“I see you’ve clipped the stems,” Clara said, running her fingers through Billy’s curls. He gave her such a smile, and she felt a sharp pain in her left breast. “You are a fine gardener,” Clara said. “I wish I didn’t have to go back to the hospital.”
Ivy came rushing out onto the back stoop. “Can we listen to the birds go to sleep?” she asked.
“If you promise not to argue about bedtime,” Clara said, laughing. She hugged Billy and Ivy as they sat on the last step quietly watching the moon replace the sun. The chatter of birds gave way to rustlings in the woods.
“We were supposed to watch over Daddy,” Ivy said, looking up. “But now he’s looking down on us.”
Clara’s hands brushed over Ivy’s wet cheeks. “He sees us, my darlings. I’m sure of that.”
The aroma of suet pudding, simmering on the stove for three hours, had permeated the house. “Oh, this will taste good,” said Clara. Slow cooking of tough meat encased in a suet crust was part of her childhood. Wartime had restored the pudding to favour.
“Can we visit you at the hospital, Mummy?” Ivy asked. “Mrs. Drake can bring us on the train.”
“I wish that were possible. But there is something very contagious going around the hospital. Not even adult visitors are allowed. I will just have to come home more often.” Clara was grateful her children didn’t detect the doubt in her voice. The sickness had left the hospital short-staffed.
“Give your face the once-over,” Clara said, passing each child a warm wet cloth.
“Mrs. Drake makes us have a bum bath twice a week,” Ivy said, giggling.
“She doesn’t like to put on the water tank,” Billy added.
Clara feigned disapproval at the rude word, but inwardly she laughed and recalled how she had been spanked for using such a word. She had had to write fifty times “not bum but bottom.”
“Ah, but Mummy gave you a full bath. And I let you splash around until the water got cold.” Clara made an exaggerated shiver. “Brrrr.”
Billy and Ivy pulled their pajamas from under their pillows and began arguing as to whose bed Clara would sit on to listen to them read.
“I won’t listen to anyone until your clothes are folded. Why don’t I compromise and sit on Ivy’s bed first and let Billy start the story.”
“Girls should go first,” Ivy retorted.
“You are a bossy toad,” Clara said.
Billy read a few pages, and then laid the book on his lap. “My eyes hurt, Mummy. I don’t want to read.”
“All right, give the book to Ivy.” She switched over to sit on Billy’s bed and put her hand on his forehead. “Your head feels warm.”
“But I’m cold,” Billy said. Clara tucked blankets around him. There was no thermometer in the house; she had taken hers to Maidenhead when there had been an urgent plea for medical supplies.
Ivy had stopped reading.
“Go on with the story,” Clara urged. “I want to know who’s going to win, the tortoise or the hare.”
“I don’t want to read, either.”
“All right. Both of you snuggle down, and I’ll tell a story after I get something to cool Billy down.”
Clara came back with a mixture of water and alcohol and began sponging Billy’s head.
“Does Billy have flu, Mummy?” Ivy asked.
“Of course not. It must have been something he ate,” said Clara. “It doesn’t surprise me with this shortage of fresh food.”
Billy closed his eyes, complaining of a headache, and promptly vomited.
Clara turned off the lamp and shouted down to Mrs. Drake, who was clattering away in the kitchen. “Edna, call Dr. Westoll. His home number is beside the telephone. His wife will know where to find him. Tell him it’s an emergency.” She wiped Billy’s face and propped him up. “Ivy, wait downstairs until the doctor comes.” Ivy began to cry.
“You’ll be fine, little man.” She knew the symptoms and prayed to a merciful God. Half an hour later, Dr. Westoll came rushing into the bedroom wearing a face mask. He examined Billy’s pupils and put a thermometer under his tongue. He put on eyeglasses after shaking it. “His temperature is one hundred and two. If it continues to go up, he risks having a febrile convulsion.” Clara stiffened at his words. “All you can do is sponge him to lower his temperature. Billy’s a sturdy six-year-old. He’ll pull through. I’m sure this will be a short-lived virus.”
Mrs. Drake was standing at the bedroom door holding Dr. Westoll’s hat and coat. She followed him down the stairs. Clara sat on the side of the bed wringing out the cloth and sponging Billy’s forehead and chest. Her mind reeled at the rapid onset. Mere hours earlier she had been admiring how he had put his prized rose garden to bed.
After an hour, Mrs. Drake came upstairs to ask if she should take Ivy to her house and let her teenage daughter stand by in case the doctor was needed.
“Yes, I think it best that Ivy leave,” Clara said. Her eyes looked frantic, but her movements were deliberate and slow.
“Put on your clothes, Ivy, and I’ll get your hat and coat,” Mrs. Drake said. Ivy’s face was a frightened mask as she descended the stairs.
Around midnight Billy’s body arched in a severe convulsion. An hour later he had another and Clara called down for the Drake girl to get Dr. Westoll.
“He’s here,” the girl called in reply, and a moment later the doctor came into the room.
“The young lady fetched me after the first seizure,” he said. “Rather than go home I just napped on your sofa. My wife knew where to find me if there was another emergency.” The doctor put his stethoscope on Billy’s chest. He sat down beside Clara and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Prepare for the worst,” he said to Clara. “I don’t think Billy will make it to morning.” His eyes filled with tears. “I brought Billy into the world. I never thought I’d see him out. What have we done to deserve this flu, after losing so many to win the war?”
Billy’s temperature stayed relentlessly high. Clara’s arms had become expert at knowing when a life had succumbed, and in the early morning, one week after the glorious truce, Billy died.
Dr. Westoll told Clara what she already knew: “Had Billy survived such severe convulsions he would have lived the rest of his life handicapped or brain damaged in some way.”
Clara grieved to the point of sickness, but returned nevertheless to Maidenhead Hospital after two weeks, believing she could bury her sorrow. But trying to save the lives around her only highlighted how helpless she had been to save her own son. As she cared for the wounded soldiers she tried to comfort herself that some mother would be happy. But her drawn face and thin body were visible reminders that she had suffered a double loss. Seeing Clara sobbing in a supply cupboard, the matron ordered her to take more time to grieve.
“Young Ivy will be a comfort to you if you return home for a few weeks,” the matron said. “We can manage.” She unexpectedly put her arms around Clara and smiled. “I know you don’t believe that, Sister Durling.”
Clara’s eyes smiled through her tears.
By late spring, Billy’s death had become a diffuse ache through Clara’s entire body. She scratched about in his small rose garden imagining her son’s delight at the appearance of early buds. Billy would have checked on the new growth repeatedly, not wanting to miss the first flowering. Clara had met her son’s expectant behaviour with “Watched kettles never boil.” The memory of her adage produced a flood of tears, but she brushed them away and forced