The Sweetest Dream (62 page)

He was craning his head over and around the heads in front
of him; he wanted to catch the eye of the Leader when he came
in, who, while he was renowned throughout the world as a man
of the people, gave his Ministers little chance to see him. At the
rare cabinet meetings he appeared, made his views known and
departed: not a comradely man, the Comrade Leader. The Under
Minister had been for some time wanting an opportunity to discuss
certain things with the Boss, hoped for even a few words tonight.
Besides, he was secretly in love with the fascinating Gloria. Who
was not? This big exuberant irrepressible sexy woman with her
face like an invitation . . . where was she? Where were they, the
Comrade President and the Mother of the Nation?

‘I wonder if you know anything about a hospital in Kwadere?'
Rose was saying–was repeating, for he had not heard her the
first time. Now this was a solecism indeed. In the first place, at
his level he could not be expected to know about individual
hospitals, and then this was an official reception, it was not the
place or the time. But as it happened he did know about Kwadere.
The files had been on his desk that day, three hospitals, begun
but not finished, because the funds had been–not to mince words–stolen. (No one could regret more than he did that these things
happened, but then, one had to expect mistakes.) For two of the
hospitals, angry and by now cynical donors had put forward a
plan that if they, the original benefactors, raised half the necessary
sums, then the government would have to match them.
Otherwise, too bad, no go, goodbye hospitals. In Kwadere the original
donor had sent a delegation out to the derelict hospital and then
said, no, they did not propose to fund it. The trouble was, that
hospital was badly needed. The government simply did not have
the money. There was a sort of hospital, at St Luke's Mission,
with a doctor, but a report had not been encouraging. The fact
was it was embarrassing, that hospital, so poor and so backward:
Zimlia expected better. And then there had been a report from
the Security Services, saying the doctor's name was on a list of
possible South African agents. Her father was a well-known
communist, hand in glove with the Russians. Zimlia did not like
the Russians, who had cold-shouldered Comrade Matthew when
he was fighting–or rather, his troops were–in the bush. It was
the Chinese that had supported Comrade Matthew. And here was
the Chinese Ambassador now, with his wife, a tiny slice of a
woman, both smiling away and shaking hands. He must move
forward fast now, because where the Chinese Ambassador was,
then that is where the Leader would be.

‘You must excuse me,' he said to Rose.

‘Please may I come and see you–perhaps in your office?'

‘And what for, may I ask?'–said rudely enough.

Rose improvised: ‘The doctor at the Kwadere hospital is–well, she is a cousin of mine and I heard that . . .'

‘You heard right. Your cousin should be more careful with
the company she keeps. I have it on reliable authority that she is
working for–well, it doesn't matter who.'

‘And–please, wait a minute, what is this about her stealing
equipment from . . .'

He had heard nothing about this, and was annoyed with his
advisers that he had not. The whole business was irritating, and
he did not want to think about it. He had no idea how to solve
the problem of the Kwadere hospital.

‘What is this?' he said, turning to speak as he edged away into
the crowd. ‘If this is true then she will be punished, I can assure
you, and I am sorry to hear she is related to you.'

And he went to where the lovely Gloria had appeared, in
scarlet chiffon and a diamond necklace. Where was the Leader?
But it appeared he was not coming, his wife was doing the
honours.

Rose quietly left and went to a café that was always full of
gossip and news. There she reported on the formal reception, on
the Leader's absence, on the Mother of the Nation's red chiffon
and diamonds, and the Under Minister's remarks about the
Kwadere hospital. There was a Nigerian official, a woman, in
Senga for the conference on the Wealth of Nations. Told about
the spy at Kwadere, this woman said she had heard nothing but
spies, spies, since she had arrived in Zimlia, and speaking from
her experience in her own country, spies and wars were useful
when things weren't going well with an economy. This provoked
animated discussion, and soon everyone in the café was involved.
One man, a journalist, had been arrested as a spy, but let go.
Others knew people who were suspected of being agents and . . .
Rose realised that now they would talk about South African agents
all evening, and she slipped out and went to a little restaurant
around the corner. Two men who had followed her from the
café, though she had not noticed them, asked if she minded sharing
her table: the place was full. Rose was hungry, a bit tight, and she
rather liked these two men whom she found impressive in a
hard-to-define way. Probably anyone in Zimlia would have seen
at a glance that they were secret police, but to use that so useful
formula, it has been so long since Britain was invaded that its
citizens have a certain innocence. Rose was actually thinking that
she must be looking attractive tonight. In most countries in the
world, that is to say, those with an energetic secret service, it
would have been instantly evident that with such men one should
keep one's mouth shut. As for them, they wanted to find out
about her; why had she left the café so precipitously when they
started talking about spies?

‘I wonder if you know anything about the mission hospital at
Kwadere?' she chattered. ‘I have a cousin working there, a doctor.
I've just been speaking to the Under Minister for Health and he
told me she is suspected of being a spy.'

The two men exchanged looks. They knew about the doctor
at Kwadere, because they had her name on their list. They had
not taken it particularly seriously. For one thing, what harm could
she possibly do, stuck out there in the sticks? But if the Under
Minister himself . . .

These two had not long been in the Service. They had got
jobs because they were relatives of the Minister. They were not
from pre-Liberation days. Most new States, even though enjoying
a complete change of government, keep the Secret Service of the
previous government, partly because they are impressed by the
range and extent of the knowledge of these people who have so
recently spied on them, and partly because a good few have secrets
they do not want revealed. These men still had to make names
for themselves, and needed to impress superiors.

‘Has Zimlia ever had to expel someone for being an agent?'
enquired Rose.

‘Oh, yes, many times.'

This was not true, but it made them feel important, belonging
to such stern and efficient service.

‘Oh, really?' said Rose excitedly, scenting a story.

‘One was called Matabele Smith.' The other amended, ‘Matabele Bosman Smith.'

One evening, in the café Rose had just left, some journalists
had joked about the spy rumours, and had invented a spy with a
name that embodied as many unpleasant characteristics–to the
present government's mind–as they could. (They had vetoed
Whitesmith, on the analogy of Blacksmith.) This character was a
South African frequently in Zimlia on business, and he had tried
to blow up the coal mines at Hwange, Government House, the
new sports stadium, and the airport. He had entertained the café
for a few evenings, but they lost interest. Meanwhile he had
reached the police files. In the café the name Matabele Bosman
Smith became shorthand for the spy mania and the agents who
frequented the place were hearing the name but could never
actually find out more.

‘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 café.

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
Zebedee, would hear the people read, and correct their writing
exercises.