*How do you mean, poorly? What state is he in?* gasped the mother-in-law.
*Asleep. Its nothing serious, just a slight fever. Winters setting in.*
*This isnt just winter! Its that job of yoursyou bring all sorts home from that till! How many times must I say it? Find another job!*
Emily had been asleep one moment, then jolted awake the next by the loud creak of the front door swinging open. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clockonly eight in the morning!
*Oliver, love, is that you?* she called out, listening to the shuffling in the flat.
No answer. Just the sound of the bathroom door clicking open, then silence.
Emily threw on her dressing gown and hurried barefoot down the hall.
She pushed the door open and froze.
There stood Oliver, stretching his lips in the mirror, examining his tongue.
*Emily, is it true that when someones poorly, their tongue goes white?*
*Are you poorly?* she mumbled, still half-asleep.
*Think so,* he murmured, pressing a hand to his forehead. *Need the thermometer. Where is it? I ought to lie down. They even sent me home from work. Might need the doctor.*
She fetched the thermometer. Sure enough98.9°F. Just like that, winter had arrived, and Oliver was under the weather. The GP came within the hour, signed him off work.
Emily rang her mum.
*Could you pick Charlie up from nursery? Olivers poorlydont want him bringing it home.*
Her mother was delightedshe doted on her grandson, living alone as she did, and Charlie was her joy.
*Whats wrong with Oliver? Nothing serious?*
*No, just a bug. The GPs been, gave him a sick note. Well manage.*
*And how are you feeling?* her mum fretted.
*Fine! Im on the late shift at workIll ask his mum to check on him tonight. Shops always busy eveningsI wont have time to call. So, late shifts all week. Ah well. Thanks, Mum.*
Right then. Some light chicken soup, but that meant a dash to the shopspharmacy first, then pull the chicken thighs from the freezer, grab carrots and potatoes.
At the chemists, she got everything. At lunch, she shook Oliver awake.
*Come on, up you getsoups ready.*
Oliver groaned, sitting up.
*Feel a bit queasy. Can you bring it here? Cant face the kitchen.*
*That bad? Fine, Ill fetch it. Then check your temp again*
After soup and another readingstill 98.9°Fshe gave him tablets. He rolled over, facing the wall, and drifted off. Thank goodness. She couldnt afford to catch thisOliver got full sick pay, but at the shop? Not a chance. And with the bills piling up, she *couldnt* fall ill. She rang her mother-in-law.
*Margaret, Olivers poorly. If you could pop in tonightjust to check on him.*
*Poorly? Whats wrong with him?*
*Just resting. Slight fever. Winter, you know.*
*Winter, my foot! Its that till of yoursdragging germs home! How many times must I tell you? Get another job!*
*Margaret, Im fine! Youve said yourselfOliver was always poorly as a lad. Frosts settling in, nothing to do with me.*
She cut the call before Margaret could spiral. Give it an hour, and shed be on the doorstep. Finelet her fuss. Emily had work soon anyway.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived, arms laden with herbal remedies.
*Lying there in a damp T-shirtno wonder hes worse! How could you not notice?*
*He was asleep! What was I meant to do?*
Emily left for work. A few hours in, she felt weak. Oh nonot her too. But she couldnt let on, not till her shift ended. That evening, her temperature was higher than Olivers. She wanted to complain, but he was too absorbed in himself.
*Chills and aches. Mum made me raspberry tea with honeyhelped a bit, but its back now. What should I take?*
*Dunno. Feel a bit rough myself*
*Well, take something then,* Oliver muttered, still inspecting his tongue in the mirror. *Still white. Unbelievable.*
Right. No complaining. No pointher mum would ring nonstop with advice, Margaret would blame her, and Oliver wouldnt notice anyway.
Decision made: suffer in silence, take tablets, work through it. The bills wouldnt pay themselves.
All week, Oliver wallowed in his illness, convinced no one had ever been so poorlyeven when the thermometer read a perfect 98.6°F, he insisted he was *dying*.
Margaret hovered with her concoctions. The last thing Emily wanted was a run-in at homeshe looked dreadful.
Oliver noticed nothing, glued to the telly or his phone. Each evening, she checked her temp. Only by day four was it normal.
The fatigue lingered, but she pushed through. Oliver, meanwhile, milked itmeals in bed, drinks fetched, constant temperature checks.
Margaret claimed hed been sickly as a child, but this was his first cold in five years of marriage. Unbearable.
Every sniffle was a crisis, every ache a tragedy.
The next week, he was cleared to work. Charlie came home. Over tea that evening, Oliver sighed.
*Used to handle colds better as a kid. This one really knocked me outyouve no idea.*
*Was it that bad?*
*Easy for you to say, fit as a fiddle!*
*I had it too. You just didnt notice.*
Oliver blinked, then smirked, as if catching her out.
*Joking, arent you? Ah wellbedtime.*
Emily sighed. He *still* hadnt noticed.
Oh well.
Like the old jokea woman whos given birth can *almost* imagine how awful a man feels with a mild fever.
