Connie Willis - Blackout
I can do better than that, Eileen thought, driving out through the manor gates and onto the narrow lane.
“There’s a good spot to turn round just after the next curve,” he said.
She nodded and rounded the curve. Binnie and Alf were standing in the middle of the lane, making no effort to get out of the way. “Look out!” the vicar cried, and Eileen jammed on the brakes and brought the car to a skidding stop. Alf continued to stand there, staring stupidly at the car.
Binnie came up to the passenger side. “Hullo, Vicar.”
“Binnie, why aren’t you in school?” Eileen demanded.
“We was sent ’ome. Alf took ill. Can we ’ave a ride, Vicar?”
“No,” Eileen said. “You’re to go straight back to school.”
Binnie ignored her. “The schoolmistress said to take Alf ’ome, Vicar. ’Is ’ead’s fearful hot, and ’e feels ever so bad.”
Eileen pushed the car door open, got out, and marched over to Alf. “He’s not ill, Vicar. This is one of their tricks. Alf, why did you steal Miss Fuller’s hood ornament and door handles? And don’t say you were disabling her car for the invasion.”
“We wasn’t,” Binnie said. “We was collectin’ aluminum for the Spitfire Fund. To build a plane out of.”
“I want you to return them to Miss Fuller immediately.”
“But Alf’s ill.”
“He’s not ill.” Eileen clapped her hand to Alf’s forehead. “He’s-” she began, and stopped. It was burning hot. She tilted his head up. His eyes were red and too bright, and his cheeks looked flushed under their layer of dirt. “He does have a fever,” she told the vicar, feeling Alf’s cheeks and hands.
“I told you ’e did,” Binnie said smugly.
Eileen ignored her. “We must get him home, Vicar,” she said and bent over Alf. “When did you begin to feel ill?”
“I dunno,” Alf said dully, and vomited all over her shoes.
“’E was sick at school, too,” Binnie volunteered. “Twice.”
The vicar instantly took charge. He handed Eileen his handkerchief, took off his coat, bundled Alf up in it, ordered Binnie to open the back door, and put him in the backseat, all in the time it took Eileen to wipe her shoes. “Climb in the front seat, Binnie,” he said, “so Eileen can sit with Alf.”
Binnie promptly got in the driver’s seat. “I can drive.”
“No, you can’t,” the vicar said. “Slide over.”
“But it’s an emergency, ain’t it? You said you was teachin’ me to drive in emer-”
“Scoot over,” Eileen said. “Now.” Binnie did. Eileen climbed in the back. Alf was huddled in the corner, his head in his hands. “Does your head hurt?” she asked him.
“Yeah,” he said and put his head in her lap. She could feel the heat through her coat.
“I’ll wager it’s typhoid fever,” Binnie said. “I knew this boy what died of typhoid.”
“Alf hasn’t got typhoid fever,” Eileen said.
“This boy who ’ad it ate a ’ard-boiled egg,” Binnie went on, undaunted, “and ’is stomach blew up, just like that. You ain’t s’posed to eat eggs if you’ve got typhoid fever.”
The vicar drove up to the manor and around to the kitchen door. He opened the door, took Alf from Eileen, and walked him into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bascombe was kneading bread. “If you’re here to try to talk me into learning to drive, Vicar, you’d best save your breath. I’ve no intention of-Alf, what have you done now?”
“He’s ill,” Eileen explained.
“We found him on the road,” the vicar said.
“He was sick all over Eileen’s shoes,” Binnie put in.
“I think perhaps we’d better phone for the doctor.”
“Of course, Vicar,” Mrs. Bascombe said. “Una, take the vicar through to the library so he can use the telephone,” but as soon as they were gone, she turned on Alf. “Doctor? What you need is a trip to the woodshed, Alf Hodbin. You’ve been at the jam cupboard again, haven’t you? What else have you been stuffing yourself with? Cakes? Lamb pie?”
Oh, don’t mention food, Eileen thought, looking worriedly at Alf’s face. “I don’t think it’s something he ate,” she said. “He’s feverish. I think he’s ill.”
“P’rhaps ’e was poisoned,” Binnie said. “By fifth columnists. The jerries-”
“What he needs is a dose of castor oil and a good shaking.” Mrs. Bascombe grabbed his arm, and then stopped, frowning, and took a long hard look at him. “Tell me where it hurts.” She pressed her hand against his forehead and then his cheeks. “Are your eyes sore?”
Alf nodded. “It’s typhoid, ain’t it?” Binnie asked.
Una came back in. “Where’s the vicar?” Mrs. Bascombe demanded. “Did he telephone for the doctor?”
Una nodded. “He wasn’t in. The vicar went to fetch him.”
Mrs. Bascombe turned back to Alf. “Does your head hurt?” He nodded. “Has he had a runny nose?” she demanded of Eileen.
Alf always had a runny nose. Eileen tried to remember if he’d wiped it on his sleeve more than usual the past few days. “It’s been runnin’ somethin’ awful,” Binnie said, and Mrs. Bascombe yanked up Alf’s shirt and peered at his chest. It looked normal to Eileen, except for a long smear of dirt which he’d gotten God knew how. She’d given him a bath just last night.
“Is your throat sore?” Mrs. Bascombe asked.
Alf nodded.
“Eileen, take Alf upstairs,” Mrs. Bascombe ordered, “and put him to bed. Make up a cot for him in the ballroom.”
“In the ballroom?” Eileen said doubtfully, remembering what had happened the last time the children had been in there.
“Yes. Binnie, come here and let me look at your chest. Do your eyes hurt?”
“Come along, Alf,” Eileen said and walked him up the stairs and into the nursery. “Climb into your pajamas. I’ll be back straightaway,” she told him and ran back down to the kitchen. Mrs. Bascombe was filling the kettle, and Binnie was looking interestedly at the pots and pans, no doubt waiting for a chance to steal them for the scrap drive. Eileen hurried over to Mrs. Bascombe and whispered, “Has Alf got something serious?”
Mrs. Bascombe glanced over at Binnie, then set the kettle on the cooker, and struck a match. “Make sure Alf’s kept warm,” she said, lighting the burner. “I’ll bring you up a hot water bottle in a moment,” which meant she didn’t want to say anything with Binnie there. Which meant it was serious, and obviously contagious. Not typhoid fever-that had been a waterborne disease-but there’d been all sorts of infectious diseases back before antivirals and some of them had been killers: typhus and influenza and scarlet fever.
He can’t have scarlet fever, Eileen thought, running back upstairs. I’m supposed to leave today. She looked at the clock. It was four already, and who knew how long it would take the doctor to get here. If she didn’t make it out to the drop before dark, she’d be trapped here an entire extra week. But if Alf was seriously ill-
Perhaps I can get him into bed, and then, as soon as Mrs. Bascombe brings up the hot water bottle, run out to the drop and tell them I’m going to be late, she thought, going into the nursery. Alf was sitting listlessly on the edge of his cot, still in his clothes. Eileen took off her hat and coat and helped him into his pajamas, looking anxiously at his chest as she buttoned the jacket. His chest was a bit pink, but she couldn’t see a rash. “Lie down while I make up a bed for you,” she told him and dragged one of the cots into the ballroom, made it up, then helped him across the corridor and onto the cot.
She heard a door slam below and voices. “Go outside and play now,” Mrs. Bascombe said.
The rest of the children must be home from school. “I want to go see Alf,” Eileen heard Binnie say.
“I want to go home,” Theodore Willett said.
“Outside,” Mrs. Bascombe repeated.
“But it’s raining,” Binnie protested. “We’ll catch our death.”
And whatever Alf had, it couldn’t be that serious, because Mrs. Bascombe said, “No talking back. Outside, all of you.”
“I don’t got to go outside, do I?” Alf asked worriedly.
“No,” Eileen said, covering him up. He looked very green. “Are you feeling like you’re going to be sick again?”
He shook his head weakly, but she fetched a basin, just in case. When she got back to the ballroom, Dr. Stuart was there, and he was asking Alf the same questions Mrs. Bascombe had. He looked at Alf’s chest and then stuck a barbaric-looking glass thermometer in his mouth and took Alf’s pulse, using two fingers and his watch. If this was something serious, Alf was in trouble. Nineteen-forties medicine was extremely primitive. Could a thermometer like that even detect a fever?
“He’s been complaining of feeling cold,” Eileen said, “and he’s been sick twice.”
Dr. Stuart nodded, waited an interminably long time, pulled out the thermometer, read it, and took a small pocket torch from his bag. “Open wide,” he said to Alf and looked at the inside of his cheek with the light. “Just as I thought. Measles.”
Not scarlet fever. Thank goodness. If he’d been really ill, Eileen wasn’t sure she could have brought herself to leave. But measles was only a childhood disease of the time. “Are you certain?” she asked. “He hasn’t any rash.”
“The measles won’t appear for another day or so. Till then, he needs to be kept warm and the sickroom kept dark to protect his eyes. That’s one advantage of the blackout. You needn’t put up new curtains.” He put the torch back in his bag. “His fever is likely to go up sharply until the measles come out.” He snapped his bag shut. “I’ll look in tonight. The most important thing is to keep him away from the other children. How many are here at the manor just now?”
“Thirty-five,” Eileen said.
He shook his head unhappily. “Well, we’ll hope most of them have already had measles. Alf, has your sister had them?” Alf shook his head weakly. The doctor turned back to Eileen. “You’ve had them, I hope?”
“No,” she said, “but I’ve been-” and remembered they hadn’t had vaccines in 1940 except for smallpox. “I mean, yes, I-” she stammered and stopped again. If she said she’d had them, he’d put her in charge of the sickroom and she’d never get away. The doctor was looking at her curiously. “I haven’t had measles,” she said firmly.
“Sit down,” he said, and opened his black bag. He took her temperature, looked at her throat, and examined the inside of her cheeks. “No symptoms yet, but you’ve been in close contact. I’ll tell Mrs. Bascombe to send someone up to take over for you immediately. In the meantime, no more contact with the patient than absolutely necessary.”
She nodded, relieved. There was no reason now not to leave. Even if she stayed, she wouldn’t be allowed near Alf or the other evacuees who caught the measles.
“I’ll look in on him tonight,” Dr. Stuart said and left.
“What’d ’e mean, ’ave someone take over?” Alf asked, sitting up on his cot. “Ain’t you goin’ to take care of me?”
“I’m not allowed to,” Eileen said. “I haven’t had measles.” She started toward the door.
“You ain’t leavin’ now, are you?”
“No, I’m only going across to the nursery to fetch you another blanket. I’ll be back straightaway.”
“You swear?”
“I swear. I won’t leave till someone comes to relieve me.”
“Who?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Una or-”
“Una?” he said disbelievingly. “Una’ll let me die. You’re the only one wot’s nice to me’n Binnie,” and looked so woeful she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Lie down,” she said, fetched him a blanket, and then went across to the nursery for her hat and coat and put them on the table just outside the ballroom door. One good thing about Alf’s illness was that the resultant confusion in the manor should make it easier for her to slip away. When someone arrived to relieve her. Where was Una? Had the doctor forgotten to tell Mrs. Bascombe to send her up? And what had happened to the hot water bottle Mrs. Bascombe had said she’d bring him? Alf was shivering.
There was a knock on the door. Finally, Eileen thought and hurried to open it. “I come to see ’ow Alf is,” Binnie said, peering into the ballroom.
“You’re not allowed in here, Binnie. Your brother has the measles. You might catch them.”
“No, I won’t,” Binnie said, attempting to sidle through the door. “I’ve already ’ad ’em.”
“She’s lyin’,” Alf called from the cot.
“I am not. You was only a baby, Alf, that’s why you don’t remember. I was covered all over in spots.”
Well, that’s a blessing, Eileen thought. All she needed was two ailing Hodbins. But she still didn’t intend to let her in. “Go and play.” She shut the door.
Binnie promptly knocked again. “Alf don’t like to be alone when ’e’s ill,” she said when Eileen opened the door. “’E gets frightened.”
Alf has never been frightened of anything in his life. “No one’s allowed in.” Eileen shut the door again and locked it. “Doctor’s orders.”
Binnie knocked again. “Go away,” Eileen said.
“Eileen?” Alf said.
“Binnie’s not allowed in here.”
He shook his head. “That ain’t wot I-” he said and vomited again.
Eileen grabbed for the basin, but she shoved it under him a second too late. It went all over the sheets, the pillow, and his pajamas as well. The knocking began again. “Go away, Binnie!” she said, reaching for a towel.
“It’s Una,” Una’s voice said timidly.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Come in,” Eileen said.
“I can’t. The door’s locked.” Eileen handed Alf the towel and unlocked the door, and Una came in, looking frightened. “Mrs. Bascombe said I was to take over for you.”
Eileen was tempted to hand her the basin and walk out. “Get Alf out of his pajamas while I empty this,” she said. “And don’t let Binnie in.” She rinsed out the basin, got fresh sheets from the linen closet, and found a clean pair of pajamas for Alf.
When she got back to the ballroom, Una was standing exactly where she’d left her. “What’s he got?” she asked nervously. “Flu?”
“No,” Eileen said, standing Alf up and unbuttoning his pajama top, taking it off him, and sponging his chest clean. “Measles.” And, at the terrified look on Una’s face, “You have had the measles, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Una said. “That is, I may have done. I’m not sure. But I’ve never nursed anyone with them.”
“The doctor will help you,” Eileen said, stripping the sheets off and remaking the cot. She helped Alf into bed and covered him up. “Dr. Stuart will be back later tonight. All you need to do is keep Alf warm.” She gathered up the soiled sheets and pajamas. “And keep the basin handy. And keep Binnie out.”
And she made her escape. But she still had the wad of soiled sheets, and she didn’t dare take them down to the laundry, or Mrs. Bascombe would hand her the hot water bottle or put her to work looking after the other children. She opened the door to the bathroom, dumped the sheets in the bathtub, and shut the door again, feeling guilty at leaving the mess, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to get out of here.
