Page 33 of The Forgotten Boy
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DIANA NOVEMBER 1918
When Dr. Bennett arrived that evening, he agreed with Diana that both Lawrence Dean and an eleven-year-old with a worrying cough should be transported to hospital. Lawrence had dark red spots on his face, and both boys were beginning to struggle with their breathing. They had the gardener hitch up the wagon and lay mattresses and blankets on the benches to cushion the boys. Diana was torn between going with them and staying with the others, but Dr. Bennett promised to drive his motorcar slowly behind the wagon so he could keep an eye on what was happening.
Diana was accustomed to events moving quickly—field hospitals were nothing but chaos punctuated by brief moments of calm—but even so, the speed with which the flu took hold at Havencross shocked her. Within four days, ten of the fifteen boys had been moved to the dining hall infirmary, and so had the gardener. Dr. Bennett phoned Havencross just before noon on Friday, exhausted and harried, and told her he’d try to come by that evening.
“I’ve been in hospital all night,” he reported. “Your boys are stable for now, but I don’t like the look of Lawrence Dean. I’ve got him on oxygen, but he might be progressing to pneumonia.”
“You sound tired.”
“So do you. At least I’m not the only medical officer in hospital.”
“How many patients are you coping with there?”
“Twice as many as we have room for, and they keep coming. The damned Armistice celebrations might almost have been designed to spread infection. I’ll do my best to come round tonight. But I’m telling you right now, unless someone is in very bad condition, they’ll get better treatment with you than they will in hospital. I’ll do what I can to round you up a relief nurse, or at least another pair of hands.”
Her heart sank, but she tried to keep it out of her voice. “I understand. Don’t worry—I’m used to functioning in chaos.”
Which was true enough, but she’d never borne the sole responsibility of care. And if she’d thought the soldiers she’d cared for too young for what they faced, what was she to make of schoolboys? Wearily, Diana replaced her mask and went to the kitchen to speak to Beth Willis.
She was surprised to find Beth in the scullery, standing in the open doorway and speaking to someone in the yard.
“Who’s here?” Diana asked sharply, coming up to Beth’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Murray,” Beth said, at the same moment Diana recognized Joshua’s mother.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Diana said, glad to see that Beth was also wearing her mask. “We must keep quarantine until everyone’s well.”
“Yes, Joshua telephoned. I understand. I also understand that only two adults can be relied upon to remain healthy, so how exactly do you propose to care for twenty people on your own?”
“Not all the students are sick, and only one of the staff.”
“Today. What about tomorrow? I’m not proposing to force my way inside to nurse. But what I can do is relieve you of some responsibilities. Like meals. Alice and I can cook at home and bring it here. We have a fairly reliable motorcar. That will allow Mrs. Willis to help in the sickroom as needed—if she isn’t already ill. She looks a bit feverish to me.”
Diana took Beth by the arm and even without touching her face knew Mrs. Murray was right—fever burned through Beth’s sleeve. “Damn it,” she said, then instantly added, “I’m sorry, Beth. How’s your throat?”
“Painful,” she admitted. “But I can stay on my feet. It’s not like I can make any of the boys sicker than they are.”
“No, Mrs. Murray is right. You go straight to the infirmary, and I’ll be right there to check you over.” She waited until the secretary had gone, then turned back to Mrs. Murray. “I suppose I have little choice but to accept your offer. I’ll leave this door unlocked. Whatever you bring you can carry into the scullery and leave. Ring the bell to let us know you’ve come. And you should wear a mask even at that. I can leave you some in the scullery.”
She paused, hearing her own rattle of impersonal orders, and added, “I truly appreciate it. How can I thank you?”
“My son survived the war with both legs intact—and some of that is due to you. I trust Joshua is being useful in return?”
Useful, necessary, absolutely essential to my peace of mind and heart . “Very.”
“You’ll leave me word if he gets ill?”
“I will.” Diana wanted to cross her fingers or throw salt over shoulder to ward away ill fortune at the thought of Joshua struggling to breathe.
She managed to snatch an hour of sleep before helping feed broth to the boys who could manage it. She had to admit that Luther Weston continued to be both helpful and remarkably silent. Any snide comments he might make these days were made out of her hearing and she figured Joshua could handle himself.
In the makeshift infirmary Beth Willis lay in the bed nearest her younger son, Austin. She could stay there for now, but Diana was prepared to separate them if either took a turn for the worse. Dr. Bennett didn’t make it to Havencross that evening, but she felt mildly confident that they’d make it through the night. Besides Weston, she had Mrs. McCann and Clarissa Somersby helping in shifts. She had detailed Joshua to watch over the five boys who were still uninfected, including Jasper Willis, who had been carried to a room closer to his schoolmates.
As the clock passed midnight, Diana walked the center aisle. There were two boys she was keeping a close eye on whose breathing concerned her. One of them seemed to have eased while he slept, but she could hear stridor breathing from a thirteen-year-old orphan named Percy Nicholson. When Diana pressed her stethoscope to his chest, his eyes fluttered open.
“How are you, Percy?” she asked softly.
It took a moment for him to focus on her. “I’m … tired.”
Her heart sank as he had to stop and catch his breath just to say two words. She rearranged his pillows to prop him higher until she could get Weston to boil some water and try to ease his lungs with steam. She’d give it an hour more, but then it might be time to call the hospital and get him admitted.
She laid her hand on the boy’s cheek. “Go back to sleep for now.”
She had hardly stood up when she heard a voice coming from the opposite end of the hall. At first it was incoherent, and she thought one of the boys must be mumbling in his sleep. But as she paced quickly down the aisle, she made out the words. Except it wasn’t words, it was a name—spoken in a voice that made Diana’s blood run cold.
“Thomas … Thomas?”
Clarissa sat up where she had fallen asleep in her clothes on the last bed to the left. As Diana approached her, she swung her legs off the bed. Even in the darkened space her eyes glittered, focusing on something only she could see.
“Clarissa.” Diana used her softest voice, as she did with the boys. “Are you all right?”
“Where are you?” Clarissa whispered urgently.
Moving slowly so as not to startle her, Diana touched her hand to Clarissa’s hot forehead.
“Clarissa, can you lie back down for me? I need to take your temperature.”
She almost jumped when the headmistress clutched her hand, hard enough to hurt. “Did you see him?”
“Clarissa, please lie down.” She didn’t want to wake the boys by calling out for Weston or Mrs. McCann.
“Did you see him?”
“Did I see who?” Diana continued to gently press on Clarissa’s shoulders, guiding her to lie back down.
“I saw him, I did, I saw him!”
Please don’t say it , Diana thought. The last thing I can cope with right now is the hallucination of—
“Thomas,” Clarissa said with hoarse excitement. “I saw Thomas, I’m sure of it. He was watching over me while I slept. Did you see where he went?”
As a rule Diana didn’t believe in coddling unreality in patients. But she was a medical professional with more than a dozen influenza patients and a headmistress who had such a high fever that she was hallucinating the ghost of her dead brother.
“I didn’t see him, no.”
“I have to go after him!”
Diana held her fast and, with enormous relief, heard the familiar tread of Joshua’s footsteps coming toward them.
“Can you help me talk her down?” she asked. “She’s got a fever, and she thinks she’s seeing her brother.”
Joshua cleared his throat and moved to Clarissa’s other side. “You can’t do anything for Thomas if you’re sick, Clarissa. Let Diana help you. And get some rest; Thomas needs you to be well.”
His gentleness succeeded. Clarissa submitted to Diana’s medical attention, and within half an hour she’d fallen asleep in a clean nightdress, aspirin working to lower her fever.
Diana had barely straightened up from her newest patient’s bed when someone called loudly “Nurse!”
Halfway down the dining hall, Luther Weston sat on Percy Nicholson’s bed, supporting him by the shoulders and trying to staunch the blood pouring from the boy’s nose. In the time it took Diana to get to Percy, he coughed up sputum tinged with more blood.
“Call the hospital and get an ambulance out here now,” she commanded Joshua. “Mrs. McCann, help me screen the bed.”
The makeshift screens had been lurking along the walls, rolling classroom blackboards draped with sheets. Maneuvered into place around Percy’s bed, they would block sight but not sound. She could only hope the others were sleeping soundly enough not to be disturbed.
With oil lamps lighting the bed, Diana dismissed thoughts of any patient except Percy and set about doing everything she could for him. It was precious little. She had no supplemental oxygen available, though she suspected it wouldn’t matter. She had seen soldiers deteriorate like this in hospital—falling in just minutes from a tolerable level to the threshold of death.
She directed Weston to sit behind Percy and brace him upright. Joshua returned and she asked, “Is the ambulance on the way?”
“None are available. I rang the farm—Granddad is bringing our automobile.”
Diana’s heart sank; she knew it probably wouldn’t matter. After her first hundred deaths in France, she’d developed an instinct. She’d also developed the ability to work automatically, her body knowing what to do and her mind shutting out everything but the immediate moment.
Fresh linen quickly covered in blood and discarded on the floor … Mrs. McCann keeping up a low and comforting murmur in Percy’s ear … Joshua at Diana’s side, handing her linens or basins or a wet cloth to smooth across Percy’s face … the terrible, distinctive moaning gasp of agonal breathing …
Have mercy , Diana thought to anyone or anything that might be present in the cold universe. And mercy was given, for Percy suffered through only three twitching agonal breaths before everything in him relaxed and released. His head canted back against Weston’s shoulder and Diana saw the softness of expression that sometimes blessed the dead. Joshua rested his hand on her shoulder, and she forced her hands to open and flex, as though letting go of any hold she had on her patient.
“What else?” Weston demanded.
Diana shook her head. “There is nothing else. He’s gone.” She checked the watch pinned to her blouse. “Time of death: one thirty-seven a.m., fifteenth November.”
“You’re quitting?”
“He’s dead. How many more ways do you want me to say it?” she hissed through her teeth. “And keep your voice down, unless you want to wake up and frighten every other boy in here.”
She needed Weston to stop talking. She needed to keep calm. She needed to move Percy’s body before panic could spread.
Joshua read her mind. “If we wrap him carefully, I can carry him to the nearest bedroom.” His voice was thin and unsteady, and Diana felt a moment’s passionate wish that she could throw herself into his arms and they could weep together.
Diana and Mrs. McCann wrapped Percy in three layers of clean linen, gently drawing it over his face. Joshua carried him to an empty dormitory room. To her dull surprise, Diana saw Weston cross himself. She lingered in the doorway while Joshua laid him carefully on an unmade bed, wanting one moment alone with the boy. To apologize, and say goodbye.
Joshua straightened up and turned to her, his face shadowed. He took a step forward and Diana went to meet him. But she only got close enough to catch at his arm as he crashed to the floor.
When she knelt beside him, he was burning with fever.