Blackout

by Connie Willis

  “I don’t know. Did I say anything else?”

  “He said ‘Oxford,’” Fordham said from the bed next to him.

  “Oxford. Could that be where you’re from?” the nun asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mike said and frowned as if trying to remember. “It might be. I can’t—”

  “Well, you mustn’t worry,” she said, and offered him another spoonful, but it was too much effort to even sip at it. He waved the spoon away and lay back against the pillows, exhausted, and he must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes, she was gone.

  “Did you bring me a newspaper?” he asked when she came to take his temperature again.

  “Your fever’s back,” she said, writing it in the chart. “I’ll fetch you something for it.”

  “Don’t forget my newspaper,” he said, and when she returned without it and with the blessed aspirin, he said slyly, “I thought seeing a paper might help me to remember.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said and left.

  “Which is what she always says when I ask her out,” Fordham said. “It means no.”

  Asked her out? But he was a mere boy, and she was a nun—

  “I don’t blame her,” Fordham said. “I couldn’t exactly take her dancing, could I? And by the time I’m out of this bed, she’ll already be engaged to one of the doctors,” but Mike had stopped listening.

  She wasn’t a nun, in spite of the wimple and veil, in spite of the title “Sister.” She was a nurse. Which I’d have known if I’d had time to research this era properly. But if she wasn’t a nun, then this wasn’t a convent, and his theory of why the retrieval team hadn’t found him didn’t hold water. So where were they? They should have been here long before now.

  Unless they didn’t exist. Unless the net had malfunctioned and let him go through to somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be and he had altered the course of events. Unfouling the propeller wasn’t the only thing he’d done. He’d steered the Commander around that submerged sailboat, he’d helped sailors up over the side, he’d hoisted a dog on board. And in a chaotic system, any action, no matter how inconsequential, could affect—

  “Sister Carmody!” he shouted, struggling to sit up. “Sister Carmody!”

  “What is it?” Fordham said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got to see a newspaper! Now!”

  “I have yesterday’s Herald here,” Fordham said. “Will that do?”

  “Yes.”

  “The problem is how to get it to you. I can’t reach far enough to get it over to you, I’m afraid. Can you get out of bed, do you think?”

  I have to, Mike thought, but when he tried to sit up, hot and cold and nausea washed over him, and he had to lie back, swallowing hard.

  “I could read it to you, if you like,” Fordham offered.

  “Thank you.”

  Fordham patted around on the bed for the newspaper and propped it up against his elevated arm. “Let’s see, a rector in Tunbridge Wells rang his church’s bells in violation of the official edict that they’re only to be rung to signal invasion—”

  That’s why I didn’t hear the bells that night on the beach, Mike thought.

  “—and was fined one pound ten,” Fordham said. “There’s been an overwhelming response to Lord Beaverbrook’s Spitfire drive. They’ve collected five tons of aluminum saucepans alone. Sir Godfrey Kingsman is rehearsing a new production of King Lear at—”

  “Isn’t there anything about the war?”

  “The war… let’s see…” Fordham muttered. “A barrage balloon broke loose from its moorings and drifted into the spire of St. Albans Church and damaged some of the slates.”

  “I meant, news about how the war’s going.”

  “Badly,” he said. “As usual. The Italians hit one of our bases in Egypt—”

  Egypt? Had Britain been in Egypt in August? He didn’t know enough about the war in North Africa to know what was supposed to have been happening there then. “What about the…?” He hesitated. Had they been calling it the Battle of Britain at this point? “—the air war?”

  Fordham nodded. “The Germans attacked one of our convoys yesterday, and the RAF shot down sixteen of their planes. We lost seven.” He turned the page, rattling the sheets. “Good Lord, the Prime Minister—”

  “What about the Prime Minister?” Mike said sharply. Oh, God, what if something had happened to Churchill? England could never have won the war without him. If he’d been killed—

  “He looks dreadful in this photograph. It’s of him rejecting Germany’s latest peace proposal, but he looks like a suet pudding.”

  Mike let out the breath he’d been holding. England was still refusing to surrender, the RAF was still holding off the Luftwaffe, and Churchill was all right.

  Fordham had finished the news stories and was reading the personal ads: “Anyone having information regarding the whereabouts of Pvt. Derek Huntsford, last seen at Dunkirk, please contact Mr. and Mrs. J. Huntsford, Chifford, Devon.” Fordham shook his head. “He must not have made it back. He wasn’t as lucky as you, poor chap.”

  Lucky, Mike thought. But at least he hadn’t altered events. And the war was still on track.

  Fordham was reading another ad. “To let, country home in Kent. Restful location…”

  Restful, Mike thought, and fell asleep.

  He jerked awake to the up-and-down wail of sirens. And shouting. One of the patients, in pajamas and bare feet, was waving a flashlight wildly around the dark ward. “Wake up!” he shouted, shining the light full in Mike’s face. “They’re here!”

  “Who’s here?” Mike said, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding light.

  “The Germans, they’ve invaded. I only just heard it on the wireless. They’re coming up the Thames.”

  I do not get panicky. I stay put. I say to myself: Our chaps will deal with them. I do not say: I must get out of here.

  —INVASION INSTRUCTIONS, 1940

  Warwickshire—August 1940

  THE ARMY GAVE THEM TILL THE FIFTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER to vacate the manor, before which they had to cover all the furniture, crate Lady Caroline’s ancestor and the other paintings, pack away the crystal and china, and keep Alf and Binnie from “helping.” When Eileen went to take down the priceless medieval tapestry, she found them tossing it out the window. “We was tryin’ to see if it was magic,” Binnie said. “Like that flyin’ carpet in the fairy story you read us.”

  They also had to make arrangements for the evacuees still at the manor. Mrs. Chambers found new homes for the Potters, the Magruders, Ralph and Tony Gubbins, and Georgie Cox. Mrs. Chalmers came and took Alice and Rose, and Theodore’s mother wrote to say that she would be up on Saturday. Eileen was relieved. She’d been afraid she’d have to send him kicking and screaming on the train again. “I don’t want to go home,” Theodore’d said when she told him his mother was coming. “I want to stay here.”

  “You can’t stay ’ere, you noddlehead,” Alf said. “Nobody’s stayin’ ’ere.”

  “Where are we goin’, Eileen?” Binnie asked.

  “That hasn’t been arranged yet.”

  They’d written Mrs. Hodbin but hadn’t had an answer, and no one in Warwickshire would take them. “I’ve written the Evacuation Committee,” the vicar said, “but they’re swamped with billeting requests just now. Everyone’s afraid the Germans will begin bombing London soon.”

  They will, Eileen thought, and then there’d be no chance at all of placing Alf and Binnie. More than a hundred thousand children had been evacuated from London after the Blitz began. They needed to find Alf and Binnie a home immediately.

  Lady Caroline had sent Samuels ahead with her trunks to Chadwick House, where she was going to stay with the Duchess of Lynmere, which left Eileen, Una (who was useless), and Mrs. Bascombe to finish preparations for the Army’s arrival on their own. And no time for Eileen to check the drop or go to Backbury to ask if anyone had been inquiring after her. Or to look
for another position.

  If she could find one. A number of households were making “wartime economies,” which meant they were cutting back on the number of their servants, and there were no “Housemaid Wanted’s” in the Backbury Bugler. Una had announced she was joining the ATS, and Mrs. Bascombe was going to Shropshire to help out a niece whose husband had joined up, so Eileen couldn’t stay with either of them, and Backbury had no inn, even if she had enough money for one. And even if she did stay, there was no guarantee the drop would open or that a retrieval team would come. It had already been nearly four months.

  You’re going to have to find another way of getting home, she thought. She needed to go to London, find Polly, and use her drop. If she’s there.

  She wasn’t coming till the Blitz. It would begin in September—Eileen didn’t know the exact date. I should have asked Polly, she thought, but it had never occurred to her she’d still be here when Polly arrived. And the Army didn’t take possession of the manor till the middle of September. The Blitz would surely have begun by then.

  The idea of being in the midst of the bombing terrified her, but she couldn’t think of anyone else she could go to. Michael Davies had been in Dover, but the evacuation of Dunkirk had been months ago. He’d have long since gone back by now. She thought Gerald Phipps was here—she remembered him saying something about August when she’d seen him in the lab—but she didn’t know where. He’d told her, but she couldn’t remember. It had begun with a D. Or a P.

  She didn’t know where Polly would be either. She’d said she was going to be working in a department store in Oxford Street and that Mr. Dunworthy would only allow her to work in one that hadn’t been bombed, and Eileen had a vague memory of her naming them. Which ones had she said? Eileen wished she’d paid more attention, but she’d been worrying about getting her driving authorization. She remembered one had been a man’s name.

  She went down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Bascombe if she knew the names of any of Oxford Street’s stores. “You’re not thinking of working in one of them places, are you?” Mrs. Bascombe said.

  “No, I’ve a cousin who does. I’m going to stay with her.”

  “Two girls on their own in London? With all them soldiers about? You’ve no more business in the big city than Una has in the ATS. I’ll tell you what I told her: You stay in service where you belong.”

  She’d have to wait till she got to London to find out the name of the store. If she could get there. With the wages she had coming, she had enough for a second-class ticket, but she would need money to tide her over till she found Polly. Since it was the Blitz, she might be able to sleep in a shelter, but she would still need money for meals and bus fare.

  But she would have to worry about that later. She had other, more pressing problems. Theodore’s mother wrote to say that the aeroplane factory she worked in had gone to double shifts and she couldn’t come for Theodore till the Saturday after next. They still hadn’t heard from Alf and Binnie’s mother, and when she went to the vicarage on the first of September to deliver a message from Lady Caroline, the vicar said, “I can’t find anyone to take them. Their reputation obviously precedes them. We may have to resort to the Overseas Programme. They can’t have heard of them in the States.”

  “But wouldn’t it be cruel to inflict the Hodbins on another country?”

  “You’re right. We can’t afford to alienate our allies. We’ll need all the help we can get before this war is over. You still haven’t heard from their mother?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised. I thought she’d be the sort who’d want them back for their extra ration coupons. On the other hand, this is Alf and Binnie. Do let me know if you hear from her. In the meantime, I’ll keep looking for someone to take them. You’ll be here until the fifteenth, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said and told him about going to London after that. “My cousin works in a department store in Oxford Street.”

  “Selfridges?”

  “No,” she said, though she seemed to remember Polly mentioning Selfridges, too. “It sounded like a man’s name.”

  “A man’s name…” he said thoughtfully. “Peter Robinson?”

  “No,” but as he said it, she thought, One of the ones Polly mentioned began with a P. Not Peter Robinson, but she’d know it if she heard it.

  “A. R. Bromley?” the vicar said. “No, that’s in Knightsbridge. Let me see, what’s in Oxford Street? Townsend Brothers… Leighton’s… but I can’t think of any…” He brightened. “Oh, I know. John Lewis?”

  “Yes.” That was definitely it, and she was fairly certain Selfridges was another. And when she got to Oxford Street she could find the one that began with a P. Polly was bound to be at one of the three, and she could ask her where her drop was, and go home.

  If the retrieval team still hadn’t shown up by then. It had occurred to her that they might be waiting to pull her out till the fifteenth, when her departure wouldn’t be noticed in the bustle of the Army’s arrival. But when she got back to the manor, the Army was already there. A staff car and a lorry were parked in the drive, and the next day soldiers began stringing barbed wire along the road and around the wood, making access to and from the drop impossible.

  On the seventh, Lady Caroline sent for the vicar. Eileen showed him up to the dustcover-draped sitting room. “Has Mrs. Hodbin written yet, Ellen?” Lady Caroline asked Eileen.

  “No, ma’am, but this came in the morning post.” Eileen handed her a letter from Theodore’s mother.

  “She says she can’t come fetch Theodore after all,” Lady Caroline said, reading it, “and she wants us to send him home on Monday by train as we did last time.”

  Oh, no, Eileen thought.

  Lady Caroline turned to the vicar. “Have you found a new billet for the Hodbins, Mr. Goode?”

  “No, not yet. It may take several weeks to—”

  “That’s quite impossible,” Lady Caroline said. “I’ve promised Captain Chase he can take possession Monday morning.”

  “This Monday?” he said, sounding as shocked as Eileen felt.

  “Yes, and the Hodbins clearly can’t stay here. There’ll be no one here to care for them. They’ll have to go home till you can find them a new billet. They can go to London with Theodore.”

  Alf and Binnie loose on a train, Eileen thought. Visions of toppled luggage, rampaged dining cars, and yanked emergency cords danced before her eyes.

  “No,” the vicar said, obviously imagining the same disasters. “There’d be no one to meet them.”

  “We can telephone Mrs. Hodbin and tell her they’re coming,” Lady Caroline said. “Ellen, go place a trunk call to—”

  “They haven’t a telephone,” Eileen said.

  Lady Caroline looked annoyed.

  “Couldn’t you take them with you to Chadwick House, Lady Caroline?” the vicar ventured. “Only until I find a place for them?”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose on my hosts like that. If you aren’t willing to let them go alone, you must accompany them, Vicar.” She frowned. “Oh, dear, that won’t work. Monday is the Home Defence meeting in Hereford, and it’s essential that you attend. Someone else must accompany them instead, Mrs. Chambers or—”

  “I’ll take them,” Eileen said. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’d planned to go to my cousin in London when I left here. I could escort the children.” And with you paying my way, I’ll be able to save my money to pay for lodging and food till I find Polly.

  “Excellent,” Lady Caroline said. “It’s the perfect solution, Vicar. Ellen can take them, and the only expense to the Evacuation Committee will be the Hodbins’ fares. Theodore’s mother has sent his ticket.”

  The vicar must have seen the stricken look on Eileen’s face, because he said, “But if she’s going as the children’s escort, then—”

  But Lady Caroline was already saying briskly, “Go and tell the children to pack their things, Ellen. You can take the train Monday.” />
  And you’d better hope the retrieval team doesn’t show up before then, Lady Caroline, Eileen thought, going along to the nursery. Or I’ll be out of here without so much as a backward glance, and you can take the Hodbins to London yourself.

  She packed the children’s bags and her own the next day, said goodbye to Una and Mrs. Bascombe, who were leaving on the bus, endured one last lecture on the dangers of talking to soldiers, fed the children their tea, put them to bed, and then waited till they were asleep and the house was quiet to sneak out to the drop.

  The moon was still up, and she only had to use her torch once, to find a way through the barbed wire. The clearing looked enchanted, the ash tree’s trunk silver in the moonlight. “Open,” she murmured, “please,” and thought she saw the beginnings of the shimmer, but it was only mist, and even though she waited two more hours, it didn’t open.

  It’s just as well, she thought, picking her way back in the gray predawn light. I couldn’t really have abandoned poor Theodore to the Hodbins.

  She ran across the dew-wet lawn, let herself quietly into the kitchen, and started up the back stairs. Binnie was standing barefoot in her nightgown at the top of them. “What are you doing up?” Eileen whispered.

  “I seen you go out. I thought you was trying to sneak off on us.”

  “I went out to see if any clothes had been left on the line,” Eileen lied. “Go back to bed. We’ve a long train ride in the morning.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t leave us,” Binnie said. “You swore.”

  “I’m not leaving you. We’re all going to London together. Now go back to bed.”

  Binnie did, but when Eileen got up a few short hours later, she nearly fell over her, lying wrapped in a blanket in front of her door. “Just in case you was lyin’,” Binnie said.

  Lady Caroline left at eight in the Rolls-Royce the Duchess had sent for her. Without so much as offering us a lift, Eileen thought furiously, and her anger helped her get the children dressed and assembled, and off to Backbury. The lane, which for the past week had been packed with military vehicles of all sorts, was utterly deserted. They didn’t pass a single lorry on the hour-long, luggage-laden walk into town. Binnie whined that her suitcase was too heavy, Theodore demanded to be carried, and every time an aeroplane went over Alf insisted on stopping and marking it on his planespotter’s map. “I wish the vicar would come along and give us a ride,” Binnie said.