The Christmas Surprise (12 page)

‘And that. Can’t live without eyelash extensions, that kind of thing.’

‘Well you always knew how high-maintenance I was.’

She looked up. One star was glittering more brightly than the rest. ‘It’s beautiful here. And I’m getting in the mood to think about our wedding again. Can’t you propose to me? Just one more time.’

‘No! I did it already! And my knee isn’t up to it.’

‘It’s so dry and warm here,’ said Rosie. ‘Ideal conditions, I’d have said.’

‘You’ve got a big insect bite on your face.’

‘So you DO want to take it back?’

Rosie was pretending to take her ring off, and Stephen was observing that she couldn’t seem to get it over her finger and had she started putting loads of weight on already, and was he too going to let himself go and grow man-boobs, when Faustine appeared with two plates of food.

‘I got them to make it specially,’ she said, watching unsmilingly as they horsed around. They followed her to an outside table. Two men sitting there shook Stephen’s hand but looked at Rosie suspiciously. She fiddled again with her ring, then sat down.

The food wasn’t at all bad: grain, tomatoes and stringy chicken.

‘You got meat?’ said Stephen cheerfully. ‘You’re good.’

‘You’re paying for it,’ said Faustine.

Once they had eaten, Rosie began to feel incredibly sleepy. They had had a very long day.

The wigwam-shaped building with bunks round the walls was cooled by a wheezing, anaemic fan, though Rosie was so exhausted she hardly noticed it. She did what she could in the toilet area, which was not much, brushed her teeth, kissed Stephen good night – he was sitting outside by the campfire, drinking some kind of tea and speaking in French again – and fell asleep in minutes, listening to the scuffling noises of animals, the
quiet murmur of voices and the buzz of the mosquitoes in the room (she was under a net Stephen had bought her, and she thought fuzzily that she might just wear it all the time). The glimpse of the bright stars through the little hole at the top of the wigwam was the final thing she registered before dropping off into a surprisingly deep sleep.

Rosie woke, hot, thirsty and disorientated, with bright sunlight heating up the structure from outside. There was no one in there with her, but the other bunks had been slept in. She got up, stretching and cursing her hair, which had now frizzed out about a metre either side of her head. She thought of the chic scarf tying back
Faustine’s hair. She needed one of those.

Outside she smelled coffee and headed towards it cheerfully. Faustine was busying herself over the campfire with a coffee pot whilst their driver cooked some eggs.

‘Hey!’ said Stephen. ‘Hello, sleepyhead! Now this is why you want to be with the Frenchiest aid organisations. They care about their coffee.’

He handed her a cup, loading it with sugar even though she didn’t normally take the stuff. It was dark, strong and delicious. Rosie blinked in the bright sunlight, looking at the pale, barren landscape.

‘It is better when you get up earlier and you do not miss the cool of the morning,’ pointed out Faustine. Rosie looked at her suspiciously.

‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said.

There was a little stream for washing – Stephen warned her not to drink the water – then they were on their way again, bumping along endless potholed roads, occasionally seeing old, overstuffed vans, crammed with thin cattle or large groups of men or sacks of flour, rumbling up the road towards them, often on the wrong side or straight down the middle. The roads got worse, and it was hot, and Rosie started to feel herself getting a bit tired, then told herself not to, but to keep her spirits up. Stephen was looking distant and faraway, which could be good or bad, she knew. She squeezed his hand and was reassured when he squeezed back.

‘Are you ready?’ she whispered.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said, his hand moving instinctively towards his injured leg, his jaw set.

Eventually the minivan turned down a smaller road, cutting through a forest, then a smaller one again, and finally, at least three hours since they’d seen anything that looked anything like a town, they came to a clearing at the end of a sandy sort of path.

All the way, Rosie had tried not to have preconceptions about what it would be like; but here, undeniably, there were huts with straw tops in a circle around an open area, and a fire with a huge old metal tin hanging over the top of it.

As soon as the van drove in, there was a roar, and a huge heap of children, yelling and shouting enthusiastically, ran towards them, seemingly unbothered by their own safety.

For the first time Rosie saw Faustine smile, as she stepped down from the vehicle. Earlier, Rosie had mentioned the sweets she had brought, and the Frenchwoman had frowned and demanded them, saying, ‘You’ll cause a riot handing those out. Give them to me and I’ll use them as vaccination bribes.’

At the time Rosie thought she was being bossy. Now she could see exactly what Faustine had meant. There were so many of them, all of them excited and delirious just to see the car. Handing out sweets would have been awful.

‘
Bonjour, bonjour
,’ said Rosie as she got down, and the boldest of the children flocked around her, chattering like birds and touching her hair. One little girl who must have been the same age as her niece Meridian clambered up on to her hip. Rosie looked at Faustine, who already had a child in each arm, and the Frenchwoman motioned that it was fine.

The children followed them across the open space. There were, Rosie noticed, children everywhere, and women wearing long skirts and headbands (she desperately wanted to tie back her own hair, but all she had was a spare pair of knickers and she didn’t feel it was quite the time or place). Some women had babies tied to their backs, not wearing nappies, just with a cloth between them and their mothers. The babies looked incredibly comfortable, Rosie couldn’t help noticing. And there were old men, with sticks and white hair and bare chests, wizened and bent over by the sun. But there were no young men. There were no fathers, no chaps to help with the work that was obviously going on – wood chopping, water carrying and fetching. Stephen had said they had all gone, to join the army, or to look for work in Dakar or Mali or Nigeria, but Rosie didn’t realise what that meant until she saw it: a place devoid of men. The women looked tough and strong. She imagined you had to be.

One old man came up to Stephen, looked at him for
a long time, then burst out into conversation. Stephen nodded, and more came over to join in. It reminded Rosie of the Red Lion.

Eventually they were beckoned towards one of the huts. They passed one building, relatively modern, that Faustine indicated had been built by the charity. Inside, a heavy-set woman with extremely short hair was standing in front of a class of at least fifty children sharing a few slates in an airless, scorching room. The boys sat at the front and the girls were behind them, despite being much smaller. Faustine rolled her eyes but nonetheless waved cheerily at the teacher, who waved back.

A few feet from the hut they were heading for, the children stood back, looking anxious. Faustine was deep in conversation with the woman who had brought them there. Rosie couldn’t follow the language but could tell by the increasingly exuberant gesticulations that something was displeasing her.

‘What is it?’ she asked Stephen.

‘Ssssh,’ he said, face strained. ‘They’re saying she’s not well … Célestine.’

‘Not well how?’ said Rosie. ‘She’s only eight months along.’

‘They’re not sure about that.’

‘Faustine’s a doctor though, right?’

Stephen shook his head.

‘She’s had first-aid training, we all did, but no, she’s
a regional manager. She’s got administrative skills.’

‘But it’s called Médecins Sans Frontières.’

‘Yes, that’s right. But you wouldn’t waste a doctor on managing everybody else, would you?’

Rosie’s brow furrowed as Faustine disappeared into the hut.

‘Well, I should go in,’ she said.

‘You haven’t been invited,’ pointed out Stephen.

‘No, but I want to take a look at her anyway.’

‘I suppose you could, though I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘I’m not,’ said Rosie. ‘How old is she?’

Faustine came hurrying back out of the hut, pulling out her phone. She was swearing.

‘What’s up?’ said Stephen.

‘There’s something wrong,’ said Faustine. ‘It’s been wrong for a while. And the nearest team is eight hours away. I’m only meant to be here to hand over money and sign some paperwork …’

‘Can I see her?’ said Rosie.

‘Are you a doctor?’ said Faustine rudely.

‘I’m an emergency nurse,’ said Rosie, forcefully rather than apologetically as she usually did. ‘But if that’s no use …’

Faustine backed down.

‘Please,’ she said.

Inside the hut it was incredibly dark and hot, with a warm, sinister scent: smoke, with something underlying it. There were very few possessions – a couple of tin plates – and an older man and woman sat looking frightened by a small fire, which made the room suffocating. They looked up at Rosie with fear in their eyes.

Rosie moved towards the bed. On it was a young girl – very young. She was barely developed, not fully grown, and her frightened eyes were enormous in her heart-shaped face, her stomach painfully distended but not huge.

‘Célestine?’ Rosie said, quietly and calmly, and knelt down next to her. The girl nodded. Rosie cursed and wished she hadn’t spent all her French lessons up the back of the class with her great mate Trix making ‘hee haw hee haw’ noises.

Faustine was there behind her, however.

‘Can you say I’m here to help her?’ said Rosie, and Faustine translated immediately. Rosie felt Célestine’s forehead. She was burning up.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Rosie and felt down between the girl’s legs. As she’d suspected, there was a moist patch on the sheet.

‘Have you got a medical kit in the car?’ she said. ‘Also, I have to scrub up.’

Faustine brought in a large box that had been under
the front seat, and Rosie did the best she could with the disinfectant wipes and boiled water on offer.

‘I think she’s got puerperal fever,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve seen it before. She needs to be in hospital. Her waters have broken but her labour hasn’t started and she’s got an infection. How pregnant is she really?’

Faustine asked the older couple – Célestine’s parents – who indicated various measures.

‘Ask the girl,’ said Rosie crossly. ‘And tell her we need to know; we absolutely need to know exactly. It’s going to make all the difference.’

Faustine spoke to Célestine gravely, then counted back on her fingers, checking quickly with the parents.

‘Oh, that explains it,’ she said finally.

‘What?’ said Rosie, who was palpating Célestine’s stomach, trying to feel the baby move.

‘She told her parents it was when her betrothed came home in the winter time, but it wasn’t. It was the festival when the warriors arrived in the village. This baby is very late, not early.’

‘Crap,’ said Rosie. ‘Right. Okay. OKAY!’ For she had felt a flutter under her hand, a tiny movement that told her what she needed to know: this baby was alive.

She looked at Célestine’s face.

‘How long has she felt so bad?’

‘Three days,’ translated back Faustine, and Rosie swallowed in disbelief.

‘Where’s the nearest hospital? This baby needs to come out now. Every second we delay, we’re increasing the risks – these are real risks. Is there a helicopter?’

Faustine snorted.

‘No.’

‘Well we need to drive her somewhere, then. Where’s the nearest hospital?’

‘She will be in far more danger in the hospital,’ said Faustine. ‘It’s a haven of infection. It’s not safe. We were going to take her to the mission hospital, but it’s an overnight drive back towards the city.’