MR 17

[KingSize]

He swaggered forward, and spat tobacco between the young sentry’s
boots. ‘My
name’s Jackrum,’ he said. ‘That’s Sergeant Jackrum. As for the other
bit . . . you
choose.’
‘Sergeant Jackrum?’ said the boy, his mouth staying open.
‘Yes, lad.’
‘What, the one who killed sixteen men at the Battle of Zop?’
‘There was only ten of ‘em, but good lad for knowin’ it.’
‘The Jackrum who carried General Froc through fourteen miles of enemy
territory?’
‘That’s right.’
Polly saw teeth in the gloom as the sentry grinned. ‘My dad told me he
fought with
you at Blunderberg!’
‘Ah, that was a hot battle, that was!’ said Jackrum.
‘No, he meant in the pub afterwards. He pinched your drink and you
smacked him
in the mouth and he kicked you in the nadgers and you hit him in the
guts and he
blacked your eye and then you hit him with a table and when he came
round his mates
stood him beer for the evening for managing to lay nearly three
punches on Sergeant
Jackrum. He tells the story every year, when it’s the anniversary and
he’s pis—
reminiscing.’
Jackrum thought for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the young
man. ‘Joe
Hubukurk, right?’ he said.
The smile broadened to the point where the top of the young man’s head
was in
danger of falling off. ‘He’ll be smirking all day when I tell him you
remember him,
sarge! He says that where you piss grass don’t grow!’
‘Well, what can a modest man say to that, eh?’ said Jackrum.
Then the young man frowned. ‘Funny, though, he thought you were dead,
sarge,’
he said.
‘Tell him I bet him a shilling I’m not,’ said Jackrum. ‘And your name,
lad?’
‘Lart, sarge. Lart Hubukurk.’
‘Glad you joined, are you?’
‘Yes, sarge,’ said Lart loyally.
‘We’re just having a stroll, lad. Tell your dad I asked after him.’
‘I will, sarge!’ The boy stood to attention like a one-man guard of
honour. ‘This is
a proud moment for me, sarge!’
‘Does everyone know you, sarge?’ whispered Polly, as they walked away.
‘Aye, pretty much. On our side, anyway. I’ll make so bold as to
declare that most
of the enemy that meets me don’t know any hing much afterwards.’
‘I never thought it was going to be like this!’ hissed Shufti.
‘Like what?’ said Jackrum.
‘There’s women and children! Shops! I can smell bread baking! It’s
like a . . . a
city.’
‘Yeah, but what we’re after isn’t going to be in the main streets.
Follow me, lads.’
Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of
boxes and
emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.
Here the tents were open-sided. Armourers and saddlers worked by
lantern-light,
shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of
the way of a
mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules
moved aside for
Jackrum. Maybe he’s met them before, too,’thought Polly, maybe he
really does know
everyone.
The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He
acknowledged
other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were
around here, and
ignored everybody else.
‘You been here before, sarge?’ said Shufti.
‘No, lad.’
‘But you know where you’re going?’
‘Correct. I ain’t been here, but I know battlefields, especially when
everyone’s had
a chance to dig in.’ Jackrum sniffed the air. ‘Ah, right. That’s the
stuff. Just you two
wait here.’
He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant
muttering and,
after a moment or two, he reappeared holding a small bottle.
Polly grinned. ‘Is that rum, sarge?’
‘Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn’t it be nice if it was
rum, upon my
word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those
fancy names.
This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.’
‘Hangman?’ said Shufti.
‘One drop and you’re dead,’ said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to
a keen
pupil.
‘That’s right, Shufti. It’s rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered
together, someone
will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old
kettle and flog to his
mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your
average rat. Fancy
a taste?’
Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.
‘Good lad.
Stick to beer,’ he said.
‘Don’t the officers stop it?’ said Polly.
‘Officers? What do they know about anything?’ said Jackrum. ‘An’ I
bought this
off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?’
Polly peered into the gloom. ‘No, sarge.’
Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it
on to his
face. ‘Ye-ouch,’ he hissed. ‘Stings like the blazes. And now to kill
the tooth worms.
Got to do the job properly.’ He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat
it out, and
shoved the cork back in. ‘Muck,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘Where are we going, sarge?’ said Shufti. ‘You can tell us now, can’t
you?’
‘A quiet little place where our needs will be met,’ said Jackrum.
‘It’ll be around
here somewhere.’
‘You don’t half smell of drink, sarge,’ said Shufti. ‘Will they let
you in if you
smell drunk?’
‘Yes, Shufti, lad, they will,’ said Jackrum, setting off again. ‘The
reason being, my
pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk.
Ah . . . down this
little valley here, that’ll be our . . . yeah, I was right. This is
the place. Tucked away,
delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?’
There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab
tents in
this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by
winter rains. If there
had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.
‘Shame,’ said Jackrum. ‘Okay, so we’ll have to do it the hard way.
Remember: just
act natural and listen to what I say.’
‘I’m sh-shaking, sarge.’Shufti muttered.
‘Good, good, very natural,’ said Jackrum. ‘This is our place, I think.
Nice and
quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the
wash . . .’ He
stopped at a, very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his
swagger stick.
‘The SoLid DoVes,’ Polly read.
‘Yeah, well, these ladies weren’t hired for their spelling,’ said
Jackrum, pushing
open the flap of the tent of ill repute.
Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady,
lumpy and
crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the
trio the most
calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a
price on her boots.
The sergeant doffed his cap and in a jovial, rotund voice that peed
brandy and
crapped plum pudding said, ‘Good evening, madarml Sergeant Smith’s the
name, yes
indeed! An’ me and my bold lads here have been so fortunate as to
acquire the spoils
of war, if you catch my drift, and nothing would do for it but they
were clamouring,
clamouring to go to the nearest house of good repute for to have a man
made of ‘em!’
Little beady eyes skewered Polly again. Shufti, ears glowing like
signal beacons,
was staring fixedly at the ground.
‘Looks like that’d be a job and a half,’ said the woman shortly.
‘You never spoke a truer word, madarm!’ beamed Jackrum. ‘Two of your
fair
flowers apiece should do it, I reckon.’ There was a clink as,
staggering slightly,
Jackrum put several gold coins on the rickety little table.
Something about the gleam of them thawed things no end. The woman’s
face
cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.
‘Well now, we are always honoured to entertain the Ins-and-Outs,
sergeant,’ she
said. ‘If you . . . gentlemen would like to step through to the, er,
inner sanctum?’
Polly heard a very faint sound behind her, and turned. She hadn’t
noticed the man
sitting on a chair just inside the door. He had to be a man, because
trolls weren’t pink;
he made Eyebrow back in Plün look like some kind of weed. He wore
leather, which
was what she’d heard creaking, and he had his eyes just slightly open.
When he saw
her looking at him, he winked. It wasn’t a friendly wink.
There are times when a plan suddenly isn’t going to work. When you’re
in the
middle of it is not the time to find this out.
‘Er, sarge,’ she said. The sergeant turned, saw her frantic grimace,
and appeared to
spot the guard for the first time.
‘Oh dear, where’s my manners?’ he said, lurching back and fumbling in
his
pocket. He came up with a gold coin which he folded in the astonished
man’s hand.
Then he turned round, tapping the side of his nose with an expression
of idiol
knowingness.
‘A word of advice, lads,’ he said. ‘Always give the guard a tip.
He keeps the riff-riff-raff out, very important. Very important man.’
He stumbled back to the lady in black, and belched hugely. ‘And now,
madarm, if
we can meet these visions of loveliness you are hiding under this here
bushel?’ he
said.
It depended, Polly thought a few seconds later, on how and when and
after
drinking how much of what whether you had those visions. She knew
about these
places. Serving behind a bar can really broaden your education. There
were a number
of ladies back home who were, as her mother put it, ‘no better than
they should be’,
and at twelve years old Polly had got a slap for asking how good they
should have
been, then. They were an Abomination unto Nuggan, but men have always
found
space in their religion for a little sinning here and there.
The word to describe the four ladies seated in the room beyond, if you
wanted to
be kind, was ‘tired’. If you didn’t want to be kind a whole range of
words were just
hanging in the air.
They looked up without much interest.
‘This is Faith, Prudence, Grace and Comfort,’ said the lady of the
house. ‘The
night shift has not yet come on, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sure these beauties will be a great education for my roaring
boys,’ said the
sergeant. ‘But . . . may I be so bold as to enquire about your name,
madarm?’
‘I’m Mrs Smother, sergeant.’
‘And do you have a first name, may I ask?’
‘Dolores,’ said Mrs Smother, ‘to my . . . special friends.’
‘Well now, Dolores,’ said Jackrum, and there was another jingle of
coins in his
pocket, ‘I will come right out with it and be frank, because I can see
you are a woman
of the world. These frail blossoms are all very well in their way, for
I know the
fashion these days is for ladies with less meat on ‘em than a
butcher’s pencil, but a
gentleman such as me, who has been around the world and seen a thing
or two, well,
he learns the value of . . . maturity.’ He sighed. ‘Not to mention
Hope and Patience.’
The coins jingled again. ‘Perhaps you and I might retire to some
suitable boodwah,
madarm, and discuss the matter over a cordial or two?’
Mrs Smother looked from the sergeant to the ‘lads’, glanced back in
the anteroom,
and looked back at Jackrum with her head on one side and a thin,
calculating smile on
her lips.
‘Ye-es,’ she said. ‘You’re a fine figure of a man, Sergeant Smith. Let
us take a
load off your . . . pockets, shall we?’
She joined arm-in-arm with the sergeant, who winked roguishly at Polly
and
Shufti. ‘We’re well set, then, lads!’ he chuckled. ‘Now, just so’s you
don’t get carried
away, when it’s time to go I’ll blow my whistle and you better finish
what you’re
doin’, haha, and meet me sharpish. Duty calls! Remember the fine
tradition of the Insand
Outs!’ Giggling and almost tripping up, he left the room on the arm of
the
proprietress.
Shufti sidled hurriedly up to Polly and whispered: ‘Is sarge all
right, Ozzer?’
‘He’s just had a bit too much to drink,’ said Polly loudly, as all
four of the girls
stood up.
‘But he—’ Shufti got a nudge in the ribs before she could say any
more. One of the
girls carefully laid down her knitting, took Polly’s arm, flashed her
finely crafted
expression of interest and said, ‘You’re a well-set-up young man,
aren’t you . . .
what’s your namer dear? I’m Grade.’
‘Oliver,’ said Polly. And what the hell is the fine tradition of the
Ins-and-Outs?
‘Ever seen a woman with no clothes on before, Oliver?’ The girls
giggled.
Polly’s brow wrinkled as, just for a moment, she was caught unawares.
‘Yes,’ she
said. ‘Of course.’
‘Ooo, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a regular Don Joo-ann, girls,’
said Gracie,
stepping back. ‘We may have to send out for reinforcements! Why don’t
you an’ me
and Prudence go off to a little nook I know, and your little friend
will be the guest of
Faith and Comfort. Comfort’s very good with young men, ain’t you,
Comfort?’
Sergeant Jackrum had been wrong in his description of the girls. Three
of them
were indeed several meals short of a healthy weight, but when Comfort
got up out of
her large armchair you realized that it had, in fact, been quite a
small armchair and
had mostly been Comfort. For a large woman she had a small face,
locked in a piggyeyed
scowl. There was a death’s head tattoo on one arm.
‘He’s young,’ said Gracie. ‘He’ll heal. Come along, Don Joo-ann . . .’
In a way, Polly was relieved. She didn’t take to the girls. Oh, the
profession could
bring anyone down, but she’d got to know some of her town’s ladies of
uneasy virtue
and they had an edge she couldn’t find here.
‘Why do you work here?’ she said, as they entered a smaller, canvas-
walled room.
There was a rickety bed taking up most of the space.
‘You know, you look a bit too young to be that sort of customer,’ said
Gracie.
‘What sort?’ said Polly.
‘Oh, a holy joe,’ said Gracie. ‘ “What’s a girl like you doing in a
place like this?”
and all that stuff. Feel sorry for us, do you? At least if someone
cuts up rough we’ve
got Garry outside and after he’s finished with the bloke the colonel
gets told and the
bastard gets bunged in clink.’
‘Yeah,’ said Prudence. ‘From what we hear we’re the safest ladies
within twentyfive
miles. Old Smother’s not too bad. We get money to keep and we get fed
and she
don’t beat us, which is more than can be said for husbands, and you
can’t wander
around loose, now, can you?’
Jackrum put up with Blouse because you’ve got to have an officer,
Polly thought.
If you don’t have an officer, some other officer’ll take you over. And
a woman by
herself as missing a man, while a man by himself is his own master.
Trousers. That’s
the secret. Trousers and a pair of socks. I never dreamed it was like
this. Put on
trousers and the world changes. We walk different. We act different. I
see these girls
and I think: idiots! Get yourself some trousers!
‘Can you please get your clothes off?’ she said. ‘I think we’d better
hurry.’
‘One of the Ins-and-Outs, this one,’ said Gracie, slipping her dress
off her
shoulders. ‘Keep an eye on your cheeses, Pru!’
‘Er . . . why does that mean we’re in the Ins-and-Outs?’ said Polly.
She made a
show of unbuttoning her jacket, wishing that she believed in anyone
there to pray to
so that she could pray for the whistle.
‘That’s ‘cos you lads always have your eye on business,’ said Gracie.
And maybe there was someone listening, at that. The whistle blew.
Polly grabbed the dresses and ran out, oblivious of the yells behind
her. She
collided with Shufti outside, tripped over the groaning form of Garry,
saw Sergeant
Jackrum holding the tent flap open, and bulleted into the night.
‘This way!’ the sergeant hissed, grabbing her by the collar before
she’d gone a few
feet and swinging her round. ‘You too, Shufti! Move!’
He ran up the side of the wash like a child’s balloon being blown by
the wind,
leaving them to scramble after him. His arms were full of clothing,
which snagged
and danced behind him. Up above was knee-deep scrub, treacherous in
the gloom.
They tripped and staggered across it until they reached heavier
growth, whereupon the
sergeant got hold of both of them and pushed them into the bushes. The
shouts and
screams were fainter now.
‘Now we’ll just keep quiet, like,’ he whispered. ‘There’s patrols
about.’
‘They’ll be bound to find us,’ Polly hissed, while Shufti wheezed.
‘No, they won’t,’ said Jackrum. ‘First, they’ll all be running towards
the shoutin’,
because that’s natur— there they go . . .’ Polly heard more shouts in
the distance.
‘And bloody fools they are, too. They’re supposed to be guarding the
perimeter, and
they’re running towards trouble in the camp. And they’re running
straight towards
lamplight, so there goes their night eyes! If I was their sergeant
they’d be due a fizzer!
C’mon.’ He stood up, and hauled Shufti to her feet. ‘Feeling all
right, lad?’
‘It w-was horrible, sarge! One of them put her hand . . . on . . . on
my socks!’
‘Something that doesn’t often happen, I’ll bet any man,’ said Jackrum.
‘But you
did a good job. Now, we’ll walk nice and quiet, and no more talking
‘til I say, okay?’
They plodded on for ten minutes, skirting the camp. They heard several
patrols,
and saw a couple of others on the hilltops as the moon rose, but it
dawned on Polly
that, loud though the shouting had been, it was only part of the huge
patchwork of
sound that rose from the camp. The patrols this far away probably
hadn’t heard it, or
at least were commanded by the kinds of soldiers who didn’t want to
get put on a
fizzer.
In the dark, she heard Jackrum take a deep breath. ‘Okay, that’s far
enough. Not a
bad job of work, lads. You’re real Ins-and-Outs now!’
‘That guard was out cold,’ said Polly. ‘Did you hit him?’
‘Y’see, I’m fat,’ said Jackrum. ‘People don’t think fat men can fight.
They think
fat men are funny. They think wrong. Gave ‘im a chop to the windpipe.’
‘Sarge!’ said Shufti, horrified.
‘What? What? He was coming at me with his club!’ said Jackrum.
‘Why was he doing that, sarge?’ said Polly.
‘Ooh, you cunning soldier, you,’ said Jackrum. ‘All right, I grant you
that I’d just
given madarm the ol’ quietus, but to be fair I know when someone’s
just handed me a
bleedin’ drink full o’ sleepy drops.’
‘You hit a woman, sarge?’ said Polly.
‘Yeah, and maybe when she wakes up in her corsets she’ll decide that
next time a
poor ol’ drunk fat man wanders in it mightn’t be such a good idea to
try to roll him for
his wad,’ growled Jackrum. ‘I’d be in a ditch wi’out my drawers on and
a damned
great headache if she’d had her way, and if you two was daft enough to
complain to
an officer she’d swear black was blue that I didn’t have a penny on me
when I came
in and was drunk and disorderly. And the colonel wouldn’t care a fig,
‘cos he’d
reckon a sergeant daft enough to get caught like that had it coming to
him. I know,
you see. I look after my lads.’ There was a clink in the dark. ‘Plus a
few extra dollars
won’t go amiss.’
‘Sarge, you didn’t steal the cashbox, did you?’ said Polly.
‘Yeah. Got a good armful of her wardrobe, too.’
‘Good!’ said Shufti fervently. ‘It wasn’t a nice place!’
‘It was mostly my money in any case,’ said Jackrum. ‘Business has been
a bit slow
today, by the feel of it.’
‘But it’s immoral earnings!’ said Polly, and then felt a complete fool
for saying it.
‘No,’ said Jackrum. ‘It was immoral earnings, now it’s the proceeds of
common
theft. Life’s a lot easier when you learns to think straight.’
Polly was glad there was no mirror. The best that could be said for
the squad’s new
clothing was that it covered them up. But this was a war. You seldom
saw new clothes
on anybody. Yet they felt awkward. And there was no sense in that at
all. But they
looked at one another in the chilly light of dawn and giggled in
embarrassment. Wow,
Polly thought, look at us: dressed as women.
Oddly enough, it was Igorina who really looked the part. She’d
disappeared into
the other tumbledown room carrying her pack. For ten minutes the squad
had heard
the occasional grunt or ‘ouch’, and then she’d returned with a full
head of fair,
shoulder-length hair. Her face was the right shape, missing the lumps
and bumps
they’d come to know. And the stitches on her forehead shrank and
disappeared as
Polly watched in astonishment.
‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ she said.
‘It smarts a bit for a few minutes,’ said Igorina. ‘You just have to
have the knack.
And the special ointment, of course.’
‘But why’s there a curved scar on your cheek now?’ said Tonker. ‘And
those
stitches are staying.’
Igorina looked down demurely. She’d even restyled one of the dresses
into a
dirndl, and looked like a fresh young maid from the beer cellar. Just
to look at her was
to mentally order a large pretzel.
‘You’ve got to have something to show,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you’re
letting down
the clan. And actually I think the stitches are rather fetching . . .’
‘Well, okay,’ Tonker conceded. ‘But lisp a bit, will you? I know this
is completely
wrong, but now you look, oh, I don’t know . . . weird, I suppose.’
‘Okay, line up,’ said Jackrum. He stood back, and gave them a look of
theatrical
disdain. ‘Well, I’ve never seen such a lot of scrubb— washerwomen in
all my life,’ he
said. ‘I wish you all the luck you’re bleeding well gonna need.
There’ll be someone
watching the door for you to come out, and that’s all I can promise.
Private Perks,
you’re acting, unpaid corporal on this one. I hope you’ve picked up
one or two little
lessons on our stroll. In and out, that’s what you should do. No
famous last stands,
please. When in doubt, kick ‘em in the nadgers and scarper. Mind you,
if you frighten
them like you frighten me, you should have no trouble.’
‘Are you sure you won’t join us, sarge?’ said Tonker, still trying not
to laugh.
‘No, lad. You won’t get me in skirts. Everyone has their place, right?
The place
where they draw the line? Well, that’s mine. I’m pretty steeped in
sin, one way and
another, but Jackrum always shows his colours. I’m an old soldier.
I’ll fight like a
soldier does, in the ranks, on the battlefield. Besides, if Ixwent in
there simpering in
petticoats I’d never hear the end of it.
‘The Duchess says there is a d-different path for Sergeant Jackrum,’
said Wazzer.
‘And I don’t know if you don’t frighten me worst of all, Private
Goom,’ said
Jackrum. He hitched up his equatorial belt. ‘You’re right, though.
When you’re inside
I shall nip down, nice and quiet, and slip into our lines. If I can’t
raise a little
diversionary attack, my name’s not Sergeant Jackrum. And since it is
Sergeant
Jackrum, that proves it. Hah, there’s plenty of men in this man’s army
that owe me a
favour’ - he gave a little sniff - ‘or wouldn’t say no to my face. And
plenty of likely
lads who’ll want to tell their grandchildren they fought alongside
Jackrum, too. Well,
I’ll give ‘em their chance at real soldierin’.’
‘Sarge, it’ll be suicide to attack the main gates!’ said Polly.
Jackrum slapped his belly. ‘See this lot?’ he said. ‘It’s like having
yer own armour.
Bloke once stuck a blade in this up to the hilt and was as surprised
as hell when I
nutted him. Anyway, you lads’ll be making so much fuss the guards will
be
distracted, right? You’re relying on me, I’m relying on you. That’s
milit’ry, that is.
You give me a signal, any signal. That’s all I’ll need.’
‘The Duchess says your path takes you further,’ said Wazzer.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Jackrum jovially. ‘And where’s that, then? Somewhere
with a
good pub, I hope!’
‘The Duchess says, um, it should lead to the town of Scritz,’ said
Wazzer. She said
it quietly while the rest of the squad were laughing, less at the
comment than as a way
of losing some of the tension. But Polly heard it.
Jackrum really, really was good, she thought. The fleeting expression
of terror was
gone in an instant. ‘Scritz? Nothing there,’ he said. ‘Dull town.’
‘There was a sword,’ said Wazzer.
Jackrum was ready this time. There was not a flicker of expression,
just the blank
face that he was so good at. And that was odd, Polly thought, because
there should
have been something, even if it was only puzzlement.
‘Handled lots of swords in my time,’ he said dismissively. ‘Yes,
Private Halter?’
‘There’s one thing you didn’t tell us, sarge,’ said Tonker, lowering
her hand. ‘Why
is the regiment called the Ins-and-Outs?’
‘First into battle, last out of the fray,’ said Jackrum automatically.
‘So why are we nicknamed the Cheesemongers?’
‘Yes,’ said Shufti. ‘Why, sarge? Because the way those girls were
talking, it
sounded like it’s something we ought to know.’
Jackrum made a clicking noise of exasperation. ‘Oh, Tonker, why the
hell did you
wait ‘til you’d got your trousers off before asking me that? I’ll feel
embarrassed
telling yer now!’ And Polly thought: that’s bait, right? You want to
tell us. You want
to get any conversation away from Scritz . . .
‘Ah,’ said Tonker. ‘It’s about sex, then, is it?’
‘Not as such, no . . .’
‘Well, tell me, then,’ said Tonker. ‘I’d like to know before I die. If
it makes you
feel any better I’ll nudge people and go gnher, gnher, gnher.’
Jackrum sighed. ‘There’s a song,’ he said. ‘It starts “Twas on a
Monday morning,
all in the month of May—’
‘Then it is about sex,’ said Polly flatly. ‘It’s a folk song, it
starts with ‘twas, it
takes place in May, QED it’s about sex. Is a milkmaid involved? I bet
there is.’
‘There could be,’ Jackrum conceded.
‘Going for to market? For to sell her wares?’ said Polly.
‘Very likely.’
‘O-kay. That gives us the cheese. And she meets, let’s see, a soldier,
a sailor, a
jolly ploughboy or just possibly a man clothed all in leather, I
expect? No, since it’s
about us, it’ll be a soldier, right? And since it’s one of the Ins-and-
Outs . . . oh dear, I
feel a humorous double-entendre coming on. Just one question: what
item of her
clothing fell down or came untied?’
‘Her garter,’ said Jackrum. ‘You’ve heard it before, Perks.’
‘No, but I just know how folk songs go. We had folk singers in the
lower bar for
six months back horn— where Iworked. In the end we had to get a man in
with a
ferret. But you remember stuff . . . oh, no . . .’
‘Was there canoodling, sarge?’ said Tonker, grinning.
‘Kayaking, I expect,’ said Igorina, to general sniggering.
‘No, he stole the cheese, didn’t he?’ sighed Polly. ‘As the poor girl
was lying there
waiting for her garter to be tied, hem hem, he damn well made off with
her cheese,
right?’
‘Er . . . not damn. Not with the skirt on, Ozz,’ Tonker warned.
‘Then it’s not Ozz, either,’ said Polly. ‘Fill yer hat with bread,
fill yer boots with
soup! And steal the cheese, eh, sarge?’
‘That’s right. We’ve always been a very practical regiment,’ said
Jackrum. ‘An
army marches on its stomach, lads. On mine, o’ course, it could troop
the colour!’
‘It was her own fault. She should have been able to tie up her own
garters,’ said
Lofty.
‘Yeah. Probably wanted her cheese stolen,’ said Tonker.
‘Wise words,’ said Jackrum. ‘Off you go, then . . . cheesemongers!’
The mist was still thick as they made their way down through the woods
to the
path by the river. Polly’s skirt kept catching in brambles. It must
have done so before
she’d joined up, but she’d never noticed it so much. Now it was
seriously hindering
her. She reached up and absent-mindedly adjusted the socks, which
she’d separated to
use as padding elsewhere. She was too skinny, that was the trouble.
The ringlets had
been useful there. They said ‘girl’. In their absence, she had to rely
on a scarf and a
socks change.
‘All right,’ she whispered, as the ground levelled out. ‘Remember, no
swearing.
Giggle, don’t snigger. No belching. No weapons, either. They can’t be
that stupid in
there. Anyone brought a weapon?’
There was a shaking of heads.
‘Did you bring a weapon, Tonk— Magda?’
‘No, Polly.’
‘No item of any sort with a certain weapon-like quality?’ Polly
insisted.
‘No, Polly,’ said Tonker demurely.
‘Anything, perhaps, with an edge?’
‘Oh, you mean this?’
‘Yes, Magda.’