Every 2 Minutes

By Janet Roberts

"can't you see, iI'm white, british, a skilled worker—we don't get leprosy!" was what clifford wanted to shout at the doctor. but the diagnosis was definite. he had to leave immediately for a leper colony—and it would be best if his relatives thought he'd died because of the stigma associated with the disease.

this moving book tells of his struggle to live a full and worthwhile life, to give and receive love. It is a story that will warm your heart and remain long in your memory.
clifford finds himself quarantined on an island with no hope and no plumbing, a stinking hole where people, old as well as children, live under makeshift shelters and eat the meagre rations the government throws their way, the forgotten outcasts of society. clifford has two great loves in his life, fatherly love for an orphaned Indian girl, and a forbidden love from his past, both of which give Clifford the strength and hope he needs to change the world. And just as Clifford thinks he could have lost both loves forever and has lost all hope, a beautiful moment between clifford and nature changes everything.
have you spent your life not really knowing anything about leprosy except seeing hooded figures in the background of movies? tis the assumption that they are not to be associated with, that they are dirty and infectious? Can you imagine how that would feel? You are about to find out if you open the first page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Roberts
• Release date: Jul 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311723185

Janet Roberts

In Janet Roberts' books, you’ll often find someone spending a bit of time by a lake, river or ocean somewhere in the world. Born and raised in Erie, Pennsylvania, on the Great Lakes, she loves an endless view of water for as far as the eye can see. Janet graduated from Temple University with a degree in journalism. After working as a journalist and later as a paralegal, she obtained her masters in communications from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. Janet began writing fiction and poetry as a child and never let go of her dream of publishing a novel.  Although her current job as a security awareness program lead has meant moving to a variety of cities, she often returns to her Western Pennsylvania roots in her writing.  

Book preview

Every 2 Minutes

Janet Roberts

®Copyright 2015, Janet Roberts

‘Every 2 Minutes’ contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

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Book Editor: Mary Jo Stresky, The Write MoJo Literary & Research Services, www.thewritemojo.com

DISCLAIMER:

‘Every 2 Minutes ‘is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously or are products of the author’s vivid imagination.

As this is a historical accounting of a colony at the beginning of the 20th century, the use of the word ‘leper’ is utilised in reference to the point in time the story occurs.

However, as it stands today in its Resolution A/HRC/15/30 (principles and guidelines for the elimination of discrimination against persons affected by leprosy and their family members), under point 9 (of the Guidelines) the United Nations wrote: ‘States should remove discriminatory language, including the derogatory use of the term leper, or its equivalent in any language or dialect from government publications…’

All rights reserved. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is entirely coincidental or based on research. All rights reserved.

PREFACE

My interest in leprosy began decades ago when I sailed from Liverpool, England to Quebec, Canada. When the ship was consumed by the tail end of a hurricane, the crossing became appallingly rough.

Unlike the vast majority of the passengers I wasn’t just ill, I was completely terrified! Feeling too seasick to leave my stateroom, to make it through the tortuously long days I curled up in a corner and read anything I could lay my hands on.

One of the books the steward loaned me was Who Walk Alone by Perry Burgess, based on the true story of Ned Langford, an American he’d met during his role as President of the American Leprosy Foundation. After serving in the military Ned was diagnosed with leprosy, and spent the next 25 years confined to a leprosarium on the Culion Island in the Palawan Province in the Philippines.

Though my book is a fictionalized accounting of a leper colony off the coast of Coimbatore, India, all attempts have been made to include the practices, policies and treatments of lepers in the early 20th Century.

As quoted from an article about the leprosarium in Carville, Louisiana, where Clifford Harrison’s son, Alex, goes to train (URL in References):

‘In earlier times, leprosy could mean ostracism, violence and religious condemnation. In biblical days, lepers were vilified outcasts whose garments where burned after victims were forcibly disinfected and quarantined.

In France during the 13th Century, more than 2,000 leprosariums were built to facilitate mass government roundups in the face of an epidemic. Such roundups went on in other countries into this century. As recently as the 1930s, lepers in China were sometimes burned alive in attempts to prevent the disease's spread.

Medical advances have been dramatic. In 1941, the development of sulfone therapy made leprosy non-contagious. Daily doses of the antibiotic dapsone and monthly doses of rifampin have proved so effective that the World Health Organization set the year 2000 as its target date for virtually eliminating the disease.

Also called Hansen's disease, after Dr Arthur Hansen, a Norwegian scientist who identified the bacillus causing the sickness, leprosy is typically marked by skin lesions, tissue degeneration and a numbing of nerve sensation. Many patients lose the use of their fingers and toes, while others suffer paralysis or blindness’.

Most patients exist in Third World countries, particularly Brazil, the Philippines, Vietnam and India where I established the fictional colony. The good news is the number of cases worldwide has dropped sharply in the last decade, from more than 12 million to just over 3.1 million. Because few patients are contagious, and the vast majority of new cases don’t require institutional care, centres all over the world have closed in recent years.

Thankfully leprosy is curable today with multi-drug therapy. Charities like Lepra (Leprosy Relief Association – www.lepra.com) offer remedial surgery and physiotherapy that provide a degree of improvement. As the world’s first leprosy prevention organisation Lepra is one of the world’s leading authorities on the disease, and publishes its academic research in the quarterly Leprosy Review.

The cost of diagnosing and treating people affected with the disease is staggering. The Lepra charity organization has been as hard hit by the recession as every other charity around the world. In order to contribute in some small way, I tried to get Who Walk Alone republished. But when that proved impossible, I wrote this book to tell the story of Clifford Harrison’s triumphs, heartbreaks and his great loves.

Not only do I hope you enjoy the story, I hope it stirs something inside you to donate to Lepra or other such organisations or foundations to help find a permanent cure and to support those in need. To lead by example, I am donating 100% of the book sales to Lepra to show how much I care.

Now, let’s enter the world of a 20th century leper colony where magic and hope can happen even in the darkest of hours.

Janet Roberts

CHAPTER ONE

April 24, 1904

Dear God, I want to go home! Clifford Harrison wrote on a small confectionary bag the wind had landed at his feet while waiting for the boat to arrive.

Stop it! You sounded like a petulant boy being sent back to boarding school. Surprised at his reaction to the sudden turn of events, he folded the bag and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Waves of nausea overtook him when he realised his entire future relied on the vague possibility a ghastly mistake had been made. And that a government official would profusely apologise, admit their mistake and change the transfer papers, and allow him to return to the life he had before this nightmare began.

Now his hopes had been crushed because he knew this was a one-way trip and there was no going back.

Watching his old world slipping by, Clifford took a deep breath to clear his mind. As the sunrise shimmered on the cerulean blue water, he wondered how it was possible this land of wonderment could hold such frightening anticipation.

Though it felt like days, it was only a few hours earlier when he settled his young companion into the boat’s hull. Remembering how as a child he’d loved everything to do with the ocean, he’d hoped to replicate that delicious experience before her life would change forever.

Allowing her to stretch her gaunt arm over the side the boat, she tried to reach the spray flying from the transom. Realising the frail girl nestled against him might be experiencing her last moments of peace; he did his best to make her feel steady with every hit against a wave. Listening to her squealing as the water splashed her perfectly oval face, Clifford refused to look back at the rapidly receding mainland. Nor did he want to look ahead as he’d face that soon enough.

Upon hearing the motor shift gears, he knew they were about to reach their destination. Dreading what might lie ahead, he wrapped his arm protectively around her to assure her she was safe.

As the tugboat slowly chugged toward a shaded inlet, he was stunned by the intensity of the jungle’s emerald green lushness reflected in the water lapping against the shores.

Hearing a discordant song emanating from a group of colonists standing on the banks to greet them, he wondered why they’d be celebrating their arrival. But as the boat got closer and he saw the unbridled happiness on their faces, he remembered they were prisoners to the disease and had very little contact with the outside world. Anything beyond their normal daily existence would be considered magical and miraculous, while at the same time a fleeting reminder of the world they left.

Clifford also wondered why rolls of barbed wire surrounded the entrance to the colony since people in their condition weren’t typically strong enough to swim. No one from the outside world would want to break in to such a forgotten place, and any chance of escape was futile. The first thing I’m going to do is get rid of that abomination! he angrily thought. Barbed wire shouldn’t be the first thing new arrivals see as they have enough to worry about.

After the boat bumped against the tatty wooden mooring and stopped, Clifford noticed the pilot was remaining inside the wheelhouse. Seeing the wary look on the man’s face, he realised he’d been instructed not to come near any of the travellers lest he become infected.

Clifford gently lifted the girl over the edge of the boat onto dry land, and then effortlessly leapt ashore. As her tiny hand clinging tightly to his trousers, he was shocked to realise how good their brief physical contact felt. It was something he’d been denied for weeks.

Helping the remainder of passengers out of the boat, Clifford stood nearby while they regained their land legs. Hearing the engine start, he waved to the pilot who – in spite of the condition of the ‘goods’ he just delivered – returned the gesture as he headed the boat back to the mainland.

The island’s inhabitants’ singing continued as the straggly newcomers lumbered up the cumbersome trail. Clifford’s greatest worry had been what horrifying sights might greet them. But looking at the colonists with a mixture of horror and fascination, he realised they seemed surprisingly healthy.

Some were walking with makeshift crutches, and here and there dirty bandages were wrapped haphazardly around their feet. Only a few had severely deformed faces, which was what he’d feared the most. He’d seen much worse conditions in Bombay where beggars held their deformed hands out for coins, and gazed sightlessly at their benefactors through strips of tattered cloth.

Carrying the girl up the rocky path alongside the other passengers, Clifford speculated on what guidelines had been established to decide who’d come to the island.

Finally arriving at a single-story building in desperate need of a new coat of paint, the group went inside to wait. Just as they sat on the hard benches, a booming male voice called out from the inner office.

‘Mr Harrison, please come in’.

Clifford hoped he wouldn’t be given special considerations because of his white skin and being British. With every eye upon him, he rose from his seat and hastily wove his way through the group of onlookers.

With the girl tightly holding onto his hand he asked, ‘Can I bring her with me?’ as he entered the room, though he had no intention of leaving her behind.

The man sitting behind the desk stacked with mountains of files appeared not to have heard him, and indicated for Clifford to take a seat across from him. After he sat, he situated the girl in his lap and reassured her that everything was going to be all right.

‘Mr Harrison, my name is Dr Kapoor. I’m very sorry you find yourself in this most unfortunate predicament’, the man in the white coat said in a clipped accent. ‘Do you have any idea how you contracted the disease?’

Clifford shook his head in answer to the blunt question. Having gone over it in his mind a thousand times, he could have explained it had he enjoyed the same depravity and uncleanliness of his shipmates on the Black Parrot who’d frequented the native bars. But he had lived such a quiet, unassuming life that he felt it unfair he was now a prisoner with the rest of the colonists.

‘It really doesn’t matter how you got it – it just matters that you have it and how it’s to be treated. We’ll have to conduct further tests, but they can wait till tomorrow. It didn’t seem right you should live amongst the others, so we assigned you to a staff dwelling at the end of the compound’.

‘I don’t want any special treatment’, Clifford stated adamantly.

Feeling it was important to integrate into the community; being given privileges could send a wrong signal about who he was. When Clifford’s comment was ignored, he knew the doctor was used to being obeyed and arguing with him wasn’t an option.

Pulling a set of keys out of a desk drawer, Dr Kapoor said, ‘Here are the necessary keys’, as he slid them across the desk to prevent physical contact. ‘Please keep the bungalow locked at all times’.

‘Can she stay with me until I find something more suitable?’

‘Who you choose to live with is entirely up to you. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt as you’ll need someone to do your cooking, washing and housekeeping’.

Clifford was shocked that this frightened little girl who’d clung desperately to him throughout the journey was to become his servant, which wasn’t the arrangement he’d had in mind.

‘But… she’s just a child’.

‘Again, that’s your decision to make. Just remember, there will be no one beside her to help as things get worse’, Dr Kapoor said, not looking up from his papers.

Feeling angry and disgusted -- and seeing there was no point in forcing the issue -- Clifford rose and took the girl firmly by the hand. Determined not to waste any precious minutes that were quickly ticking away, he tossed this desensitised human being into the category of dislikeable people to be avoided at all costs.

Walking past the other passengers’ inquisitive stares, they went outside into the blinding sunlight, and walked the path toward their new home. Coming upon a dilapidated single-storey cottage-style bungalow with a tiny veranda, he opened the gate and walked to the front door. Opening it with a large brass key, swinging it open and stepping inside it appeared not to have been occupied for months, if not years.

Running his fingertip through a thick layer of dust on top of the windowsill, he felt relieved he’d seen a pump toward the back of the building, so at least they’d have running water.

‘We’ll have this cleaned in no time’, he said as he winked at the girl. Seeing her look at him with bloodshot eyes, he picked her up and hugged her tightly.

‘No worries, little one’, he whispered. ‘Everything is going to be as right as rain’.

Since deciding his first goal was to find a foster mother, he knew it would be hard to part with her as they’d already created a tight bond.

Having witnessed mothers and their children being torn apart from each other, he vowed to make sure she had some semblance of a family as soon as possible. He’d search for a woman who was longing to hold a child again, and would readily take to this girl who’d been torn from her mother’s arms. Making sure they could visit each other, he’d prepare special meals like his sister cooked at her home in London.

But for now, their first task was to clean the bungalow. Finding a sweeping brush that was nearly as tall as the girl, Clifford grabbed it from her hand and chased her round the room. Stirring dust that caused them to laugh and cough at the same time, for the first time he felt no fear since beginning his arduous journey.

CHAPTER TWO

Allowing the dust to settle before tackling the cleaning, Clifford and the girl went outside to prime the pump that only produced a trickle of water. Fortunately, he still had his strength, so after a few more pumps a healthy stream splashed into a chipped red clay jug.

Taking turns drinking from the spout, they laughed as the cold, clear water ran down their chins onto their clothing. But they didn’t care, since the hot tropical sun would dry them soon enough.

Clifford stared at the girl while she washed her hands and face. Everyone on the trip had spoken a different language so he didn’t know if she understood English because he’d coaxed only a few words from her. But he sensed she was smart, so learning a new language shouldn’t be difficult.

‘I don’t know your name’, he said to her as he lifted her high into the air. Seeing the perplexed look on her face, he said slowly and deliberately, ‘I am Clifford. What is your name?’ as he pointed from his face to hers.

‘Ma… Ma… Mamartha’, she shyly stammered.

‘That’s very pretty’.

Seeing her blush, he thought a shorter name might be more appropriate. But decided that was a decision her new foster mother should make.

Assessing her height and build, he ascertained she might be seven or eight years old. But since she was so malnourished it was hard to tell her exact age. Hopefully he’d be able to find out more about her when they went for tests at the medical centre.

Sipping the cool water Clifford thought back to when he first met this wisp of a girl. Having been taken straight from the troop ship to an oxen-pulled cart, he’d felt embarrassed having inconvenienced its passengers waiting for his arrival. Sitting on a hard wood seat in unbearable heat, their evacuation seemed well-organised as the driver had a checklist, which was clearly an influence of British colonialism.

As they pulled out of Calcutta, Clifford tried to look at things other than the multitude of beggars lying by the roadside. But it was difficult not to look at them as they were everywhere. Feeling escalating panic and despair he though, How soon will I be in this despicable condition? How soon will I be one of… them?

Soon they were travelling through the countryside. Heading down the long dusty road, they’d periodically stop for a family waiting for the cart. The same scene was repeatedly played as a sorrowful husband said farewell to his wife, knowing they were unlikely to ever meet again. Seeing the painful look on the man’s face, Clifford wondered if he was worried about how he’d find the time to both work to feed, and raise his children without their mother.

But it was much worse when it was the mother who was leaving, as her children would cling to her legs while begging for her to stay. Being shouted at by the government henchman, she’d extricate herself from their arms and climb aboard the cart, the air rife with her weeping as they continued down the road.

These heart-wrenching scenes were more than Clifford could bear. Thankful he was unmarried; he’d not had time to get word to his sister,