This was not what Sylvia had expected to be listening to. She did not care much about the Pope, though as a Catholic she knew she should, and she had never found the language of extreme feminism matched up with her experience. Sister Molly drove very fast over at first good roads, then increasingly bad ones until an hour or so later the car stopped at a group of buildings which it seemed was a farm. There Molly unloaded Sylvia and her cases, saying, 'I'll leave you here. And don't you let Kevin McGuire push you around. He's a sweetie, I'm not saying he isn't, but all those old-fashioned priests are the same. ' She jolted off, waving at Sylvia and anyone else who might be looking.
Sylvia found herself invited in to morning tea by Edna Pyne, whose voice, all unfamiliar vowels, had above all a tang of self-pity that Sylvia knew only too well. And the elderly face was dissatisfied. Cedric Pyne had long, burned legs in the shortest shorts she had ever seen, and his eyes, like his wife's, were blue, and reddened. There was such a glare round the verandah where they sat that Sylvia kept her eyes on this couple, avoiding the harsh yellow light, and really saw nothing on this first visit but them. It was clear that dropping off people and things at the Pynes' place was part of a regular trafficking, for when they were again in a car, this time a jeep, there were bundles of newspapers, letters for Father McGuire, and two black youths, one of whom Sylvia saw at once was very sick. ‘I’m going to the hospital,’ said the sick one and Sylvia said, ' So am I. ' The two were in the back and she was with Cedric who drove, like Sister Molly, as if for a bet. They jolted over a dirt road for ten miles or so, and were then in dusty trees, and ahead was a low building, roofed with corrugated metal, and beyond that on a ridge were more buildings scattered about among more dusty trees.
' Tell Kevin I can't wait,’ said Cedric Pyne. ' Come and visit any time. ‘And with that he was off, leaving dust clouds drifting. Sylvia's head ached. She was thinking that she had scarcely left London in her life, and this had seemed to her until now quite a normal thing, instead of the deprivation that she now suspected it was. The two black youths went off to the hospital, and said, 'See you by and by.’Which sounded relaxed enough but the sick one's face was a plea for immediacy.
Sylvia went on to a tiny verandah, of polished green cement, with her cases. Then into a smallish room that had in it a table made of stained planks, chairs seated with strips of hide, shelves of books filling all one wall, and some pictures, all but one of Jesus, that one being a misty sunset view of the Mountains of Mourne.
A thin little black woman appeared, all welcoming smiles, said she was Rebecca, and that she would show Sylvia her room.
Her room, off the main one, was large enough for a narrow iron bed, a small table, a couple of hard chairs, and some wall shelves for books. There were nails and hangers on the walls for her clothes. A little chest of drawers, of the kind that once hotels all had, had washed up here. Above her bed was a small crucifix. The walls were of brick, the floors of brick, and the ceiling of split cane. Rebecca said she would bring tea, and went off. Sylvia sank on to a chair, in the grip of a feeling she did not know how to identify. Yes, new impressions: yes, she had expected them, had known she would feel alien, out of place. But what was this? – waves of bitter emptiness attacked her, and when she looked at the crucifix, to get her bearings, felt only that Christ Himself must be surprised to find Himself there. But surely she – Sylvia – was not surprised to find Christ in a place of such poverty? What was it then? Outside doves cooed, and chickens kept up their talk. I'm just a spoiled brat, Sylvia told herself – the word surfacing from somewhere deep in her childhood. Westminster Cathedral – yes; a brick shack, apparently, no. Dust was blowing past the window. Judging from her outside view of it, this house could not have more than three or four rooms. Where was Father McGuire's room? Where did Rebecca sleep? She could make no sense of anything, and when Rebecca brought the tea, Sylvia said she had a headache, and would lie down.
‘Yes, doctor, you lie down, and you'll be better soon,’ said
Rebecca, her cheerfulness recognisable as Christian: the children of God smile and are ready for anything. (Like Flower Children.) Rebecca was drawing the curtains, of black and white mattress ticking, which Sylvia suspected would be found the last word in chic in certain circles in London. 'I'll call you for lunch.'
Lunch. Sylvia felt that it must be already evening, the day had been going on for so long. It was only just eleven.
She lay, her hand over her eyes, saw the light define her thin fingers, fell asleep, and was woken by Rebecca half an hour later with more tea and an apology from Father McGuire who said he was detained at the school, and would see her for lunch, and he suggested she should take it easy till tomorrow.
This counsel having been transmitted, Rebecca remarked that the patient from the Pyne farm was waiting to see the doctor, and there were other people waiting, and perhaps the doctor could... Sylvia was putting on a white overall, which action Rebeccca seemed merely to be observing, but in a way that made Sylvia ask, ‘What should I wear, then?' Rebecca at once said that the overall wouldn't stay white long and perhaps the doctor had an old dress she could wear.
Sylvia did not wear dresses. She had on her oldest jeans, for travelling. She tied her hair back in a scarf, which made her like Rebecca, in her kerchief. She went down a path indicated by Rebecca, who retired to her kitchen. Along the dusty path grew hibiscus, oleander, plumbago, all dusty, but looking as if they were in their own right places, in dry heat and under a sun in a sky that had not a cloud in it. The path turned down a rocky slope and in front of her were some grass roofs on supporting poles stuck in reddish earth, and a shed, whose door was half open. A hen emerged from it. Other chickens lay on their sides under bushes, panting, their beaks open. The two youths that had been in the back seat of the car sat under a big tree. One got up, and said, ‘My friend is sick. He is too sick. '
So Sylvia could see. ‘Where is the hospital?'
' Here is the hospital. '
Now Sylvia took in that lying around under trees, or bushes, or under the grass shelters, were people. Some were cripples.
'A long time, no doctor,' said the youth. 'And now we have a doctor again.'
‘What happened to the doctor?'
' He was drinking too-too much. And so Father McGuire said he must go. And so we are waiting for you, doctor. '
Sylvia now looked about for where her instruments, medicines – the tools of her trade – might be, and went to the shed. Sure enough, were three layers of shelves, and on them a very large bottle of aspirin – empty. Several bottles of tablets for malaria – empty. A big tub of ointment – unnamed and empty. A stethoscope hung on a nail on the back of the door. It wasn't working. The friend of the sick youth stood by her, smiling. 'All the medicines are finished,' he said.
‘What's your name?'
'Aaron.'
' Aren't you from the Pynes' farm?'
‘No, I live here. I went to be with my friend when we knew a car was coming. '
‘How did you get there, then?'
‘I walked. '
‘But – it's quite a way, isn't it?'
‘No, not too far. '
She went back with him to the sick youth, who had been limp and lifeless but was now shaking violently. She didn't need a stethoscope to diagnose that. ' Has he been taking any medicine? – it's malaria,’ she said.
'Yes, he had some medicine, from Mr Pyne, but it is finished now. '
' For one thing, he should be drinking. '
In the shed she found three big plastic screw-top cans with water, but it smelled a bit stale. She told Aaron to take some water to the sick one. But there was not a cup, or mug, or glass – nothing.