“But I won,” the third one, a tiny elfin-looking girl, said. She pulled a floor-length pink net frock out of the pile and held it up triumphantly. “Champion of the St. Ethelred Applecart Upset.”
Which solved one mystery. An applecart upset was slang for a clothing exchange. Exchanges had been common during the war, a result of rationing and the shortage of fabric, which was all being used for uniforms and parachutes.
“It’s a bit short,” the redhead Reed said, “but there’s a good deal of fullness in the skirt we can use to add a ruffle, and—” She stopped. “Who’s this?”
“Lieutenant Mary Kent,” Fairchild said. “Kent, this is Captain Maitland,” she pointed at the chunky blonde and then at the redhead and the elfin one, “Lieutenant Reed, and Lieutenant Camberley. Kent’s our new driver. Headquarters sent her from Oxford.”
“You’re joking!” Maitland said.
“I told you the Major’d pull it off,” Camberley said, “even if it is a bit late. I’m afraid you’ve missed all the fun, Kent.”
“If you were stationed in Oxford,” Reed said, “then you must know—”
“Never mind that,” Talbot said, coming in in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel. “I want to see what you got. Pink? Oh, no, I look dreadful in pink. It washes me out so. Still,” she said, snatching it up, “it’ll be better than the Yellow Peril for Saturday.”
“You’re not wearing it Saturday,” Camberley said. “I risked life and limb going up against those St. John’s girls. I get to wear it first.”
“Evening frocks are in short supply,” Fairchild explained, “so we all share. We’ve been making do with the Yellow Peril and the dress Sutcliffe-Hythe wore for her presentation at court. We dyed it lavender, but it came out rather streaky.”
“It can only be worn to very dark nightclubs,” Reed said.
“But I must wear the pink,” Talbot said. “It’s the Ritz. I’ve already worn the Yellow Peril there twice.”
“Who’s taking you to the Ritz?” Reed demanded.
“I’m not certain yet. Possibly Captain Johnson.”
“Johnson?” Reed asked. “Is he the handsome one with the dashing mustache?”
“No,” Talbot said, holding the pink frock up against her and looking at it in the mirror. “He’s the American one with access to the PX,” and Mary should have been delighted with the conversation. It was a perfect example of pre-rocket ambulance-post life. But why hadn’t they heard about the V-1? Surely one of the Bethnal Green ambulance crew would have mentioned it.
Don’t be silly, they weren’t there, she told herself. They’d have been up since half past four, administering first aid and transporting victims—there’d been six casualties—to hospital. They wouldn’t have then gone blithely off to a clothing exchange.
But even if they hadn’t been there, surely someone would have mentioned hearing an explosion. Or the siren, if, as Fairchild said, they hadn’t heard one for months. Unless, she thought, watching the FANYs pass around the pink frock and a pair of worn dancing slippers they’d obtained, they’d been so intent on finding clothes that they hadn’t spoken to anyone else?
“Haviland was there, and you’ll never guess what she told me,” Maitland said. “Do you remember Captain Ward? We met him at that canteen dance—dark wavy hair? Well, Haviland said he’s mad about me, but he’s been afraid to ask me out.”
“I was able to find you a lipstick,” Reed was saying to Talbot. “Crimson Caress.” She handed her a gold tube.
“Thank goodness,” Talbot said, taking off the cap and twisting it up to reveal a startling shade of dark red. “Mine was down to nothing. Did you get the black gloves?”
“No, but Healey and Baker were there, and they said their post is putting on a ragbag in July and that they’re certain they saw a pair in among the donations. They told me they’d save them for us.”
“What’s Bethnal Green’s post doing putting on a ragbag?” Fairchild asked.
“It’s to raise funds for a new ambulance,” Maitland said.
“Oh, no, don’t let the Major find out, or she’ll have us doing one,” Talbot moaned, but Mary scarcely heard her. Bethnal Green’s FANYs had been there.
Could I have got the date the V-1 assault began wrong? she wondered, but the times and locations had been implanted straight from the historical records. But if the V-1 had hit the railway bridge, how could they have failed to mention it?
“Look,” Reed was saying. “I got a pair of beach san—” She stopped, listening. “I think I heard a motor,” she said, darted out of the room, and returned. “The Major’s back.”
It might as well have been an air-raid siren. Reed and Camberley scooped up the clothes and swept them out of the room. Fairchild lunged for the phonograph, unplugged it, slammed down the lid, and thrust it into Maitland’s hands. “Take this back to the common room,” she ordered, and as Maitland left, wriggled into the jacket of her uniform. “Kent, hand me the Film News. Quick,” she said, buttoning her jacket.
Mary dived to unwedge the rolled-up magazine propping open the door and hand it to Fairchild, who jammed it into a file cabinet drawer, then leaped back to the desk just in time to sit down and then stand up again as the Major entered.
From all the comments, Mary had been expecting a gorgon, but the Major was a small, slight woman with delicate features and only slightly graying hair. When Mary saluted and said, “Lieutenant Mary Kent, reporting for duty, ma’am,” she smiled kindly and said in a quiet voice, “Welcome, Lieutenant.”
“I was just showing her round the post,” Fairchild said.
“That can wait. Assemble the girls in the common room. I have an announcement to make,” the Major said. Which meant the V-1s had hit on schedule after all, and the Bethnal Green FANYs, like the Coastal Defence officer, had been ordered not to say anything till an official announcement had been made. Which the Major was about to do.
And in the meantime she’d had the chance, in spite of having arrived late, to observe a cross-section of life at the post—a life which was about to change radically. It was already changing. The girls’ solemn expressions as they gathered in the common room showed they knew something was up. Talbot had combed out her wet hair and got into uniform, and Fairchild had pinned her pigtails to the top of her head. They all stood at attention as the Major entered. “We are now entering a new and critical phase of the war,” she said. “I have just returned from a meeting at headquarters—”
Here it comes.
“—where our unit received a new assignment. As of tomorrow, we will be charged with transporting soldiers wounded in the Normandy invasion to Orpington Hospital for surgery.”
Coughs and sneezes spread diseases
—BRITISH MINISTRY OF HEALTH POSTER, 1940
Warwickshire—May 1940
IT TOOK EILEEN NEARLY AN HOUR TO FILL UP THE THREE evacuees’ paperwork for Mrs. Chambers, partly because Theodore announced he wanted to go home every thirty seconds. So do I, Eileen thought. And if you hadn’t arrived, I’d be back in Oxford now, persuading Mr. Dunworthy to send me to VE-Day.
“I don’t want to go home,” Edwina, the elder girl, said. She looked as though she’d fit right in with Binnie. “I want to go in a boat like we was supposed to.”
“I want to go to the toilet,” Susan, the younger one, said. “Now.”
Eileen took her upstairs, then came back down to sign several more forms. “Do tell her ladyship thank you for all her hard work,” Mrs. Chambers said, putting on her gloves. “Her dedication to the war effort is truly inspiring.”
Eileen saw her out, then sent the children outside to play, took their luggage upstairs to the nursery, and ran up to her room for the third time. She changed out of her uniform, arranged the letter about her mother’s illness and its envelope on the bed, and hurried downstairs. Ten past three. Good. The other children wouldn’t be home from school till four, which meant she could take the road. She hurried around the corner of the hou
se to the drive.
“Look out!” a man’s voice called, and she looked up to see the Austin bearing down on her with the vicar in it and with—oh, no— Una at the wheel. Eileen leaped aside.
“No, the brake, the brake!” the vicar shouted, “That’s the wrong—” and the Austin shot forward, straight at Eileen. Una flung her hands up, like someone drowning. “Don’t let go of the—” the vicar shouted, grabbing for the steering wheel. The Austin slewed wildly sideways, grazing the skirt of Eileen’s coat, and screeched to a halt mere inches from the manor. He leaped out. “Are you all right?” he said, racing over to Eileen. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No,” she said, thinking, That would absolutely tear it, being killed on my last day here.
“I’m having my driving lesson,” Una called unnecessarily from the car. “Should I back up now?”
“No,” the vicar and Eileen both said.
“That will be all for today, Una,” the vicar told her.
“But, Vicar, it’s only been a quarter of an hour, and her ladyship said—”
“I know, but I must give Miss O’Reilly her lesson now.”
“Oh, but I—” Eileen began and hesitated, attempting to think what to tell him. She couldn’t tell him she’d just had word her mother was ill. He’d insist on driving her to the railway station. But she didn’t have time for a driving lesson either.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t make me get back in that car with her.”
Eileen nodded, suppressing a smile, and walked over to the Austin with him. Una reluctantly got out. “But when will I have my lesson, Vicar?”
“On Friday next,” he said, getting in beside Eileen.
She started the car and started down the drive. “You’re braver than I am, Vicar. Nothing could induce me to get into an automobile with her again.”
“I plan to remove the distributor first,” he whispered back.
I’m going to miss you, she thought, and wished she could tell him goodbye instead of sneaking away, but she was going to have enough difficulty even doing that. She must think of some excuse to cut the lesson short. “Vicar, I—”
“I know, you’re much too busy to waste an hour on a lesson you don’t need, and I’ve no intention of inflicting one on you. If you’ll just drive till Una’s safely in the house, and then keep out of her sight for the next hour—”
I can do better than that, Eileen thought, driving out through the manor gates and onto the narrow lane.
“There’s a good spot to turn round just after the next curve,” he said.
She nodded and rounded the curve. Binnie and Alf were standing in the middle of the lane, making no effort to get out of the way. “Look out!” the vicar cried, and Eileen jammed on the brakes and brought the car to a skidding stop. Alf continued to stand there, staring stupidly at the car.
Binnie came up to the passenger side. “Hullo, Vicar.”
“Binnie, why aren’t you in school?” Eileen demanded.
“We was sent ’ome. Alf took ill. Can we ’ave a ride, Vicar?”
“No,” Eileen said. “You’re to go straight back to school.”
Binnie ignored her. “The schoolmistress said to take Alf ’ome, Vicar. ’Is ’ead’s fearful hot, and ’e feels ever so bad.”
Eileen pushed the car door open, got out, and marched over to Alf. “He’s not ill, Vicar. This is one of their tricks. Alf, why did you steal Miss Fuller’s hood ornament and door handles? And don’t say you were disabling her car for the invasion.”
“We wasn’t,” Binnie said. “We was collectin’ aluminum for the Spitfire Fund. To build a plane out of.”
“I want you to return them to Miss Fuller immediately.”
“But Alf’s ill.”
“He’s not ill.” Eileen clapped her hand to Alf’s forehead. “He’s—” she began, and stopped. It was burning hot. She tilted his head up. His eyes were red and too bright, and his cheeks looked flushed under their layer of dirt. “He does have a fever,” she told the vicar, feeling Alf’s cheeks and hands.
“I told you ’e did,” Binnie said smugly.
Eileen ignored her. “We must get him home, Vicar,” she said and bent over Alf. “When did you begin to feel ill?”
“I dunno,” Alf said dully, and vomited all over her shoes.
“’E was sick at school, too,” Binnie volunteered. “Twice.”
The vicar instantly took charge. He handed Eileen his handkerchief, took off his coat, bundled Alf up in it, ordered Binnie to open the back door, and put him in the backseat, all in the time it took Eileen to wipe her shoes. “Climb in the front seat, Binnie,” he said, “so Eileen can sit with Alf.”
Binnie promptly got in the driver’s seat. “I can drive.”
“No, you can’t,” the vicar said. “Slide over.”
“But it’s an emergency, ain’t it? You said you was teachin’ me to drive in emer—”
“Scoot over,” Eileen said. “Now.” Binnie did. Eileen climbed in the back. Alf was huddled in the corner, his head in his hands. “Does your head hurt?” she asked him.
“Yeah,” he said and put his head in her lap. She could feel the heat through her coat.
“I’ll wager it’s typhoid fever,” Binnie said. “I knew this boy what died of typhoid.”
“Alf hasn’t got typhoid fever,” Eileen said.
“This boy who ’ad it ate a ’ard-boiled egg,” Binnie went on, undaunted, “and ’is stomach blew up, just like that. You ain’t s’posed to eat eggs if you’ve got typhoid fever.”
The vicar drove up to the manor and around to the kitchen door. He opened the door, took Alf from Eileen, and walked him into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bascombe was kneading bread. “If you’re here to try to talk me into learning to drive, Vicar, you’d best save your breath. I’ve no intention of—Alf, what have you done now?”
“He’s ill,” Eileen explained.
“We found him on the road,” the vicar said.
“He was sick all over Eileen’s shoes,” Binnie put in.
“I think perhaps we’d better phone for the doctor.”
“Of course, Vicar,” Mrs. Bascombe said. “Una, take the vicar through to the library so he can use the telephone,” but as soon as they were gone, she turned on Alf. “Doctor? What you need is a trip to the woodshed, Alf Hodbin. You’ve been at the jam cupboard again, haven’t you? What else have you been stuffing yourself with? Cakes? Lamb pie?”
Oh, don’t mention food, Eileen thought, looking worriedly at Alf’s face. “I don’t think it’s something he ate,” she said. “He’s feverish. I think he’s ill.”
“P’rhaps ’e was poisoned,” Binnie said. “By fifth columnists. The jerries—”
“What he needs is a dose of castor oil and a good shaking.” Mrs. Bascombe grabbed his arm, and then stopped, frowning, and took a long hard look at him. “Tell me where it hurts.” She pressed her hand against his forehead and then his cheeks. “Are your eyes sore?”
Alf nodded. “It’s typhoid, ain’t it?” Binnie asked.
Una came back in. “Where’s the vicar?” Mrs. Bascombe demanded. “Did he telephone for the doctor?”
Una nodded. “He wasn’t in. The vicar went to fetch him.”
Mrs. Bascombe turned back to Alf. “Does your head hurt?” He nodded. “Has he had a runny nose?” she demanded of Eileen.
Alf always had a runny nose. Eileen tried to remember if he’d wiped it on his sleeve more than usual the past few days. “It’s been runnin’ somethin’ awful,” Binnie said, and Mrs. Bascombe yanked up Alf’s shirt and peered at his chest. It looked normal to Eileen, except for a long smear of dirt which he’d gotten God knew how. She’d given him a bath just last night.
“Is your throat sore?” Mrs. Bascombe asked.
Alf nodded.
“Eileen, take Alf upstairs,” Mrs. Bascombe ordered, “and put him to bed. Make up a cot for him in the ballroom.”
“In the ballroom?” Eileen said doubtfully
, remembering what had happened the last time the children had been in there.
“Yes. Binnie, come here and let me look at your chest. Do your eyes hurt?”
“Come along, Alf,” Eileen said and walked him up the stairs and into the nursery. “Climb into your pajamas. I’ll be back straightaway,” she told him and ran back down to the kitchen. Mrs. Bascombe was filling the kettle, and Binnie was looking interestedly at the pots and pans, no doubt waiting for a chance to steal them for the scrap drive. Eileen hurried over to Mrs. Bascombe and whispered, “Has Alf got something serious?”
Mrs. Bascombe glanced over at Binnie, then set the kettle on the cooker, and struck a match. “Make sure Alf’s kept warm,” she said, lighting the burner. “I’ll bring you up a hot water bottle in a moment,” which meant she didn’t want to say anything with Binnie there. Which meant it was serious, and obviously contagious. Not typhoid fever—that had been a waterborne disease—but there’d been all sorts of infectious diseases back before antivirals and some of them had been killers: typhus and influenza and scarlet fever.
He can’t have scarlet fever, Eileen thought, running back upstairs. I’m supposed to leave today. She looked at the clock. It was four already, and who knew how long it would take the doctor to get here. If she didn’t make it out to the drop before dark, she’d be trapped here an entire extra week. But if Alf was seriously ill—
Perhaps I can get him into bed, and then, as soon as Mrs. Bascombe brings up the hot water bottle, run out to the drop and tell them I’m going to be late, she thought, going into the nursery. Alf was sitting listlessly on the edge of his cot, still in his clothes. Eileen took off her hat and coat and helped him into his pajamas, looking anxiously at his chest as she buttoned the jacket. His chest was a bit pink, but she couldn’t see a rash. “Lie down while I make up a bed for you,” she told him and dragged one of the cots into the ballroom, made it up, then helped him across the corridor and onto the cot.
She heard a door slam below and voices. “Go outside and play now,” Mrs. Bascombe said.
Oxford Time Travel 1 - Blackout Page 16
