Heartbeat (Medical Romance)

by Ramsay, Anna

  The new nurse had a real cute habit of wrinkling her nose when she smiled, noted the intrigued young American. And good for her, she could smile! He knew a good few dames who'd have dissolved into tears at coming up against the blunt-spoken Ross McDonnell.

  But it wasn’t a good start, that dramatic arrival at the Good Shepherd coupled with such an ultra-feminine appearance. She looked like the kinda chick guys'd make a fuss of and rush to protect.

  Small wonder Ross had serious doubts about letting Miss Westcott loose on a remote mission station with three virile white men for company. Matt was including himself, since Charming, his African girlfriend, had gone back to Moshi to complete the midwifery course at the general hospital. Charming's father was a lawyer; the lawyer didn't know about Matt. Charming was certain he'd blow his top if he discovered she was in love with a white man.

  Sure, Miss Redhead would find more comfort at one of the bigger outfits nearer the coast, but Matt reckoned the new nurse had plans of her own, and these included staying put. She surely would liven the place up!

  'C'mon and I'll show you where we all hang out.' Matt beat Jenni to the big case and made a face at its weight. If this shrimp could cart a load like this halfway across the world she'd got a navvy's muscles under those dungarees.

  If Ross is gonna push this chick around, contemplated Matt with a grin, then we're all in for a pretty interestin' time.

  'This way, ma'am.'

  Jenni gathered up the rest of her stuff, fully recovered now and ready for action. ‘I’ll show that bully I’m as strong as any other nurse. Two of them are nuns, aren’t they? Sisters from a nursing Order, Paul told us in his letters ...’

  * * *

  The Mbusa Wa Bwini Mission was Father Paul's 'baby'. Seven years ago, on his arrival as a missionary priest from England, he had been sent here by the diocese of Dar-es-Salaam, under instructions from the African bishop to set up a base in this remote area of bush.

  But he had kept regularly in touch with the folks back home in the UK, and especially the Westcott family in whose soot-stained Victorian vicarage he had once lodged. While under their roof he had become engaged to tall serene Helen, the eldest and most tranquil of the three Westcott girls. They planned to get married when Paul had a parish and a roof of his own to shelter his beautiful blonde fiancée.

  To be near Paul, Helen had left her London hospital and taken a staff nurse's post at one of the northern city's general hospitals: and there she had been swept off her sensible feet by a rakish surgeon heading the casualty team.

  Within the space of months Helen and Bram Markland were married. And Paul, reacting like the gentle saint he was, gave the two of them his blessing and not one word of reproach. Helen's teenage sisters, openly adoring their father's handsome Rugby Blue assistant priest, were shocked to the core. Each secretly vowed to grab Paul for herself when his time in Africa was up. But apart from occasional visits on leave, Paul seemed devoted to his new work, and his letters never mentioned the possibility of a permanent return to England.

  Hannah's stubborn heart had been captured by a doctor of her own, and in time the only sister whose heartbeat increased at the thought of Paul Hume was Jennifer ... capricious Jenni, artistic and creative like their mother whom she resembled physically. But in character Jenni was the cuckoo in the nest. Jenni the dreamer, Jenni the wilful one, the stormiest and most temperamental of the three sisters.

  Though Jenni had had more boyfriends than Hannah declared she’d had hot dinners, Jenni still hadn’t found a man to stir her heartbeat like the memory of Paul…

  * * *

  The Mbusa Wa Bwini was going from strength to strength.

  One of Paul's first actions had been to arrange for weekly visits by a travelling medical team. Young Africans were sent by the theological colleges to learn from the English priest how to run parishes of their own. Mission workers were based there and travelled daily into the bush.

  The compound was enlarged to make room next to the tin-roofed Mission church for two buildings for educational use, and an African headmaster was appointed to take responsibility for the school the nuns had started. 'One day,' said Paul with firm conviction, 'we’ll withdraw and our African brothers and sisters will take over the Mission. We shall not always be needed here. The time will come for us all to move on.'

  The weekly medical visits grew inadequate as word spread and patients overcame their initial shyness, travelling in from a wide radius of village settlements. Paul applied for a small government grant to provide more effective medical cover. Topped up by financial aid from charitable organisations, they were able to set up a proper medical centre with its own dispensary, outpatient and antenatal clinics; and within the year, when the government made extra funds available, two permanent wards for those too sick to be cared for at home and whose treatment could be carried out on site.

  To meet the increasing number of mission workers, living accommodation had gradually been extended until the original one-storey wooden bungalow became four sides of a square surrounding an inner courtyard. There was only one entrance, to which Matt and Jenni were now heading across the deserted compound. The air was cooler now, with the smoky tang of wood fires.

  Jenni didn't quite know what she had been expecting. But nothing was turning out as in her imaginings. No eager children grasping her skirts — no shy black-skinned mothers dressed in bright kangas bringing their babies to greet her. No chatter and colour and noise of welcome for the new white nurse from England. And no Paul. Just the quiet, the stillness, the dull red of the arena of impacted earth and the unpainted wood and stone of the encircling assortment of primitive buildings, only the church easily identifiable in function with its stumpy cross rising from a green-painted corrugated roof and its ever-open door. And that pungent smell of woodsmoke hanging heavily in the air.

  Her steps dawdled as she examined her new surroundings with curious eyes.

  Where were the villagers Paul had come to work amongst? Where were all their patients? And where, speculated Jenni, a frown creasing her freckled forehead, was Ross McDonnell? Matt paused for her to catch up, grinning over his shoulder, pointing out the Clinic buildings.

  'Goodness! I thought it would be much bigger than that,' she exclaimed.

  'Yeah,' agreed the Southern drawl, 'that was my reaction when I first came. But you can't see the wards from here, or Outpatients or Ante-Natal. They don't face on to the actual compound. It cuts down on traffic to locate entrances round the back. Also encourages patients too timid to come by the main track. The Masai especially prefer it: they're very proud, very secretive people. Come in off the plains but don't never stay long. Won't wait, won't queue. You know about the Masai?’

  ‘Of course!’ Everyone knew of the Masai, one of the most famous of tribes—formerly very warlike, but now a pastoral people, their whole lives revolving around their cattle.

  'Matt?'

  'Yup?'

  'Where is everyone?'

  Matt explained that the African day began early and the children were back in the villages now that it was late afternoon. Jenni gasped—how the day had flown!

  ‘Most of the mission workers have been out on the field.’

  'On the field?'

  'Just an expression, y'know. You'll hear the trucks coming in soon.'

  ‘I can’t wait to meet everyone! Where’s the village though? I know there's a river somewhere nearby. I've been doing my homework—it must be the Rufiji. From the bus I could see all its smaller tributaries were bone dry.'

  Matt halted at the shallow steps fronting the verandah. He nodded his head in a southerly direction. 'Down there above the river bank. That's the village cooking fires you can smell. Tomorrow we'll show you round properly— introduce you to the Chief and his wives. How’s your Swahili?’

  Jenni pulled a face. ‘Half a dozen phrases I’ve mugged up.’

  ‘Good on you. Right, come on in.’

  The front door wasn't locked. Jenni didn't
suppose anyone bothered with such precautions in a mission. Personal possessions would be few in an environment where caring for souls and bodies was the primary aim. Her own most vital belonging was her hairdryer. The Mission generated its own power supply; she'd checked that out before she came.

  She followed Matt along a blank-faced corridor which turned sharp left and presented a row of identical doors facing out on to a long verandah. The central courtyard was open to the sky and strung across with a couple of empty washing lines. 'Here we are. Sister Joanna's room, Sister Beatrice, mine—put me among the girls!—and Sylvia's. Ross's pad next door,' said Matt, 'and here's you next to one of the schoolteachers. Brought any whisky with you? Tins of tuna?' he added hopefully. Jenni shook her head. 'Aw, shame. '

  'The medical staff sleep along this section. It's more convenient and saves disturbing the others when we get called out at night. Paul has his own pad across in the Admin block, but he sometimes uses the room on the corner if we have visitors.

  'Your stateroom, ma'am!' Matt bowed and smartly clicked his cowboy heels. Jenni stepped into a small dark cabin of a room. 'Ohoh. One cockroach bites the dust!' He swiped at the flimsy interior wall, picked up a corpse between finger and thumb and tossed it past a shuddering Jenni and out through the door.

  The room was absolutely basic: a narrow bed made up with clean white sheets and swathed in mosquito netting suspended from an overhead fan. Brown coir matting on the floor, its edges curling dryly in the heat. Beside the bed a Tanzanian threelegged stool with a goatskin seat, barely a foot high. And to complete the ensemble, one all-purpose cupboard perched on a lopsided table.

  'No window?' Jenni reacted with a claustrophobic shiver.

  'Sure there is. See, you just unlatch it.' Matt lowered a flap of wood to reveal an oblong of daylight looking out across the verandah to the washing lines in the small courtyard. 'Hey presto, one window. Usually we close them in the daytime. Flies, y'know. Get everywhere.'

  'But—but there's no glass!'

  Matt didn't seem to consider this any kind of problem. 'Mosquito netting's more useful than glass in a climate like this. Anyways – we prop our doors open at night.'

  ‘Great!’ said Jenni weakly. 'Would it be ok for me to grab a shower?' She was keenly aware that water was always scarce in the inland plateaux, especially in the long dry season when the six months from May to October would see less than an inch of rainfall. 'I feel—er—pretty horrible.'

  Matt responded with a gallant, 'Pretty, yup: horrible, no. Sure you can shower. Middle door across the courtyard. Cold water, though, from a big tank in the roof. Oh, and don't forget your robe,' he teased. 'Ross is just along the way, and man, he misses nothin'! ... oh, an' when Big Poppa's truck pulls in, I'll surely tell him you've arrived safe 'n sound.'

  'Big Poppa?' Jenni was shocked by the young American's irreverence. 'Are you referring to Father Paul?'

  Matt grinned cheerfully, displaying teeth so even they might have been capped in Beverly Hills. 'Surely do. Ross the Boss. Father Paul, Big Poppa—or just Poppa for short.'

  'And I suppose you’ve already got one for me!'

  'Supper's at seven,’ said Matt, grinning at her round the door. ‘You'll hear the gong. Gotta fly, Tadpole, I'm on duty this evening.'

  Tadpole? Tadpole?? Jenni shook her head and sighed. Could be worse.

  She scanned her quarters - pretty much a convent cell complete with crucifix and narrow bed adorned with yards of bridal veiling to keep out the mozzies. She tested the mattress and winced. Heaven only knew what other horrible insects lurked in the nooks and crannies or underneath the drab matting which was obviously standard floor covering in the Mission.

  She must shower quickly! Prepare for seeing Paul again!

  Dungarees and strappy top were pulled off, rolled into a bundle and shoved in the cupboard to be dealt with another day.

  'Don't bother to unpack!' that unpleasant doctor had advised. With an audible sniff she delved into her suitcase and dumped two untidy armfuls on the cupboard shelves. There was no hanging space, but she could manage. As she rummaged for a couple of towels, her heart began to thud in anticipation. Paul, Paul, Paul—his name rang in her ears. Today seemed more agonising than the whole of the past seven years put together! What would Paul think of her now? So grown-up. Tamed by the hard work and discipline of the nursing profession. Older and wiser and much more discreet than that teenaged Jenni who wore her youthful adoring heart on her sleeve. Not that Paul had ever led her to think—! Oh no, he would never have done that! It was just his nature to be demonstrative and affectionate, like the big teasing brother the three sisters had never had. Such a kind and caring man. And handsome as a big-screen star.

  The mystery was that he should have stayed single for so long—evidence, Jenni was sure of it, how deeply Helen must have hurt him.

  Time was bound to have faded Paul's romantic memories of her beautiful sister? And he'd been truly fond of Jenni; if she hadn't been a mere sixth-former …

  Oh yes - the grownup Jenni was going to make it up to Paul for such unhappiness. He need never be lonely again.

  'I thought you'd grown out of all that, you daydreamer, you,' she teased herself, sliding over bare skin a silky black kimono splashed with peaches 'n cream roses, and belting it tight about her curvy waist. Shuffling size four feet into a pair of elderly espadrilles, she closed her door and ducking under the festoon of washing lines made for the washrooms across the open square.

  The showers looked like something out of the Ark. Gingerly Jenni pulled on the chain dangling from a metal lever projecting from the wall. A lethargic gush erupted at shoulder height and caught her slap in the chest, making her gasp involuntarily. She shoved her sticky head directly beneath the spray and shampooed away every trace of heat and dust. Soap ran into her screwed-up eyes, but she was heedless of its sting, sighing with pleasure as the water streamed through her hair and coursed refreshingly over her aching body. It was the first time she'd felt cool and clean since leaving London.

  At first she didn't realise that the outer door had been opened and that someone was shouting into the bathroom in a determined bid to attract her attention. Jenni switched off the water and peered round the edge of the flimsy shower curtain, pushing the wet hair back from her forehead to discover just who had had the cheek to invade her privacy.

  'Are you going to be all night?' enquired Dr McDonnell in the derisive tones she was coming to know and dislike.

  Oh-oh! Jenni's eyes flickered in irritation. Ross the Boss. Or rather, head, shoulder and an impatient hand holding the door sufficiently ajar to allow him to check out the washroom without actually entering.

  'I beg your pardon!' she countered in her haughtiest manner.

  'Might have guessed it would be you,' he said, unflatteringly emphasising the 'you'. 'There's half a dozen famished people queueing out here, and they've all done a day's work—if you wouldn't mind getting a move on.'

  A hand was groping blindly round the folds of transparent nylon shower curtain. There was a pink towel on the bench. 'This what you're looking for?'

  Jenni grabbed it. 'Go away! And shut the door behind you. Please.’

  Ross shrugged. 'You could have locked it,' he pointed out with cool logic as he left her to it.

  If there had been a queue—which she doubted—it had disappeared in the few minutes it took to towel dry. And in spite of his heckling, there was no sign of Ross McDonnell either.

  Now Jenni could hear the murmur of voices. Doors stood ajar and windows were flung open to air the stuffy little cabins. And there was the sound of people moving about in their rooms and a woman singing the Magnificat with total unselfconsciousness and a voice that soared like a bird.

  Jenni hurried down the passage to the laundry room where Matt had said she could plug in her hairdryer. And here she encountered the unlikely source of that rising soprano: a stout-bodied middle-aged woman, short wavy hair streaked with grey, singing happily as she ironed her star
ched uniform dresses.

  'Is it? It must be!' The iron was set down and Jenni's hands were grasped. 'Jennifer! Both cheeks were warmly embraced in spite of her dripping head which shed wet drops over the woman's neat white blouse. 'And here you are, dear, safe and sound, praise the Lord! and come to help us out in our hour of need.'

  This was more like it. Someone who was glad to see her. Just the sort of boost her flagging confidence needed. Jenni brightened visibly.

  'We've heard all about you and your darling family,' went on Sister Beatrice. She chuckled as Jenni's eyes registered the knee-length navy skirt and cool short-sleeved shirt. 'Look now, I shan't be offended if you call me Bea. Everyone does. I’m the nearest thing we’ve got to a Matron around here.’

  Jenni responded thankfully, omitting the embarrassing circumstances of her arrival and saying she'd had a good journey and was raring to start work. Whatever Dr McDonnell might care to imply, she thought with heated indignation, she was wanted here at the Mission. He'd surely not be able to get rid of her now. Perhaps the wretched man had been bluffing. But it didn't seem likely. He was so confident. So sure of himself. So much the dominant male.

  She plugged her hairdryer into the spare wall socket Bea indicated. She must get a move on. It was vital to see Paul before Ross McDonnell could air his prejudices against her.

  'What a pretty robe,' the nun was saying. 'Now that's what I miss most about home, the gardens and the roses!' She could have no idea how the warmth and kindness of her smile was reviving the tired girl finger-drying her damp coppery hair. Jenni gave her head a shake so that the shining curls tossed in a wild halo.

  'Gracious!' exclaimed Sister Bea, watching the transformation. The steam iron hissed and bubbled as she held it aloft and stared at the bright cloud of hair. 'Don't worry,' assured Jenni, misunderstanding, 'I will tidy myself up for work.' But tonight, she added silently, I want to look amazing. Paul hasn’t seen me for over seven years and I plan to knock his socks off.

  First impressions - huh! Ross hadn't been impressed by his first impression of Jenni Westcott, white with dehydration and grubby with dust. Not that she'd been over-impressed with him either: unshaven, sweatstained, grim-eyed.