by Pat Bourke
After checking on Mrs. Butters, Meredith was deciding whether she should tackle the dishes or hang up the masks that had been stewing in the copper boiler when she heard a knock at the back door. She hurried to answer it, hoping it was Forrest—even though she’d given up on him—and realizing in the same moment that Forrest wouldn’t have knocked.
“Tommy!” Meredith’s disappointment turned to pleasure when she saw him waiting on the porch. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, then hugged her arms close against the chill morning. “I can’t ask you in. We’re not supposed to have visitors. Are you all right? How are your mum and your sisters?”
Tommy removed his cap. His face seemed thinner than Meredith remembered, his riot of freckles vivid against his pale skin.
“Are you hungry?” Meredith asked. “I could get you a plate of something.”
“No,” Tommy said, his hands twisting his cap. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” His eyes didn’t meet hers. They were like holes in the map of his face.
“Is it—” Meredith’s throat closed over so she had to force the words out. “Is it Bernadette?”
Tommy shook his head. “No,” he said, “Bernie’s getting better.”
Then she knew. “Your mama,” she whispered.
Tommy nodded. He turned away. She could see the muscles in his jaw working.
“And then—yesterday—Mary.” Tommy took an unsteady breath, but he held his body straight as if guarding himself from what was coming next. He seemed to be looking past Glenwaring, past Toronto even, all the way to some place Meredith couldn’t see.
She hesitated, then reached out and touched his shoulder, but he moved away from her touch as if it burned him.
“We had a telegram yesterday,” he said, the words so filled with pain that Meredith didn’t want to hear the rest, but he plowed on. “Paddy’s been killed. Mick’s missing.”
“Oh no!” Meredith searched for something she could say that might comfort him, but this loss was too big for words. When they’d received the news about Papa, Meredith had felt hollowed out for months, even though Mama had been there to help her bear the pain. But Tommy had lost a mother, a sister and a brother all at once.
“You must eat something,” she said at last. “You won’t be any help to Bernadette if you get sick.
“Come sit in the kitchen,” she said, opening the back door. Keeping Tommy outside was senseless after what he’d been through. “I’ll get you something. It’ll only take a minute.”
She put the kettle on to boil, and then cut a thick slice of cheese and sandwiched it between two slabs of bread. When the tea was ready, she stirred two heaping spoons of sugar into his cup, thinking he needed it more than any soldiers. Mama always said that hot, sweet tea was the best thing for shock.
Although he’d said he wasn’t hungry, Tommy tore into the sandwich and drained his cup, and Meredith was glad to see some color come back to his cheeks. She set about making a second sandwich.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Tommy replied. “I don’t even know why I came here. I wanted to yesterday, after…after Mary…but I couldn’t leave Bernie, not after that.”
Meredith imagined a little girl, crying, sitting alone on the floor beside a bed where two bodies lay. She was almost afraid to ask, but then the thought of what Tommy had faced gave her courage. “Your mama and Mary…are they at home?”
Tommy shook his head. “The undertakers came down our street last night.” His voice caught, and he took a deep breath before continuing, “They call out and ring a bell so you can bring the…them…out in front of the house. We’re lucky they came. Mrs. Hainey next door says some folks have waited two days or more.”
He’d carried his mama and his sister out of the house all by himself so the undertakers could take them away. Meredith shuddered even as she marveled at how brave he’d been.
“I told Mrs. Hainey I was coming here this afternoon,” Tommy went on. “She said Bernie could bang on the wall if she needed anything. Mrs. Hainey won’t set foot in our house for fear of the flu, but she’s been kind to us.”
Meredith handed him the second sandwich wrapped in a napkin. Tommy tucked it into a pocket in his jacket.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep it for Bernie. Mrs. Hainey brings us soup from St. Patrick’s and leaves it on the step, but Bernie’s awfully tired of soup.”
“Who’s Bernie? And who are you?”
Maggie stood just inside the door from the hallway, her hands on her hips, her hair tangled about her face. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” Maggie went on, “although I don’t know that it matters anymore.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” Tommy said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait!” Meredith exclaimed. She couldn’t bear to think of Bernie and Tommy all alone in the cheerless house where their family had died. “I’ve got an idea.”
As Tommy stood by, Meredith explained to Maggie about Tommy and his family. Several times while she was speaking, Tommy looked as if he wanted to say something, but he only shifted from foot to foot and kept his eyes on the cap in his hands.
“All of them?” Maggie looked at Tommy, eyes wide.
Meredith nodded. “Except for Bernie, and she’s getting better.” She took a deep breath. “What if they came to stay here?”
Tommy looked up at that. “I didn’t come for charity,” he protested. He turned toward Meredith. “I know you’re only trying to help, but—”
“It’s out of the question,” Maggie said firmly. “We’ve got our hands full as it is.”
“But that’s just it,” Meredith said eagerly. “It wouldn’t be charity, and it would help us. Tommy can help with laundry, and meals, and fetch coal, and—”
“What about his sister?” Maggie broke in. “Won’t she need looking after?”
“She’s on the mend. She could play with Harry. He’s feeling so much better, and it’s hard for us to keep an eye on him now.”
“But what if she gets sick again? Or he does?” Maggie motioned toward Tommy. “It’d mean more work, not less.”
“The newspaper hasn’t reported anyone getting sick a second time,” Meredith said. “And Tommy’s like you and me: he stayed healthy while everyone around him was getting sick.”
Maggie frowned.
Meredith grabbed at another idea. “You could even send Tommy to the hospital,” she said, “to take a message to your father. Tommy would find a way to deliver it in person.”
Maggie blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You said yourself it’s too much, all of this, for just you and me,” Meredith plowed on. “There’s even an empty bedroom on the third floor. It’s perfect.”
“It would be good to have help,” Maggie said slowly. “All right. For now. Until Papa comes.”
Meredith felt as if she’d surged across the finish line of a footrace, only the prize for this was better than any ribbon. They’d finally have the help they so desperately needed.
“So I’m to bring Bernie here?” Tommy looked at Maggie as if she’d suddenly started speaking another language. “We’re to stay here? In this house?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?” Maggie looked cross. “But don’t think it’s going to be a holiday.”
“Thank you, miss!” Tommy crossed the floor and grabbed Maggie’s hand. He shook it as though he were manning a pump for the fire brigade. “I’m a hard worker, and Bernie will be no trouble. You won’t be sorry.”
Chapter 28
After Tommy left, Meredith washed the dishes and hung the tea towel to dry on the rack by the range. The quiet in the kitchen unsettled her. Before the Spanish Flu, Forrest might have been coming in from outside, stamping his feet on the mat, while Jack clatte
red in from the hall and Harry lurked near the sugar bowl.
Never mind, Meredith told herself. Tommy would be back soon with Bernadette. Then there’d be noise and, best of all, help.
Meredith set a pot of water to boil, and then fetched the tub of oatmeal and a box of raisins from the pantry. Harry might manage porridge for his supper if she sugared it well. She could make a face on top with raisins like she’d done for Ellen at home, back when there’d been money for raisins.
She leaned against the counter as she waited for the water to boil. When Mama made porridge, the chipped lid of the white enamel pot would rattle cheerfully as the water bubbled. Ellen would hop around the kitchen, singing in her funny way as she set the table. Mama would spoon the steaming porridge into three blue-and-white striped bowls, sprinkling Ellen’s and Meredith’s with precious brown sugar while only pretending to sprinkle some on her own.
Meredith stirred the oatmeal vigorously into the boiling water, the spoon knocking against the sides of the pot. Memories of the cozy kitchen in Port Stuart made her miss home too much. It was better to keep busy.
The kitchen clock had stopped sometime in the night, so there was no friendly tick-tock to keep her company. The only sound from outside was the faint chick-a-dee-dee-dee of the little birds she could see hopping from branch to branch in the rosebushes under the kitchen window. She couldn’t remember when it had last been this quiet; Mrs. Butters’ noisy wheezing had become a constant accompaniment to everything she did.
There was no accompaniment now.
The wooden spoon clattered into the pot as Meredith rushed to Mrs. Butters’ side. Her eyes fastened on the rough wool blanket over the cook’s chest. She sank to the floor beside the settee.
“Mrs. Butters!” She stretched her hand out, and then drew it back again, afraid her fingers might discover something other than everything being all right.
The cook’s eyelids fluttered open. “Ben?” Her voice was like a rusty gate.
“It’s me, Mrs. Butters! Meredith!” She grabbed Mrs. Butters’ hand, warm as fresh-baked bread, not burning with fever.
“Where’s Ben?” Mrs. Butters peered at Meredith. Close up, Meredith could still hear a wheeze, but nothing like before.
“Ben’s in France, Mrs. Butters. He’s fine. You’re fine.” She squeezed the cook’s hand. “You’ve been so sick.” The words tripped over each other. “How do you feel? Do you want some water? Are you hungry?”
Mrs. Butters coughed, a rattle that shook her body and threatened to go on and on. Meredith slid her arm across the cook’s back and eased her forward as she groped for the basin on the floor beside the settee. She thumped Mrs. Butters’ back as the cook coughed up horrible, yellow-green stuff that fell into the basin. When the coughing ended, Meredith listened anxiously as Mrs. Butters’ breathing settled down to even breaths, not jagged ones, and much less wheezing.
“Water?” Mrs. Butters whispered.
Meredith ran to the kitchen tap and filled a glass. Her hands shook so much that she slopped water onto the floor as she carried it back. Mrs. Butters sucked at the water, and then drew her head back from the glass.
“Good,” Mrs. Butters murmured.
“It’s better than good! It’s wonderful!” Meredith smoothed Mrs. Butters’ hair, and then briefly touched the back of her hand to Mrs. Butters’ forehead. “Your fever’s broken,” she whispered. “I think you’re going to be fine.”
Mrs. Butters’ black button eyes looked up, straight into Meredith’s. “Good girl,” she whispered.
Meredith had raced upstairs to tell Maggie the good news about Mrs. Butters, but now she hesitated at the doorway to Harry’s room. Maggie and Harry were playing Snakes and Ladders at the small table under the window while Jack slept, the sound of his labored breathing filling the room. Harry crowed as Maggie slid her token down a long snake, and Maggie looked happier than she had in days. Neither had spotted her, so Meredith left them to have their fun. Her good news would keep.
She trudged upstairs and looked in on Parker, who seemed to be sleeping quietly. She was jangly with excitement over Mrs. Butters, too unsettled to remain with Parker, glad to leave him undisturbed for the time being. She decided to wait for Tommy outside, so she hastened down the stairs and only just remembered to take the pot of porridge off the stove. She slipped out the back door, waving to a dozing Mrs. Butters.
The late afternoon sun made her blink after so much time inside. She filled her lungs with fresh air scented by the few remaining roses. Whistling, she walked around to the front of the house and down the driveway to the stone gatepost. When she’d first arrived, the graceful letters chiseled there seemed to mean elegant and wonderful, but they’d turned out to mean nothing but work and worry.
The newspaper had been delivered to the gate. There it was again—the headline “Yesterday’s Dead”—posted over a grim list of the names and addresses of the people in Toronto who’d died from the Spanish Flu the day before, the same way the paper listed the names of soldiers who’d died overseas. It seemed to her that the Spanish Flu was like an invading army, leaving grief in its wake as it spewed casualties.
But Mrs. Butters wasn’t a casualty, she reminded herself. Mrs. Butters was getting better.
Would Jack? Would Parker?
Meredith swung her arms to help shake away the dark thoughts until the swinging started her twirling and the twirling made her dizzy. She wanted to be dizzy. She wanted to spin around so fast that she’d shoot up through the trees and soar over Toronto, following the train tracks all the way to Port Stuart.
“Look, Bernie! A dancing fairy!”
Meredith grabbed the gatepost. When the world stopped whirling, she saw Tommy towing a wagon piled with bedding. A pink knitted hat was pulled right down to the eyebrows of a small, white face peeking out of the pile like a cherry on a cupcake.
“It’s not,” said the person under the hat. “It’s a girl.”
“It’s a fairy in disguise,” Tommy said.
“It’s a rotten disguise,” Meredith said as they drew to a stop in front of her. “Fairies don’t do kitchen work.”
“Kitchen work or not, you’re the Good Fairy for Bernie and me.” Tommy lifted his sister. The quilt she’d been wrapped in fell back into the wagon.
“You’re a load of bricks, Bernie!” he exclaimed. “You’ll have to walk.”
Bernie shook her head and then buried her face in his shoulder. Tommy hiked her higher in his arms and sighed.
“Never mind,” Meredith said. “We’re only going as far as the kitchen for now.”
“Good thing.” Tommy followed Meredith around the back of the house, grunting a little from the effort of carrying his sister.
“I’ve got a surprise,” Meredith said when they reached the back door, pleased to see Bernie’s head bob up in response.
Mrs. Butters was awake, her face brightening when she caught sight of Tommy and Bernie, but then she was seized by a fit of coughing.
“Water,” she croaked. Meredith hurried to the kitchen.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Butters gasped, once the coughing subsided and she’d swallowed some water. Tommy perched on the chair beside the settee with Bernie on his lap. Meredith bent to help Mrs. Butters sit more upright when a bell began ringing furiously from upstairs.
“Go,” Mrs. Butters urged, but Meredith was already running for the stairs.
When she reached Harry’s room, a white-faced Harry was perched at the end of his bed, frantically ringing a little brass bell. On the mattress below, Maggie was straining to keep Jack propped up while his arms and legs mashed the bedclothes. Jack’s strangled breathing ripped at the air.
“Breathe!” Maggie urged. Strands of her hair, dark with sweat, stuck to her cheeks. “You have to breathe!”
Jack’s face was the purple-red of ove
rripe plums, his eyes distended like those of Mrs. Butters in one of her coughing fits.
Meredith ran to Maggie’s side, but then Tommy elbowed past her and fell to his knees beside Jack. He shoved Jack forward and began pounding him on the back.
“Stop!” Maggie cried, slapping at Tommy’s arms. “You’ll hurt him!”
“No!” Meredith pulled her back. “It’ll help. You’ll see.”
Maggie watched uncertainly for a moment, and then she shook off Meredith’s restraining hand. She scrambled into a position in front of Jack and pulled him toward her, propping his chin on her shoulder and exposing more of his back.
“Keep going!” she cried when Tommy stopped, his fist in mid-air.
Maggie winced at each blow, but she held on. Meredith put her arms around a whimpering Harry, watching in horror as Jack fought to breathe.
One more breath, Meredith prayed with each thump, one more breath, until Jack, gagging, expelled a wad of something onto Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie recoiled at that, but she didn’t let go. Tommy’s arm hovered uncertainly, but then Jack drew a great shuddering breath that seemed to suck all the air out of the room.
Tommy sat back on his heels, panting. His eyes sought Meredith’s as Maggie eased her brother back against the footboard of the bed. Jack’s eyes were glassy, but he was breathing.
Maggie pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “You’re all right,” she said softly. “Just breathe, Jack.”
“Is—is Jack going to die?” Harry’s lip trembled as he looked up at Meredith.
Meredith blinked away the threat of tears. “No,” she said when she could speak again. “He’s doing better now. They helped him.”