‘Cannae lift ma neck. It hurts. Mammy… I want my mammy.’ Gus cooried into Peg’s stomach as she sat beside him, trying to sponge him down.

Netta said, ‘I’ll go and ring for Dr Begg. You should have done it sooner.’

‘Ma head hurts so!’ he was crying.

The two women lifted him higher on to the bolster but he flopped down and moaned like a whimpering animal.

The two women sat by his bedside for a while.

‘Where on earth is Dr Begg? You rang ages ago. Minutes are like hours, I suppose.’

‘He’ll come when he can. If there’re others like Gus to see to… it’s going to be a long morning ahead, full of anxious mothers. Come on, Peg, you looked wabbit. Come down and I’ll put the kettle on. It’s the only cure. Thank God I came home! I nearly didn’t but this little voice kept saying, “Go back, Netta, go back!”’

‘I’m glad you did, hen. I wouldna like to be here on ma ain fearing the worst. All sorts of silly things go through your head… I’m fair shaking with the look of him.’

‘I know, Peg, but when the doctor comes he’ll tell us what to do. Come away down the stairs and let Gus rest. Sleep is the best cure for him.’

It was after lunch when they heard the scrunch of tyre wheels. Ian Begg came through the door with his Gladstone bag, looking pushed for time. ‘Another one with the squitters, is it? Where’s young Master Gus, in the kitchen?’

‘No, Doctor, he took himself to bed yesterday and he cannae move. He’s running a temperature, his neck is stiff and his head is burning. He’s only been sick the once and no runs so far.’

Ian Begg went to the bedroom and the women hovered by the door silently, not wanting to interrupt his examination. As thorough as his father before him, he took temperature and pulse, throat, glands: all the usual stuff. But then he drew back the covers and took his little hammer to Gus’s raised knees, they would not stay up. ‘Can you feel that?’ He smiled, tickling Gus’s toes.

‘A bitty,’ said a weak little voice.

‘And this?’ The doctor pricked his foot.

‘A bitty,’ came the reply.

‘Any tingles, young chappie?’

‘Ma legs jingle-jangle all of the time.’

The doctor tried to move his lower body but there was no life in his limbs.

‘How long has he had no movement down here?’

Peg shrugged her shoulders, puce with embarrassment. The doctor’s face had tightened from his usual jovial banter into a mask, stem and carefully composed, giving nothing away. He was taking his time and choosing his words. Peg knew he had no good news.

‘What is it, Dr Begg?’

‘Where’s your phone?’ he answered crisply. ‘I need to make some calls.’