Breakdown (38 page)

Chris moved a hard chair close to Pauline’s bed. He finished his muffin and sipped at the coffee. She slept fitfully, moving around, making little noises. He reached out to push hair away from her face. He got the helpless feeling again; his stomach churned with the addition of the muffin and the coffee.

Pauline began to retch. She rolled over and leaned out of the bed. Chris grabbed the bowl and held it under her face, but nothing came up. He held her head and tried to soothe her. She continued to retch for a few minutes, then hung off the bed, whimpering. He eased her back onto the pillow, wiped her face with a damp cloth. She calmed and fell asleep again. Chris waited to make sure she was sleeping soundly, then stood up. He wanted to stay with her, but found himself sinking closer to panic in spite of what Michael had said. He had to keep busy. He knew there was still a lot of work to do. He went back downstairs.

“She okay?” Michael asked. He bit into another muffin.

“She was retching. We’ll have to keep an eye on her.” He pushed up his sleeves, went over to the washtub. “I have to keep busy or I’m gonna lose it.”

“You’re not going to lose it, Price,” Michael said. He jumped up and grabbed one handle of the tub. Together they dumped it in the sink. Chris looked at him as the water poured out, but didn’t say anything.

CHAPTER 32

“C
ooper, you should get some sleep.”

Michael sat across from Chris at the kitchen table with his forehead in one hand, his eyes closed, and his other hand around a mug of coffee.

Chris wondered what time it was. The clock in the kitchen, left unwound, had run down and stopped. The overnight drive, the stressful day of work, and the early autumn sunset had thrown off any sense of how much time had actually passed. He had cooked eggs and fried potatoes when Michael mentioned that he was hungry, the first time either of them had sat down since their one coffee break.

“What about you?”

“I got a bit on the drive,” Chris said. “I’ll stay up.” He figured he probably had more experience at going without sleep than Michael.

“I wouldn’t mind, that’s what,” Michael said, lifting his head. “I’m knackered.”

“The couch isn’t bad. I put a blanket and a pillow in there.”

“All right, I’ll take you up on that.” Michael nudged the mug of coffee across the table. “Here, you have it.” He pushed himself up with an effort and went off toward the sitting room.

Chris finished his own coffee and picked up Michael’s, then hesitated. They were in the middle of an outbreak. Had Michael drunk from it? He hadn’t noticed. The rich smell of the coffee drifted into his face. He thought about the basins and buckets they had been dumping and cleaning, the dirty sheets and towels and Wes’s stained clothes. They had not been wearing masks.

It was
coffee
. He wasn’t going to waste it. He added sugar, took a sip and savored it, then stood up with the mug in his hand. He glanced around. The kitchen was mostly tidied up, the woodbox full, the stove going well, the jugs filled with drinking water. Drying laundry and towels festooned two racks and the backs of several chairs. The few dishes on the table could wait until morning. He took the mug upstairs.

Wes was coming out of the loo.

“Hey, Wes. You okay?”

“I had to pee,” Wes said and padded back down the hall to the spare room. Chris followed him.

Wes hiked up the underpants. “Where are my clothes?”

“I washed them,” Chris told him, setting down his coffee and helping Wes back into bed. “They’re drying. How do you feel?” A lamp on the bureau cast a soft glow.

“I’m hungry.”

“Are you?”

“I smelled eggs cooking. I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get you some toast to start, how about that? If you keep that down, you can have an egg.”

Chris took the water bottle down and filled it while he toasted a thin slice of bread. He put a little bit of jam on it, took it back up on a plate. Wes finished it almost before Chris could pour him a cup of water.

“Can I have more?”

“Let’s see how you get on with that,” Chris said. “You were puking this morning.”

Wes handed back the plate and drank the water.

Chris pulled the covers up over him. “Now go back to sleep, okay?”

“I’m glad you’re back,” Wes said.

Chris smiled. “Me, too.”

“I knew you’d come back. I saw you kissing Pauline, the day you left.”

“Did you?”

“I hope you don’t get sick.”

“I haven’t ever, so far,” Chris said. “Now, go to sleep. I have to check on the others.”

Michael had left a lamp lit in each room. Chris looked in on George and Marie—still asleep—then Grace. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

He stepped into the room. “You okay?”

“I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I smelled coffee brewing.”

Chris smiled and held up his mug. “Michael brought some.”

“Oh, how wonderful. You boys had better not drink it all up before I’m well enough to have some,” she warned, shaking a finger at him. Chris assured her that he would save some for everyone.

“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”

“I’ve got water here,” she said, gesturing to the bottle and cup next to her on the table. “I’m not sure I’m ready for anything else yet, but I may want breakfast in the morning.”

“I’ll make you breakfast, then,” Chris said, “with coffee, if you want it.”

“How’s Pauline?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“She got ill, didn’t she?” Grace asked, and Chris couldn’t lie to her again.

“Yes, she was ill when we got here this morning. She’s doing okay.”

“She worked so hard, the first two days. She never got any rest. You need to get your rest, Chris, so you don’t get ill.”

“I will do, Mum. Michael’s sleeping now, and then I’ll take a turn.”

“How are George and Marie?”

“They’re doing fine, sleeping. I may be making you all breakfast. Wes just had a piece of toast.”

“Wes is here? Thank heavens. I was worried about him.”

“He’ll be up tomorrow, I think,” Chris said. “He’s doing great. Now, you go back to sleep, okay?” He tucked the covers in around her and went out, across the hall, into Pauline’s room.

She had thrown off the blanket. He started to cover her, then hesitated. She still wore the clothes she had been wearing in the morning. From the look of them, she’d been wearing them for days. Chris turned up the lamp and opened her bureau drawers until he found some soft pajamas. He sat down next to her on the bed and tried to wake her. She opened her eyes a bit, but didn’t seem to recognize him, and tried to roll over.

“Pauline, love, let’s get some comfy pajamas on you, okay?”

She seemed to wake up a bit while he was changing her trousers, slipping on the pajama bottoms.

“Is that you?” she asked, squinting at him.

“Yes, it’s me. I just wanted you to be more comfortable, okay?”

“That’s nice.”

Chris got her to sit up and pulled off her shirt over her head. She had another one under it. He took that off too. He put on the pajama top like a cape, buttoned it up, then reached under and unhooked her bra, slipping it down off her shoulders and arms. He put her arms in the sleeves. She was wearing the pendant he had given her.

“There you go—is that better?” he asked her, and she leaned forward and put her arms around him.

“Don’t go away again.”

Chris hugged her tight. “Never. I’m here to stay, darling.”

“I think I’m going to puke,” she said dreamily.

She didn’t puke, but she did retch some more, hanging off the side of the bed again, with Chris holding her.

“I’m thirsty,” she said when he had put her back onto her pillow. He gave her a few sips of water, wiped her face again. She looked at him with sleepy eyes. “I just want to get better.”

“I know. You are getting better. You’ll be okay. Go to sleep now.”

Chris turned down the lamp and settled in the armchair in the corner of the room. He spent the long night trying to keep dark thoughts at bay, getting up occasionally and making the rounds of the house, checking on everyone, stoking the stove, refilling his mug, chasing away the sleep that kept creeping up on him.

* * *

Chris awoke with a start in the chair in Pauline’s room, his heart pounding. The blackness had been invading the house, reaching for Pauline. He stood up, trying to dispel the dream’s images from his head. He swayed a little; the room danced. He looked out the window at the lightening sky. Pauline slept quietly. He used the loo and had a wash, then went downstairs. He woke up Michael, then went in to stoke up the stove and start more coffee.

“You can manage to make breakfast if anyone wants some, can’t you?” he asked when Michael finally came in, his hair damp from a quick wash upstairs.

“Absolutely. I am a man of many skills. Who’s going to want breakfast?”

“Wes will. He had toast last night. Mum said she might, too.”

“That’s good news,” Michael said. “How’s Pauline?”

“Sleeping better this morning.”

“Good. You’re going to bed?”

“I have to do the chores in the barn.”

“Couldn’t I do them?”

“Do you know what they are?”

“Um, well, it’s been a few years, but I could probably figure them out,” Michael said and shrugged.

“I’ll do them. I dozed some.” Chris took off his shoes and put on George’s wellies, got his jacket, and went out.

When he came back in, Michael had folded all the laundry and washed up the dishes from last night, and had the coffee ready. Chris put the eggs on the table.

“They usually take some down to the village to trade, but I don’t suppose there’s much of that going on. We may as well eat them.” He shrugged out of his coat. “One of the cows is off its feed. And one of the hens is missing. I don’t know if they ate her or if she’s setting a clutch somewhere.”

Michael gave him an odd look.

“What?”

“Okay, Farmer Price. You have cow shit on your trousers, by the way. You want something to eat?”

“I do,” Wes said from the doorway, holding up the underwear that was too big for him.

“You’ll want your clothes first, I expect,” Michael said and got him his trousers, underwear, socks, and shirt.

“How do you feel?” Chris asked him.

“I’m hungry,” Wes insisted, getting dressed by the stove. “I want scrambled eggs and toast. With jam.”

“I’m on it,” Michael said. “Chris, what can I make for you?”

Chris sat down at the table, exhausted. “Nothing for me. Come here, Wes.”

Wes hesitated, then went over to him. Chris reached out to feel his forehead.

Wes pulled away. “I’m not ill anymore.”

“I just want to feel for a fever.”

“I’m not ill.”

Chris gave up. “Well, you don’t seem so.”

“Did you think we were all going to die?” Wes asked him.

Chris straightened up in his chair, and Michael stood still with a frying pan in his hand. They stared at Wes.

“Um, well, no, of course not,” Chris said, with a glance at Michael.

“Usually people die when they get the plague, right?” Wes said.

“I’ve had it, and I didn’t die,” Michael told him.

“But mostly they do,” Wes said to him. “My mum and dad died, and so did my sister and my uncles.”

“No one here is going to die,” Chris said to him. “Lots of people do die, and it’s scary. But not everyone. Okay?”

Wes nodded. “You look tired.”

“Yes, he’s just off to bed,” Michael said.

“I am.” Chris heaved himself out of the chair and picked up his rucksack, which was still on the floor where Michael had left it the day before. It seemed heavier than it had. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. “God, I’m tired.”

“The couch is quite nice; you were right,” Michael said.

“I’m going up,” Chris told him, and Michael glanced at him, then nodded.

“Ah, right. I’ll check in on the others once I get Wes fed. Oh, and that nickname? I figured it out.” He flashed a grin. Chris was too tired to care.

It seemed to take a long time to get up the stairs. Chris took his pack into Pauline’s room, set it in the corner. He went to turn the lamp down and noticed the pictures she kept there. The one of Pauline and Michael dressed up was gone, replaced by the one he had sent her. He was onstage, flashing a smile at whoever was taking the picture, one hand on his guitar, the other on the microphone. His dark-blue shirt contrasted with the red lights behind him. A spotlight lit his face perfectly. He could just make out Ace and Gordy in the background. It was a brilliant shot.

Chris glanced over at Pauline in the bed, turned down the lamp, and dropped his trousers by the closet. He slipped carefully into bed on the other side, settled down onto the pillow, looked over at her for a moment. She didn’t wake up, and he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all the worry and fear of the last two days, tried to convince himself that what he had said to Wes was really true, that no one here was going to die. But he had lived through too many outbreaks, and he found it hard to believe. In spite of his exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

“What are you doing up?” Michael asked as Chris came down to the kitchen. “It’s not even two. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I was awake is all.” Chris flopped into a chair at the table without getting his shoes. He grimaced at a bad smell in the kitchen. Something must have burned on the stove.

“You’ve hardly had six hours,” Michael said.

“I’m all right.”

“You want some lunch?”

Chris shrugged. “Where’s Wes?”

“He said he was going to make sure you did all the chores right,” Michael said with a grin. “I think he just wanted to look for that hen. You should eat something. You didn’t have breakfast.”

“I suppose. Is there any bread left?”

“Sure. You want a sandwich?”

“No, just bread, maybe some jam.”

Michael got him a plate and cut him a slice of bread. “Coffee?”

Chris reached for the jam and a knife. “Yeah, coffee.”

Michael poured him coffee and set the mug in front of him. “I’ve got everything under control, here, Price, if you want to go back to bed.”