No Talking after Lights (24 page)

The door of the study opened and the school doctor ushered Mrs Birmingham ahead of him. The Head was saying, ‘I shall require a second opinion of course, doctor. It may be nothing more than heat stroke. If you will speak to your Mr Maclntyre in the paediatric department and let him know that I shall be telephoning, I will try and reach him after lunch.'

‘Keep our fingers crossed,' said the doctor, and Mrs Birmingham said, ‘I shall pray.'

At that moment she caught sight of Constance.

‘Constance King, why aren't you in a lesson?'

‘Miss Parry sent me out,' said Constance and stood up, suddenly audacious. She knew they would be shocked. She walked over to the doctor and thrust her hand at him.

‘I was sent out of Miss Parry's class for moaning, but my bad finger hurt so much that I couldn't concentrate. Look!'

Her finger was the size and colour of a rotten plum. Her hand shook as she held it towards him.

‘Good gracious, child!' said the doctor. ‘That ought to be seen to. Have you told Matron?'

‘Yes,' said Constance, ‘and she sent me away. She said she had more important things to do.'

‘It needs lancing,' said the doctor. ‘It ought to be done at once. Mrs Birmingham … I had better take this girl up to the sick-room and deal with this. I'll find my own way out.'

Mrs Birmingham's blue eyes, enclosed in fine wrinkles, smiled down at Constance with momentary tenderness.

‘Poor old sausage,' she said. ‘It does look nasty. Never mind. Doctor Duncan'll soon have you right as rain. Good thing you happened to be here.' She turned and walked back into the study.

The doctor escorted Constance up the main staircase, the one the girls weren't supposed to use, and straight into the sick-room. He sat her down, washed his hands, reached for an enamel kidney-shaped bowl and balanced Constance's wrist over it, her palm upwards.

‘You'll be surprised,' he said. ‘This won't hurt a bit. Promise.'

Constance watched in fascination as he sliced through the ball of her middle finger with a fine sharp instrument. Immediately the flesh sprang apart and a thick torrent of yellow pus veined with bright red blood oozed out. He squeezed the two sides of the cut together and patted her shoulder.

‘Brave girl!' he said. Top marks. Now then, strictly speaking I ought to put a couple of stitches in this, but let's try a butterfly plaster and hope for the best.'

He criss-crossed a plaster over the flabby white incision and wound a gauze bandage several times round that, till the finger looked as swollen as before.

‘Now, it doesn't hurt any more, does it?'

‘No,' said Constance, grateful and astonished. ‘For the first time in days and days it doesn't hurt any more.'

‘I'll see you again tomorrow, have a look at how it's getting on. Run away now. What lesson was it?'

‘Biology.'

‘Ah, biology … queen of the sciences. Tells us how we're made. Ever thought of being a doctor? No? You've got a good steady hand. That's one thing you need. Away with you now! I'll talk to Sister.'

Bloody woman, thought Dr Duncan. Deserves to be sacked. And I personally will see to it. That poor kid would have been reason enough on her own, but to ignore the symptoms of a major epidemic, in a place like this, was criminal. And unless I'm very much mistaken, what we've got here is polio.

‘
Polio?
' said Mrs Birmingham. ‘Are you absolutely certain it's polio?'

‘Polio, yes, I'm afraid so,' said Mr Maclntyre. ‘Five definites and two possibles.'

In the drawing-room Mr Maclntyre and Dr Duncan sat facing the Head and her Deputy. Sister Girdlestone
and Miss Peachey sat rigidly side-by-side on another sofa. Sunlight streamed across the carpet, illuminating the faded colours of the Turkish rug in front of the empty fireplace. A slight breeze had started up, fluttering the edges of the curtains and blowing summer into their nostrils; a smell of cut grass mingling with the cloying scent from the bowl of roses on the table. The heat outside was unrelenting; today was the hottest yet, with the mercury rising towards the nineties. On the long slope of lawn beyond the windows the gardener was bent across the roller, mopping his brow. The topmost branches of the cedar moved sluggishly.

The specialist had finished speaking. Mrs Birmingham met his gaze.

‘What must I do?' she asked.

‘One, inform the parents of the sick girls who'll need to be taken into hospital. Parents may want to have them nearer to home. It's up to you to decide whether to close the school but in my view, there's not much point at this stage. The incubation period is normally two to four weeks. The girls have all been exposed to it by now. It's too late to shut the stable door.

‘Do I tell the girls?'

‘The rumours must be all over the school already. Once they see the ambulance arriving, they're not going to believe in the heat-stroke theory any longer. But you know more than I do about how they'll react. Adolescent girls are prone to communal hysteria, and soon you won't be able to tell the real cases from the self-deluders.'

O God
, prayed Mrs Birmingham, still holding his eyes steadily,
O God, shed Thy comfort upon these Thy sick children. Grant that they may recover, and not be paralysed for life. And grant to me, O Lord, in this heavy time, the humility to know what is best for me to do. Forgive us all our sins, for the sake of Thy Son. Amen
.

‘Can you explain to me exactly what polio is?' said the Head, in a firm voice. She glanced across at her Deputy and gave her a faint, encouraging smile. Peggy, she knew, would be devastated, though her face was impassive. They both looked at the two matrons, but their heads were bowed. The four women listened to the specialist in silence.

‘Poliomyelitis, or infantile paralysis, is, as the name suggests, more common in children than adults, though it can be contracted at any age. It is a virus that attacks the central nervous system and can, in some 50 per cent of cases, result in partial or complete paralysis. Very, very rarely indeed it is fatal. It is most commonly spread by contaminated food or water. It starts with the kind of fever, headache, sore throat and aching limbs that in a hot spell like this may be mistaken for heat stroke. Those affected just want to stay in bed, lying down. They are weak and usually motionless. This stage is followed by increasing muscular pain, a very stiff neck and complete, prostrating weakness. The onset of paralysis may occur at this stage. If it does not, there is an excellent chance of full recovery. If it does, however, there is very little that we can do about it. Good nursing and total bed-rest go without saying.'

As he spoke, his voice as precise as though he were describing a species of mosquito from the Nile delta, Henrietta Birmingham suddenly saw a clear image of herself at sixteen. Those long summer days behind drawn curtains, beside her brother's sick-bed. The atmosphere of pain and weakness invaded her consciousness like a scent. She narrowed to become the slender girl she had been then, passive and silent through hours of vigil, galvanized into hearing by James's brusque, coarse, visceral memories. Her arms lost their creased texture, her hands their lumpy veins,
as she saw her young arms stretch over the coverlet to lay the back of her hand coolly against a throbbing artery in his neck. Since then she had dreaded illness more than anything - much more than death. Yet she had married a hypochondriac who now lay dying. But Lionel was old. It was sickness in the young that plunged her into despair. Her adored brother Jamie, his leg monstrous and putrescent; that poor child's finger had looked just the same.

‘Now, we have here five unmistakable cases, and another two which may or may not develop into the full-fledged illness. I have made arrangements for all seven to be admitted to St Patrick's immediately. All other children, and for that matter, members of staff, should be watched carefully for any of the symptoms I have described.'

‘Have we been remiss? Could it have been prevented?' Mrs Birmingham asked.

‘I don't think so. My guess would be that it was picked up outside the school and brought in, possibly by a member of staff, or by a girl who hasn't yet contracted the illness herself. When was the last time the girls went home?'

‘Half-term. Four weeks ago.'

‘That would be about right. One of them may have carried it back to the school.'

‘And school hygiene?' asked Miss Roberts.

‘Any institution where people eat communally is at risk and unless you were forewarned, there's very little you could have done to prevent it. Could have been the swimming-pool, the changing-rooms, the bathrooms, the lavatories … anywhere.'

Miss Girdlestone sat white and silent. The specialist glanced around at them all.

‘Perhaps an experienced nurse might have identified the symptoms sooner. I can't say. What is important
now is to take every complaint seriously. Better to go easy on a malingerer than to be too hard on a sufferer. Mrs Birmingham, you will have a great deal to do, and so indeed have I …'

He and Dr Duncan stood up and, automatically courteous, the Head rose too. She escorted them to the door, murmured her thanks, and only turned back into the drawing-room when the front door had closed behind the two men.

‘You should go back to the sanatorium, Miss Girdlestone, Miss Peachey … This is a bad time for us all, and for you especially,' she said. When they had gone she looked at Miss Roberts, her face under the tidily waved hairstyle blanched with shock.

‘Peggy,' she said. ‘Oh, Peggy …'

The dining-room at supper was a hive of rumour. Constance found herself the focus of interest, for it was known that she'd seen the doctor.

‘What did he
say
, Gogsy? He must have said something,' Madeleine asked with unusual friendliness.

‘He just lanced my finger. We talked about that.'

‘You are
hopeless
. Didn't you ask him why he was here?'

‘No.'

‘You're an utter and total clot. Oh well, who cares … I bet it's just boring old sunstroke anyway.'

‘I think it's scarlet fever. My cousin had it, and …' said Madeleine, and the speculation moved on.

At the top of their table, Miss Parry sat in heavy silence. The bandage on Constance's finger showed that something had been wrong. She ought to have investigated, ought not to have lost her temper. To calm herself, she glanced across at Hermione. Her colour was high, and the fine curls around her face danced as she turned aside. It was impossible to hear
what she was saying. If I had looked like that, Sylvia thought, my life would have been different. Beauty has the world at its feet.
I
am at her feet. Someone will notice; I must stop staring. She looked away, and caught Miss Monk's comforting smile. She turned away from that too.

‘Eat up, everyone,' she ordered. ‘Let's have less chatter.'

As the girls filed out of the dining-room, the staff made their way through the hall to the drawing-room for an emergency meeting. Sister and Miss Peachey had hinted that the news was grave, but would not be drawn further.

The circle of books on the polished mahogany table had been moved aside to make room for a dozen cups of coffee, and each member of staff took one before sitting down. When they were all settled and attentive, Mrs Birmingham began to speak.

The specialist had confirmed an outbreak of infantile paralysis in the school; they were all now at risk. Miss Parry imagined a malevolent virus, swooping like an angry wasp over the heads of the tables at dinner, then dive-bombing a random victim. Miss Monk pictured the odds: 100-1 against? 200-1? Or perhaps much lower: 8-3 or 33-1, like a horse race. Miss Valentine had a vision of the angel of death hovering over the school, huge and black-winged like a bat, covering its victims with an unseen shadow. Miss Roberts was haunted by a medieval fantasy of the grim reaper, a skeleton with a scythe like those pictured in stiff Italian frescos, while the populace scurried vainly for shelter. Seven down - well, certainly five - how many more to go?

Mrs Birmingham tried to keep her mind fixed on a merciful God. At the end of the meeting, heedless of their embarrassment, she suggested that they should
all pray. Lumbering out of her wing-chair, she turned and knelt on the carpet. Reluctantly, self-consciously, the staff rose to their feet, tinkling the coffee-cups in their saucers on the floor, and knelt too, burying their elbows in the deep cushions of the sofas and chairs.

‘Our Father …'

Agog with suspense, the girls waited to be told the news. Why had the doctor visited twice in one day? Why had ambulances taken seven girls from the sanatorium? And where to? Charmian's head drooped, her fair hair sticky at the nape of her neck. Miss Peachey had asked her that morning in the dormitory whether she felt unwell, but she had only muttered, ‘I'm a bit hot. I wish it would rain.'

‘You're sure you're all right, dear?' Matron had said. ‘Come and see me after lunch if you don't feel better.'

That morning in Prayers they sang ‘O God our help in ages past' and prayed for the sick. Mrs Birmingham told them to sit, and the common-room rustled and swayed as a hundred girls settled onto crossed legs, elbows folded over their knees, chins jutting towards her. For a few moments she let the school listen to its own heartbeat. From the dais she surveyed them all. Thirds at the front, playful and distractible as kittens, with pert faces, wide eyes and twinkling legs. Illness, like theft, would seem impossibly remote to them. Such great events happened to other people. Behind them were the pubescent Fourths, lumpy and spotty, too fat or too thin, absorbed in their own internal clocks, agitated by hormones and secrets. At the back sat the Fifth-formers, young women in all respects but still disguised as children in their school uniform, impatient to get away and sample the adult world, not to waste this blossoming on their own sex. Some of these, she thought, will be crippled; their straight
limbs will twist and stiffen; one or two may die. Then she stopped herself. I'm being presumptuous. We must all die. It is in God's hands. All I have to do is to speak now, telling them the truth but without alarming them unnecessarily.