one can stop Ben flogging himself but he’s no right to do it to you. Relax for a few minutes.”

  It was easy to obey. She lay back in the chair and met his eyes. “Have you ever been to the mission, Charles?”

  “Not this one. We have one near Mohpeng but it’s run on different lines, by a religious group.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “As we were coming home I wondered if something couldn’t be done for the Lockleys. All the churches have missions and if those two could be persuaded to join up with one of them...”

  “It isn’t your business,” he said brusquely. “The Lockleys have enough about them to know what they’re after. Let Ben Vaughan and the Lockleys manage the place in their own way. They’re a good bit older than you are, anyway, so they’re probably just as likely to see the other side of a question. Stay away from the mission.”

  “Is that an order?” she enquired politely.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied uncompromisingly. “You’ve only been in this country a matter of months and already you fancy yourself the district nurse of Port Quentin. Don’t be so damned naive!”

  She laughed and cocked a brow. “What’s so naive about it?”

  “The boundless zeal, the infinite capacity for good works, the strange notion that you’re the first person to think along certain lines.” He set down his glass with a thud. “Does Ben allow you to talk as if you had the wisdom of Solomon?”

  “He doesn’t shout me down as you do. Sometimes—even when you’re nice—you’re a bit of a beast, Charles.”

  “A nice beast,” he agreed with her, kindly. “How about a day out on Saturday?”

  Her fingers tightened slightly about the glass she held and a glow came into her eyes. “I’d love it. On the boat?”

  “The yacht,” he automatically corrected her, as Mr. Kelsey was apt to.
“I’ll introduce you to the old chief I told you about.”

  “Could we take my father?”

  “We could”—non-committally—“but I haven’t asked him yet, so we needn’t. Please yourself.” When she made no comment he ended, “Very well, we’ll go alone.”

  “What about the polo?”

  “We’ll play deck-tennis instead. All right?”

  “All right,” she said on a gently expelled breath.

  Her heart beat faster but she did not question why. Nor could she any longer look straight at Charles. She knew that he was watching her satirically, and she had the uneasy conviction that he enjoyed his power over her. It was aggravating to know that her reactions were so apparent to him; had he been a different sort of man she wouldn’t have cared. But had he been a different sort of man he would probably have had little effect upon her pulses.

  She emptied her glass and stood up. “I have to wash away the day’s dust, but I’ll slip in to see my father first.”

  “He’s having a pipe with Uncle Gilbert in the library.”

  “Is he?” She paused. “Then maybe I’d better change.”

  “Wear the pink thing that stands out on the shoulders,” he said carelessly. “It suits your tan.”

  That, thought Laurette as she marched along the corridor, was going somewhat too far, even for Charles. She would wear the green with long sleeves, and when he, grinned at her defiance, as he was bound to, she would grin back. There was fun, threaded with excitement, in defying Mr. Heron.

  The following afternoon John Delaney displayed the pen-and-ink drawings he had done for Charles. There were eight of them so far, sketches of native huts with the inevitable black pot smoking outside over a fire of twigs, and people enjoying their leisure in lazy native fashion; of piccanins showing awed interest in a steel plough; of trek-oxen being led by a stalwart black farmer; of African women exchanging jokes while they gathered kaffir corn and mealies.