How can she be ill? In what state is she? gasped Eleanors motherinlaw. Shes in a deep sleep. Its nothing serious, a slight fever, everythings fine, winters begun.
Thats not just winter! Its your job that brings all that junk home from the checkout! How many times must I tell youchange your work!
Eleanor was drifting in slumber when a sudden clatter shattered the quietsomeone had ripped open the front door. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glanced at the clock: only eight oclock in the morning.
Oliver, darling, is that you? she asked, her voice trembling, listening to the sounds that fluttered through the flat.
No answer came. She heard only the soft scrape of a door opening onto the bathroom, then a hush.
She threw on a cotton dressing gown, slipped barefoot into the bathroom, and flung the door wide.
There, standing before the mirror, was Oliver, his lips stretched in a grin, his tongue lolling out.
Eleanor, is it true that a person whos ill has a white tongue? he asked, his tone oddly curious.
Are you saying youre ill? she murmured, half asleep.
Perhaps, Oliver replied, touching his forehead with a worried finger. I need a thermometer. Where did we put it? Let me lie down. Theyve even given me the day off from the factory. We might have to call a doctor.
Eleanor fetched the glass thermometer. It read thirtyseven point two Celsius, a whisper of fever. Winters here, she thought, as Oliver collapsed onto the bed. An hour later a doctor arrived, handed them a sick note, and left.
She dialed her mother, Martha.
Could you pick up little Samuel from nursery? He cant go homeOlivers ill.
Martha, who lived alone and adored her grandson, answered with a bright laugh.
Anything for Sam. What about Oliver? Is it serious?
Nothing out of the ordinary. The doctor gave us a note, prescribed rest.
How are you feeling? Martha asked, concern threading her voice.
Im fine! I have a second shift at work tomorrow; Ill ask my motherinlaw to look after him in the evening. Thats the plan for the whole week. Thanks, Mum.
What to do now? She needed a light chicken broth, so a quick trip to the corner shop and the chemist was in order. From the freezer she pulled out chicken thighs, and bought carrots and potatoes.
At the pharmacy she collected everything she required. Later, at lunchtime, she roused her husband.
Oliver, get up, have some broth, Eleanor nudged his shoulder.
Halfasleep, Oliver sat up on the bed.
I feel a bit queasy! Could you bring the soup to me? I cant reach the kitchen.
Is it that bad? Very well, Ill bring it. Then you can check your temperature again
He sipped the broth, she measured his temperaturestill thirtyseven point two. She handed him a couple of tablets. Oliver turned his face to the wall and slipped back into sleep. Thank heavens.
In this household a sickpay claim covered Oliver fully, but Eleanors own finances were strained; the mortgage and the car loan left no room for a lost wage. She phoned her motherinlaw again.
Agnes Whitfield, Olivers down with a fever. If you could keep an eye on him this evening, that would be wonderful. Our shop is busy tonight, and I cant reach him.
How can he be ill? In what condition? Agnes exclaimed.
Hes barely stirring. Just a mild fever, everythings normal, winters just begun.
Thats not just winter! Its your job that drags all that junk home from the till! How many times must I tell youchange your work!
Agnes, Im not weak! You yourself said Oliver could collapse at a moments notice when he was a child. The cold snap has started, so Im not to be blamed
Eleanor cut the conversation short. Agnes loved to blow up small troubles into grand dramas, and she might be at the door within the hour. Let her keep an eye on him, Eleanor thought, and I must get ready for my shift.
Sure enough, Agnes arrived, lugging boxes of herbal teas and tinctures, declaring they might help. She fussed over Olivers damp shirt, wailing,
Look at him, lying there in a soaked shirt! Hell only get worse. How could you not see this?
Agnes, he was already asleep, what could I have done?
Eleanor left for work. A few hours later weakness crept over her; she, too, felt faint. Yet she could not show it, for the shift had to be covered. In the evening she measured her own temperaturehigher than Olivers. She wanted to complain, but he was preoccupied with his own misery.
Im shivering and dizzy. Mother gave me tea with raspberries and honey; it helped a little, but by nightfall Im still uneasy. What should I take?
Youre not alone
Then take something, Oliver muttered, glancing at his own pale tongue reflected in the mirror. Its still white.
She could not afford to fall ill. Complaining would only summon endless advice from her mother, accusations from Agnes, and Oliver would stay wrapped in his own world.
The decision was made: swallow the pills quietly and keep working. Debt would not disappear on its own.
All week Oliver wallowed in his weakness, insisting the thermometer read exactly thirtyseven, yet proclaiming he felt terrible. Agnes visited often with her brews and infusions; Eleanor dreaded each encounter, her mood darkening with each knock.
Oliver remained oblivious, drifting between the television and his phone. When Eleanor returned home each night, she checked his temperature; by the fourth day it finally steadied.
His frailty lingered, but he demanded more: soup in bed, temperature checks, a drink every hour. Agnes claimed his childhood frailty foreshadowed this, that this was the first cold to strike in five years of marriage, and it was unbearable!
He crept through the week, barely managing, constantly moaning about his malaise.
The following week the doctor discharged him. Samuel was taken home. Oliver would return to work tomorrow.
Sitting at the kitchen table with an evening cup of tea, Oliver recounted:
In childhood everything passed easily, now Ive gone through something you cant imagine!
Whats so special about it? Why couldnt you bear it?
Youd know if you were in my shoes! Easy to talk when youre healthy.
I was! I had all that too, but you just never noticed.
Oliver gave her a skeptical glance, then a sly smile, as if to catch Eleanor offguard.
Joking, are you? Very well, lets go to bed.
Eleanor sighed, He never notices.
And so it was, as in that old jokeonly a woman who has given birth can truly grasp what a husband feels when his temperature hovers at thirtyseven.
