Connie Willis - Blackout

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.

She put on her coat and hat, listening for the children. Had they all come back inside, or only Binnie? And where was Binnie? Eileen couldn’t afford to have her follow her. She heard a door slam below and Mrs. Bascombe’s voice saying, “Go upstairs and get your things off, and then come straight back down for your tea. And you’re not to go near the ballroom.”

“Why not?” she heard Binnie ask. “I’ve ’ad ’em.”

Good, they were all in the kitchen. For the moment. Eileen shot along the corridor and down the main staircase. If Lady Caroline was back or the doctor was still here, she’d simply pretend she had a question about Alf’s care. But there was no one in the hall below. Good. In a quarter of an hour she’d be at the drop and on her way home. She ran down the stairs and across the large hall to the door and opened it.

Samuels was standing there, with a hammer in one hand and a sheaf of large yellow papers in the other. “Oh,” Eileen gasped. “Has the doctor gone?” He nodded. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I can still catch him.” She started past him.

He stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “You can’t leave,” he said, looking pointedly at her hat and coat.

“I’m only going to fetch the doctor,” she said and attempted to sidle past.

“No, you’re not.” He handed her one of the yellow sheets. “By order of the Ministry of Health, County of Warwickshire,” it read at the top. “No one’s allowed in or out,” he said. He took the sheet back from her and nailed it up on the door. “Except the doctor. This house and everyone in it’s been quarantined.”

Another part of the island. 

CESS OPENED THE DOOR OF THE OFFICE AND LEANED IN. “Worthing!” he called, and when he didn’t answer, “Ernest! Stop playing reporter and come with me. I need you on a job.”

Ernest kept typing. “Can’t,” he said through the pencil between his teeth. “I’ve got five newspaper articles and ten pages of transmissions to write.”

“You can do them later,” Cess said. “The tanks are here. We need to blow them up.”

Ernest removed the pencil from between his teeth and said, “I thought the tanks were Gwendolyn’s job.”

“He’s in Hawkhurst. Dental appointment.”

“Which takes priority over tanks? I can see the history books now. ‘World War II was lost because of a toothache.’”

“It’s not a toothache, it’s a cracked filling,” Cess said. “And it’ll do you good to get a bit of fresh air.” Cess yanked the sheet of paper out of the typewriter. “You can write your fairy tales later.”

“No, I can’t,” Ernest said, making an unsuccessful grab for the paper. “If I don’t get these stories in by tomorrow morning, they won’t be in Tuesday’s edition, and Lady Bracknell will have my head.”

Cess held it out of reach. “‘The Steeple Cross Women’s Institute held a tea Friday afternoon,’” he read aloud, “‘to welcome the officers of the 21st Airborne to the village.’ Definitely more important than blowing up tanks, Worthing. Front-page stuff. This’ll be in the Times, I presume?”

“No, the Sudbury Weekly Shopper,” Ernest said, making another grab for the sheet of paper, this time successful. “And it’s due at nine tomorrow morning along with four others, which I haven’t finished yet. And, thanks to you, I already missed last week’s deadline. Take Moncrieff with you.”