Free Killman by Graeme Kent Page A

proudly, carried it out to the hospital building to be checked, while the vociferous relatives admiringly supported the mother up on to Sister Conchita’s narrow bed.
    The nun walked back along the corridor. She noticed that the whitewashed walls and scrubbed floor, which she had spent the best part of a day cleaning, were already stained and grubby. The father of the baby had obviously been informed of his new status, because, ignoring custom edicts, he came running bellowing with delight into the mission, at the head of a dozen other galloping men. Prudently Sister Conchita stood to one side to allow them to pass. She noticed with resignation that a sudden squall of rain had driven a group of mothers with their young children haphazardly into the mission lounge.
    Outside, most of the other refugees were sheltering from the shower as best they could. Some had moved in to share the huts of the resident Christians, while others were clustered together for warmth under the trees at the edge of the compound. With a sinking heart, Sister Conchita realized that the mission station she had worked so hard to clean over the past few days now resembled nothing more than a rapidly deteriorating garbage dump.
    She ignored the thudding rain soaking her clothing as she surveyed the shambles around her. Ever since her arrival at Ruvabi almost a year ago, she had taken a pride in rescuing the house and grounds from their previous neglected condition. Father Pierre had always been oblivious to his surroundings. Earlier in the current week she had been spurred on to even greater efforts of domesticity when she had received a bush-telegraph message informing her that the awe-inspiring Father Kuyper, he of the formidable intellect, waspish tongue and impossibly high standards, had landed at Auki and was now on his probing way to visit the mission station.
    Ostensibly the bishop’s right-hand man was merely dropping in to the mission on a general tour of north Malaita, but Sister Conchita already knew enough of church politics not to be fooled. She and Father Pierre had been keeping the underfunded mission going somehow or other for the best part of a year, improvising wildly and assisted only by a few willing but young and inexperienced local sisters. If word had reached Honiara that Father Pierre was unwell, the church authorities could seize the opportunity to replace the idiosyncratic old priest with a younger and more orthodox administrator of their own choosing.
    That meant that Conchita could eventually be recalled to Honiara or, even worse, asked to stay on at Ruvabi as a mere biddable housekeeper for a more cautious senior church organizer who would gather the reins of command closely to his chest. She seriously questioned if she could ever do biddable. One of the reasons why she had loved her time at Ruvabi so much was because of the autonomy and freedom that the old man had given her once she had earned his trust.
    She did not see the familiar burly form of Brother John walking across the grass until the big man was almost upon her. As usual the Anglican missionary was wearing a lap-lap and a tattered shirt and carrying his worldly possessions in a small pack perched on his broad back.
    ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ said the nun approvingly, always glad to see the down-to-earth Guadalcanal man. ‘Are you here because you’ve experienced a Damascene conversion to our cause?’
    ‘That will be the day,’ said the islander, easing his pack to the ground and wiping the sweat from his eyes as he surveyed the frenetic activity all around. ‘It looks to me as if you’ve got your hands full with your existing members, without starting a recruiting drive.’
    ‘Come inside and let me get you a glass of lemonade,’ invited the sister.
    Brother John shook his head. His glance took in the overcrowded compound and the shabby mission house, missing little. ‘I can’t stay at this papist temple too long,’ he said. ‘I might