Is he just a bit under the weather? Whats his condition? her motherinlaw gasps. Hes just sleeping. Its only a slight fever, nothing seriouswinters started.
Winter isnt the problem, dear, she snaps. Its your job thats the trouble, bringing home all the bits from the shop register! How many times must I tell you to find a different line of work?
Eleanor is dozing when a loud bang shakes the flat someone has thrown open the front door. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, glances at the clock, and sees its eight oclock in the morning.
Oliver, love, is that you? she asks, listening for any other sounds in the flat.
No answer comes. She hears a door open into the bathroom and then silence.
She throws on a housecoat, pads barefoot to the bathroom, flings the door open and stops dead.
Oliver stands by the mirror, his lips pulled back as he sticks out his tongue.
Eleanor, is it true that a person with a cold develops a white tongue? he asks.
Are you the one with the cold? she replies groggily.
Looks that way, he says, touching his forehead worriedly. I need a thermometer. Wheres it? Let me lie down. Theyve let me off work already. Well probably have to call a doctor.
Eleanor fetches the thermometer. It reads 37.2°C. The winter has settled in, and Oliver lies back. A doctor arrives an hour later, issues a fitnote, and leaves.
Eleanor rings her mother:
Could you pick up little Sam from nursery? He cant come home Olivers come down with a cold.
Her mother, Margaret, is delighted. She dotes on her grandson, lives alone, and Sam is her sunshine.
What about Oliver? Anything serious?
Nothing major. The doctor gave us the fitnote, prescribed a few things, and well rest.
How are you feeling? Margaret asks, concerned.
Fine! Ive got a second shift at work, Ill ask my motherinlaw to drop by this evening and check on Oliver. Thats the plan for the whole week. Thanks, Mum.
Eleanor decides she needs a light chicken broth. She heads to the supermarket not just the chemist to grab chicken thighs, carrots, and potatoes.
At the shop she picks up everything she needs, then returns home and wakes Oliver.
Oliver, get up, have some soup, she nudges his shoulder.
He sits up, looking pale.
I feel a bit queasy. Could you bring the soup to the bed? I cant get to the kitchen.
Is it that bad? Alright, Ill bring it. Youll check your temperature again later.
He eats, she checks the thermometer again still 37.2°C. She hands him tablets. He turns his face to the wall and drifts back to sleep. Thank heavens.
Olivers sick pay is covered in full, but Eleanors shop doesnt pay her any. With a mortgage and other loans, she cant afford to be ill herself. She calls her motherinlaw, Irene Thompson:
Irene, Olivers down with a cold. Could you keep an eye on him this evening? We usually have a lot of customers at night, and I cant get through to him.
How can he be cold? Whats his state? Irene shrieks.
Hes just sleeping. The temperatures low, everythings fine, winters started.
Thats not just winter! Its your job that brings home all that junk from the till! How many times must I tell you to change work!
Irene, Im not weak! You even said Oliver could collapse at a moments notice as a child. The frost has set in, so Im not needed here
Eleanor cuts the conversation short. Irene loves to blow things out of proportion, and she might be at the door within an hour. Let her have a look; Eleanor still has to get ready for her shift.
Sure enough, Irene bursts in with boxes of herbal remedies for her son, insisting they might help. She scolds Eleanor, swapping Olivers damp shirt for a dry one, shouting:
Look at him lying in that soaked shirt hell only get sicker. How did you miss that?
He was already asleep, what could I have done? Eleanor retorts.
She heads to work. A few hours later she feels a wave of fatigue. Shes weak too, but she cant show it; she must finish her shift. That evening she checks her own temperature its higher than Olivers. She wants to complain, but hes preoccupied with his phone.
I feel chilly and dizzy. Mum gave me tea with raspberry and honey; it helped a bit, but Im still not well. What should I take?
You too? Oliver mutters, glancing at his tongue in the mirror. Its still white.
She knows she cant afford to get sick. Complaining to her mother would mean endless calls with unsolicited advice; telling Irene would only bring accusations; and Oliver would stay in his own world.
So she decides to swallow her pills quietly and keep working. The loans wont disappear.
All week Oliver bemoans his weakness, insisting he feels terrible even though the thermometer steadies at exactly 37°C. Irene drops by repeatedly with her infusions and decoctions. Eleanor dreads seeing her at home; she looks exhausted.
Oliver barely notices anything he falls asleep with the TV on, then with his phone. When Eleanor returns, she checks his temperature; by the fourth day its finally normal.
His weakness lingers, but they manage. Oliver stays in bed longer, demanding food delivered, temperature checks, and a glass of water.
Irene claims he was frail as a child, and now this is the first cold in their fiveyear marriage unbearable! she declares.
He trudges through the slight illness, constantly moaning about feeling poorly.
The following week the doctor signs him out. Sam is taken home. Oliver returns to work tomorrow.
Sitting at the kitchen table with an evening cup of tea, Oliver says:
Back in my day everything was tougher to get through, and now Ive got this you cant imagine!
Whats so special about it? Why cant you just push through? Eleanor asks.
Youd have to be in my shoes to know! Easy to talk when youre healthy.
I was! Ive been through it too, you just didnt see it.
Oliver eyes her skeptically, then smirks as if hes caught her in a lie:
Joking, are you? Fine, lets go to bed.
Eleanor sighs sadly he never really notices.
And thats how it goes: a wife who cant afford to be ill, a husband who turns a slight cold into a drama, and a motherinlaw who makes a mountain out of a molehill, all coping with a 37degree fever in an English winter.