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 ballroom.”
“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.
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.