‘I’ve had enough of crowds for one day… I’m certainly relieved we’re not going dancing tonight, I don’t think I’d last very long.’
‘I know what you mean, my feet are killing me too,’ Audra said, as they went down the steps into the cul-de-sac.
Before they reached the end of the flagstone path, the door of number thirty-eight flew open and Maggie stood in a circle of light, peering out into the gloomy night. ‘Audra? Laurette?’
‘Yes, it’s us,’ Audra responded, hurrying forward. She had caught an odd note in the fourteen-year-old’s voice, and a warning signal went off in her head. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s our Alfie,’ Maggie said tensely, opening the door wider, stepping aside to let them enter. ‘I think he’s right badly, Audra.’
Audra dumped her shopping bags on the floor and flew across the room without bothering to remove her coat. She bent over the bassinet in the corner of the kitchen, staring anxiously at Alfie.
She saw at once that her baby was not well. His eyes were glazed and he was obviously feverish. Her throat tightened. Pulling off her gloves, she reached out, touched his flushed cheek lightly with the tip of one finger. His little face was burning. Instantly, she became alarmed. But it was not in Audra’s nature to panic; also, because of her training as a nurse, plus Matron Lennox’s belief that she was a gifted healer, she felt confident, and certainly capable of looking after her own child when he was ill.
Straightening up, she struggled out of her coat, tossed it on a chair, hurried to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.
She said to Laurette, ‘Please get me the thermometer out of the medicine chest in the cupboard near the pantry. Then clear the tea things away and put a clean towel on the table, please. I want to examine Alfie under the light and sponge him down, to cool him. Could you also bring his toilet basket, oh, and dampen his flannel for me, would you please, whilst you’re at it?’
‘Right away.’ Laurette bustled around the kitchen, doing as Audra requested.
After Audra had washed and dried her hands, she rinsed the thermometer in cold water, placed it on the kitchen table, then went to get her child. She lifted him out of his bassinet carefully and carried him to the table, where she slipped off his cardigan and romper suit, and removed his vest and his nappy. There was gentleness and tenderness in her every movement as she handled the infant.
She took Alfie’s temperature, looked up at Laurette and shook her head. ‘It’s a hundred and four, but I’m not really surprised, he’s awfully feverish. Give me the flannel would you please, Laurette?’
‘What do you think he’s got?’ Laurette asked, sounding worried as she brought the face cloth to Audra.
‘I don’t know, it could be any one of a number of children’s ailments—measles, chicken pox, scarlet fever. On the other hand, I don’t see any sign of a rash or spots…’ She let her sentence trail off, finished sponging his fat little legs, his plump little feet, then dusted him down with Fuller’s Earth Powder. As she began to dress him again, she said to Laurette, without looking up, ‘But he does have such a high temperature. I wonder if I ought to give him a Fenning’s Fever Powder? Or some gripe water? No, I’d better not. I think I have to send for the doctor.’
Laurette nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you should.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘If only Mike were here he could examine Alfie. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him and Vincent.’
‘I can run down for Doctor Stalkley,’ Maggie volunteered, her voice shrill and anxious.
‘Yes, I think you’d better,’ Audra murmured, lifting Alfie in her arms, taking him back to his bassinet. Turning to face Maggie, she said, ‘But before you do, tell me everything you can about the way Alfie acted this afternoon, what time you realized he wasn’t well, and any symptoms you noticed—anything odd about him.’
Maggie had been worried out of her wits for hours. She had been afraid to take Alfie to the doctor’s surgery, for fear of endangering him further; for the same reason, she had not dared to leave him alone whilst she went to fetch the doctor. Now she was not only nervous but on the verge of tears.
She said, with a tremor, ‘Vincent and Mike went off to the football match at about one. Just after that, our Alfie started to cry, and he kept crying off an’ on for ages, and he was ever so fratchy and that’s not like him, he’s allus so good. I kept going to check on him, Audra, honest I did, to see if he was all right, to see if he was wet. But his nappy was dry and there was no pin sticking in him. Then a bit later, it must’ve been three or so, I saw how red he was getting. It was ever so hot in here and I took him into the sitting room to cool him down. We sat there a bit. I was nursing him on my lap, singing to him, and he started to vomit, and in ever such a funny way, Aud—’
‘Describe the vomiting,’ Audra interjected, stiffening.
‘I don’t know how to, it’s difficult to describe,’ Maggie wailed and looked at Audra, conscious of the sudden change in her sister-in-law. Audra’s acute anxiety had instantly transmitted itself to Maggie.
‘Try.’
Maggie gulped, remained mute, wracking her brains for the right words.
‘Please try.’
Maggie nodded. She took a deep breath, said, ‘The vomit sort of came straight out of him. It was like somebody gave him a big thump on his back and knocked it out. I don’t know how to explain it proper like, Audra, I don’t really. What was funny was that Alfie didn’t heave, or do owt like that.’
Maggie shook her head. ‘It must sound ever so strange, and it was queer, but that’s what happened. Oh the poor little mite, whatever can be the matter with him?’
Projectile vomiting, Audra thought, with a stab of dread. That is what Maggie had tried so hard to describe. Oh my God. Meningitis. It simply can’t be. Audra stood very still, knowing that it was imperative she keep a firm hold on herself, that she stay absolutely calm and clear-headed. For her baby’s sake she must not permit emotion to cloud intelligence and judgement.
Swallowing her apprehension, Audra turned to the crib and peered down at Alfie. He looked so listless, and he was as flushed as before.
‘Hurry to the doctor’s, Maggie,’ Audra instructed. ‘Tell Doctor Stalkley that Alfie is ill, and that he must come immediately.’
Maggie shot across the kitchen and snatched her coat from the cupboard. ‘What do you think’s wrong with our little ‘un then, Audra? It’s not summat serious, is it?’
‘I can’t be certain, but the vomiting and the high fever do worry me.’
‘I’ll tell t’doctor about both them things,’ Maggie said, pivoting at the front door. ‘And I’ll run all the way there, and as fast as me legs’ll carry me, so don’t you worry.’
The moment they were alone, Laurette asked anxiously, ‘Audra, whatever is it? You’ve turned as white as a sheet. What on earth is wrong with Alfie? You must have some idea.’
‘I’m not sure, really I’m not,’ Audra replied, striving to keep her voice steady, not daring to say the name of that most ghastly illness. She had seen two children die of it when she had been a nurse at the Fever Hospital and their suffering had been pitiful to witness.
Laurette stood up. ‘Well, you look awful, and I’m going to make us a pot of tea.’ She hurried to the sink to fill the kettle, glad to keep busy. She wished Mike were here. His presence was always comforting; Audra trusted him, had faith in his judgement.
Audra sat up slightly in the easy chair, thinking hard. She had committed a great deal of medical information to memory in the past. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she pictured the page of her hospital text book which dealt with meningitis. She sat staring into space, saw every word on that page quite clearly, as though someone held the book in front of her. Meningitis: Acute inflammation of the membranes of the brain and spinal cord, or both. Also called ‘spotted fever’, due to extensive spotting of the skin in severe cases. Symptoms: Severe headache, high fever, frequently neck and back rigidity; also twitching or convulsions. Severe
vomiting is common; known as projectile vomiting due to sudden ejection of vomit to some distance; spotting of skin in severe cases; delirium, coma.
Once more, Audra leapt to her feet and rushed over to the bassinet. Her eyes flicked over Alfie, seeking signs of the symptoms she now so clearly recalled. But she saw nothing unusual. The child remained flushed, but there was no evidence of twitching or convulsions, or neck rigidity, and certainly there had been no rash on his body when she had examined him a few minutes earlier.
She let out a sigh of relief. Of course it’s not meningitis, she told herself. How could it be? Anyway, Alfie’s probably coming down with a winter cold, or influenza at the worst. But his high fever, what about his high fever? a small voice nagged at the back of her mind.
Alfie began to cry, wiping this thought right out of her head. She bent over the bassinet, reaching for him.
‘Hush, sweetheart, hush, my little darling,’ she murmured, holding him tenderly against her breast. She smoothed her hand over his dark head and across his small back, hushing him softly. Immediately, Alfie stopped crying and nestled into her. Audra walked up and down, soothing him, murmuring to him gently, and she was filled with such love for her child she thought her heart was going to burst.
And as she continued to pace back and forth in front of the fire, desperately trying to give comfort to her tiny son, she began to pray. Oh please, God, don’t let anything happen to my baby. Protect my little Alfie, please keep him safe and make him well again, she entreated silently. And she kept repeating the words over and over again as she waited for the doctor to come.
CHAPTER 21
Alfie died.
His death was so unexpected, so swift, that everyone was stunned and disbelieving. One minute he was a healthy, robust baby, laughing and gurgling in his crib, the next he was gone from them.
On that fateful Saturday evening, Doctor Stalkley had come to the cottage at once, following sharply on the heels of Vincent and Mike, who had walked in from the football match a few minutes before.
After examining Alfie, neither the doctor nor Mike believed that he had meningitis. Despite the peculiar vomiting in the afternoon, which had not recurred, his only symptoms were the feverishness and the high temperature. ‘Not enough to go on,’ Doctor Stalkley had said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning, but meanwhile keep a close eye on him, Audra.’ Picking up his Gladstone bag, striding to the coat closet, he had motioned to Maggie. ‘Now, lassie,’ the old Scotsman had said, ‘you’d best be coming back to my surgery with me, and I’ll give you a drop of medicine for the wee bairn.’
Because the doctor and Mike had been so hopeful for Alfie’s recovery from whatever it was that ailed him, Audra and Vincent had taken heart. Following the doctor’s instructions explicitly, they had watched over Alfie all weekend, had not left him alone for one moment.
Audra had sponged him down frequently, to keep him cool and refreshed; she had given him the fever medicine at the prescribed times and had generally tended to him with all the skills of the professional nurse that she was. And she had hardly closed her eyes during that time.
But Audra did not care about sleep. Alfie was the only thing that mattered to her and Vincent. By Sunday night the entire Crowther family believed that Alfie was over the worst of his mysterious ailment. The febrile look had vanished from his eyes and the scarlet flush had disappeared from his plump cheeks.
But on Monday morning, just before noon, the child had a relapse.
Audra’s worst fears had been confirmed.
Alfie had started to have convulsions and the tiny spots, which looked like bright red pin pricks, had begun to appear on his milky skin. Endeavouring to control her terrible fear for her child, Audra had wrapped him in several woollen shawls and rushed to the doctor’s surgery.
Doctor Stalkley had taken one look at Alfie and shaken his head. After a rapid examination he had dispatched Audra to St Mary’s Hospital, just a short distance away. He promised to visit Alfie as soon as his morning surgery was over, when he started his daily rounds in the district.
Whilst she had waited for Alfie to be admitted to the children’s ward, Audra had cradled him in her arms, cooing to him softly, fighting back her tears. It had been wrenching to leave him, but she had no choice. And she had fervently wished that she was a nurse at St Mary’s, so that she could care for her beloved child herself.
***
Four days later Alfie came home to them in a small pine coffin.
Burdened with sorrow, Vincent dragged himself to every window in the cottage, closing the curtains to shut out the light until after the funeral, as was the custom in the North.
And then he went to comfort his wife.
Audra was inconsolable.
‘Why couldn’t I make him better?’ she kept asking Vincent as she stood by the side of the open coffin, blinded by her scalding tears. ‘Matron Lennox says I’m an exceptional nurse,’ she sobbed, ‘so why couldn’t I make our baby get well?’
‘Audra… Audra love, nobody could have helped our poor little Alfie. It’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault. Meningitis is generally fatal in small babies. Mike told me so,’ Vincent said quietly, ‘and you know that yourself, lovey.’
‘I should have kept him at home, nursed him myself, not left him to strangers,’ she cried, clutching Vincent’s arm, staring at him wildly. ‘If I hadn’t let Alfie go into the hospital, he’d be alive. He would, I just know he would!’
‘No, love, that’s not true,’ Vincent said gently, drawing her to him, smoothing her hair away from her ravaged face. ‘They did their very best up at St Mary’s, more than their best; they fought hard for Alfie’s life. It just wasn’t meant to be, Audra love.’
Vincent led her out of the sitting room where the coffin stood, and took her back to the kitchen. He held her in his arms and tried to give her solace and her tears drenched the front of his shirt as they wept together for the child whom they so loved.
Eliza and Alfred came to see their dead grandchild, to share the grief of their son and daughter-in-law, to offer condolences and do what they could to help.
Alfred, the ex-sergeant-major of the Seaforth Highlanders, who considered himself to be so tough, broke down and sobbed quite openly at the coffin. He was profoundly moved at the sight of Alfie, his namesake. In death, the child’s beauty seemed more potent than ever and perfect in its wax-like state. For a moment Alfie looked as if he was merely sleeping. But when Alfred bent over and kissed the delicate cheek its immense coldness struck him like a knife in the chest and he clutched at Eliza’s arm. She tried to comfort him as best she could, though her own sorrow was enormous.
When they joined Vincent and Audra in the kitchen a while later, Alfred looked around him, as if dazed, and asked in a shaken voice, ‘Why? Why has our little Alfie’s life been snuffed out? He was only a baby, and nothing but pure joy and innocence… tell me why he has been taken from us so cruelly.’
No one had an answer for Alfred: there was no answer.
CHAPTER 22
It was a golden day in late October, one of those especially glorious Indian Summer days that so often occur in the autumn, just before the harsh winter sets in. The sky was the colour of speedwells, luminous in the sunlight, and the breeze was light, almost warm.
What a grand afternoon it is, Vincent thought, lifting his eyes, enjoying the radiance of the day. I hope this weather lasts ’til the weekend. Turning off Town Street, he increased his pace as he heard the church clock strike three. He was heading down Ridge Road in the direction of H. E. Varley and Son, Builders, and he did not want to be late for his appointment with Mr Fred Varley.
It was a Thursday, almost the end of a week that had been exceptionally hard. He had pushed his men relentlessly to finish the warehouse they were building onto Pinfold’s woollen mill, and by noon tomorrow the job would be completed. No doubt that was why Mr Varley wanted to see him, to congratulate him, and there was bound to be a nice bonus for himself and h
is crew.
At the thought of a little extra money, Vincent began to whistle and he stepped out jauntily. He touched his cap, smiled and nodded as he passed the vicar’s wife near Christ Church Vicarage, and then crossed the road. A few seconds later he was entering the builder’s office and greeting Maureen, Mr Varley’s secretary.
‘Hello, love,’ he said, taking off his cap, giving her a broad smile. ‘Mr Varley sent for me.’
‘Good afternoon, Vincent,’ Maureen replied and nodded her head towards the door. ‘You can go in, he’s waiting for you.’
Mr Varley was speaking on the telephone, but as Vincent hove in view in the doorway, he immediately said goodbye, hung up and beckoned for Vincent to enter.
‘There you are, lad, come in, come in, and sit yourself down.’
‘Thanks, Mr Varley.’ Vincent lowered himself into the chair facing the desk. ‘The Pinfold job will be finished tomorrow at noon,’ he went on. ‘The lads have done right well, Mr Varley, and I know you’ll be pleased when you see the warehouse. It’s a bit of good building work, even though I do say so myself.’
‘Aye, I’m sure it is, lad, you’re a good worker, and a good foreman, the best I’ve ever had, in fact.’ Fred Varley cleared his throat. ‘That’s why it’s so hard for me to tell you this… I’ve got some right bad news for you, I’m afraid, Vincent, I do that. I’m going to have to shut up shop.’
Vincent stared at him, for a moment uncomprehending. ‘Close down?’ he said swiftly, raising his brows. ‘Close Varley’s?’
‘Aye lad—as of tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God!’ Vincent was shocked. ‘I don’t understand,’ he began, and then faltered, as all of the implications sank in.
‘I’m going to have to go into bankruptcy, I’ve no alternative,’ Varley said.
‘But why? We’ve had a lot of jobs in the last few months—’
‘Aye, I knows we have, lad,’ Mr Varley cut in, ‘but some of the buggers haven’t paid up yet, and I’ve no bloody idea when they will. I’ve been operating on credit for a hell of a long time, Vincent, and I’m so heavily into the bank I don’t dare borrow more, and I doubt that they’d lend it to me now, anyway. I’m mortgaged up to the hilt.’ Shaking his head sadly, he finished, ‘There’s no two ways about it, I’ve got to cut my losses. Only one way to do that… close down.’
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