Connie Willis - Blackout
Dr. Stuart was determined to keep her out of the sickroom, even though Una was clearly overwhelmed, but when Reg and Letitia fell ill, he said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to help out till the nurse arrives and the children break out. As soon as their rashes appear, they’ll improve. Try to avoid close contact with them as much as you can.” And it was a good thing she wasn’t really at risk because the children needed nonstop nursing. They all had fevers and nausea, and their eyes were red and sore. Eileen spent half her time wringing out cold compresses, changing sheets, and emptying basins, and the other half trying vainly to keep Alf in bed.
He hadn’t felt ill since the first day, and he spent most of his time tormenting the other patients. The only thing that kept Eileen from killing him was the vicar’s arrival. He called up to her that he’d brought extra linens and some jelly from Miss Fuller and chatted with her through the window for a bit.
“If it’s any comfort, you’re not the only ones quarantined. The Sperrys and Pritchards are as well. They’ve closed the school,” he told her. “I’ll leave the linens and jelly on the kitchen step. Oh, and I’ve brought the post.”
The post consisted of the London Times, which reported that the Germans were driving into France and that Belgium might fall, a letter from Mrs. Magruder saying yes, her children had had the measles, and a note from Lady Caroline. “I am devastated at not being at home to assist you in this crisis,” she wrote.
“Ha!” Mrs. Bascombe said. “She’s thanking her lucky stars she went to that meeting and was out of the house. Though if you ask me, it’s a blessing she’s not here. It’s one less person to cook for and clean up after.”
She was right. They already had more than they could cope with. By the end of the week, eleven of the evacuees were down with the measles, the nurse Dr. Stuart had promised still hadn’t arrived, and when Polly asked him about it on his next visit, he shook his head grimly. “She joined the Royal Nursing Corps last month, and all the other nurses in the area have already been engaged. There are a good many cases in the district.”
There are a good many cases here, Eileen thought, exasperated, and over the next few days the number grew even larger. Susan came down with measles and so did Georgie; they had to set up a second ward in the music room; and everyone-including Samuels, who saw his job as beginning and ending with keeping everyone from escaping the house-had to pitch in. Mrs. Bascombe took over the housekeeping, the vicar brought medicine and calves’ foot jelly, and Binnie carried trays and drove Eileen to distraction. “Are they all going to die?” she asked her loudly, trying to peek into the ballroom.
“No, of course not. Children don’t die of measles.”
“I know a girl what did. She ’ad a white coffin.”
After a day and a half of similar sentiments, Eileen reassigned Binnie to kitchen duty. Mrs. Bascombe tied one of her aprons on her and set her to work washing the dishes, hanging up the laundry in the now-deserted ballroom, and scrubbing the floor.
“It’s not fair,” Binnie told Eileen indignantly. “I wish I could have caught the measles.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Mrs. Bascombe, coming in from the larder, said. “And be careful with those teacups. She’s already broken four,” she told Eileen. “And the Spode teapot. I don’t know what Lady Caroline will say.”
Eileen wasn’t particularly worried. Lady Caroline had only written once since that first time, to tell them that she’d be staying with friends till the quarantine was lifted and to send her “my white georgette, my silver fox stole, and my blue bathing dress.”
The next few days were a blur-children in the vomiting stage, the spiking-fever stage, and the emerging-rash stage. Peggy and Reg got eye infections, and Jill developed a chesty cough that Dr. Stuart warned Eileen to keep a sharp eye on. “We don’t want it to go into her chest,” he said, and added twice-a-day steam infusions under an improvised tent of blankets to Eileen’s list of chores.
Which was endless, in spite of everyone, including the little ones, helping out. Peggy and Barbara swept the nursery, Theodore made up his own cot, and Binnie toiled in the kitchen and endured Mrs. Bascombe’s lectures. Every time Eileen came down to the kitchen, Mrs. Bascombe was shaking her finger at Binnie, saying, “You call that peeling? You’ve taken off half the potato!” or “Why haven’t you finished putting away those dishes?” or the all-purpose “Mark my words, you’ll come to a bad end!” Eileen actually began to feel a bit sorry for her.
On Thursday, when she went downstairs for mentholated spirits to put in Jill’s steam kettle, Binnie was at the kitchen table with her head lying on her arms in an attitude of despair, a massive pile of to-be-cleaned vegetables next to her. “Mrs. Bascombe,” Eileen said, going out to the larder, “you really mustn’t be so hard on Binnie. She’s doing her best.”
“So hard?” Mrs. Bascombe said. “Who’s let her sit there at that table all morning while I did the washing up and the ironing because she complained of a headache? Who let her-?”
“Headache?” Eileen hurried back out to the kitchen and squatted next to Binnie’s chair. “Binnie?”
The girl raised her head, and there was no mistaking the too-bright eyes, the dark circles under them.
Eileen put her hand to Binnie’s forehead. It was burning up. “Do you feel like you’re going to be ill?”
“’Uh-unh. It’s only my ’ead aches.”
Eileen led her upstairs to the ballroom. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had a lie-down,” she said, unbuttoning Binnie’s dress.
“I’ve got the measles, ain’t I?” she said plaintively.
“I’m afraid so,” Eileen said, lifting her singlet over her head. There was no sign of the rash yet. “You’ll feel better once they come out.”
But they didn’t come out, and Binnie didn’t manifest any of the other symptoms, except for the fever-which steadily climbed-and the persistent headache. She lay with her eyes squeezed shut and her fists jammed against her forehead as if to keep it from exploding. “Are you certain it’s the measles?” Eileen asked Dr. Stuart, thinking of spinal meningitis.
“The rash takes longer in some children,” he reassured her. “You’ll see, Binnie will be all right by morning.”
But she wasn’t, and her fever kept going up. When the doctor came in the afternoon, it was thirty-nine. “Give her a teaspoon of this powder in a tumblerful of water every four hours,” the doctor said, handing Eileen a paper packet.
“For her fever?”
“No, it’s to help bring the measles out. The fever will come down on its own once the rash appears.”
The powder was useless. It was three more days before Binnie broke out, and the measles gave her no relief. Her rash was bright red instead of pink, and covered every inch of her, even the palms of her hands. “It ’urts,” Binnie cried, moving her head restlessly on the pillow.
“She’s got them hard,” the doctor said, which scarcely seemed a technical diagnosis. He took her temp, which was thirty-nine and a half, and then listened to her chest. “I’m afraid the measles have affected her lungs.”
“Her lungs?” Eileen said. “You mean pneumonia?”
He nodded. “Yes. I want you to make a poultice of molasses, dried mustard, and brown paper for her chest.”
“But shouldn’t she be taken to hospital?”
“Hospital?”
Eileen bit her lip. Obviously people in this time didn’t go into hospital for pneumonia, and why would they? There was nothing they could do for them there-no antivirals, no nanotherapies, not even any antibiotics except sulfa and penicillin. No, they didn’t even have that. Penicillin hadn’t come into common use till after the war.
“I shouldn’t worry,” the doctor said, patting Eileen on the arm. “Binnie’s young and strong.”
“But isn’t there something you can give her for her fever?”
“You might give her some licorice-root tea,” he said. “And bathe her with alcohol three times a day.”
Teas, poultices, glass thermometers! It’s a wonder anyone survived the twentieth century, Eileen thought disgustedly. She bathed Binnie’s hot arms and legs after the doctor left, but neither that nor the tea had any effect on her, and as the evening wore on, she became more and more short of breath. She dozed fitfully, moaning and tossing from side to side. It was midnight before she finally fell asleep. Eileen tucked the covers around her and went to check on the other children.
“Don’t leave me!” Binnie cried out.
“Shh,” Eileen said, hurrying back and sitting down beside her again. “I’m here. Shh, I’m not leaving. I was only going to check on the other children.” She reached out her hand to feel Binnie’s forehead.
Binnie twisted angrily away from her. “No, you wasn’t. You was goin’ away. To London. I seen you.”
She must be reliving that day at the station with Theodore. “I’m not going to London,” Eileen said soothingly. “I’m staying right here with you.”
Binnie shook her head violently. “I seen you. Mrs. Bascombe says nice girls don’t meet soldiers in the woods.”
She’s delirious, Eileen thought. “I’m going to fetch the thermometer, Binnie. I’ll be back in just a moment.”
“I did so see her, Alf,” Binnie said.
Eileen got the thermometer, dipped it in alcohol, and came back. “Put this under your tongue.”
“You can’t leave,” Binnie said. She looked straight at Eileen. “You’re the only one wot’s nice to us.”
“Binnie, dear, I need to take your temperature,” Eileen repeated, and this time Binnie seemed to hear her. She opened her mouth obediently, lay still for the endless minutes before Eileen could remove the thermometer, then turned over and closed her eyes.
Eileen couldn’t read her temp in the near-darkness. She tiptoed over to the lamp on the table: forty. If her temperature stayed that high for long, it would kill her.
Even though it was two in the morning, Eileen rang up Dr. Stuart, but he wasn’t there. His housekeeper told her he’d just left for Moodys’ farm to deliver a baby, and, no, they weren’t on the telephone. Which meant she was on her own-and there was absolutely nothing she could do. If her presence had affected events, the net would never have let her come through to Backbury.
But the alterations the net prevented were those which affected the course of history, not whether an evacuee lived through the measles. Binnie couldn’t affect what happened at D-Day or who won the war. And even if she could, Eileen couldn’t just stand here and let her die. She had to at least try to get her temperature down. But how? Rubbing her with alcohol had had no effect at all. Putting her in a tub of cold water? In her weakened state, the shock might kill her. She needed a medicine to bring down the fever, but they hadn’t any drugs like that in 1940-
Yes, they do, she thought. If Lady Caroline didn’t take it with her. She tiptoed out of the sickroom and ran along the corridor to Lady Caroline’s rooms. Please, please don’t let her have taken her aspirin tablets with her.
She hadn’t. The box was on her dressing table, and it was nearly full. Eileen grabbed it up, put it in her pocket, and sped back to the sickroom. Her opening of the door wakened Binnie, and she sat up, flinging her hands out wildly. “Eileen!” she sobbed.
“I’m here,” Eileen said, grabbing her hands. They were burning up. “I’m here. I only went to fetch your medicine. Shh, it’s all right. I’m here.” She took two of the tablets out of the box and reached for Binnie’s water glass. “I’m not going anywhere. Here, take this.” She supported Binnie’s head while she took the tablet. “That’s a good girl. Now lie down.”
Binnie clutched at her. “You can’t go! Who’ll take care of us if you leave?”
“I won’t leave you,” Eileen said, covering Binnie’s hot, dry hands with both of hers.
“Swear,” Binnie cried.
“I swear,” Eileen said.
All the world that is still free marvels at the composure and fortitude with which the citizens of London are facing and surmounting the great ordeal to which they are subjected, the end of which, or the severity of which, cannot yet be foreseen.
– WINSTON CHURCHILL, 1940London-17 September 1940
BY TUESDAY NIGHT, POLLY STILL HADN’T FOUND A JOB. There weren’t any openings “at present,” or, as the personnel manager at Waring and Gillow said, “during this uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty” was putting it mildly. But then the contemps had been noted for understatement. Bombed buildings and people blown to bits were “incidents;” impassable wreckage-strewn streets “diversions.” The daytime air raids, which had interrupted her job search twice today, were christened “Hitler’s tea break.”
Only one person, a junior shop assistant at Harvey Nichols, was willing to say it baldly: “They’re not taking anyone new on because they can’t see the point when the store mightn’t be there in the morning. No one’s hiring.”
She was right. Neither Debenham’s nor Yardwick’s would grant her an interview, Dickins and Jones wouldn’t allow her to fill up an application form, and every other store was on Mr. Dunworthy’s forbidden list.
Which is ridiculous, Polly thought as her train reached Notting Hill Gate. They’d all been hit at night, and only one-Padgett’s-had had casualties, and it hadn’t been hit till October twenty-fifth, three days after she was due to go back.
But Mr. Dunworthy would already be furious that she hadn’t checked in yet. She’d best not do anything to upset him further, which meant she needed to be hired on at either Townsend Brothers or Peter Robinson. And hired on soon. If she didn’t check in tomorrow, Mr. Dunworthy was likely to decide something had happened to her and send a retrieval team to pull her out.
She bought the Express and the Daily Herald from the news vendor at the top of the station stairs and hurried back to Mrs. Rickett’s, hoping tonight’s supper would be better than last night’s tinned beef hash, a watery mush of potatoes and cabbage with a few flecks of stringy red.
It wasn’t. Tonight the flecks were gray and rubbery-halibut, according to Mrs. Rickett-and the potatoes and cabbage had been boiled to the point where they were indistinguishable. Luckily, the sirens went halfway through dinner, and Polly didn’t have to finish it.
When she got to St. George’s, she immediately opened the Herald and looked through the “To Let’s” for somewhere else to live, but all the rooms listed had addresses on the forbidden list. She turned the page to the “Situations Vacant.” Companion wanted, upstairs maid, chauffeur. The hired help have all gone off to war, Polly thought, or to work in munitions factories. Nanny, maid of all work. Not a single ad for a shopgirl, and nothing in the Express either.
