Yesterday's Dead

by Pat Bourke

  Forrest snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it. The boys are fond of Mrs. Butters, but that chit cares only about herself.”

  The dim light from the electric bulb overhead colored Mrs. Butters’ face the hopeless gray of dishwater. Meredith asked herself how Mrs. Butters could be this sick. How could it have happened so fast?

  “Let’s see if we can get her to the settee in the back hall. She’d be more comfortable there,” Forrest suggested.

  “Elvie?” he said loudly. “Can you stand up?”

  Mrs. Butters’ head lolled against his chest, but her eyes opened and she shook her head.

  Forrest sighed. “We’ll have to carry her, lassie. I’ll take her shoulders; you take her feet.”

  Meredith nodded. She got into position and grasped the cook’s ankles. “Ready.”

  “On three: one, two, three!” Forrest grunted as he struggled to his feet. Meredith staggered as they lifted the dead weight, and then Mrs. Butters’ ankles slipped from Meredith’s grasp. Mrs. Butters cried out as her heels slammed against the floor.

  “Oh, Mrs. Butters! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Meredith’s hands flew to her mouth.

  “Steady now,” Forrest said. “We’ll try it again.”

  “But what if I hurt her?” Meredith’s feet were welded to the floor.

  “Meredith, lass, she’s too heavy for me on my own.” Forrest’s face was crimson and he was sweating. “You’ll manage it this time,” he said, panting. “Come on now, give it a go.”

  Meredith took hold of Mrs. Butters’ ankles once more, then quickly straightened up.

  “There we are!” Forrest beamed at her. “All right, lass?”

  Meredith nodded.

  “I’ll go first. You tell me if I’ve got a clear road.” Forrest backed out of the pantry. The cook’s wet skirt slid partway up her legs, but there was no time to worry about modesty. Meredith tried to match the rhythm of Forrest’s steps as they trekked across the kitchen, a trail of vinegar footprints marking their unsteady progress. She willed herself to ignore the strain in her arms, but they were trembling by the time they reached the back hall.

  “Easy now,” Forrest said as they lowered Mrs. Butters to the settee, but Meredith’s cramped fingers let go all at once and Mrs. Butters’ feet thumped onto the taut horsehair seat.

  Meredith rubbed her aching arms as Forrest took a coat from the rack, folded it and then slipped it under Mrs. Butters’ head. He covered her with another coat.

  “That’s all we can do for now, lassie. We’ll have the doctor look in on her later. You’d best go back to the party.”

  “But there’s the dinner to finish!”

  “I may not look it, but I know a thing or two about cooking,” Forrest said. “If I could fight the Boers, I guess I can serve a dinner. Tell Parker—discreetly, mind—that dinner might be somewhat delayed.” Forrest laid a hand on her arm. “And don’t fret. We’ve a doctor in the house, remember?” He winked.

  Forrest was right, of course. Meredith felt much better as she refilled the sandwich tray.

  Chapter 12

  When she returned to the party, Meredith discovered Forrest had been right about something else: Maggie hadn’t said a word to Parker.

  Parker’s eyes widened when Meredith whispered that Mrs. Butters was ill. “No need to tell the family,” was all he said after she assured him that she and Forrest could carry out the final preparations for dinner.

  Parker’s nose quivered as he said it, and he drew back from her a little. Then, when the guests sniffed the air as she passed by, Meredith was certain she reeked of vinegar. It couldn’t be helped, so she tried not to mind, even when Jack’s friends made a rowdy show of holding their breath. Maggie ignored her altogether, but Meredith knew that had nothing to do with the vinegar.

  For Meredith, the evening spun crazily among three worlds. In the dining room, silver candelabra stood guard over the long table set with gold-rimmed china, cut crystal and gleaming cutlery. The candlelight cast a warm glow on the women in silks and velvets, the men in evening dress, and Jack’s friends looking uncomfortably tucked in and tidy. The snippets of talk Meredith overheard while shuttling to and from the kitchen mainly concerned the war and the latest show at Shea’s Palace on Yonge Street.

  “Your cook is a gem, John,” an elderly lady in purple silk remarked as Parker signaled Meredith to begin clearing the soup plates. An appreciative murmur went around the table. Meredith glanced at Maggie, who lifted her chin and looked away. Meredith pictured dropping a soup spoon on Maggie’s head, but she knew Parker would never believe it was an accident.

  The second world consisted of the maelstrom raging in the kitchen. Oven doors banged, pot lids clanged, knives flashed, and spoons clattered as Forrest stirred and carved and served up onto waiting platters as if he’d grown eight arms. His face was the deep red of Mrs. Butters’ cranberry relish and he sported a blob of mashed potato above his left eye.

  Meredith journeyed between those two worlds. She cleared plates, brought fresh ones, replenished platters, and relayed messages from Parker to Forrest and back again. Each time she entered the dining room she mirrored Parker’s bland expression so that no one would suspect their food was being dished up by a retired soldier who cursed the big, black range in some language he must have picked up in South Africa.

  The third world, the one that pulled at her relentlessly as if she were its moon, was the dreary back hall. Meredith checked on Mrs. Butters whenever she could spare a moment. In the lull after the main course had been cleared and the salad had been served, she offered Mrs. Butters some water, but the cook only mumbled and shifted on the makeshift bed.

  “Leave her be, lass,” Forrest said wearily. “We’ll have the doctor look in when the party’s over. It won’t be long now. There’s only dessert and coffee left.” He pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, and then peered at the white goo on his fingers.

  “It’s potato,” Meredith said.

  Forrest had such a comical look on his face that Meredith giggled, and soon they were both laughing.

  “Potato!” croaked Forrest, bent double, his hand smacking the counter.

  “Potato!” gasped Meredith, her sides hurting from laughing so hard. And then suddenly she was crying, missing Mama desperately, wishing someone would help kind Mrs. Butters.

  “Hey now, lassie.” Forrest patted her shoulder. “Don’t get yourself in a state. It’ll be all right.”

  Meredith struggled to catch her breath. She swiped the silly apron across her eyes. It was more handkerchief than apron anyway.

  “It’s been a long day,” Forrest said, “but we’ll soon be finished. You’d best get back to the dining room. Parker will want help to clear the salad plates.”

  Meredith nodded. She didn’t trust her voice to squeeze around the lump in her throat that had nothing to do with mashed potato. She pasted on a watery smile. As she headed back to the dining room carrying a tray, she wondered if she could find some excuse to ask Dr. Waterton to come to the kitchen, but her head throbbed from crying and she couldn’t think how to manage it.

  “What about this Spanish Flu business, John?” A woman in taupe looked expectantly at Dr. Waterton as Meredith entered the dining room. “Do you think it will spread into the city?”

  Conversation stopped. Meredith stole a glance at Dr. Waterton, who was running his finger around the rim of his wine glass.

  Parker motioned for Meredith to begin clearing the salad plates. Worry over Mrs. Butters made her hands tremble, but she was careful not to bang the plates together so she wouldn’t call attention to herself.

  “I, for one, do not,” declared an important-looking man whose high color made Meredith think his shirt collar was buttoned too tightly. “Soldiers are naturally more susceptible—they’ve been weakened by fighting, after a
ll. But there’s no reason for healthy citizens to be alarmed.”

  There were scattered murmurs of assent.

  “It’s early days yet,” Dr. Waterton said finally, “but we’re taking precautions, of course.” He nodded at Meredith as she removed his plate. “If people are sensible, there’s no immediate danger.”

  “The Medical Officer—McCready, is it?—says it’s no epidemic,” said a man seated beside Maggie. Meredith removed his plate quickly so she’d stay clear of Maggie.

  “It’s those Germans!” A matron upholstered in green velvet turned to her neighbor. “They say the German army puts the flu germs in their bombs.”

  The guests at Dr. Waterton’s end of the table began arguing their own theories, while Jack’s mates clamored about their eagerness to sign up for military duty before the war ended. Meredith cleared the last of the plates while Parker used a silver-handled brush to sweep crumbs off the tablecloth into a little, silver crumb tray.

  The smells from the ladies’ perfumes, the wine and the burning candles made Meredith’s head ache. She could almost sympathize with Parker, who looked as if his head was still paining him. Even though her tray was almost too heavy to carry, she was thankful to escape the stuffy dining room. Once in the kitchen, she unloaded the tray, collected the dessert plates and the silver cake knife, and headed back to the dining room. Nearly over, thank heavens.

  As Meredith set the plates and the cake knife in front of Jack, she felt a tug on her skirt. Her cheeks burned, but anger quickly replaced embarrassment. He wasn’t so grown-up if he played some ridiculous game to annoy her while she was working. She’d be the one reprimanded if she dropped a stack of plates because of his silly notions. He was just like his sister, caring only for himself. Meredith fumed as she waited beside the door for Parker to bring in the dessert.

  A tap on the door alerted her. She swung the door open and every head swiveled to watch Parker carry in an enormous cake with candles that lit his face from below. Extravagant whorls of creamy white frosting were dotted with the yellow rosettes Mrs. Butters had painstakingly fashioned. Meredith wished she could pluck one of those delicious-looking rosettes and pop it into her mouth. She’d been so busy she’d forgotten all about eating the snack Mrs. Butters had left ready for her.

  A relieved “Ah!” rose from the guests as Parker set the cake in front of Jack, who made a great show of closing his eyes and blowing out the candles to general applause and cheers from his friends.

  “First slice for Harry!” Jack said. He sawed off an enormous piece and clumsily slid it onto a plate to a round of laughter. He handed the plate to Meredith and then licked the icing off his fingers as she carried the plate around the table.

  “Where is Harry?” Dr. Waterton asked. The chair beside Maggie was empty. “When did he disappear, Maggie?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “He’s likely in the kitchen with Mrs. Butters,” Jack said.

  Meredith knew that wasn’t possible, and Maggie didn’t look as if she was going to try and find her brother. After setting the plate at Harry’s place, Meredith eased his chair back and peered underneath the table. A small figure crouched amongst a forest of legs.

  “Here he is,” Meredith said as she held the tablecloth up. Jack’s friends hooted.

  “Harry Waterton, come out of there this instant!” Dr. Waterton’s tone was all business, but Harry didn’t move. Meredith thought he looked pale and drained of energy.

  Maggie pushed her chair back. “Come out, Harry. The joke’s over,” she said, grabbing for his arm.

  “I don’t feel good,” Harry mumbled as he pulled away from her. Meredith could see him shivering.

  “You’re faking,” Maggie said. “You just don’t like getting caught.”

  “Maggie, stop,” said Dr. Waterton, who had come around the table. “Harry, I think you ate too many of those sandwiches.” He looked down at his youngest son and shook his head. “Jack, you continue with the cake. I’ll take Harry upstairs.” He gathered Harry into his arms and then frowned as he felt Harry’s forehead. “I won’t be long,” he said to the guests. “Please just carry on without me. Parker will serve the coffee.”

  He started toward the door carrying Harry, the boy’s legs dangling like those of a marionette. “Meredith, you come upstairs with me, please.”

  Jack patted Harry’s leg as the small procession passed him on the way to the hall. “Good night, old fellow,” he said gently, surprising Meredith. “We’ll save you some cake for tomorrow.”

  Meredith hurried after the doctor. This was her chance to ask him to check on Mrs. Butters.

  Chapter 13

  Upstairs, Harry balked when Meredith tried to undress him, so Dr. Waterton stripped off the little boy’s shirt and trousers and helped him into his flannel nightshirt.

  “He’s definitely warm,” Dr. Waterton said to Meredith, “but I doubt it’s serious. I think you should stay here with him and keep him from getting up and running around. If we’re lucky, he might just fall asleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be back, Harry,” Dr. Waterton said cheerfully. “Be a good boy and stay in bed. Meredith’s going to sit here with you.”

  A hum of voices swirled into the room from downstairs as the doctor opened the bedroom door. He was gone before Meredith could tell him about Mrs. Butters.

  The bed springs creaked as Harry sat up. “It’s hot in here. Open the window.”

  “Why don’t I take some of these covers off?” Meredith peeled back the blue, quilted bedspread and the white, wool blanket underneath, and folded them carefully over the end of the bed. “I’ll leave the sheet so you won’t catch a chill. You can pull these up again if you get cold.”

  “I’m not cold, I’m hot. And I want the window open!”

  He’s only six, Meredith reminded herself, same as Ellen, and he isn’t feeling well. “We’ll ask your father about the window when he comes back,” she said. “Would you like a drink of water?”

  “NO! I want the window open!” Harry’s face was a boiled tomato as he thumped the mattress. “You have to do it because I said so!” He began kicking the sheet into a twisted mess. Meredith reached across the bed to take hold of his arms and get him to lie still, but he kicked her, hard, in the stomach.

  “You rude little monster!” The words flew out as if Harry had kicked them, too. Meredith doubled over, clutching at her middle. When the pain began to subside, she straightened up gingerly, like a fist unclenching.

  Harry lay still. He looked small and ill, and his face, for once, wasn’t scowling. “I’m sick,” he whispered.

  “I know.” Meredith reached for his hand. His hot fingers curled around hers. “Let’s have a story.”

  Harry nodded, so Meredith reached for the Boy’s Own Annual on the table beside the bed. She read until she felt the little fingers loosen their grip, and then she rested her head against the tall back of the rocker and closed her eyes. It was late and she was tired. Port Stuart seemed a thousand miles away.

  She startled when the door opened again—minutes or hours later, she couldn’t tell—but there was no hum of voices this time. The guests must have left.

  “I’ve brought my bag,” Dr. Waterton said, “so let’s see what we can do to make Harry better.”

  “He said he was hot, sir. Can I open the window?”

  “Yes, please,” the doctor said. “Wake up now, Harry,” he said as he shook the little boy awake. Harry blinked up at him like a sleepy turtle.

  Dr. Waterton slid a thermometer into Harry’s mouth. “Keep that under your tongue and keep your mouth closed. Don’t bite on it.” He took out his pocket watch, and then felt for Harry’s pulse, his eyebrows drawn together.

  Meredith tugged on the heavy window sash, and the rush of night air made her long for the breeze off the la
ke at home. Her eyes wandered across the rooftops and lighted windows of Rosedale.

  “You have a fever, Harry. I’ll mix some Aspirin powder in water and that should help.” Dr. Waterton took a tin and a small spoon from his black bag. He poured water from the carafe on the bedside table into the glass that stood beside it, then spooned in some powder and stirred the mixture vigorously.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the glass. “My head hurts.”

  “This will help with that, too,” the doctor said. “Sit up straight and drink this down.” He patted his son on the back as Harry tentatively sipped the cloudy water.

  Harry screwed his face into a tight knot. “It’s sour.”

  “Drink it up anyway.” Dr. Waterton tousled his hair. “Meredith will save you a piece of cake to make up for it.”

  “With roses,” Harry said.

  “Definitely with roses.” The doctor snapped his bag shut and turned to Meredith. “Can you sit with him for a while longer? Just until he falls asleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” This was her chance. Meredith followed him into the hall. “Dr. Waterton, may I speak to you?”

  “Are you worried about Harry?” the doctor asked. “He’s more than likely caught something at school. Or maybe it really was those sandwiches. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “No, sir. It’s not that,” Meredith began. “He’s not the only one who’s sick—”

  “Dr. Waterton! Come quickly!” Forrest was rushing along the hallway toward them, his face scarlet and his shirttails sticking out. “It’s Mrs. Butters!”

  Chapter 14

  Waiting was agony. Meredith stood at the door of Harry’s bedroom, straining to hear something from downstairs, but the house was quiet. She desperately wanted to go down to the kitchen, but she needed to wait until Harry was asleep. She tiptoed over to the bed to check on him again, expecting to see his eyes still wide open, but this time they were closed, the bed covers rising and falling evenly as he slept.