It had happened to her a few times over the past two days, but somehow she had steadied herself. Dr Rutledge passed her and glanced over, mildly curious, as Muriel took a few slow, deep breaths before she continued up the stairs. By mid-afternoon her head was reeling and her throat was sore. She was on duty in the sluice room washing bedpans and jars, a job she detested. By teatime she was hot and flushed and running a temperature. The ward sister was annoyed at her as she was not fit to continue to work. Muriel had to stay at home for weeks as she had rheumatic fever and all her bones and joints ached and she felt as weak as a kitten. Her summer exams were only a few weeks away and she urgently needed to study, but even lifting her head off the pillow seemed to leave her sweating and exhausted. ‘Are you sure you are fit to return to work?’ Mother worried on the day she finally felt able to get up and was preparing to take the tram into town. ‘Heaven knows what other disease or illness you may pick up from those people you have to look after.’ ‘Mother, I am fine,’ she lied.
