by Pat Bourke
Meredith sped down the back stairs and into the kitchen. Stacks of dirty plates, smudged glasses, and a jumble of pots and pans crowded together on the table and counters. Forrest was leaning against the archway leading to the back hall; Parker stood beside him. Meredith positioned herself behind them and craned her neck to see.
Dr. Waterton had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, despite the cold air streaming in from the open back door. He’d tied his handkerchief over his nose and mouth.
Someone had stacked pillows behind Mrs. Butters so that she was sitting nearly upright, still in her apron with her sleeves pushed up as if she’d just this moment stepped away from the stove. Meredith told herself it was the dim light in the back hall that made Mrs. Butters’ skin look so gray. She didn’t have an explanation for the faint wheezing sound as Mrs. Butters’ chest rose and fell.
The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Do you know what it is, sir?” Parker asked. He looked gray, too, in the dim light. Neither he nor Forrest had noticed Meredith arrive.
“She’s feverish, but it’s the labored breathing I’m worried about,” Dr. Waterton said, his voice somewhat muffled by the handkerchief.
“Pneumonia?” Forrest asked.
The doctor nodded. “Most likely.”
“But that’s highly infectious!” Parker exclaimed. “Are we in any danger?”
“Could…could she die?” Meredith ventured. The three men turned toward her, clearly surprised to find her in the kitchen.
“You’ve scared the lass,” Forrest said, frowning at Parker.
“We’ve a right to know,” Parker said.
“He’s not scaring me,” Meredith said. “I know about pneumonia. My grandfather died from it.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to keep that from happening here.” Dr. Waterton’s calm voice and steady gaze were meant to be reassuring, but Meredith knew what he wasn’t saying. No one was safe from pneumonia.
Mrs. Butters stirred. Meredith wondered if she could hear what they said.
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” the doctor said. “Mrs. Butters needs her rest.”
The sudden ringing of the telephone jolted Parker into action. “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” he said quickly. He scuttled across the kitchen and disappeared through the door to the front hall.
Dr. Waterton sat in the chair at the head of the kitchen table, and pushed the handkerchief off his face and down around his neck. “Sit down, Forrest. You, too, Meredith. Is Harry asleep?”
“Yes, sir.” Meredith took the chair beside Forrest. At the other end of the table, a tower of coffee cups tilted precariously over the remains of the cake, where a lone rosette tried its best to look jaunty. The kitchen clock showed it was past eleven, its stately tick-tock measuring the worried silence. Meredith realized Jack and Maggie must have gone to bed.
Forrest cleared his throat. “You think it could be the Spanish Flu,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Could be,” Dr. Waterton said.
Forrest swore under his breath. “What do we do?”
“You’ll need to wear something over your nose and mouth when you’re near her, like this,” the doctor said, pointing to the handkerchief. “It might help protect against the germs.”
“Might, sir?” Forrest echoed the question in Meredith’s mind.
“If it is the Spanish Flu—and it’s only an ‘if’ right now—then it spreads by airborne germs—by coughing or sneezing, for example,” the doctor said.
Meredith remembered one of the guests saying the Germans put flu in their bombs. Was that what he meant by germs?
“You should change the mask every two hours,” the doctor continued, “and boil it before you use it again to kill any germs.”
The door from the hall swung open. “It was the hospital, sir,” Parker said. “You’re needed.”
“Thank you, Parker. Join us, please.”
“Of course,” Parker said promptly, taking a seat at the table, but his flared nostrils indicated his displeasure.
“I’m explaining about Mrs. Butters,” Dr. Waterton said. “Keep the window and door in the back hall open as much as you can. The cold might help bring down her fever, and fresh air should help clear the germs away. Wash your hands after you’ve touched her.”
One, two, three ticks from the kitchen clock. Parker cleared his throat. “If Mrs. Butters is as ill as that,” he began, “surely she should be in hospital?”
For once, Meredith agreed with him.
Dr. Waterton looked at Parker over the tops of his glasses. “There’s nothing we can do for her there that can’t be done here. In fact, she’ll likely be better off here with you. It will be quieter, for one thing, so she’ll get more rest. If the Spanish Flu spreads across the city, the hospitals—all of them—will be bedlam.”
“Then we should send her home,” Parker suggested. Two spots of bright color flamed on his cheeks. “She’d be more comfortable in her own bed.”
“But there’s no one there,” Meredith said.
The doctor raised his eyebrows.
“At her house, I mean,” Meredith explained. “Mrs. Butters lives alone. Her husband is dead and her son Ben is overseas.”
Dr. Waterton nodded. “I can’t in good conscience send her home to an empty house, Parker,” he said. “She’ll be better here with you.”
Parker’s eyes grew round. “With me, sir?”
“You, and Meredith,” the doctor said with a sigh. “Forrest, too, once I see what the situation is at the hospital.”
“I’ll help wherever needed, sir, of course,” Forrest said. Parker looked as if he’d bitten into a particularly sour crabapple.
“I’ll be back,” Dr. Waterton said. “You won’t be all on your own.” He reached into his bag and took out the small tin Meredith had seen him use for Harry.
“Mix this Aspirin powder with water; the directions are on the label,” he said, handing the tin to Parker. “Give her sips of plain water as often as you can. Wet her lips if she can’t drink. Sponge her face and neck every half hour with a cold, wet cloth to help bring down the fever. Sit her up if she starts to cough, or has trouble breathing. Can you do that?”
Parker’s eyes had grown wider with each instruction. Powder, water, sponge, cough, trouble, Meredith repeated the words in her head, like a list for a spelling bee.
“You’re certain we’re safe?” Parker asked, his fingers worrying a button on his vest.
“Nothing’s certain, Parker,” Dr. Waterton looked steadily at the butler. “You’re healthy, and that’s the best thing, but you’ll be safer if you take precautions. Can you manage that?”
Parker nodded slowly.
Meredith vowed she’d do her best for Mrs. Butters’ sake, and Parker would be there to help, after all. “Yes, sir,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as she felt.
“Any idea how she caught it, sir?” asked Forrest. “Elvie hasn’t been near the Base Hospital.”
“Hard to say just yet. There are suspected cases in Cabbagetown,” Dr. Waterton said.
“Mrs. O’Hagan’s from Cabbagetown!” Meredith blurted.
“O’Hagan?” Dr. Waterton frowned. “Is that the woman who comes to clean? When was she here last?”
“Hold on,” Forrest said. “Wasn’t it her little girl running around the garden with Mr. Harry earlier this week?”
“She was last here on Thursday,” Meredith said, thinking back. “That was two days ago. She had to leave early because her daughter was sick, and she couldn’t come yesterday, or today, either,” Meredith was making sense of it in her own mind as she spoke, “Her son came to tell us she was sick.”
No one said anything for a moment.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Dr. Waterton said at last. “I’m going to check on Harry. Parker, help Meredith settle Mrs. Butters here and then come upstairs. Forrest, you get the car.”
The doctor crossed the kitchen and disappeared through the door to the hall. Forrest grabbed his coat and headed out the back door.
Dr. Waterton had said not to jump to conclusions, but Meredith’s thoughts were whirling. She’d sat in Mrs. O’Hagan’s chair. She’d helped carry Mrs. Butters. She’d been sitting with Harry. If any of them had this Spanish Flu, could she get sick, too?
“The doctor’s instructions were very clear.” Parker’s dry voice wrenched her back to the kitchen. “You are to remain here with Mrs. Butters.”
“He said both of us.”
“I’m afraid you misunderstood. Although I know I shouldn’t be surprised at that, since you’ve had no training.” Parker’s lizard eyes pinned Meredith to her chair. “Dr. Waterton clearly stated that you are to take care of Mrs. Butters under my supervision.”
“That’s not what he said—” Meredith began.
“And,” Parker ignored her, surveying the cluttered kitchen, “I expect this mess to be cleared up in good time.”
“I can’t do all that. Not on my own.” Meredith hated the waver in her voice. “Can’t the cleaning up wait? What if Mr. Harry wakes up?”
“There’s no need to let our standards slip. There’s no reason you can’t carry out your duties while Mrs. Butters is sleeping.” Parker narrowed his eyes. “That is what you are paid for. And in the meantime,” he went on, “I shall personally make sure that Mr. Harry has the best possible care.”
“But it’s been such a long night—”
“There are no ‘buts’ when I am in charge.” Parker stood, brushing at the sleeves of his coat. He looked as crisply tailored as he had at the start of the evening. “I suggest you remember that.
“Unless,” he added, “you’d prefer to seek employment elsewhere?”
Meredith wanted to shriek at horrible Parker, but she merely shook her head.
“I thought not,” Parker said.
Chapter 15
Hours later, Meredith sat slumped at the kitchen table, her head on her arms, too tired to sleep. Sunlight slid across the counter and over the dishes she hadn’t had the energy to put away.
She’d sponged Mrs. Butters through the night and worked at clearing up the kitchen in an endless trudge toward morning. Now her bones ached, every one of them as heavy as Mrs. Butters’ marble rolling pin. Her shoes seemed two sizes too small for her sore feet. The tea towel she’d been using as a mask sat bunched into a soggy clump around her neck. She longed for smooth, white sheets and the comforting weight of the coverlet to calm her thoughts and take her to a blissful place with no sickness, no dishes—no Parker.
The long hands of the kitchen clock showed six-thirty. It must be Sunday morning. She wondered whether Mrs. Butters would have been busy with breakfast by now.
Meredith sat up and pushed her heavy hair back from her face. The dratted hairpins had come loose again. She shook her hair free, then bundled it into a knot behind her head and jabbed the pins into place.
She replaced the soggy towel around her neck with a fresh one from a drawer in the kitchen dresser. Three were already stewing in the copper boiler on the back of the range. It was all very well for Dr. Waterton to tell them to change their masks every two hours and boil them—he wasn’t the one who had to set them to boil, and then rinse them and hang them up to dry.
Meredith filled a small tin basin with cool water and carried it to the back hall. The cold air streaming in hadn’t brought Mrs. Butters’ fever down yet, but Meredith thought it might be keeping it from getting any higher.
Meredith dipped a cloth in the water, wrung it out, and gently dabbed at the cook’s face and neck. Mrs. Butters didn’t look any better now that it was morning—her skin was the waxy color of the lilies that had been draped across Granddad’s coffin. Meredith stroked the cook’s arm gently, wishing she could do more for this woman who had been so kind to her.
She sponged Mrs. Butters for several minutes, and then set the basin on the floor beside the settee. She stepped out onto the back porch and into the morning sunshine. On the path leading from the porch, pigeons pecked and bobbed, making throaty noises. Crows were arguing in the distance. She could hear the jingle of harness and a friendly clop-clopping of a cart horse plodding down a nearby street. The scent of damp earth and dry leaves made her think of the tins of fragrant tobacco she and Ellen stacked into pyramids in the big front window of the store.
A sudden longing for a cup of tea drew Meredith back inside. She paused by the settee to listen to Mrs. Butters’ breathing. It sounded raspy, but she couldn’t tell if it was worse than before. As she added coal to the range and set the kettle to boil, she prayed the doctor would return soon.
“I see you’re awake in good time. What have you done about breakfast?” Parker’s voice made Meredith jump. He stood just inside the door from the hall, his bald head pink and shiny, his clean, white shirt making Meredith miserably aware of her limp, creased uniform and the lacy apron spattered with stains.
“Did you hear me, girl? I asked about breakfast.” The tip of Parker’s beaky nose quivered.
No offer of help, no word of thanks. “Mrs. Butters is sick.”
“I know Mrs. Butters is sick,” Parker said testily, “but the family will be expecting breakfast.”
“There hasn’t been time.” Meredith lifted her chin. Fair was fair. “I’ve only just finished the dishes.”
“Then you’ve taken a very long time doing them,” Parker said. “I shall most certainly need to think about your suitability for this position.”
Meredith’s resolve crumbled.
“I suggest you start on breakfast,” Parker went on. “Dr. Waterton likes his coffee first thing.”
“He’s back?” Meredith asked eagerly. They’d be all right now. Even the kitchen looked brighter, somehow.
“No,” Parker said, “but it’s best to be prepared.”
Meredith’s heart sank. The long day stretched out endlessly in front of her.
“Bread and jam will do for the children,” Parker said. “You can manage that, at least?”
He thinks I’m as stupid as…as Alice, Meredith thought, bristling. “Mrs. Butters is sick and all you can think about is bread and jam?”
Parker said nothing at first, but his cold eyes froze her in place. “I am prepared to overlook that unfortunate outburst in light of the difficult night we have all had,” he said at last, “but I will not do so a second time.”
Don’t let anger be your master. Mama’s words. Parker could have her fired. He could make sure she wouldn’t get another job. Without her wages, Mama might have to sell the store.
Meredith dropped her gaze. There was no use arguing. A wave of tiredness threatened to swamp her as she turned away from Parker and headed for the pantry. Once there, she untied the lacy apron from around her waist and set it aside. She lifted her work apron from its hook and slipped it over the sad-looking, black taffeta uniform.
If I have to make breakfast, Meredith said to herself as she tied the strings behind her back, I’d better look like a cook.
Chapter 16
Meredith surveyed the hasty breakfast she’d cobbled together: some cheese, sliced apples, half a loaf of bread, a dish of Mrs. Butters’ raspberry jam. The meager offering looked decidedly bedraggled amidst the splendor of the satin walls and gleaming furniture in the dining room. It had been a ridiculous waste of time setting it all out the way Parker insisted. Jack was still sleeping, and Maggie had declared she was too tired to eat. Parker had taken a tray up to Harry but soon brought it back, untouched, because the little boy wasn’t hungry.
The telephone sounded while Meredi
th was loading the dishes onto her tray. She hoped it was the doctor, or Forrest, calling to say they’d be returning soon. Mrs. Butters’ raspy breathing was getting worse, and Meredith was sure her fever hadn’t come down at all.
“That was Forrest,” Parker reported when Meredith reached the kitchen with the laden tray. “He said the doctor will make it home as soon as he can. I asked about a nurse, but he said the hospital couldn’t spare any. Forrest himself is staying on to help until the doctor’s ready to come home, although I can’t think what he could be doing that’s so urgent.” He pushed his plate away and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.
Meredith set the tray on the counter. Knowing the doctor would be coming eased her worry about Mrs. Butters. She was gloomily contemplating the prospect of washing the dishes when a choking noise erupted in the back hall.
She reached Mrs. Butters’ side just as her jagged breathing started up again. Heart pounding, she rearranged the pillows behind Mrs. Butters to prop her more upright.
“Please get better,” Meredith whispered, but Mrs. Butters didn’t seem to know Meredith was there with her. Meredith laid her cheek against the scratchy wool of the coat draped over the comforting bulk of the cook. Looking after Mrs. Butters, cooking, washing dishes—boiling tea towels—she was trying so hard. Would it be enough?
“Your mask!” Parker’s fingers fumbled at the knotted tea towel at the back of Meredith’s neck. She jerked her head away from his touch as she tugged at the clammy cloth.
“Have you no sense?” Parker said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he was holding in front of his mouth and nose. “It won’t do any of us any good if you get sick.”
Meredith was certain Parker didn’t care whether she got sick; he just didn’t want to lose his kitchen slave.
“I’m going up to check on Mr. Harry,” Parker said briskly. “In the meantime, I suggest you make yourself presentable. You reek of vinegar.”
Once Parker turned his back, she couldn’t help sticking out her tongue. It was childish, of course, and if he caught her she’d be in no end of trouble, but at least it helped her feel less like a butterfly pinned to a collector’s board, doomed to wait for the rag with the chloroform.
