Night Calypso by Lawrence Scott

It was damp with perspiration. The full veil fell from the crown of her head over her shoulders forming a tight cocoon. Her face peered out of a hole, as if cut in a sheet. Her skirts fell to below her ankles, just above her sandals and stockinged feet. Her arms were covered in full sleeves to her wrists. A scapular fell loose from her shoulders, over her flat chest and down her back. She was girdled with a leather belt and a black string of rosary beads, the Fifteen Mysteries, hung at her side. The sleeves were folded back from her wrists, to prepare the drugs on the counter. But, beneath these full sleeves, and cuffs, were other tighter sleeves and cuffs, buttoned down at her wrist. Her face and her hands were her only exposed skin. Her eyes were black. They shone.
    All of her presence came up into those two eyes, peering out of that face. Her skin was creamy, but cinnamon with the sun. Her cheeks were raddled, like rouge. She smiled. Her skin was pulled back by the tight veil. There was nothing to distract from her face, her eyes, except her hands which she wiped on a blue apron. She put her arms away, folding down her sleeves, hiding her hands. She lowered her head as Vincent stood at the bottom of the stairs staring at her. He noticed the slightest wisps of jet black hair escaping from beneath her taut veil near her temples.
    He had just recently attended to her as her doctor, lifting her skirts above her ankle. But now, suddenly, he was looking at her differently. Had it been the shared intensity of their earlier experience, finding those abandoned patients?
    The afternoon sunlight was a halo behind her. ‘Sister?’ he exclaimed. She was both holy-looking and ravishing.
    ‘Doctor?’
    She reached out and touched his hand. She had not done thatbefore. He saw that her eyes were full of tears. Something was the matter. They had not completed their chat about her father and her worries. He had not listened to the news that day. The BBC’s World Service was their life line. She was seeking reassurances. ‘I’m sorry, no news, not today, Sister.’
    She began again. ‘So far away. Yet, so close.’ She pressed her hands on her heart.
    ‘We must wait for letters.’
    ‘I think news will become even more difficult now than ever to get.’
    ‘We’ll see. My brother, Bernard, he’s over there. Somewhere in England. My mother has not heard much. We don’t know what will happen.’
    ‘Yes, I must not think just of myself.’
    ‘We’ve got our work. We’re lucky,’ he said reflectively.
    ‘Yes.’
    She held onto his left hand. He put his right one over hers. They stood alone in the clinic.
    The last couple of weeks had been too intense. He put it down to that.
    They both seemed shocked at the same time, as they looked around them, standing alone. ‘Here we are,’ Vincent said nervously. The realisation of what was afoot in the world was creeping closer, staggering them, as they stood together and looked out of the window and saw the fragile huts, the rusting galvanise roofs of the hospital and the stores down by the jetty. It was a strange encampment.
    There was the congregation of patients under the almond tree.
    A group of girls were skipping on the verandah. The two holding the rope had one leg each. One balanced herself on the bannister of the verandah, the other held onto the door. The girl who was skipping had no arms below her elbows. Her face was pure joy. She screamed with laughter.
    ‘There’s the new girl, Christiana. How pretty she is. How long will it last? You say she’s not got the disease.’ Sister Thérèse folded her arms away into her sleeves.
    Vincent watched the children playing. ‘We don’t know.’
    ‘I must return to Theo.’ Vincent interrupted their meditation. ‘Beatrice will want to be leaving.’
    ‘Theo, Lover of God. God has come to live with you, Doctor.’
    ‘Just a boy with a lot of needs.’
    Vincent headed for the jetty. He turned. Sister Thérèse was still standing