The pale winter sun shone through the old net curtains, but Alfie couldn’t bring himself to stir. He turned over in his bed and buried his head under the pillow, trying to block out the light. He’d have happily left the blackout blind down all the time, but his mother insisted he had to know when was day and when was night. It made no difference to him.

He’d never known a case of flu like it. Usually he prided himself on being able to weather most minor ailments, and his fellow workers on the docks were quick to condemn anyone who bunked off claiming they were sick. It took a lot to fell most of them. Alfie had never had their dedication or commitment, but he didn’t see it that way as he lay in his sickbed, powerless to alter the menace of the virus, weak as a baby.

He thought he was a martyr, bearing up as well as he could, but unable to lift a finger to help himself. Surely nobody had ever suffered so badly. One minute he was racked with fever, raging hot, the next he was shivering, and no amount of extra blankets could make him feel warm again. His mother piled his bed with everything she could find – old counterpanes, crocheted shawls and a moth-eaten candlewick bedspread – but they did no good. Then he’d be too hot again and throw them all off, calling for her to fling open the window and let in the cool air.

This had been going on for weeks. Alfie had been too ill to be bored to begin with, but now he was slowly growing tired of being stuck in this one room, the bedroom he’d had since he was a boy. He’d never been much of a reader, and his eyes hurt too much to squint at the newspaper. He couldn’t stand all the radio programmes his mother loved so much – he could hear ITMA – It’s That Man Again – floating up the stairs, and sometimes she would laugh out loud and join in with one of the catchphrases. He swore he would scream if she ever said ‘Can I do you now, sir?’ one more time, except he didn’t have the energy.