‘And you deported him?’ said Rose.
The two men were silent, exchanged glances again, then one said, ‘Yes, we deported him. ‘And the other, ‘We deported him back to South Africa. '
Next day Rose completed her paragraph about Sylvia with, 'Sylvia Lennox is known to have been a close friend of Matabele Bosman Smith who was deported as a South African spy. '
The general style and attack of this piece was right for the papers she liked to use as a receptacle for her inspirations in Britain, but she decided to show it to Bill Case, and then Frank Diddy. Both men knew the origin of the famous deportee, but did not tell her. They did not like her. She had long ago outstayed her welcome. Besides, they did like the idea of this famous Smith being injected with new life, to provide an evening or two's amusement in the cafe.
The piece was in The Post, which was not likely to notice one inflammatory paragraph among so many. She sent it to World Scandals, and it reached Colin, under the rule that if anything unpleasant is printed about one then it will be sent you by some well-wisher. Colin at once sued the paper for a hefty sum and an apology, but as is the way with such newspapers, the correction was put in tiny print where few people were likely to notice it. Julia was again branded as a Nazi; the suggestion that Sylvia was a spy seemed to Colin too ludicrous to bother with.
Father McGuire saw the paragraph in The Post, but did not show it to Sylvia. It found its way to Mr Mandizi, who put it in the file for St Luke's Mission.
Something happened that Sylvia had been dreading all the years she had been at the Mission. A girl who had acute appendicitis was carried up to her from the village by Clever and Zebedee. Father McGuire had taken the car to visit the Old Mission. Sylvia could not telephone the Pynes; either their telephone or the Mission's was not working. The girl needed an immediate operation. Sylvia had often imagined this emergency or something like it, and had decided that she would not operate. She could not. Simple – and successful – operations, yes, she could get away with that, but a fatality, no, they would be down on her at once.
The two boys in their crisp white shirts (ironed for them by Rebecca), with their perfectly combed hair, their scrubbed and scrubbed again hands, knelt on either side of the girl, inside the thatched shed that was called a hospital ward, and looked at her, their eyes filled with tears and brimming over.
'She's on fire, Sylvia,' said Zebedee. 'Feel her.'
Sylvia said, 'Why didn't she come up to me before? If we had caught this yesterday. Why didn't she? This happens again and again. ' Her voice was tight, and rough, and it was from fear. ‘Do you realise how serious this is?'
‘We told her to come, we did tell her. '
It would not be her fault, if the girl died, but if she, Doctor Sylvia, operated and the girl died then it would be judged her fault. The two young faces, washed with tears, begged her, please, please. The girl was a cousin, and a relative too of Joshua.
‘You know I am not a surgeon. I have told you, Clever, Zebedee, you know what that means. '
‘But you must do it,’ said Clever. ‘Yes, Sylvia, please, please.'
The girl was pulling her knees up to her stomach and groaning.
'Very well, get me the sharpest of our knives. And some hot water. ' She bent so her mouth was at the girl's ear. ' Pray,’ she said. ' Pray to the Virgin. ' She knew the girl was a Catholic: she had seen her at the little church. This immune system was going to need all the help it could get.
The boys brought the instruments. The girl was not on ' the operating table' , because she should not be moved, but under the thatch, near the dust of the floor. Conditions for an operation could not have been worse.
Sylvia told Clever to hold the cloth she had soaked in chloroform (saved for an emergency) as far as possible from his own face, which he must turn aside. She told Zebedee to lift the basin with the instruments as high as he could from the floor, and began as soon as the girl's groans stopped. She was not attempting keyhole surgery, which she had described to the boys, but said, ‘I am doing an old-fashioned cut. But when you do your training I think you'll find this kind of big cut will be obsolete – no one will be doing it. As soon as she cut, she knew she was too late. The appendix had burst and pus and foul matter were everywhere. She had no penicillin. Nevertheless she swabbed and mopped and then sewed the long cut shut. Then she said in a whisper to the boys, 'I think she will die.' They wept loudly, Clever with his head on his knees, Zebedee with his head on Clever's back.
She said, ‘I am going to have to report what I have done. '
Clever whispered, ‘We won't tell on you. We won't tell anyone.'
Zebedee grabbed her hands, which were bloody, and said, ‘Oh, Sylvia, oh, Doctor Sylvia, will you get into trouble?'
'If I don't report it and they find out that you knew you will get into trouble too. I have to report it. '
She pulled up the little girl's skirt, and pulled down her blouse. She was dead. She was twelve years old. She said, ' Tell the carpenter we must have a coffin soon-soon.'
She went up to the house, found Father McGuire there, just back, and told him what had happened. ‘I must tell Mr Mandizi.'
‘Yes, I think you must. Don't I remember telling you that this might happen?'
‘Yes, you did. '
‘I will ring Mr Mandizi and ask him to come himself. '
' The telephone's not working.'
‘I’ll send Aaron on his bicycle. '
Sylvia went back to the hospital, helped to get the girl into her coffin, found Joshua where he was asleep under his tree, told him the girl was dead. The old man took time these days to absorb information: she did not want to wait to hear him curse her, which he was going to do – he always did, no necromancy was needed to foretell this – told the boys to say in the village she would not come that afternoon, but that they, Clever and Zeb-edee, would hear the people read, and correct their writing exercises.
At the house the priest was drinking tea. 'Sylvia, my dear, I think you should take a little holiday.'
'And what would that do?'
' Give it time to blow over. '
‘Do you think it will blow over?'
He was silent.
‘Where shall I go, Father? I feel now that this is my home. Until the other hospital is built these people need me here. '
'Let us see what Mr Mandizi says when he comes. '
These days Mr Mandizi was a friend, and it was a long time since he had been rude and suspicious, but what was coming was an official doing his duty.
When he came, there was nothing to know him by but his name. This was Mr Mandizi, he said he was, but really he was dreadfully ill.
' Mr Mandizi, should you not be in bed?'
‘No, doctor. I can do my job. In my bed, there is my wife. She is very sick. Two of us, side by side – no, I do not think I would like that. '
‘Did you have the tests done?'
He was silent, then sighed, then said, ‘Yes, Doctor Sylvia, we had the tests. '
Rebecca brought in the meat, the tomatoes, the bread for lunch, saw the official and said, shocked, 'Shame, oh shame, Mr Mandizi.'
Since Rebecca was always thin and small and her face bony under her kerchief, he could not see she was ill, and so he sat there like the doomed man at the feast, surrounded by the healthy.
‘I am so sorry, Mr Mandizi,’ said Rebecca and went out to her kitchen, crying.
‘And so now you must tell me everything, Doctor Sylvia.'
She told him.
‘Would she have died if you didn't operate?'
'Yes.'
'Was there a chance of saving her?'
'A bit of a chance. Not much. You see, I don't have penicillin, it ran out and...'
He made the movement of his hand she knew so well: don't criticise me for things I can't help. ‘I shall have to tell the big hospital.'
‘Of course. '
' They will probably want a post mortem.'
'They will have to
be quick. She is in her coffin. Why don't you just say it was my fault. Because I am not a surgeon. '
'Is it a difficult operation?'
‘No, one of the easy ones. '
‘Would a real surgeon have done anything different?'
‘Not much, no, not really. '
‘I don't know what to say, Doctor Sylvia. '
It was clear he wanted to say more. He sat with his eyes lowered, glanced up at her, doubtfully, then looked at the priest. Sylvia could see they knew something she didn't.
‘What is it?’ she said.
'Who is this friend of yours, Matabele Bosman Smith?'
'Who?'
Mr Mandizi sighed. He sat with his untouched food in front of him. So did Sylvia. The priest ate steadily, frowning. Mr Mandizi rested his head on his hand, and said, ' Doctor Sylvia, I know there is no muti for what I have, but I am getting these headaches, headaches, I didn't know there could be headaches like these. '
‘I have something for your headaches. I'll give you the pills before you go. '
' Thank you, Doctor Sylvia. But I have to say something... there is something...’ Again, he glanced at the priest, who nodded reassurance. ' They are going to close down your hospital. '
‘But these people need this hospital. '
' There will be our new hospital soon...’ Sylvia brightened, saw that the official was only cheering himself up, and she nodded.
'Yes, there will be one I am sure of it,' said Mr Mandizi. 'Yes, that is the situation.'
'Okay,' said Sylvia.
' Okay,’ said Mr Mandizi.
A week later arrived a short typewritten letter addressed to Father McGuire, instructing him to close down the hospital ' as from this date' . On the same morning a policeman arrived on a motorbike. He was a young black man, perhaps twenty, or twenty-one, and he was ill at ease in his authority. Father McGuire asked him to sit down, and Rebecca made them tea.
‘And now, my son, what can I do for you?'
‘I am looking for stolen property. '
'Now I understand. Well, you won't find any in this house.' Rebecca stood by the sideboard. She said nothing. The policeman said to her, ' Perhaps I will come with you to your house and look around for myself. '
Rebecca said, ‘We have seen the new hospital. There are bush pig living in it. '
‘I too have visited the new hospital. Yes, bush pig, and I think baboons too. ' He laughed, stopped himself, and sighed. ‘But there is a hospital here, I think, and my orders are that I must see it.'
'The hospital is closed.' The priest pushed over the official letter, the policeman read it, and said, ' If it is closed, then I do not see any problem. '
' That is my opinion too. '
‘I think I must discuss this situation with Mr Mandizi. '
' That is a good idea. '
‘But he is not well. Mr Mandizi is not well and I think we shall soon have a replacement.' He got up, not looking at Rebecca, whose house he knew he ought to be investigating. Off he went, his bike roaring and coughing through the peaceful bush.
Meanwhile Sylvia was supposed to be closing down her hospital.
There were patients in the beds, and Clever and Zebedee were doling out medicines.
She said to the priest, 'I am going in to Senga to see Comrade Minister Franklin. He was a friend. He came to us for holidays. He was Colin's friend.'
‘Ah. Nothing more annoying than the people who knew you before you were Comrade Minister.'
‘But I'm going to try. '
‘Wouldn't you perhaps think to put on a nice clean dress?'
‘Yes, yes. ' She went into her room and emerged in her going-to-town outfit, in green linen.
‘And perhaps you should take a nightdress or whatever you need for the night?'
Again she went into her room and emerged with a hold-all. 'And now shall I ring the Pynes and ask if they plan a trip to Senga?'
Edna Pyne said she would be glad of an excuse to get away from the bloody farm, and was over in halfan hour. Sylvia jumped into the seat beside her, waved at Father McGuire, ' See you tomorrow. ‘And so did Sylvia leave for what would be an absence of weeks.
Edna kept up her complaints all the way into town, and then said she had something shocking to tell, she shouldn't be mentioning it but she had to. Cedric had been approached by one of those crooks to say that in return for giving up his farms ' now-now' a sum amounting to a third of their value would arrive in his bank account in London.
Sylvia took this in, and laughed.
' Exactly, laugh. That's all we can do. I tell Cedric, just take it, and let's get out. He says he's not accepting a third of the value. He wants to stick out for the full value. He says the new dam alone will put up the value of the new farm by a half. I just want to get out. What I can't stand, is the bloody hypocrisy. They make me sick.’And so Edna Pyne chattered all the way in to Senga where she dropped Sylvia outside the government offices.
When Franklin was told that Sylvia Lennox wanted to see him he panicked. While he had thought she 'might try something on' , he did not expect it so soon. He had signed the order to close the hospital a week ago. He temporised: ' Tell her I am in a meeting. ' He sat behind his desk, his hands palms down in front of him, staring dolefully at the wall which had on it the portrait of the Leader which adorned all the offices in Zimlia.
When he thought ofthat house he had gone to for his holidays, in north London, it was as if he had touched some blessed place, like a shady tree, that had no connection with anything before or since. It had been home when he felt homeless, kindness when he had longed for it. As for the old woman, he had seen her, like an old secretary bird going in and out, but he had scarcely noticed her, this terrible Nazi. But he had never heard any Nazi talk in that house, surely? And there had been little Sylvia, with her shining wisps of gold hair, and her angel's face. As for Rose Trimble, when he thought of her he found himself grinning; a proper little crook, well he had benefited, so he shouldn't complain. And now she had written that nasty piece... surely she had been a guest in that house, like him? Yet she had been there much longer than he had, and so what she wrote had to be taken seriously. But what he remembered was welcome, laughter, good food, and Frances, in particular, like a mother. Later, when it was Johnny's place he stayed at, now that was a different thing. It wasn't a large flat, nothing like that great house where Colin had been so kind, yet it was always crammed with people from everywhere, Americans, Cubans, other countries in South America, Africa... It was an education in revolution, Johnny's flat. He remembered at least two black men (with false names) from this country who were training in Moscow for guerilla war. And the guerilla war had been won, and he owed his sitting here, behind this desk, a senior Minister, to men like those. While he kept an eye out for them, at rallies and big meetings, he had never seen them since.
Presumably they were dead. Now something confusing was happening. He knew what was being said about the Soviet Union, he was not one of the innocents who never left Zimlia. The word communist was becoming something like a curse: elsewhere, not here, where you had only to say Marxism to feel you were getting a good mark from the ancestors. (And where were they in all this?) A funny thing: he felt that that house in London had more in common with the ease and warmth of his grandparents' huts in the village (as it happened not all that far from St Luke's Mission) than anything since. And yet in the file on his desk was that nasty piece. He was feeling with every minute deeper resentment -against Sylvia. Why had she done those bad things? She had stolen goods from the new hospital, she had done operations when she shouldn't, and she had killed a patient. What did she expect him to do now? Well what did she expect? That hospital of hers, it had never had any real legal existence. The Mission decides to start a hospital, brings in a doctor, nothing in the files recorded permissions being asked or given... these white people, they come here, they do as they like, they haven't changed, they still...
He sent out for sandwiches for lunc
h, in case Sylvia was hanging about somewhere waiting to catch him, and when Sylvia's second request arrived, 'Please, Franklin, I must see you', scribbled on an envelope – who did she think she was, treating him like this – he ordered that she must be told he had been called away on urgent business.
He went to the window, and lifted the slats of the blind and there was Sylvia walking down there. Passionate accusations which he might reasonably have directed against Life Itself were focused on Sylvia's back with an intensity that surely she should have felt: little Sylvia, that little angel, as fresh and bright in his memory as a saint on a Holy Card, but she was a middle-aged woman with dry dull hair tied by black ribbon, no different from any of these white wrinkled madams whom he tried not to look at, he disliked them so much. He felt Sylvia had betrayed him. He actually wept a little, standing there holding up the slat and watching the green blob that was Sylvia merge into the pavement crowd.
Sylvia walked straight into a tall distinguished gentleman who took her in his arms and said, 'Darling Sylvia'. It was Andrew, and he was with a girl in dark glasses with a very red mouth, smiling at her. Italian? Spanish?
' This is Mona,’ said Andrew. ‘We've got married. And I am afraid the ramshackle streets of Senga are a shock to her. '
‘Nonsense, darling, I think it's cute. '
' American,’ said Andrew. ‘And she's a famous model. And as beautiful as the day, as you can see. '
' Only when I have all my paint on,’ said Mona and excused herself saying she must lie down, she was sure they had a lot to talk about.
The Sweetest Dream Page 46