Connie Willis - Blackout

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.

When Eileen took up the lunch tray, she caught Alf leaning out the ballroom door, flicking a wet facecloth at Jimmy and Reg. “What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

“I’m washin’ my face,” he said innocently.

“Get back in the nursery,” she ordered Reg and Jimmy. “Alf, get back into bed.” She pushed him into the ballroom. “Una, you can’t allow Alf to-where’s Una?”

“I dunno. Why ain’t you takin’ care of me?”

“Because you’re contagious.” And irritating beyond belief. “Climb into bed.”

“When can Binnie come see me?”

“She can’t. Now lie down,” she said and went in search of Una. She wasn’t in the bathroom or the nursery, where Binnie was leading the children in a noisy game of tag, and when Eileen glanced back in the ballroom, Alf was at the window, trying to open it, surrounded by the sheets he’d knotted together.

“Dr. Stuart said I needed fresh air,” he said innocently.

Eileen confiscated the sheets, located Una in her bedroom changing out of her sopping wet dress-Alf had spilt the washbasin on her-and sent her back downstairs to Alf.

“Must I?” Una begged her. “Can’t you nurse him? I’ll give you my new film magazine.”

I know just how you feel, Eileen thought. “I can’t. I haven’t had measles.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Una wailed.

Eileen took the sheets back down to the linen closet, briefly considering hanging them out her bedroom window and escaping, but her room was four stories from the ground, and Dr. Stuart would be here in another hour. After one look at Alf-and poor Una-he would almost certainly call off the quarantine, and she could walk out the front door to the drop instead of risking life and limb.

But Dr. Stuart telephoned to say he was delayed-one of the Pritchards’ evacuees had fallen out of a tree and broken his leg-and by the time he arrived at three that afternoon, there was no longer any doubt of its being measles. Alf was covered from head to toe with un-fakeable red pinpoint dots, Tony and Rose were both complaining of sore throats, and before the doctor had even finished taking their temps, Jimmy had announced, “I’m going to be sick,” and was.

Eileen spent the rest of the afternoon setting up additional cots and cursing herself for not having climbed out the window while she had the chance. Tony’s brother Ralph and Rose’s sister Alice fell ill during the night, and when Dr. Stuart examined Edwina, she had white patches inside her mouth, even though she claimed she didn’t feel ill. “This would never have happened if we’d gone on the boat,” she said, annoyed.

Eileen wasn’t listening. She was thinking about the drop. She couldn’t go now, even if she could get past Samuels. She couldn’t leave the children with only Una to care for them. Dr. Stuart had promised to bring in a nurse, but the nurse wouldn’t be available till the weekend, and by then the lab would have already sent a retrieval team to find out why she hadn’t returned.

If they hadn’t already. “Is there a notice on the door saying we’re quarantined?” she asked Samuels.

“Indeed there is, and one on the main gate.”

Which means when they do come through, they’ll see what’s happened, she thought, and I needn’t worry about getting word to them. That was a blessing because she hadn’t a moment to spare over the next few days, between carrying trays, washing sheets, and keeping the evacuees who hadn’t yet caught the measles occupied.

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.”