02. A Mysterious Manner

Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred rose for their final compline with their South African sisters. The storm clouds had burst overnight, giving way to a proper downpour. The humidity was worse than ever, but the air was sharp with the promise of cleansing. Raindrops on the warped windows turned to amber beads in the candlelight. Their plainsong was drowned beneath the shudder of rainfall on the mission's tin roof.

Shelagh came in mid-song, lending her sweet, strong voice to their vain contest with the rain. She waved in Nurse Noakes, who had stopped shyly in the chapel doorway. After the closing prayers, Sister Gertrude suggested they sing one more song- "just for fun." She assured them the lyrics were "very simple," and translated from Xhosa for them:

"Opuzayo kulawamanzi

Opuzayo kulawamanzi

Opuzayo kulawamanzi

Akomi naphakade qha.

"Whoever drinks of this water

Whoever drinks of this water

Whoever drinks of this water

Shall never be thirsty again."

Sister Julienne recognized the tune from Sunday service in the village's crowded, one-room church. Now that she knew the words' meaning, it seemed a fitting praise for recent events. There was the new water pipeline of course. And now these blessed rains, bringing an end to a hot, dry summer.

Departure was a muddy, sopping affair. Dr. Myra advised them not to wait for a break in the rain; they'd end up keeping their drivers for days. They sprinted for their vehicles, but not before crowding in the warm, dry sitting room for goodbyes. Farewells passed not just between guests and hosts, but also between the Turners and the rest of their party. At a junction thirty miles off, the Turners' car would head west for Cape Town International Airport, while the bus would go east to Port Elizabeth. The parting would be silent and unceremonious. In all this rain, one might not even notice the other pair of headlights slipping away.

Sister Julienne was the last to say goodbye to Shelagh. They embraced a beat longer than most. When they pulled back, Shelagh was the first to gain composure.

"God be with you on your journey, Sister."

"And on yours as well," Sister Julienne said past a lump in her throat.

The bus-bound Nonnatans ran out in pairs and trios, to avoid crowding at the door. The nuns and Nurse Crane were the first to make a break for it. They surprised themselves by whooping and shrieking in the rain like little children. As they climbed into the bus, stiff-legged beneath their drenched dresses, Sister Winifred turned and smiled brightly as Sister Julienne.

"It's nice how you and Mrs. Turner are still so close." She lowered her voice. "Despite how she left the Order."

Nurse Crane was wry. "Compared to the other ways one could leave a religious order- death and the so-called 'dark night of the soul' come to mind- I would think marriage a pleasant alternative!"

Sister Winifred bit her lip. Sister Julienne knew what she wished to say: because she'd said it before, on occasions when the nuns' recreation hour took a gossipy turn.

She forsook her vows. Sister Winifred spoke slowly to control her irritation.

She renounced her vows, Sister Julienne had primly corrected. As is her right.

After ten years with the Order? After taking her final, life vows?

Mrs. Turner served God and our community faithfully in her ten years with us. She has continued to do so ever since. We do not pretend to understand God's reasons or timing in calling her to another life. He moves in a mysterious manner, after all.

Sister Julienne knew there were some who saw the way Shelagh left them as akin to divorce. But she saw it more like a young woman setting out from her parents' home. Privately, she had always considered Shelagh to be more like a daughter than a sister: perhaps because she was the first novice that Sister Julienne instructed through all her vows.

Like any mother, Sister Julienne had been shocked by the seeming suddenness of it all, wary that passion might prove a fickle basis for such life-changing decisions. But then she learned of the months of internal struggle and prayer- and the letters. She saw how well-suited Shelagh and Dr. Turner were for one another. How they upheld one another during Timothy's illness with polio, the sad news of Shelagh's infertility, and the process of adopting dear little Angela. She saw what a cozy, happy family they made.

Her wariness gave way to trust and affection. She prayed every day for Shelagh and Dr. Turner's continued happiness. Not for hedonistic pleasures, or for particular outcomes they might desire. But that they would continue to walk together through whatever storms life brought them, steady and contented, helpmeets and friends as well as spouses.

For underneath Sister Julienne's wooden cross, her habit, and her coarse woven girdle, beat the heart of a romantic.

Outside they heard a large splash, then yelling and laughter. Nurse Noakes' voice rose above the rest:

"No harm done! I had a jolly soft landing, what! Oh goodness, Barbara! No! Don't bother trying to find them in this soup! I've got a spare pair in my case…"

She staggered onto the bus, dripping mud head to toe, blinking myopically without her spectacles. Her sergeant husband followed her aboard and guided her into a seat. He popped open her case and pulled out a locally-made, plaid woolen blanket she'd bought as a souvenir.

"You remember that elephant in Sierra Leone?" he teased as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. She grinned up at him.

Young Nurse Gilbert was next aboard. Sister Julienne saw her smile at the Noakes' tender moment. Between the Turners and the Noakes, the Sister thought, she and Mr. Hereward are blessed with such wonderful role models.


In smooth sailing, all were well except for Nurse Gilbert. But when they encountered a storm off the West African coast, all were sick except for Nurse Noakes. She stumbled from one colleague's cabin to the next with barley sugars, cold compresses, and a sloshing thermos of ginger tea.

"I've always had an iron stomach," she boasted cheerfully. With the other women, she added: "Even en route to Freetown in '58, whilst coping with a tiny stowaway. Not a jot of nausea: although I was snoozy as Rip Van Winkle!"

It was pouring rain once again when they docked in London. And once again, a couple in their ranks said their goodbyes before venturing out. The Noakes had their own taxi to catch. They were going straight home to their three-year-old son Freddie, who was awaiting their return with Sergeant Noakes' parents.

Sister Julienne was looking forward to settling back into the relative tranquility and routine of home. To cardigans and crocuses. To the familiar meditations of Lent. To the crisp orderliness of the on-call board and the ringing telephone. (Even Nurse Crane's Rolodex would be a welcome sight!) To Mrs. B.'s hearty homemade luncheons. To recreation hour knitting with her Sisters: or on more indulgent occasions, joining the lay-nurses in front of the television.

Instead they came home to Sister Ursula. And a telephone call from the Mother House.

At first it wasn't so bad. Perhaps God was testing Sister Julienne's obedience, tempering her pride. Was there anything really wrong with switching up the meal routine, seeing clinic patients in ticketed order, or going back to life without television? Perhaps Sister Ursula's push for efficiency and austerity was what they needed: to move forward into the modern era, while circling back to their Order's vows of poverty and of service.

She began to have doubts when she saw how the new Superior belittled Sister Monica Joan. Then Sister Ursula took umbrage at Sister Julienne's decision to deliver Trudy Watts' daughter in the clinical room. And then worst of all: she had Sister Mary Cynthia whisked away so suddenly after her crisis. It was in the middle of lauds, with no warning; her Sisters didn't even have the chance to say goodbye.

Perhaps some things could be commodified, streamlined, economized. But Sister Julienne knew: compassion for the suffering was not one of those things. At Nonnatus House, they would always be lavish in their care for the 'least of these.' She would not interfere if the staff went above and beyond for a patient. She would keep an eye out for times when Sister Monica Joan's frustrations needed defusing.

As for Sister Mary Cynthia?

She would have that rushed departure noted in Sister Mary Cynthia's record. And she would pray. After all, she had every reason to believe that prayer could work wonderful things. For a new light of joy had broken through the present clouds of worry.

It was two weeks after their ship docked in London. Sister Julienne and Shelagh were alone at the surgery one evening, discussing Sister Mary Cynthia's breakdown. Sister Julienne offered Shelagh a cup of tea: well-sugared for strength, and with a dollop of milk, just as she'd always liked.

But when she went to take a sip, Shelagh pulled a face and put a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry. It's just… The smell of the milk… Breakfasts have been impossible."

"Breakfasts?" Sister Julienne repeated, incredulous.

Shelagh kept hesitating, smiling and shaking her head at herself. "I can't believe it myself, Sister." Her voice quavered as she added: "Even Patrick doesn't know. But- I'm expecting a baby! …And I'm so afraid…"

"Oh!" Sister Julienne cried.

She pulled Shelagh close.

"And I'm not," she reassured her. "Because I never stopped praying."

It was far too early to tell anyone else. Sister Julienne knew she would have to conceal her glee when she arrived back at the convent. So she let herself smile broadly as she biked down the dark and drippy Dock Road. Happy tears pricked her eyes; if anyone noticed, she would have to blame the stinging winter winds.

She remembered something Sister Mary Cynthia had said the night of her breakdown. You aren't in charge! Even Sister Ursula isn't really in charge. Words spoken in such anguish, yet they had a heartening double meaning. The doctors who had pronounced Shelagh infertile were not in charge, either. Only their Lord was in charge, and His ways were mysterious to them all.

Back at the convent, Sister Julienne found a figure napping on the sitting room settee. Her face was hidden beneath a knitted patchwork blanket, but the long frame and size eleven feet were unmistakable.

"Nurse Noakes?" she called gently.

"Sorry!" Nurse Noakes cried as she startled awake. "Spot of sherry… tooth mug…"

"Are you alright?"

Nurse Noakes blinked her way back to the present with a chipper smile. She fumbled for her glasses on the coffee table. "Never better. Just got back from my rounds. Thought I'd sneak a little kip while I wait for the old autoclave…"

She winced and pinched the spot between her eyebrows.

"Are you sure you're not unwell?" Sister Julienne asked.

"Absolutely." She gave a long yawn. "Iron stomach, remember?"

And as snoozy as Rip Van Winkle, Sister Julienne thought reflexively.

But no. Her penchant for romance, primed by Shelagh's joyous news, was getting the better of her. A hardworking midwife, wife and mother was entitled to an occasional afternoon doze. It didn't mean that Nurse Noakes was…

Besides. God worked in a mysterious manner: but both their married nurses falling pregnant at the same time? That would be downright cheeky of Him.


A/N: As always, many thanks to my amazing beta, cooldoyouhaveaflag. Thank you, tangledupinmist for suggesting fatigue as a clever alternative to nausea for the 'giveaway' early symptom. (And for the associated Nonnatus-nap awks!) And thank you, callthemoonbeam, for suggesting I try working in some Toto lyrics. ;-)

The hymn at the start of this chapter is "Opuzayo," by Kgotso Makgalema. I found it on a webpage titled "African Gospel Lyrics." For the purposes of this chapter, I'm assuming either a folk/traditional version existed before Makgalema's career, or that we can all just live with the anachronism.