Prompter: DominusTempori

Prompt: After watching Season 1 of "The Crown" I learned about the "Great Smog of '52" that brought London to a standstill for days. Later on the thought crossed my mind..."Would that fog have affected the Smith clan in their neighborhood? How bored would the kids get after exhausting their imaginations?"

Originally posted: 12 Oct 2017

Notes: 1654 words; takes place in the first weekend of December 1952, when John is 61, Clara is 33, Davey is 4 ½, and Wynn is 3 ½; since Grynden is a dead-end, I would imagine that the smog was terrible in their area; omg I need to get off my ass and watch The Crown already (or is it stay on my ass and watch The Crown?); Sunday, October 8th, was TTTWLB's third anniversary and I'm so happy you guys

John curled his lip in disgust as he stared out Wynn's bedroom window. A thick, dense fog had settled over London, causing there to be virtually no visibility in the quiet cul-de-sac. There was no wind, little traffic to move the air, and a dark, yellowish color to the clouds that made his stomach lurch.

In her bed, Wynn coughed and pulled John's attention away from the outdoors. He sat down at the edge of her mattress and felt her forehead, noting that it was hot to the touch.

"Daddy, I don't feel very good," she whined, clutching her bear.

"I know, sweetling," he replied. He took a washcloth and soaked it in the basin on the nightstand, wringing out the excess and placing it on her forehead. "Mam will be back from the chemist before you know it." His daughter squeaked and his heart shattered for her.

"Daddy, tea's ready!" Davey shouted up the stairs. John didn't hear, as he was too engrossed in making sure Wynn was alright. Soon, his son appeared at his side, holding out a mug of tea for him. "Daddy, I said that tea's ready."

"Oh, thank you, son," he said, taking the cuppa gratefully. "The timer for brewing went off, I take it?"

"Yup, and I poured you one just how you like it," Davey nodded. He went to the head of the bed and stared at his sister in worry. "Do you want some tea too, Wynnie? I can make it extra-sweet for you."

"Please," she coughed.

"…and no milk," John added. "Milk tastes funny when you're sick and that only makes things worse." He watched as Davey bounced out of the room before setting his mug down and removing the cloth from Wynn's forehead to check it again—it was cooler, though barely. Wetting the cloth and replacing it, he began to mutter the children's favorite lullaby under his breath. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as Wynn whimpered from underneath the duvet, a sniffly, coughing mess. There was so much he wanted to do for her, yet unfortunately, his title of Doctor was only a pen name, not any sort of medical training.

"Daddy?" Davey said, appearing at his side. "Can you sit Wynnie up please? She can't have her tea laying down."

"Of course, son," he said. John put the washcloth back in the basin and shuffled daughter and pillows so that she was sitting up enough to drink. He took the cuppa from Davey's hands and held it by her chin. "Smell the steam, sweetling; it'll help your nose clear a little."

"Mmm… tea smells good," she hummed. Wynn stuck her nose almost inside the mug itself, taking deep breaths. "Thank you Daddy, thank you Davey."

"John! I'm back!" Clara shouted from downstairs. John carefully handed Wynn her tea and told Davey to watch over her before going down to greet his wife. She was in the foyer, placing her coat on its peg. "It is terrible out there; Davey is not going outside to play until this fog lifts."

"That bad?"

"I could barely see two feet in front of me, and I doubt it was because of the mask," she said. Clara passed her husband the gas mask that he had uncovered from the attic and frowned. "I didn't think that keeping these would end up being useful…"

"Soon as the weather clears up, we can put this thing back where it belongs," John assured her. "The chemist have the medicine?"

"He did, and he was nearly out too. Better go get the sugar, or she's never going to take it."

"Right," he agreed before kissing her cheek and walking into the kitchen. He rummaged around for the sugar cubes and brought the box upstairs, where Clara was already spooning out some medicine into a spoon.

"Look at that—the cavalry has arrived," she said at the sight of her husband. Clara took a sugar cube from John and let it melt inside the spoon of medicine, sweetening the concoction considerably.

"I don't wanna take medicines, Mummy," Wynn sniffled. "I just wanna have tea."

"Medicine first, then tea," Clara said. She gave her daughter a look that made her open her mouth reluctantly, allowing her to pour the spoon contents down her throat. Wynn scrunched her face up in disgust and drank a few large gulps of tea, nearly finishing it off.

"I'll get you more," Davey said, holding out his hands. Wynn passed him the mug and he took it down the stairs.

"Why don't I feel good, Mummy?" Wynn asked. "What did the chemist-man say?"

"He said that he's seen a lot of people come in lately, and that you should stay indoors, windows shut, and get plenty of rest."

"What if Daddy farts on accident?"

"We'll have to deal with smelly Daddy-farts for a while, unfortunately," Clara frowned. She shot a glare towards John, who feigned innocence. "We can only open the windows when the sky clears—too much fog can stick to your lungs and then you'd only get worse."

"Really…?"

"Heard it from Nanna Ellie herself—'fog doesn't hurt when you're well, but stay in the house when you're ill'. She was very good with those sorts of things. You'll listen to Nanna Ellie, yeah?" Wynn nodded and Clara kissed her forehead. "Good; oh, look who's returned… your caring big brother with more tea."

"Hold these, please, Mummy," Davey requested. He passed Clara the mugs and grabbed a picture book from the shelf before crawling into bed with his sister. Opening the book across their laps, he held out his hands and Clara passed the children their tea.

"Be good now," she said, kissing the tops of their heads. She then turned towards John and took his hand, leading him out of the bedroom and towards the stairs. "Chicken soup for dinner tonight instead of tomorrow's lunch, I think. We are going to nip this right in the bud."

"I've never heard her cough like that," John said, worried. "It can't be the flu that's been going around; both the kids caught it last month and their coughs sounded different."

"We are just going to have to keep an eye on her," Clara said. Once they were at the bottom of the stairs, she picked up the basket with the rest of her shopping and brought it into the kitchen, her husband following close behind. "Oswynne and David are staying in the house until this fog lifts—I don't like it."

"I don't either, and I doubt there are any more gas masks for sale in their size," he replied.

"There was a box for masks that they said were made for fog, but they were all out."

"Wouldn't trust them—it's bad enough I don't feel good about the stuff getting in through cracks in the windows and doors." He helped her unload the basket and put things away, working immediately on washing the veg that was going to go into the soup while she took the chicken out of the simmering pot atop the stove, which she put on a plate and began to shred into pieces. John took a knife from a drawer and began to peel potatoes and carrots. "Maybe we should think about moving."

"…and where would we move to that could keep you within a sane commuting distance to the publisher's?" Clara asked. "We're not moving."

"It's not even this bad up in Glasgow…"

"…and we're not going to let a little bit of bad weather stop us from letting you support us how you always wanted," she insisted. "Maybe this means the government will do something—bring us back to horses or something."

"Horses…?"

"I don't know… the Queen just lost her father to smoke, so this might be the push she needs to think about ways to clean up the air, maybe get some scientists on it if she can't come up with anything. Science is moving along, after all."

"You're right about that," he nodded. He was about to open his mouth to say something else when a tiny voice hollered from the top of the stairs.

"Daddy!" Wynn called. "Davey threw up all over my bed!"

John set the knife and a half-peeled potato down, kissing Clara on his way out. "Guess my work isn't done yet, after all."

"Go, you silly man," she teased, "and be a doctor… or a decent nurse at the very least."

A/N: For those who are unawares, the Great Smog of '52 was a weather event that was the worst air-quality event in London history. An anticyclone of warm air (think a reverse-cyclone, with high pressure instead of low and clear skies instead of clouds) settled on top of London, which had been very cold and windless at the time. The warm air at the top (warm air rises, folks) kept everything under it in place, which lead to a disastrous buildup of pollutants in the air in the chill underneath as people burned more coal than usual to stay warm. Thousands of people fell ill due to the smog, which wasn't a major concern at first because of London being known for smog/fog events for hundreds of years at that point. Not only that, but transport ceased operating and public events were put on hold. Even cinemas had to stop in some places, as the smog could seep indoors and make seeing the feature difficult. Contemporary fatality numbers estimate about 6000 people died due to respiratory illnesses gained due to the fog's pollutants, though current figures state it could actually have been twice that over the weeks and months that followed. The Great Smog led to the Clean Air Act of 1956, which has since been repealed in order to be incorporated into other legislation, and can be seen as the kick-start to modern environmentalism.