Colin got up off the floor and went over to his duffel and began rummaging through it. “The vicar asked me last night if I’d run errands for him, check on people and take them medicine and things.”
He fished a paper bag out of the duffel. “This is your present,” he said, handing it to Dunworthy. “It’s not wrapped,” he added unnecessarily. “Finch said we ought to save paper for the epidemic.”
Dunworthy opened the bag and pulled out a flattish red book.
“It’s an appointment calendar,” Colin said. “It’s so you can mark off the days till your girl gets back.” He opened it to the first page. “See, I made sure to get one that had December.”
“Thank you,” Dunworthy said, opening it. Christmas. The Slaughter of the Innocents. New Year’s. Epiphany. “That was very thoughtful.”
“I wanted to get you this model of Carfax Tower that plays ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’,” Colin said, “but it cost twenty pounds!”
The telephone rang, and Colin and Dunworthy both dived for it. “I’ll bet it’s my mother,” Colin said.
It was Mary, calling from the infirmary. “How are you feeling?”
“Half-asleep,” Dunworthy said.
Colin grinned at him.
“How’s Latimer?” Dunworthy asked.
“Good,” Mary said. She was still wearing her lab coat, but she’d combed her hair, and she looked cheerful. “He seems to have a very mild case. We’ve established a connection with the South Carolina virus.”
“Latimer was in South Carolina?”
“No. One of the students I had you question last night… good Lord, I mean two nights ago. I’m losing all track of time. One of the ones who’d been at the dance in Headington. He lied at first because he’d skipped off from his college to see a young woman and left a friend to cover for him.”
“Skipped off to South Carolina?”
“No, London. But the young woman was from the States. She’d flown in from Texas and changed planes in Charleston, South Carolina. The CDC’s working to find out what cases were in the airport. Let me speak to Colin. I want to wish him a happy Christmas.”
Dunworthy put him on, and he launched into a recital of his gifts, down to and including the motto in his cracker. “Mr. Dunworthy gave me a book about the Middle Ages.” He held it up to the screen. “Did you know they cut off people’s heads for stealing and stuck them up on London Bridge?”
“Thank her for the muffler, and don’t tell her you’re running errands for the vicar,” Dunworthy whispered, but Colin was already holding the receiver out to him. “She wants to speak to you again.”
“It’s clear you’re taking good care of him,” Mary said. “I’m very grateful. I haven’t been home yet, and I should have hated him to be alone on Christmas. I don’t suppose the promised gifts from his mother have arrived?”
“No,” Dunworthy said cautiously, looking at Colin, who was looking at the pictures in the Middle Ages book.
“Nor telephoned,” she said disgustedly. “The woman hasn’t a drop of maternal blood in her body. For all she knows, Colin might be lying in hospital with a temp of forty degrees, mightn’t he?”
“How is Badri?” Dunworthy asked.
“The fever was down a bit this morning, but there’s still a good deal of lung involvement. We’re putting him on synthamycin. The South Carolina cases have responded very well to it.” She promised to try to come over for Christmas dinner and then rang off.
Colin looked up from his book. “Did you know in the Middle Ages they burned people at the stake?”
Mary didn’t come nor telephone, and neither did Andrews. Dunworthy sent Colin over to hall for breakfast and tried phoning the tech, but all the lines were engaged, “due to the holiday crush,” the computer voice said, obviously not reprogrammed since the beginning of the quarantine. It advised him to delay all nonessential calls until the next day. He tried twice more, with the same result.
Finch came over, bearing a tray. “Are you all right, sir?” he said anxiously. “You’re not feeling ill?”
“I’m not feeling ill. I’m waiting for a trunk call to come through.”
“Oh, thank goodness, sir. When you didn’t come over for breakfast I feared the worst.” He took the rain-spotted cover off the tray. “I’m afraid it’s a poor sort of Christmas breakfast, but we’re nearly out of eggs. I don’t know what sort of Christmas dinner it will be. There isn’t a goose left inside the perimeter.”
It actually seemed to be quite a respectable breakfast, a boiled egg, kippers, muffins with jam.
“I tried for a Christmas pudding, sir, but we’re nearly out of brandy,” Finch said, pulling a plastic envelope out from under the tray and handing it to Dunworthy.
He opened it. On top was an NHS directive headed: “Early Symptoms of Influenza. 1.) Disorientation. 2.) Headache. 3.) Muscle Aches. Avoid contracting it. Wear your NHS regulation face mask at all times.”
“Face mask?” Dunworthy asked.
“The NHS delivered them this morning,” Finch said. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage the washing up. We’re nearly out of soap.”
