God's Children

by Mabli Roberts

  I knew why they had acted as they did. I understood.

  You would have struck them! If one of those responsible for such cruelty had stood before you at that moment, when you discovered the dead and the dying, the abandoned and the unloved, you would have struck them, and screamed at them, and condemned them for what they had done!

  My mission was not to apportion blame. Not to judge. My mission was to offer assistance.

  But someone was to blame. Someone had taken the decision to banish them. Someone had sent them out there to die a slow, lonely death. In the choking cold, among the towering, rough bark, with wolf noises, and bear smells, haunted by hunger, dogged by despair. Someone did that to them.

  What was done was done out of ignorance. Part of my work was to inform, to enlighten, where possible to remove fear.

  Were you afraid?

  Of the disease? No. I knew how to protect myself. But there were times on the journey when I knew what it was to be afraid. In those moments I would remind myself that I was in God’s care. He had a purpose for me. I put myself in His hands.

  And the Lepers put themselves in yours. That must have made you feel important. Powerful, even.

  They were in no position to refuse help if it were offered. They would have taken that help from anyone.

  The Russian-Turkish war had been causing misery for some time before I obtained my posting to serve as a nurse in the Bulgarian hinterland. I was young, and although eager and determined, I had not travelled, and so had no experience of the world beyond England and the hospitals there. So it was that I was thrown into the brutal truth of war. I saw at first hand its disregard for life. Its random cruelty. Its insatiable hunger for suffering.

  Along with my fellow sisters sent from the Deaconesses’ Institute at Twickenham, I went via Sistova to the distant location of Varin. My post there was initially at a military lazaretto, managing cases mainly of typhus. Indeed we sisters spent a deal of the time nursing each other, as two of my fellows fell to the disease, and another was in a poor state after having her face badly bitten by rats whilst she slept.

  However, such was the ferocity of the conflict that I was soon moved on to a field hospital. Here we nurses had to make do with what meagre supplies and facilities we were given with which to tend the soldiers. Their wounds were terrible, caused as they were by swinging blades, rifles and heavy artillery. Those who were not lost to the trauma of amputations and exsanguination from their injuries were often to succumb to the creeping death of gangrene only a few days later. Despite the horrors and the pitiful plight of the brave soldiers, I acquitted myself passably well, so that my superiors took note of my cool head and ability to act swiftly and without melodramatics. It was because of these talents – for which I take no personal credit, but accept them as God-given – that I was selected to go forward to help the fallen troops further out on the field of battle.

  It is an onslaught to all the senses to be amidst the fighting proper, though I was still sufficiently removed from the firing so as not to become a target myself. The big guns thundered, louder than the storming heavens, yet even so it was possible to hear the screams and cries of the men as they were blasted or cut. I moved quickly from one casualty to the next, applying rudimentary treatments to stem the flow of blood, to aid breathing, or simply to hold the hand of a dying boy. There was no time for anguish or sentiment of my own. I had work to do, and I thanked God for giving me the courage to do it.

  I recall being with Sister Janet, and that we moved beyond the main grouping of the stricken, checking on the periphery of the battlefield, to which many had crawled in an attempt to protect themselves from further injury, or perhaps to find a quieter place – where quiet is merely the absence of mortar fire – in order to find a more final and permanent peace. Our search took us to a small barn, long abandoned by any farmer. Sensing movement inside we went in, and what we found there was to shape the rest of my life.

  Two men crouched in fear of their lives, but it was not the war that would send them from this world. These were victims of leprosy, and the first that I had ever encountered. Their condition was so extreme and so shocking that I forgot for a moment the ghastliness of battle wounds, and was moved and horrified at the extent of their suffering. One of the men was so disfigured by the disease as to be scarcely recognisable as human. Both were in a state of weakness and despair, blind, sore-ridden, starving. One’s only reaction upon seeing them was to recoil, and even as I did so I was full of loathing for my selfishness. I knew then, in that moment so filled with death and decay, that these were the people in the world most needy and abandoned, whom I felt at once a powerful calling to assist with my whole being and my whole life. I had seen sufficient disease and suffering to know that there were many who could claim to be in as much agony and fear, but I knew that most of these existed within the reach of philanthropic Christian societies to which they could turn. Those afflicted with leprosy, I reasoned, suffered the dual curses of disease and banishment. They were outcast from their communities, their homes, their lives, and put beyond the boundary of such assistance as others might reasonably hope for. They were cut off from their fellow Christians, and yet they were indisputably Christ’s lepers. I then and there dedicated myself to finding lepers, wherever they might be on this earth, and devoting myself to helping them.

  When I turned to my medical training and the collected knowledge on the disease the words ‘No remedy – no relief!’ were all that could be found. How they came to haunt me! Time and again I wished that our Lord’s Healer were with us again so that he might utter the gentle command ‘Be thou clean.’

  Much later, I had the honour of going with my fellow sisters to St Petersburg to accept the award of the Russian Red Cross for my services during that war. I wore my medal with great pride, but beneath it, nearer my heart, I kept the memory of those first two lepers who had altered the direction of my own life so irrevocably.

  ‘Miss Marsden? The doctor is here to see you.’

  The nurse’s voice stirs me from my slumber. I am easily woken, though in truth these days the greater part of my waking hours have taken on the quality of a dream, so that at times it is hard to tell when I am asleep. Now I can see the smiling face of the young nurse who tends me with such care. I see a little of myself in her eager, gentle features. But that was me a long, long time ago. That person of vigour and purpose has been replaced by another whose body now struggles to move at all.

  ‘Let’s have you sitting up, shall we?’ the nurse suggests, slipping her arm around my shoulders and adjusting my pillows.

  At the foot of my bed stands a tall man in a dark suit. His face is not familiar to me. I think he is new here. I forget names, but not faces. This one has an abundant moustache and bright blue eyes.

  ‘And how do we find you this morning, Miss Marsden?’ he asks, glancing down to consult the notes that are in his hand. ‘Are you sleeping well?’ He turns to the nurse, unwilling or unable to wait for me to speak for myself. ‘Is sleeping causing any difficulties?’ he asks her. ‘We can increase the night-time medication…’

  ‘I sleep well enough,’ I manage to tell him. He looks at me with mild surprise, as if it is a novelty to be spoken to by a patient. Indeed he regards me with such a curious stare that I wonder if my words came out as I intended. Had they instead been delivered as a jumble? I try again. ‘I sleep well enough, Doctor. Thank you for your concern.’

  ‘Excellent! And the pain remains manageable?’

  ‘Quite so.’

  He nods and then adopts an expression of particularly earnest concern. ‘And how are you in yourself?’

  Such an irritating line of questioning. I am not so addled as to be unaware of its meaning. With difficulty I shift to sit a little more upright. ‘This hospital is no longer an asylum for lunatics…’

  ‘For such patients we now prefer the term “feeble minded”.’

  ‘But you treat them just the same. I assure you, Doctor, while my fra
me may be feeble, I am of sound mind.’ I meet his gaze. ‘Whatever you might have heard to the contrary.’

  The nurse smiles at me but addresses the doctor. ‘Miss Marsden’s wits are perfectly sharp,’ she tells him. ‘She is even setting her thoughts down in a book.’

  ‘Really? Is that so?’ Now he is intrigued. ‘I understand you already have several writing credits to your name.’

  ‘All written a very long time ago,’ I say. ‘And some things…are missing. There are things yet to be said. And to be put right.’ Suddenly I feel the weight of the past settle upon my shoulders once again.

  The young nurse is sensitive to the smallest alterations in her charges and squeezes my hand. ‘Miss Marsden tires easily,’ she explains.

  ‘We shall leave you to rest,’ the doctor announces, and waves cheerily as he moves away from the bed. Even now he is studying the next set of notes, his mind racing on to the next case, my own details dismissed as uninteresting.

  ‘But how are we to live, Kate?’ My mother put the question baldly, and not for the first time.

  ‘Mama, do not concern yourself…’

  She flapped a hand at me in irritation. ‘Do not treat me as though I were a fool. Old I may be, but I am perfectly able to discuss the matter of money, and discuss it we must. You are too fond of wait-and-see, Kate. Too ready to look away from the problem.’

  ‘Truly, Mama, there is no problem. I have my work at the hospital. My job there is secure.’

  ‘We cannot live on the wages of a nurse.’

  ‘I am Superintendent, the most senior position a nurse can hold…’

  ‘Senior, not senior, what does it matter? A nurse’s income, of whatever variety, is not sufficient. There are bills to be paid, Kate, this house must be kept up, the maid paid, and the cook, the roof repaired… We have neither of us so much as visited a dressmaker since we arrived in Wellington.’

  ‘I have more than enough dresses, Mama, and those you have are still quite presentable.’

  ‘I have patched and mended until there is more patching and mending than there is dress!’ She raised her hands and then let them fall in exasperation. ‘It is all very well for you, Kate. You have your work at the hospital. You are occupied. I am in a city where I know no one. How am I to establish us here, how am I to find a place for us in society if we have not the funds to accept an invitation, much less entertain?’

  ‘I have no interest in society, Mama.’

  ‘Well it would be to our benefit were you to develop one. A good marriage is your best hope of financial security, there is no point pretending otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, Mama, please.’

  ‘Why, Kate? Why must you so set yourself against the idea of becoming a wife? I simply do not understand it.’

  ‘I am very busy at the hospital.’

  ‘Nonsense, it has always been the same. I believe you chose nursing specifically to avoid marriage.’

  ‘Nursing is my vocation.’

  ‘And a vocation is a luxury we can ill afford. After your father died, God rest his soul, I gave my all to raise you and your brothers and sisters. It was no easy task on such little money as we had.’

  ‘I know, Mama, and I am grateful.’

  ‘Well you don’t seem it. It would be better for both of us if that gratitude manifested itself in a desire to find a husband.’

  I sighed. Money and marriage. Two sticks with which my mother beat me with wearisome frequency. On the subject of marriage I would not be swayed. Could not be. It was not difficult to sidestep the matter, as Wellington was a small city, with an even smaller supply of eligible bachelors, and few of those had any wish to marry me. Why should they? Our lack of money was harder to ignore. Mother was right, we were living beyond our means, and something would have to be done about it.

  The black bread, the foundation of our rations, had turned to dry stone. It crumbled to a powder, to which was added sour milk and water. This grey mixture was stirred over the flames of the fire until it resembled a blackish gruel, which we ate hungrily.

  The first time I found myself alone with Rose came about purely by chance. It was the end of a long, hot April, and a picnic had been planned for the nurses under my care. This one day holiday had been eagerly anticipated by the young women, and I had permitted them to organise the outing of their choice. A great deal of preparation had gone into the little event. We had obtained permission to have use of the carriage and pair belonging to Dr Richardson, who was, at that time, away on sabbatical in Auckland. There were to be the four of us, and we were to do without a driver to spare the horses and allow more space in the little carriage. Two days before the holiday, however, Nurse Wilson had succumbed to a heavy head cold, and the night before the date Nurse Carlisle caught it too. I suggested we postpone the picnic, but both poorly girls were adamant we should not miss our treat, and so on a bright Monday morning Rose took the reins and we drove out of the city and headed for the green hills to the west.

  It was a joy to leave the bustle of the noisy, dirty streets behind, and to shake off the cares of work, if only for a few hours. Rose proved to be a competent horsewoman, a skill she had learned on her family farm, she told me. What was she thinking, I wondered, as we drove deeper into the verdant countryside? Were the thoughts that dwelt unspoken in her mind as anxious and breathless as my own? I was always a confident woman, a person who could present herself well, without concern, and felt myself capable of responding sensibly and correctly to any situation that might arise. But in Rose’s company I was given to nervousness. When we worked together there at least existed the protective distance of our stations, our positions as junior nurse and her superior. Protocol and professionalism, the needs of our patients and the requirements of our employment guided and constrained us. In that little carriage, however, wearing our holiday clothes, removed from the context of the hospital, I felt our roles reversed: she was the capable, calm person, while I was the timid creature.

  It took two hours of driving before we turned off the narrow road that wound beyond the small farm belonging to one of the orderlies’ parents. The track took us past pretty meadows and woodlands and then to a small, secluded area of pasture beside a river. Rose had visited the place before, and grinned at me, enjoying my obvious delight.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she asked, persuading the horses to a halt.

  ‘Yes, quite lovely,’ I agreed solemnly, finding that I did not wish to reveal precisely how happy I was to be in such a place with her.

  Rose laughed loudly. ‘Come on,’ she said, jumping down lightly from the driver’s seat, ‘let’s set the horses to grazing and then we can eat. I’m famished.’

  She was at ease with the animals and quickly had them out of their harness and turned loose onto the lush grass. I spread the blanket beneath the shade of a chestnut tree on a patch of ground close to the water’s edge, though slightly raised from it. It was the perfect spot on which to sit and gaze at the sparkling river. I lifted the hamper from the cart and began setting out the cloth, plates, and food. Rose sat beside me, giving a small squeal of delight at the sight of the feast.

  ‘All this for us? Poor Phyllis, poor Suzette.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have left some more of the food behind.’

  ‘Nonsense, they didn’t want our day to be ruined too. Ooh, look at that chicken pie! I swear I could eat the whole thing.’

  She was always a creature of appetites and of impulsive behaviour. Without a hint of self-consciousness she cut herself an enormous slice of pie and began eating it, the crumbs falling where they would. ‘Mmm! That’s delicious. You must try some. Here.’

  Before I had a chance to protest she held the pie to my lips and I found myself biting into it.

  ‘Isn’t it good?’ she asked.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I agreed, nodding.

  ‘This was such a splendid idea. I am not going to think about the hospital, not about bandages or bedpans or beds or anything, not for one second today. And ne
ither must you, do you promise?’

  ‘I had not thought to…’

  ‘Oh go on, Sister Marsden, promise.’

  She cocked her head, waiting for my reply.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Excellent. But then, I can’t call you Sister and you can’t call me Nurse, else the whole thing will be spoiled. So, what shall I call you?’

  ‘Well, my name is Kate, but I’m not sure…’

  ‘Just for today. Oh please. The second we arrive back in Wellington I shall be yes Sister, no Sister, just as before. But for today, while we are here, may I call you Kate?’

  The pleasure I felt at hearing her say my name shocked me. Had I distanced myself from such simple friendship so very much? ‘Yes,’ I said at last, ‘if you wish. You may call me Kate. Just here. Just today.’

  She beamed at me and began tugging at the laces of her boots. ‘And you must call me Rose. I know my proper name is Rosamund, but nobody actually calls me that. Come on, it’s so hot and that water looks divinely cool. I simply have to paddle, and I can’t do it on my own with you sitting here on your own. Come along!’