Connie Willis - Blackout

“Unless the war’s not actually over,” Paige said. “Remember last week, when West Ham rang up and said General Dodd had told them it was all over? If this is another false alarm, we’ll not only look like complete idiots, we’ll be put on report. We should have rung up HQ in London and verified it.”

“Which would have made us even later,” Reardon said, “and we’ve missed hours, as it is.”

“But if it hasn’t ended…” Paige said doubtfully. “Perhaps we should ring them up now, before we-”

“We’ll miss the train and the end of the war,” Reardon said, looking down the track toward where the train was coming. “It’s eight o’clock. Don’t you agree, Douglas?”

“Actually, it’s twenty past eight,” Douglas said. And every minute we stand here is one less minute I have to see the celebrations, she thought.

The train pulled in. Reardon said, “Stop fretting and come along.”

Paige turned to Douglas. “What do you think, Douglas?”

“It’s not a false alarm,” she said. “The Germans have surrendered. The war’s over. We’ve won.”

“Are you certain?”

More certain than you can possibly imagine, she thought. Here was something she’d never expected from her research, that it could be VE-Day, and the contemps wouldn’t know it. Or, rather, VE-Day eve. VE-Day, with its speeches by Churchill and the King and its thanksgiving services at St. Paul’s, had been-correction, wouldn’t be till-tomorrow, but the celebrating had begun today, and the party would go on all night.

“Douglas is certain,” Reardon was saying. “I’m certain. The war’s over. Now get on the train.” Reardon grabbed Paige’s arm and propelled her onto the car, and she got on with them.

The car was empty, too, but Paige didn’t seem to notice. She was looking at the tube map on the wall of the car. “Where should we go when we get there, do you think? Piccadilly Circus?”

“No, Hyde Park,” Reardon said. “Or St. Paul’s.”

“Where do you think people will be, Douglas?” Paige asked.

All of the above, she thought, plus Leicester Square and Parliament Square and Whitehall and every street in between. “Trafalgar Square is where one usually goes for that sort of thing,” she said, thinking of which place would have the easiest connection to her drop.

“What sort of thing?” Paige asked, and it was clear she thought nothing like this had ever happened before.

And she may be right, she thought. “I meant it’s where people have gathered in the past after military victories-the Battle of Trafalgar and the siege of Mafeking and all that.”

“This isn’t only a military victory,” Reardon said. “It’s our victory as well.”

“If it’s actually happened,” Paige said, peering out the window as they pulled into the next stop, which was deserted as well. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid it is a false alarm, Douglas.”

“No, it’s not,” she said firmly, though privately she was beginning to worry, too. Historical accounts had said the victory celebration had begun as soon as the news of the German surrender came over the wireless at three o’clock. Could they have got that wrong? Could everyone have doubted the news like Paige? There had been a number of false alarms, and everyone had been on tenterhooks for the last two weeks.

And it wouldn’t be the first time the historical record had been wrong or incomplete. But VE-Day was well documented. And the historical accounts said people should be pouring onto the train by now, waving Union Jacks and singing “When the Lights Go on Again All Over the World.”

“If the war’s over, then where is everyone?” asked Paige.

“At the next stop,” Reardon said imperturbably.

Reardon was right. When the doors opened, a veritable flood of people swept into their car. They were waving flags and rattling noisemakers, and two elderly gentlemen were singing “God Save the King” at the top of their lungs.

“Now do you believe the war’s over?” she and Reardon asked Paige, and she nodded excitedly.

More people pushed on. A little boy holding tightly to his mother’s hand asked, “Are we going to the shelter?”

“No,” his mother said, and then, as if she had just realized it, “We’re never going to the shelter again.”

People were still squeezing on. Many were in uniform, and some had red, white, and blue crepe paper draped around their necks, including two middle-aged men in Home Guard uniforms, brandishing a copy of the Evening News with the headline “IT IS OVER” and two bottles of champagne.

The train guard squeezed and pushed his way through the crush to them. “No alcoholic beverages allowed in the tube,” he said sternly.

“What do you mean, mate?” one of the men said. “’Aven’t you heard? The war’s over!”

“’Ere!” the other one said, handing his bottle to the guard. “Drink to the King’s ’ealth! And the Queen’s!” He snatched his friend’s bottle and shoved it into the guard’s other hand. He draped a chummy arm over the guard’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come to the palace with us and toast ’em to their face?”

“That’s where we should go,” Reardon said. “To Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh, yes,” Paige said excitedly. “Do you think we might actually be able to see Their Majesties, Douglas?”

Not till tomorrow, she thought, when the royal family will come out on the balcony no fewer than eight times and wave to the crowd.

“Do you think the Princesses will be with them?” Paige asked.

Not only will they be with them, she thought, but at one point they’ll be out in the crowd, mingling incognito with people and shouting gaily, “We want the King!” but she couldn’t say that. “I should imagine,” she said, looking at the doors, where people were still squeezing on. If it took this long to load the train at every stop, it would take all night to get there.

I’ve already missed the beginning, she thought, the RAF planes doing victory rolls over London and the lights being turned on. And if there was going to be this much delay on the trains going back, she’d have to leave early to reach the drop on time, and she’d miss the end as well.

The train finally pulled out. Paige was still chattering on about the Princesses. “I’ve always wanted to see them. Do you think they’ll be wearing their uniforms?”

“It may not matter what they’re wearing,” Reardon said as the train stopped again and more people squeezed on. “We may be trapped in here forever. Which may not be all that bad. Douglas, look at that lieutenant who just got on! Isn’t he handsome?”

“Where?” Paige said, standing on tiptoe to see.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Reardon demanded. “You’ve already bagged one. Don’t be greedy.”

“I was only looking,” Paige said.

“You’re not allowed to look. You’re engaged,” Reardon said. “Will he be here tonight?”

“No, he rang up night before last and said he wouldn’t be back for a week at the least,” Paige said.

“But that was before,” Reardon said. “Now that the war’s over-oh, Lord, there are more people boarding! We’ll pop!”

“We must try to get off at the next stop,” Paige said. “I can’t breathe.”

They nodded and when the train stopped again and a large man wearing a tin hat and an ARP armband began pushing toward the doors, they followed in his wake, squeezing between sailors and Wrens and navvies and teenaged girls.

“I can’t see what station it is,” Reardon said as the train slowed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Paige said. “Only get off. I’m being squished. I feel like a pilchard in a tin.”

Reardon nodded and bent down to look out the window. “Oh, good, it’s Charing Cross,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to Trafalgar Square after all, Douglas.”

The doors opened. “Follow me, girls!” Reardon shouted gaily. “Mind the gap!”

She scrambled off, and Paige did, too, calling, “Coming, Douglas?”

“Yes,” she said, attempting to squeeze past the Home Guard, who for some reason had launched into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” “Sorry, this is my stop. I must get off here,” she said, but they didn’t budge.

“Douglas! Hurry!” Reardon and Paige were shouting from the platform. “The train’s going to leave.”

“Please,” she shouted, trying to make herself heard over their singing. “I must get through.”

The door began to close.

I am ashamed to say I told him it was the fault of the Germans. 

BINNIE AND THE REST OF THE EVACUEES GREETED THE news that they were quarantined with an outburst of wild behavior that made Eileen want to flee for the drop before the children’s supper was half over.

“I was corn-teened for a month,” Alice announced. “Rose n’me couldn’t play outside or nothin’.”

“We ain’t gonna be quarantined for a month, are we, Eileen?” Binnie asked.

“No, of course not.” Measles only lasted a few days, didn’t they? That’s why they called them the three-day measles. Alice must be mistaken.

When Dr. Stuart came back that night, Eileen asked him how long the quarantine was likely to last. “It depends on how many of the children catch them,” he said. “If Alf were to be the only case, which is unlikely, it will end a fortnight after his rash disappears, so three or four weeks.”

“Three or four weeks? But they only last three days.”

“You’re thinking of German measles. These are red measles, which last a week or longer after the rash first appears.”

“And how long does it take for the rash to appear?”

“From three days to a week, and in some cases I’ve seen the rash last up to eight days.”

And knowing Alf, he would be one of those cases. A week plus eight days plus a fortnight. They would be quarantined for a month. If no one else caught them. So she obviously couldn’t wait until the quarantine was over. She had to go now. She wondered what the penalty for breaking quarantine was in 1940. During the Pandemic it would have got one shot, but surely that wouldn’t be the situation with a childhood disease. Just in case, though, she waited till everyone was asleep and Samuels was snoring heavily in the porter’s chair, which he’d dragged over in front of the front door, then tiptoed down the back stairs to the kitchen.

The door was locked. So were the French doors in the morning room, the windows in the library and dining room, and the side door leading off the billiards room.

“And the keys are here in my pocket,” Samuels said when she confronted him the next morning, “and that’s where they’re going to stay. That Hodbin brat could get out of one of Houdini’s traps, he could. I’m not letting him spread measles all over the neighborhood. If it is measles. I say he’s shamming so he can keep home from school.”

Eileen was inclined to agree with him. Alf not only drank all the broth she carried up for his breakfast, but asked for more, and when she came up for the tray, Una said he was bouncing on his cot and how did she get him to stop? And when the vicar came, he told her (shouting through the kitchen door since Samuels refused to let him in) that no one else who attended the village school in Backbury had come down with them.