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six o’clock. He’s got a temperature and a headache and his throat’s sore. Peter’s all right so far.’
The doctor laid the still sleeping boy in his bed and bent to examine him gently. ‘We will let him sleep, poor scrap.’ He came and took Peter in his arms and tucked him up in his bed, talking softly to the half-awake child. Only then did he turn to Araminta, sitting, perforce, exactly as she had been doing for the past few hours, so stiff that she didn’t dare to move.
The doctor hauled her gently to her feet, put an arm around her and walked her up and down.
‘Now, go downstairs, tell Bas to ask Jet to get us something to eat and send Nel up here to sit with the boys for a while.’
And when she hesitated, he added, ‘Go along, Miss Pomfrey. I want my supper.’
She gave him a speaking look; she wanted her supper, too, and the unfeeling man hadn’t even bothered to ask her if she needed hers.
‘So do I,’ she snapped, and then added, ‘Is Paul all right? It is only mumps?’
He said coolly, ‘Yes, Miss Pomfrey. Hopefully only mumps.’
She went downstairs and gave Bas his messages, then went and sat in the small sitting room. She was tired and rather untidy and she could see ahead of her several trying days while the mumps kept their hold on Paul—and possibly Peter.
‘Twelve days incubation,’ she said, talking to herself, ‘and we could wait longer than that until we’re sure Peter doesn’t get them, too.’
‘Inevitable, Miss Pomfrey. Do you often talk to yourself?’
The doctor had come silently into the room. He poured a glass of sherry and gave it to her and didn’t wait for her answer. ‘It will mean bed for a few days for Paul, and of course Peter can’t go to school. Will you be able to manage? Nel can take over in the afternoons while you take Peter for a walk?’
He watched her toss back the sherry and refilled her glass. Perhaps he was expecting too much of her. ‘See how you go on,’ he told her kindly. ‘If necessary, I’ll get some more help.’
‘If Peter were to get the mumps within the next few days I shall be able to manage very nicely,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘It is to be hoped that he will. Let us get them over with, by all means.’
Bas came then, so she finished her second sherry far too quickly and went to the dining room with the doctor.
Jet had conjured up an excellent meal: mushroom soup, a cheese soufflé, salad and a lemon mousse. Araminta, slightly light-headed from the sherry, ate everything put before her, making somewhat muddled conversation as she did so. The doctor watched with faint amusement as she polished off the last of the mousse.
‘Now go to bed, Miss Pomfrey. You will be called as usual in the morning.’
‘Oh, that won’t do at all,’ she told him, emboldened by the sherry. ‘I’ll have a bath and get ready for bed, then I’ll go and sit with the boys for a bit. Once I’m sure they are all right, I’ll go to bed. I shall hear them if they wake.’
‘You will do as I say. I have a good deal of reading to do; I will do it in their room.’
‘Aren’t you going to the hospital in the morning?’
‘Certainly I am.’
‘Then you can’t do that; you’ll be like a wet rag in the morning. You need your sleep.’
‘I’m quite capable of knowing how much sleep I need, Miss Pomfrey. Kindly do as I ask. Goodnight.’
She wanted to cry, although she didn’t know why, but she held back the tears, wished him a bleak goodnight and went upstairs. She felt better after a hot bath, and, wrapped in her dressing gown, she crept into the boys’ room to make sure they were asleep. Nel, the housemaid, had gone downstairs again and they slept peacefully. Promising herself that she would get up during the night to make sure that they were all right, Araminta took herself off to bed.
She was asleep at once, but woke instantly at a peevish wail from Paul. She tumbled out of bed and crept to the half-open door. Paul was awake and the doctor was sitting on his bed, giving him a drink. There were papers scattered all over the floor and the chair was drawn up to the table by the window. She crept back to bed. It was two o’clock in the morning. She lay and worried about the doctor’s lack of sleep until she slept once more.
She was up very early, to find the boys sleeping and the doctor gone. She dressed, crept down to the kitchen and made herself tea, filled a jug with cold lemonade and went back to the boys’ room. They were still asleep. Paul’s face was very swollen but Peter looked normal. She had no idea how she would manage for the next few days; it depended on whether Peter got mumps, too.
She was going silently around the room, getting clean clothes for the boys, when the doctor came in.
She wished him a quiet good morning and saw how tired he was, despite his immaculate appearance. Despite his annoyance the previous evening, she said in her sensible way, ‘I hope you’ll have the good sense to have a good night’s sleep tonight. What would we do if you were to be ill?’
‘My dear Miss Pomfrey, stop fussing. I am never ill. If you’re worried during the day, tell Bas; he knows where to find me.’
And he had gone again, with a casual nod, hardly looking at her.
THE day was every bit as bad as Araminta had expected it to be. Paul woke up peevish, hot and sorry for himself, and it took a good deal of coaxing to get him washed and into clean pyjamas, his temperature taken and a cold drink swallowed. Bas had produced some coloured straws, which eased the drinking problem, but the mumps had taken hold for the moment and her heart ached for the small swollen face.
Nevertheless, she got through the day, reading to the invalid until she was hoarse, playing games with Peter and then taking him for a walk with Humphrey while Nel sat with Paul. They returned, much refreshed, armed with drawing books, crayons, a jigsaw puzzle and a couple of comics, had their tea with Humphrey in the sitting room and then went to spend the rest of the afternoon with Paul. He still felt ill, but his headache was better, he said, although it still hurt him to swallow.
‘You’ll feel better tomorrow,’ Araminta assured him. ‘Not quite well, but better, and when your uncle comes home I expect he’ll know what to do to take away the pain in your throat.’
The doctor came home just after six o’clock, coming into the boys’ room quietly, his civil good evening to Araminta drowned in the boisterous greeting from Peter and the hoarse voice of Paul. Humphrey, who had been lying on his bed, lumbered up to add his welcome and the doctor stooped to pat him.
Before the doctor could voice any disapproval of dogs on beds, Araminta said firmly, ‘I said that Humphrey could get on the bed. He’s company for Paul and comforting, too, so if you want to scold anyone, please scold me.’
He looked at her with raised eyebrows and a little smile which held no warmth. ‘I was not aware that I had given my opinion on the matter, Miss Pomfrey. I see no reason to scold anyone, either you or Humphrey.’
And, having disposed of the matter, he proceeded to ask her how the day had gone. He sat on the bed while she told him, examining Paul’s face and neck, taking his temperature, listening to his small bony chest, looking down his throat.
‘You’re better,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘You’re going to feel horrible for a few days, and you’ll have to stay in bed for a while, but I’ve no doubt that Miss Pomfrey will keep you amused.’
‘Does Miss Pomfrey—well, you mean Mintie, of course—amuse you too, Uncle?’ This from Peter.
The doctor glanced across at Araminta.