Chapter 4

I had been confined to my bed for a week with a rather nasty winter virus that my GP had prescribed antibiotics for. Mum or Dad came over every day to make me warm drinks and check that I was still alive. Outside the weather had turned cold, a blast of icy air from the north leaving a frost covering everything. I didn’t care. I was in bed, and I was not inclined to move or even to eat.

I managed a bowl of Weetabix in the morning and then just returned to bed with a hot lemon drink. Some hours later a parent arrived and made me another hot drink. Mum or Dad, depending on which it was, would then sit with me, making small talk. I had no interest in small talk; I actually wanted to die.

After six days I felt very much better when I woke and decided to have a shower. I knew I must have been rather aromatic; I had sweated a lot during the week. I realised that if I were going to have a shower, then I would also need to change the bed. I could strip it, but I doubted I had the strength to wrangle a quilt into its cover. That could wait for today’s allotted parental visit.

I threw the bedding into the washing machine, adding laundry sheets, and set it on a sixty-degree wash. I still avoid doing a boil wash these days. With that burbling away, I went in the shower and just stood under the hot water. Eventually I mustered the strength to wash myself, and finally I got out and wrapped a big towel around myself.

I was sure it would be Mum coming today; Dad came yesterday, and I knew that he liked to play golf on Saturdays. He would, of course, forgo the golf if I needed him, but I expected Mum.

I was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in towels and with a hot lemon in my hands when my front door opened. It was Mum, as expected; her footsteps were softer than Dad’s. As always, she slipped her shoes off near the front door.

“In here,” I called from the lounge, saving Mum a trip to my empty bedroom.

“Goodness, are you feeling better, Amelia? Mum asked as she walked in.

“A lot better, Mum; still a bit weak, but dramatically better than yesterday.”

“Gosh, those antibiotics took a long time to start having an effect.”

“Yes, well, it was, or rather still is, a nasty virus.”

“I think that you were near to pneumonia.”

“Yes, so did the GP. I guess that is why he gave me that really strong course. It is a seven-day course, which is two days longer than the usual five-day course.

“Oh well, at least you are on the mend.”

“Yes, Mum, can you put my quilt into the clean cover? I just don’t have the energy to battle with a quilt.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll go and do it now, and then I’ll make us another warm drink.”

Mum wandered off; the clean bedding was with the quilt sitting on my bed, just waiting to be put in place. I closed my eyes and dozed; whilst I felt so much better, I was really still quite ill. I was quite happy to slip in and out of sleep. The milling would wait; there was nothing time sensitive. A local woodworking shop had contacted me to see if I would be able to do bespoke milling for them. I had replied that it depended on the ask, but probably yes. They mentioned they would be in touch, but then I contracted this virus and have not checked my emails since. They may have come back to me; they may not. I did not care right now; they could wait a few more days. Mum wandered back, and I opened my eyes as I heard her feet on the floor.

“All done, sweetheart; you might want to launder your quilt when you are fully recovered.”

“Good idea. Mum, can you go and put some wood in the furnace? It must be getting low.”

“Of course, give me a minute.” Mum went out; I could hear her putting her shoes back on and then the front door opening and shutting. I had imported a wood-burning furnace from America and had a local company install it and connect it to my underfloor heating. So much cheaper to run than the electricity, and my wood was, of course, free. I shall spare you the installation details; it didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped. But here it was, installed, ready for the winter and working very well. I raked out the ash about once per week, and there was little of that. Usually, it burnt three or four logs per day and gave me all the heat I wanted. Next year I would call the company back to connect it to my hot water.

Mum came back in. “It was nearly all gone, so I put four logs in; hopefully that will be okay for the next twenty-four hours. Right, what do you want to drink?”

“I’ll try a mocha, please, Mum.”

Mum went off to the kitchen, and I closed my eyes, thinking of the modifications I wanted to make for the furnace. I decided I wanted to build a decent wood store, something that might hold a few months’ supply. Also the ash needed dealing with. Currently I was dumping it in a pile near the mill, but I had to think of a better solution; perhaps it was compostable?

Also, I needed to think about how it was going to be linked to my hot water. If it needed a trench, it would be cheaper for me to dig that than get the installation company to do it. Plus, I would make less mess, but all of that could wait until spring.