Connie Willis - Blackout

“Positive,” Eileen said, tucking her in. “You’re growing stronger every day.”

“What ’appens to people who die, when they ’aven’t got no name?”

“You mean, when no one knows who they were?” Eileen asked, puzzled.

“No. When they ain’t got a name to put on the tombstone. Do they still get to get buried in the churchyard?”

She’s illegitimate, Eileen thought suddenly. Having an unmarried mother had been a true stigma for children in this era, with the child branded a bastard.

But the stigma hadn’t extended as far as tombstones. “Binnie, your name is your name, no matter whether your mother is married or not…”

Binnie made a sound of complete disgust, and Eileen was certain that if she hadn’t still been too weak to get out of bed, she’d have stomped from the room like her brother. As it was, she turned over onto her side and faced the wall.

Eileen wished the vicar was here. She racked her brain to recall any customs involving names and tombstones in 1940, but she couldn’t think of anything. Alf, she thought. He knows what this is all about, and hastily gathered up the dirty linen. “I’m taking these downstairs,” she told Binnie. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

No response. Eileen dumped the linens in the laundry and went to the ballroom, where Alf was wrapping Rose in bandages. “I’m practicin’ for the ambulance,” he said.

“Alf, come with me,” Eileen said. “Now,” and took him into the music room and shut the door. “I want to know why Binnie’s worried over her name being on a tombstone, and don’t say you don’t know.”

Something in her tone must have convinced him she meant business, because he muttered, “She ain’t got one.”

“A tombstone?”

“No, a name,” and at Eileen’s bewildered look, “Binnie ain’t a real name. It’s just short for ’Odbin.”

“Can you believe he told Binnie she didn’t have a first name?” she told the vicar when he arrived the next day. “And she apparently believed him.”

“Did you ask Binnie?” he said.

“What do you mean? You can’t seriously think… everyone has a first name. Just because they come from a poor-”

He was shaking his head. “The Evacuation Committee’s run into more than one slum child without a name, and the billeting officer’s had to make one up on the spot. I’m not certain you realize how hard some of the children’s lives were at home. Many of them had never slept in a bed before they came here-”

Or used a toilet, Eileen thought, remembering her prep. Some evacuees from the slums had urinated on the floors of their foster homes or squatted in a corner. And Mrs. Bascombe had told her several of the evacuees at the manor had had to be taught to use a knife and fork when they’d first come. But a name! “Alf has a name,” she argued, but the vicar wasn’t convinced.

“Perhaps their father felt differently about a boy. Or perhaps it wasn’t the same father. And you must admit, Mrs. Hodbin-if she is a Mrs.-hasn’t shown much maternal instinct.”

“True. But still…” she said, and when she went in to talk to Binnie, tried to reassure her. “I’m certain your name’s not short for Hodbin,” Eileen told Binnie. “That’s only Alf teasing. I’m certain it’s a nickname-”

“For what?” Binnie said belligerently.

“I don’t know. Belinda? Barbara?”

“There ain’t no ‘n’ in Barbara.”

“Nicknames don’t always have the same letters,” Eileen said. “Look at Peggy. Her real name’s Margaret. And there are all sorts of nicknames for Mary-Mamie and Molly and-”

“If Binnie’s short for somethin’, why ain’t nobody ever said what?” she said, and was so skeptical Eileen wondered if their mother had made some comment that had put the idea in their heads. Whatever had, it was the last thing Binnie needed while she was recovering. After a fortnight her eyes had a shadowed look and she hadn’t gained back any of the weight she’d lost.

Eileen said briskly, “If you haven’t got a name, then you must choose one.”

“Choose one?”

“Yes, like in ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’”

“That wasn’t choosin’. It was guessin’.”

Why did I think this would work? Eileen wondered, but after a minute, Binnie said, “If I chose a name, you’d call me it?”

“Yes,” Eileen said, and was immediately sorry. Binnie spent the next few days trying on names like hats and asking Eileen what she thought of Gladys and Princess Elizabeth and Cinderella. But as maddening as the parade of names was, it did the trick. Binnie began to make rapid progress, growing rounder and more pink-cheeked by the day.

In the meantime, the Magruders proved conclusively they hadn’t had the measles before, no matter what their mother had said, and Eddie and Patsy also broke out. By the evacuation of Dunkirk, Eileen had nineteen patients in varying degrees of spottiness and/or recovery.

Alf was thrilled about the ongoing rescue. “The vicar says they’re going over in fishing boats and rowboats to get our soldiers,” he reported happily. “I wish I could go.”

I wish I could, too, Eileen thought. Michael Davies is in Dover reporting on the evacuation right now.

“They’re gettin’ strafed and bombs dropped on ’em and everything,” Alf said, which at this point seemed infinitely preferable to caring for a score of feverish, fretful, molting children. Once the rash went away, their skin developed brownish, peeling patches. “Now you really look like a corpse,” Alf told Binnie. “If you was at Dunkirk, they’d think you was dead and leave you behind on the beach, and the jerries’d kill you.”

“They would not!” Binnie shrieked.

“Out,” Eileen ordered.

“I can’t go out,” Alf said reasonably. “We’re under quarantine.”

He was quite literally bouncing off the walls. Eileen found several portraits askew and Lady Caroline and her hunting dogs sprawled flat on the floor, and when she ordered them out of the ballroom, they retreated to Lady Caroline’s bathroom, a fact Eileen didn’t discover till water began dripping from the library ceiling.

“Alf and us were playing Evacuation from Dunkirk,” a sopping-wet Theodore explained.

The next time the vicar called up to the nursery window to ask if there was anything they needed, Eileen said yes rather desperately. “Something to amuse the ones who aren’t ill. Games or puzzles or something.”

“I’ll see what the Women’s Institute can come up with,” he said, and the next day delivered a basket full of donated books (Little Lord Fauntleroy and The Child’s Book of Martyrs), jigsaw puzzles (St. Paul’s Cathedral and “The Cotswolds in Spring”), and a Victorian board game called Cowboys and Red Indians, which inspired the Hodbins to lead the children on a whooping war-painted rampage through the corridors.

“And yesterday I caught Alf playing Burned at the Stake,” she called down to the vicar on his next visit, “with Lady Caroline’s Louis Quinze hat stand and a box of matches.”

He laughed up at her. “I can see stronger measures are required.”

He was as good as his word. The next day the basket he brought contained ARP armbands, a logbook, and an official RAF chart showing the distinctive silhouettes of Heinkels, Hurricanes, and Dornier 17s. Alf promptly became an ace aeroplane spotter, lecturing everyone on the difference between a Dornier 17 and a Spitfire-“See, it’s got eight machine guns on the wings”-and hanging out in the ballroom window and shouting, “Enemy aircraft at three o’clock,” every time a plane appeared and diving to record the number, type, and altitude in the logbook. The only plane most days was the plane carrying the post to Birmingham, but that didn’t discourage him, and comparative peace reigned for several days.

It was, of course, too good to last. Soon, Alf began flying bombing sorties through the kitchen. And the sickroom, and torturing Binnie. When she suggested Beauty for her name-“You know, like in Sleeping Beauty”-Alf hooted, “Beauty? Beast, more like! Or Baby, ’cause that’s what you are, bawlin’ when you was ill and beggin’ Eileen not to leave. You made ’er swear and everythin’.”

“I never,” Binnie said indignantly. “I don’t even like her. She can go this minute for all I care.”

I would if I could, Eileen thought, but while she’d been intent on taking care of her evacuees, Samuels had boarded up all the doors except the one in the kitchen, moved his chair in front of that, and nailed shut the windows in every room but the ballroom, which was always full of children. And she only had ten more days. If no one else came down with the measles.

But if they did, surely Oxford would attempt to pull her out. She was surprised they hadn’t already. Now that most of the children had recovered and Binnie was out of danger, Una and Mrs. Bascombe could easily handle the situation, but there was no sign of the retrieval team and no message from them. “No letters have come for me, have they?” she asked Samuels.

“No,” he said. Which must mean the quarantine was nearly over, and none of the other children were going to get the measles. Eileen began counting the days.

Two days before the quarantine was to be lifted, Lily Lovell came down with a roaring case, and ten days later Ruth Steinberg, and two weeks after that Theodore. “At this rate, we’ll still be quarantined at Michaelmas,” Samuels grumbled.

Eileen wasn’t sure she could make it. Alf nearly fell out of the window trying to identify a plane, and Binnie began holding air-raid drills standing at the top of the main stairway and giving her imitation of an air-raid siren. “That ain’t the siren for air raids, you slowcoach,” Alf told her. “You’re doin’ the all clear. This is the air raid,” and let loose a bloodcurdling up-and-down yowl that Eileen thought would break Lady Caroline’s crystal.

“They simply must go outside and run off some of their energy before they wreck the house,” she told Mrs. Bascombe. “It wouldn’t be breaking quarantine if they stayed on the front lawn. If anyone came we could come inside straightaway.”

Mrs. Bascombe shook her head. “Dr. Stuart will never allow it-”

There was an unearthly wail from the stairway. “Air raid!” Theodore shrieked, giggling, and the children thundered through the kitchen toward the cellar steps, knocking a pan full of cakes off the table and onto the floor where Alf, wearing his ARP armband and a colander-helmet, stepped in the middle of it.

“Exactly how many more days is it till the end of quarantine?” Mrs. Bascombe asked, helping Eileen pick up cakes.

“Four,” Eileen said grimly, reaching for one that had gone under the flour bin.

“All clear!” Binnie shouted from the cellar door, and the children roared back through the kitchen and up the stairs again, shrieking.

“No running!” Mrs. Bascombe called futilely after them. “Where’s Una got to? Why isn’t she watching them?”

“I’ll go find her,” Eileen said, dumping the last of the trampled cakes onto the baking pan and going upstairs. Knowing Alf and Binnie, she might be tied to a chair or locked in a closet.

She wasn’t. She was lying on Peggy’s cot in the ballroom. “I think I’ve caught the measles,” she said. “I feel so hot, and I have an awful headache.”