“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?”
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—