Green City in the Sun (30 page)

     Grace took a baby from its mother and proceeded to treat a burn on its leg. "I discovered that these people think all colorless liquids are water and that therefore, they won't work. Once I added dyes, they were convinced of the power in them. It is also the same if a medicine is bitter-tasting; they trust it more. In that respect the African is no different from the Englishman who goes to a Harley Street doctor."

     "Dr. Treverton, are you able to take care of
all
the ailments that are presented to you?"

     "Many of them. I rely rather heavily on 'Vaseline on the outside, quinine on the inside.' It gets me through most cases. The rest I send to the Catholic hospital."

     At this all five exchanged a look. Mr. Sanky said, "Could you spare some time for us now, Dr. Treverton?"

     "Certainly." She gave the bandaged baby back to its mother, warning her to watch him around the cook fire and knowing the warning would go unheeded; then she washed her hands and told Mario to keep an eye on those still waiting and guard against theft.

     "These people steal from you, Dr. Treverton?" Mrs. Sanky asked as they walked down the path to the river. The group had requested a visit to the nearby village.

     "Yes, they do."

     "They seem to have no morals."

     "On the contrary, the Kikuyu are a highly moral people with their own rigid set of laws and punishments. They just don't happen to think it's wrong to steal from the white man."

     Mr. Sanky, walking beside Grace, said, "So far, in your treatment of these people, we've observed lies, trickery, and superstition—on
your
part, Doctor."

     "It's the only way to communicate with them. They wouldn't understand otherwise."

     "Who lives there?" asked Ida Sanky. She was pointing to the lone hut at the edge of Valentine's polo field.

     "It belongs to a local healer named Wachera."

     "I thought witch doctors had finally been outlawed."

     "They have been. Wachera would be fined or imprisoned if she were caught practicing tribal medicine. The people go to her in secret."

     "If you're aware of such secret practices, Dr. Treverton, I trust you have told the authorities."

     Grace stopped at the riverbank where the wooden footbridge, built by Valentine, led across to the village. "I have, Mr. Sanky. Believe me. I have been trying to put a stop to what that woman is doing. She is my biggest obstacle in my fight to educate the Africans."

     "Can't you talk to her? Reason with her?"

     "Wachera will have nothing to do with me."

     "Surely the woman sees that our ways are better!"

     "On the contrary. Wachera is waiting for the British to pack up and clear out of Kenya."

     "I have been doing some reading," said a young man in the group. "Is it true that the wives sleep with their husbands' friends?"

     "It's a very old tribal custom that is deeply rooted in their complex age-group systems. And it is done openly, at the wife's discretion and with the husband's approval."

     "Fornication, in other words."

     Grace turned to the clergyman. "No, not fornication. The sexual mores of the Kikuyu are different from ours. For instance, they have no word in their language for rape. Their sexual attitudes might seem promiscuous to us, but they do have very strict taboos—"

     "Dr. Treverton," said Mr. Sanky, "your fondness for these people is obvious to us, and we are not insensitive to what you are trying to accomplish here. However, our feeling is that you are going about it the wrong way."

     "How so?"

     "Back there, when you treated those patients, you never once spoke of the Lord, you never explained that your power came from Him, you didn't try to bring any of those people to Jesus, although you had ample opportunity."

     "I'm not a preacher, Mr. Sanky."

     "Precisely, and that is your main problem. You have neglected their spiritual needs, and so the Africans continue their evil practices. There is the
operation, for example, wherein young girls are surgically mutilated. What have you done, Dr. Treverton, toward the missions' efforts here in Kenya to get that practice abolished?"

     "In order to treat the illnesses of these people, Mr. Sanky, I must have their trust and friendship. If I start preaching to them and condemning their tribal traditions, they will stay away from my clinic. The Catholic mission has lost a lot of its African members because the priests cut down sacred fig trees."

     "Surely you don't condone the worship of trees."

     "I don't, but—"

     "You see, Dr. Treverton," said an elderly member of the group, "the primary purpose for a medical mission here is an evangelistic one. We wanted a clinic here not to heal their bodies but to bring these people to Jesus."

     "I've told you that I'm not a preacher."

     "Then you need one."

     "By all means send me a preacher," she said. "But send me also nurses and dressers!"

     "You seem to be doing well enough on your own, Doctor," said Mrs. Sanky. "Why do you need so many assistants?"

     "To teach the Africans self-help."

     "Self-help?" said the clergyman.

     Grace spoke quickly and earnestly. "My real goal is to train the Africans to take care of themselves. If I could just have a team in the village, someone to show the Kikuyu healthier ways to live, then my patient roll would drop dramatically. And if I could teach other Kikuyu the way I have taught Mario in basic first aid and treatment—"

     "You're speaking of autonomy for these people."

     "Yes, I am."

     "Then how would they be brought to Jesus? If the Africans were able to get on for themselves, they would see no reason to come to Christian doctors, and therefore, evangelizing would be impossible."

     Grace stared at the five, who looked out of place in their tightly buttoned jackets and neckties, the two women in corsets. They looked as if they were ready for an afternoon at Wimbledon instead of a trek through the African bush. Jeremy came suddenly to her mind. Grace now recalled a
conversation she had had with him one night as they were walking on the deck. "The first thing we shall build, darling, is a house for inpatients," he had said. "Outpatients are difficult to hold on to, but patients in bed are a captive audience and so much more receptive to spiritual teaching."

     It was strange. She had never really thought about it before, Jeremy's emphasis on the proselytizing aspect of their mission. And the more she considered it now, the more she could see Jeremy standing in this group.

     She thought of the money this delegation represented, the monthly contribution from the Mission Society in Suffolk. They were her last resort, these five who were clearly not pleased with her methods. She would not go to Valentine for help, not with Miranda West walking around Nairobi in maternity clothes and all East Africa whispering about whose baby it was. Grace had no intention of being supported by her brother the same way he supported his mistress.

     "I will gladly accept a preacher, Mr. Sanky," she said quietly. "His help would be most welcome."

     The clergyman smiled. "We are sympathetic with what you have been going through here, Doctor. It certainly cannot have been easy for you. And since you have been so cut off for the past year and a half, it is not surprising that the course of your work went astray. I have a man in mind; he's doing work right now in Uganda. The Reverend Thomas Masters. He'll do the ticket. Get your people to build him a house right away, as I shall send him out on the next train."

     "Will he bring medical personnel with him?"

     "Mr. Masters will want to assess the medical need first."

     "Shouldn't I be the one to make that assessment?"

     "Mr. Masters will be in charge of your mission from now on, Doctor. All decisions will rest with him."

     Grace looked at Mr. Sanky. "In charge! But... this is
my
mission."

     "Built with
our
money, Doctor. It is time we took a hand in its supervision." Mr. Sanky looked around at the wild river, the untamed forest, the tops of thatched huts through the trees, and saw a land ripe for the likes of the Reverend Thomas Masters—a stern and forbidding man of unshakable righteousness who had put Satan on the run in four African countries.

T
HE RAINS HAD STOPPED THREE DAYS BEFORE, AND
N
AIROBI
seemed to have sprouted colors overnight. As Miranda West walked down the street toward the King Edward Hotel, she passed walls matted with scarlet, orange, and pink bougainvillaea, private gardens crowded with newly blossomed geraniums, carnations, and fuchsias. The trees that lined Nairobi's muddy streets were arrayed in red Nandi blossoms, lavender jacaranda buds, white bottlebrushes. It was Christmas, and the world, fed by the short November rains, was shouting life and new growth. Miranda West's ample body, as she walked along, waving cheerily to people, was also a celebration of birth. She was six months pregnant and showing every day of it.

     Once at the hotel, she stopped in the kitchen to pick up a tray of soup and sandwiches, then went up to her apartment, where she removed the pillow from under her smock and laid it aside. After putting on a dressing gown and making sure she was not seen, she climbed a private stairway to the attic.

     Peony was sitting on the bed, reading a magazine.

     "How are we today?" Miranda asked as she set the tray down.

     The room had been done in flowered wallpaper, carpet, curtains, and such furnishings and extras—books, gramophone, rocking chair—as Peony had requested. It was as comfortable as Miranda could make it; but there was no disguising the fact that it was a jail, and Peony was beginning to chafe at it.

     "Christmas in two days," she said, "and here's me missing out on everything."

     "You won't miss out. I shall bring you some goose and Christmas pudding. And I've got a present for you."

     Peony looked over the tray of sandwiches and said, "What? Ham paste again?"

     "My customers pay a lot of money for my ham paste."

     "I'd sooner have a jam buttie."

     Miranda curbed her irritation. She knew it wasn't easy for the girl to stay cooped up for twenty-four hours, seeing no one but Miranda. But it would be worth it, as she reminded Peony now. "Only three more months, my girl, and you'll be on your way back to England with money in your pocket."

     Peony looked fretful. "You sure those people are going to go through with it? The ones who are going to adopt the baby?"

     "I promise."

     "How come they ain't never come to see me? I should think they'd want to look the mother over."

     "I told you, they wish their identity to remain a secret."

     "Well, as long as they keep to their end of the bargain."

     Miranda sat on the edge of the bed and patted the girl's hand.

     "You've nothing to worry about. As soon as I take the baby to them, you'll get your boat ticket back to England."

     
"And
the five hundred pounds?"

     "In cash. Now then, shall we see how we're doing tonight?"

     As Peony slid down in the bed so that she was lying flat, she said, "Why do you always say 'we'?"

     "It's what nurses say, isn't it? And aren't I your nurse?"

     Peony gave her a suspicious look. "You
are
going to get a proper doctor to deliver it, aren't you?"

     "I've already told you that. The couple have got one in mind. I'll send for him the minute your labor starts. Now, tell me how you feel."

     It was the same every day: Miranda would come in, measure Peony's abdomen, feel all around it, and ask questions such as "Have you a good appetite? Do you have any aches or pains? What does the baby
feel
like?" Out came the tape measure now, and Miranda saw that she was going to have to let out her pillow again.

     "No more morning sickness?"

     "Not for five days. I guess that's passed."

     Peony had been wretchedly ill the first few months, bent over a basin, unable to keep anything down. So Miranda had refused breakfast and lunch for those weeks and had complained to anyone who would listen that she was having morning sickness.

     "But my back aches now," Peony said.

     "Where?"

     "Here. And I'm forever running to the toilet!"

     Miranda smiled. She would remember that. "Are you sleeping all right?"

     "Well enough. Can you get hold of any fish? I'm sure craving fish."

     "What kind?"

     Peony shrugged. "Just fish. Expecting a baby sure makes you crave funny things—I
hate
fish!"

     Miranda rose from the bed and said, "You shall have the best fish money can buy. Is there anything else?"

     "I'd like a magazine that's not six months old!"

     "Now you're asking for a miracle. But I'll see what I can do."