Oxford Time Travel 1 - Blackout

by Connie Willis

  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 ball
room.”

  “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.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST

  Kent—April 1944

  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.”

  “He’s down with a bad cold.”

  “Which he no doubt caught while blowing up tanks in the pouring rain. Not exactly my idea of fun,” Ernest said, rolling a new sheet of paper into the typewriter, and began typing again.

  “It’s not raining,” Cess said. “There’s only a light fog, and it’s supposed to clear by morning. Perfect flying weather. That’s why we’ve got to blow them up tonight. It’ll only take an hour or two. You’ll be back in more than enough time to finish your articles and get them over to Sudbury.”

  Ernest didn’t believe that any more than he believed it wasn’t raining. It had rained every day all spring. “There must be someone else who can do it. What about Lady Bracknell? He’d be perfect for the job. He’s full of hot air.”

  “He’s in London, meeting with the higher-ups, and everyone else is over at Camp Omaha. You’re the only one who can do it. Come, Worthing, do you want to tell your children you sat at a typewriter all through the war or that you blew up tanks?”

  “Cess, what makes you think we’ll ever be allowed to tell anyone anything?”

  “I suppose that’s true. But surely by the time we have grandchildren, some of it will have been declassified. That is, if we win the war. Which we won’t if you don’t help. I can’t manage both the tanks and the cutter on my own.”

  “Oh, all right,” Ernest said, pulling the paper out of the typewriter and putting it in a file folder on top of several others. “Give me five minutes to lock up.”

  “Lock up? Do you honestly think Goebbels is going to break in and steal your tea party story while we’re gone?”

  “I’m only following regulations,” Ernest said, swiveling his chair to face the metal filing cabinet. He opened the second drawer down, filed the folder, then fished a ring of keys out of his pocket and locked the cabinet. “‘All written materials of Fortitude South and the Special Means unit shall be considered “top top secret” and handled accordingly.’ And speaking of regulations, if I’m going to be in some bloody cow pasture all night, I need a decent pair of boots. All officers are to be issued appropriate gear for missions.’”

  Cess handed him an umbrella. “Here.”

  “I thought you said fog, not rain.”

  “Light fog. Clearing toward morning. And wear an Army uniform, in case someone shows up in the middle of the operation. You have two minutes. I want to be there before dark.” He went out.

  Ernest waited, listening, till he heard the outside door slam, then swiftly unlocked the file drawer, pulled out the folder, removed several of the pages, replaced the file, and relocked the drawer. He slid the pages he’d removed into a manila envelope, sealed it, and stuck it under a stack of forms in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then he took a key from around his neck, locked the drawer, hung the key around his neck again under his shirt, picked up the umbrella, put on his uniform and his boots, and went outside.

  Into an all-enveloping grayness. If this was what Cess considered a light fog, he shuddered to think what a heavy one was. He couldn’t see the tanks or the lorry. He couldn’t even see the gravel driveway at his feet.

  But he could hear an engine. He felt his way toward it, his hands out in front of him till they connected with the side of the Austin. “What took you so long?” Cess asked, leaning out of the fog to open its door. “Get in.”

  Ernest climbed in. “I thought you said the tanks were here.”

  “They are,” Cess said, roaring off into blackness. “We’ve got to go pick them up in Tenterden and then take them down to Icklesham.”

  Tenterden was not “here.” It was fifteen miles in the opposite direction from Icklesham and, in this fog, it would be well after dark before they even got there. This’ll take all night, he thought. I’ll never make that deadline. But halfway to Brede, the fog lifted, and when they reached Tenterden, everything was, amazingly, loaded and ready to go. Ernest, following Cess and the lorry in the Austin, began to feel some hope that it wouldn’t take too long to get unloaded and set up, and they might actually be done blowing up the tanks by midnight. Whereupon the fog closed in again, causing Cess to miss the turn for Icklesham twice and for the lane once. It was nearly midnight before they located the right pasture.

  Ernest parked the Austin among some bushes and got out to open the gate. He promptly stepped in mud up to his ankles and then, after he’d extricated himself, in a large cowpat. He squelched over to the lorry, looking around for cows, even though in this foggy darkness he wouldn’t see one till he’d collided with it. “I thought there weren’t supposed to be any cows in this pasture,” he said to Cess.

  “There were before, but the farmer moved them into the next one over,” Cess said, leaning out the window. “That’s why we picked this pasture. That, and the large copse of trees over there.” He pointed vaguely out into the murk. “The tanks will be hidden out of sight under the trees.”

  “
I thought the whole idea was to let the Germans see them.”

  “To let them see some of them,” Cess corrected. “There are a dozen in this battalion.”

  “We’ve got to blow up a dozen tanks?”

  “No, only two. The Army didn’t park them far enough under the trees. Their rear ends can still be seen poking out from under the branches. I think it’ll be easiest if I back across the field. Help me turn around.”

  “Are you certain that’s a good idea?” Ernest said. “It’s awfully muddy.”

  “That’ll make the tracks more visible. You needn’t worry. This lorry’s got good tires. I won’t get her stuck.”

  He didn’t. Ernest did, driving the lorry back to the gate after they’d unloaded the two tanks. It took them the next two hours to get out of the mudhole, in the process of which Ernest lost his footing and fell flat, and they made a hideous rutted mess out of the center of the field.

  “Göring’s boys will never believe tank treads did that,” Ernest said, shining a shielded torch on the churned-up mud.

  “You’re right,” Cess said. “We’ll have to put a tank over it to hide it, and—I know!—we’ll make it look as though it got stuck in the mud.”

  “Tanks don’t get stuck in the mud.”

  “They would in this mud,” Cess said. “We’ll only blow up three quadrants and leave the other one flat, so it’ll look like it’s listing.”

  “Do you honestly think they’ll be able to see that from fifteen thousand feet?”

  “No idea,” Cess said, “but if we stand here arguing, we won’t be done by morning, and the Germans will see what we’re up to. Here, lend me a hand. We’ll unload the tank and then drive the lorry back to the lane. That way we won’t have to drag it.”

  Ernest helped him unload the heavy rubber pallet. Cess connected the pump and began inflating the tank. “Are you certain it’s facing the right way?” Ernest asked. “It should be facing the copse.”

  “Oh, right,” Cess said, shielding his torch with his hand and shining the light on it. “No, it’s the wrong way round. Here, help me shift it.”