His death was so unexpected, so swift, that everyone was stunned and disbelieving. One minute he was a healthy, robust baby, laughing and gurgling in his crib, the next he was gone from them. On that fateful Saturday evening, Doctor Stalkley had come to the cottage at once, following sharply on the heels of Vincent and Mike, who had walked in from the football match a few minutes before. After examining Alfie, neither the doctor nor Mike believed that he had meningitis. Despite the peculiar vomiting in the afternoon, which had not recurred, his only symptoms were the feverishness and the high temperature. ‘Not enough to go on,’ Doctor Stalkley had said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning, but meanwhile keep a close eye on him, Audra.’ Picking up his Gladstone bag, striding to the coat closet, he had motioned to Maggie. ‘Now, lassie,’ the old Scotsman had said, ‘you’d best be coming back to my surgery with me, and I’ll give you a drop of medicine for the wee bairn.’ Because the doctor and Mike had been so hopeful for Alfie’s recovery from whatever it was that ailed him, Audra and Vincent had taken heart.
