The summer wore away, and autumn set in with rain and an unseasonal frost at night. When I put gloves on the baby, she chewed them and had to sit in her pram with cold, wet hands. I did not mind for myself, but I did not know how to keep her warm. She dribbled too and her chest was always damp. She resisted for some time but in the end she caught a cold.
I did not know what to do with her, as I hated going to the doctor. I had thought I would be finished with doctors at her birth, though I subsequently discovered there was an unending succession of inspections and vaccinations yet to be endured. Now, hearing Octavia's heavy spluttering, I knew I would have to take her, much as I would hate it. I felt I was bothering the busy doctor unnecessarily. But it was not a simple choice between comfort and duty, and moreover it was not even my own health that was in question, but Octavia's, and so I tried to dismiss the thought of sitting in a freezing cold waiting room with her. Had it been my own health, I would never have gone.
After I had made up my mind to see the doctor, I consulted my friend Lydia, who suggested that I should ring up the doctor and ask him to come and see me at home, instead of going to him; I immediately thought how nice it would be if only I dare. 'Of course you dare,' said Lydia. 'You can't take a sick baby out in weather like this.' Then, with sudden illumination, she said, 'Anyway, look how flushed she is! Why don't you take her temperature?' Astounded, I stared at her, for truly the thought of doing such a thing had never crossed my mind. Looking back, after months with the thermometer as necessary as a spoon or a saucepan, I can hardly believe this to be possible, but so it was; my life had not yet changed for ever. I took Octavia's temperature and it was high enough to justify ringing for the doctor. To my surprise, the doctor's secretary did not sound at all annoyed when I asked if he could call: I think I had half expected a lecture on my indolence.
