MR 18

[KingSize]

‘Well, a woman can carry a knife, can’t she?’
‘It’s a sabre, Magda. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s a sabre.’
‘But I’m only using it like a knife, Polly.’
‘It’s three feet long, Magda.’
‘Size isn’t important, Polly.’
‘No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please. That is an
order.’
‘Oh, all right!’
After a while, Shufti, who had appeared to be thinking deeply, said:
‘I can’t
understand why she didn’t just tie up her own garter . . .’
‘Shuft, what the hell—’ Tonker began.
‘—heck,’ Polly corrected her, ‘and you’re talking to Betty, remember.’
‘What the heck are you talking about, Betty?’ said Tonker, rolling her
eyes.
‘Well, the song, of course. And you don’t have to lie down to tie a
garter in any
case. It’d be more difficult,’ said Shufti. ‘It’s all a bit silly.’
No one said anything for a while. It was, perhaps, easy to see why
Shufti was on
her quest.
‘You’re right,’ said Polly eventually. ‘It’s a silly song.’
‘A very silly song,’ Tonker agreed.
They all agreed. It was a silly song.
They stepped out on to the river path. Ahead of them a small group of
women were
hurrying round the bend in the track. Automatically, the squad looked
up. The keep
grew out of the sheer cliff; it was hard to see where the unhewn rock
ended and the
ancient masonry began. They could see no windows. From here, it was
just a wall
extending to the sky. No way in, it said. No way out. In this wall are
few doors, and
triey close with finality.
This close to the deep, slow river, the air was bone-chillingly cold,
and grew colder
the higher they looked. Around the curve they could see the little
rock shelf where the
back door was, and the women ahead of them talking to a guard.
‘This is not going to work,’ said Shufti under her breath. ‘They’re
showing him
some papers. Anyone brought theirs? No?’
The soldier had looked up and was watching the girls, with that blank
official
expression of someone who was not looking for excitement or adventure
in his life.
‘Keep moving,’ murmured Polly. ‘If it all gets really bad, burst into
tears.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ said Tonker.
Their treacherous feet were taking them closer all the time. Polly
kept her eyes
downwards, as was proper in an unmarried woman. There would be others
watching,
she knew it. They’d probably be bored, they might not be expecting any
trouble, but
up on those walls there were eyes fixed on her.
They reached the guard. Just inside the narrow stone doorway there was
another
one, lounging in the shadow.
‘Papers,’ said the guard.
‘Oh, sir, I have none,’ said Polly. She’d been working out the speech
on the way
down through the wood. War, fears of invasion, people fleeing, no
food . . . you didn’t
have to make things up, you just had to reassemble reality. ‘I had to
leave—’
‘Oh, right,’ the guard interrupted. ‘No papers? No problem! If you’d
just step in
and see my colleague? Nice of you to join us!’ He stood aside and
waved a hand
towards the dark entrance.
Mystified, Polly stepped inside, with the others following. Behind
them, the door
swung shut. Inside, she saw that they were in a long passage with many
slits in the
walls to rooms on either side. Lamplight shone from the slits. She
could see shadows
beyond them. Bowmen concealed there could turn anyone trapped in here
into mince.
At the end of the corridor another door swung open. It led into a
small room in
which there sat, at a desk, a young man in a uniform Polly didn’t
recognize, although
it had a captain’s insignia. Standing to one side was a much, much
larger man in the
same uniform, or possibly two uniforms stitched together. He had a
sword. There was
that about him: when this man held a sword, it was clearly being held,
and held by
him. The eye was drawn to it. Even Jade would have been impressed.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ said the captain. ‘No papers, eh? Take off
your scarves,
please.’
And that’s it, thought Polly, as the bottom of her stomach dropped
away. And we
thought we were being clever. There was nothing for it but to obey.
‘Ah. You’ll tell me your hair was shaved off as a punishment for
fraternizing with
the enemy, eh?’ said the man, barely looking up. ‘Except for you,’ he
added to
Igorina. ‘Didn’t feel like fraternizing with any enemies? Something
wrong with
decent Zlobenian boys?’
‘Er . . . no,’ said Igorina.
Now the captain gave them a bright little smile. ‘Gentlemen, let’s not
mess about,
shall we? You walk wrong. We do watch, you know. You walk wrong and
you stand
wrong. You,’ he pointed to Tonker, ‘have got a bit of shaving soap
under one ear.
And you, sir, are either deformed or you’ve tried the old trick of
sticking a pair of
socks down your vest.’
Crimson with embarrassment and humiliation, Polly hung her head.
‘Getting in or out disguised as washerwomen,’ said the captain,
shaking his head.
‘Everyone outside this stupid country knows that one, lads, but most
of them make
more effort than you boys. Well, for you the war is over. This place
has got big, big
dungeons and I don’t mind telling you you’re probably going to be
better off in here
than outside— Yeah, what do you want?’
Shufti had raised a hand. ‘Can I show you something?’ she said. Polly
didn’t turn,
but watched the captain’s face as, beside Polly, cloth rustled. She
couldn’t believe it.
Shufti was raising her skirt. . .
‘Oh,’ said the captain, sitting back in his chair. His face went red.
There was an explosion from Tonker, but it was an explosion of tears.
They came
out accompanied by a long, mournful wail, as she threw herself on to
the floor.
‘We walked so-oo far! We lay in ditches to hide from soldiers! There’s
no food!
We want to work! You called us boys! Why are you so-oo cruel?’
Polly knelt down and half picked her up, patting her on the back as
Tonker’s
shoulders heaved with the force of her sobs.
‘It’s been very hard for all of us,’ she said to the red-faced
captain.
‘If you can take him down I can garrotte the other one with my apron
string,’
whispered Tonker in her ear, between howls.
‘Have you seen everything you wish to see?’ said Polly to the blushing
captain,
every syllable tinkling with ice.
‘Yes! No! Yes! Please!’ said the captain, giving the guard the
agonized glance of a
man who knows that he’s going to be the laughing stock of the whole
fort inside the
hour. ‘Once was quite— I mean, I’ve seen . . . look, I’m completely
satisfied. Private,
go and fetch one of the women from the laundry. I am so sorry, ladies,
I . . . I have a
job to do . . .’
‘Do you enjoy it?’ said Polly, still freezing.
‘Yes!’ said the captain hurriedly. ‘I mean, no! No, yes! We have to be
careful . . .
ah . . .’
The big soldier had returned, trailing a woman. Polly stared.
‘Some, er, new volunteers,’ said the captain, waving vaguely towards
the squad.
‘I’m sure Mrs Enid will have some use for them . . . er . . .’
‘Certainly, captain,’ said the woman, curtsying demurely. Polly still
stared.
‘Off you go . . . ladies,’ said the captain. ‘And if you’re hard
workers Mrs Enid
will I am sure give you a pass so’s we don’t have this trouble
again . . . er . . .’
Shufti put both hands on his desk, leaned towards him and said ‘Boo’.
His chair hit
the wall.
‘I may not be clever,’ she said to Polly. ‘But I’m not stupid.’
But Polly was still staring at Lieutenant Blouse. He’d curtsied
surprisingly well.
The soldier escorted them along a tunnel which opened on to a ledge
overlooking
what was either a cave or a room; it was at that level in the keep
where there was not
much difference. This wasn’t a laundry, but clearly some hot, damp
afterlife for those
who required punishment with extra scrubbing. Steam rolled across the
ceiling,
condensed, and dripped on to a floor that was already running with
water. And it went
on for ever, washtub after washtub. Women moved like ghosts through
the drifting,
tumbling clouds of fog.
‘There you go, ladies,’ he said, and slapped Blouse on the rump. ‘See
you tonight,
then, Daphne?’
‘Oh, yes!’ trilled Blouse.
‘Five o’clock, then,’ said the soldier, and ambled off down the
corridor.
‘Daphne?’ said Polly, when the man had gone.
‘My “nom de guerre”,’ said Blouse. ‘I still haven’t found a way out of
the lower
areas but the guards all have keys and I shall have his key in my hand
by half past
five. Pardon?’
‘I think Tonker - sorry, Magda - just bit her tongue,’ said Polly.
‘Her? Oh, yes. Well done for staying in character, er . . .’
‘Polly,’ said Polly.
‘Good choice of name,’ said Blouse, leading the way down some steps.
‘It’s a
good common, maidservanty sort of name.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Polly gravely.
‘Er . . . Sergeant Jackrum not with you, then?’ said the lieutenant,
with a trace of
nervousness.
‘No, sir. He said he was going to lead a charge on the main gates,
sir, if we sent
him a signal. I hope he doesn’t try without one.’
‘Good heavens, the man’s mad,’ said Blouse. ‘Splendid effort from the
lads,
though. Well done. You’d definitely pass for women to the casual
observer.’
‘Coming from you, Daphne, that is a big compliment,’ said Polly,
thinking: gosh,
I’m really good at keeping a straight face.
‘But you didn’t need to come after me,’ said Blouse. ‘I’m sorry I
couldn’t get a
signal to you, but Mrs Enid allowed me to stay overnight, you see. The
guards don’t
do so many checks at night so I made use of my time to look for ways
into the upper
keep. All gated or really heavily guarded, I’m afraid. However,
Private Hauptfidel has
taken rather a shine to me . . .’
‘Well done, sir!’ said Polly.
‘Sorry, I want to be clear, sir,’ said Tonker. ‘You have a date with a
guard.’
‘Yes, and I’ll suggest we go somewhere dark and then when I’ve got
what I want I
shall break his neck,’ said Blouse.
‘Isn’t that going a bit far on a first date?’ said Tonker.
‘Sir, did you have any trouble getting in?’ said Polly. This had been
nagging at her.
It seemed so unfair.
‘No, not at all. I just smiled and wiggled my hips and they waved me
through.
What about you?’
‘Oh, we had a little bit,’ said Polly. ‘It was a bit hair— it was a
bit awkward for a
moment or two.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Blouse triumphantly. ‘It’s all down to
thespian ability!
But you were plucky lads to try it. Come and meet Mrs Enid. A very
loyal lady. The
brave womenfolk of Borogravia are on our side!’
And, indeed, there was a picture of the Duchess in the alcove that
served the
laundry mistress for an office. Mrs Enid wasn’t a particularly large
woman but she
had forearms like Jade, a soaking wet apron, and the most mobile mouth
Polly had
ever seen. Her lips and tongue drew out every word like a big shape in
the air; the
laundresses, in a cavern full of hissing steam, echoes, falling water
and the thud of
wet clothes on stone, watched lips when ears were overwhelmed. When
she was
listening her mouth moved all the time, too, like someone trying to
dislodge a piece of
nut from a tooth. She wore her sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
She listened impassively as Blouse introduced the squad. ‘I see,’ she
said. ‘Right.
You leave your lads here with me, sir. You ought to get back to the
pressing room.’
When Blouse had bounced and wobbled back through the steam, Mrs Enid
looked
them all up and down, and then straight through.
‘Lads,’ she grunted. ‘Hah! That’s all he knows, eh? For a woman to
wear the
clothes of a man is an Abomination in the Eyes of Nuggan!’
‘But we’re dressed as women, Mrs Enid,’ said Polly meekly.
Mrs Enid’s mouth moved ferociously. Then she folded her arms. It was
like a
barricade going up against all that was ungodly.
‘It’s not right,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a son and a husband prisoner in
this place and
I’m working meself to the bone for the enemy just so’s I can keep an
eye on ‘em.
They’re gonna invade, y’know. It’s amazing what we hear down here. So
what good’s
rescuing your men going to do ‘em when we’re all under the heel of the
Zlobenian
hand-painted clog, eh?’
‘Zlobenia will not invade,’ said Wazzer confidently. ‘The Duchess will
see to it.
Be not afraid.’
Wazzer got given the sort of look she always got when someone heard
her for the
first time.
‘Been praying, ‘ave yer?’ said Mrs Enid kindly.
‘No, just listening,’ said Wazzer.
‘Nuggan talks to you, does he?’
‘No. Nuggan is dead, Mrs Enid,’ said Wazzer.
Polly took Wazzer’s matchstick-thin arm and said: ‘Excuse us a moment,
Mrs
Enid.’ She hustled the girl behind a huge, water-driven clothes
mangle. It heaved and
clanked as a background to their conversation.
‘Wazzer, this is getting . . .’ Polly’s native tongue had no word for
‘freaky’, but if
she had known about the word she would have welcomed its inclusion
‘. . . strange.
You’re worrying people. You can’t just go around saying that a god is
dead.’
‘Gone, then. Dwindled . . . I think,’ said Wazzer, her brow
furrowing. ‘No longer with us . . .’
‘We still get the Abominations.’
Wazzer tried to concentrate. ‘No, they’re not real. They’re like . . .
echoes. Dead
voices in an ancient cave, bouncing back and forth, the words
changing, making
nonsense . . . like flags that were used for signals but now just flap
in the wind . . I
Wazzer’s eyes went unfocused and her voice altered, became more adult,
more certain
‘. . . and they come from no god. There is no god here now.’
‘So where do they come from?’
‘From your fear . . . They come from the part that hates the Other,
that will not
change. They come from the sum of all your pettiness and stupidity and
dullness. You
fear tomorrow, and you’ve made your fear your god. The Duchess knows
this.’
The water-mangle creaked onwards. Around Polly the boilers hissed,
water gushed
in the runnels. The air was loaded with the smells of soap and damp
cloth.
‘I don’t believe in the Duchess, either,’ said Polly. ‘That was just
trickery in the
woods. Anyone’d look round. It doesn’t mean I believe in her.’
‘That doesn’t matter, Polly. She believes in you.’
‘Really?’ Polly glanced around the steaming, dripping cave. ‘Is she
here, then? Has
she graced us with her presence?’
Wazzer had no concept of sarcasm. She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Yes.
Polly looked behind her.
‘Did you just say yes?’ she demanded.
‘Yes,’ said Wazzer.
Yes.
Polly relaxed. ‘Oh, it’s an echo. This is a cave, after all. Uh . . .’
. . . which doesn’t explain why my voice doesn’t come bouncing
back . . .
‘Wazz . . . I mean, Alice?’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, Polly?’ said Wazzer.
‘I think it would be a really good idea if you don’t talk too much
about this to the
others,’ she said. ‘People don’t mind believing in, you know, gods and
so on, but they
get very nervous if you tell them they’re showing up. Er . . . she’s
not going to show
up, is she?’
‘The person you don’t believe in?’ said Wazzer, showing a flash of
spirit.
‘I’m . . . not saying she doesn’t exist,’ said Polly weakly. ‘I just
don’t believe in
her, that’s all.’
‘She’s very weak,’ said Wazzer. ‘I hear her crying in the night.’
Polly sought for further information in the pinched-up face, hoping
that in some
way Wazzer was making fun of her. But nothing but puzzled innocence
looked back.
‘Why does she cry?’ she said.
‘The prayers. They hurt her.’
Polly spun round when something touched her shoulder. It was Tonker.
‘Mrs Enid says we’re to get to work,’ she said. ‘She says the guards
come round
and check . . .’
It was women’s work, and therefore monotonous, backbreaking and
social. It had
been a long time since Polly had got her hands in a washtub, and the
ones here were
long wooden troughs, where twenty women could work at once. Arms on
either side
of her squeezed and pummelled, wrung out garments and slapped them
into the
rinsing trough behind them. Polly joined in, and listened to the buzz
of conversation
around her.
It was gossip, but bits of information floated in it like bubbles in
the washtub. A
couple of guards had ‘taken liberties’ - that is, more than had
already been taken - and
had apparently been flogged for it. This caused much comment along the
tub.
Apparently some big milord from Ankh-Morpork was in charge of things
and had
ordered it. He was some kind of wizard, said the woman opposite. They
said he could
see things happening everywhere, and lived on raw meat. They said he
had secret
eyes. Of course, everyone knew that that city was the home of
Abominations. Polly,
industriously rubbing a shirt on a washboard, thought about this. And
thought ^bout a
lowland buzzard in this upland country, and some creature so fast and
stealthy that it
was only a suggestion of shadow . . .
She took a spell on the copper boilers, ramming the stewing garments
under the
bubbling surface, and noted that in this place without weapons of any
sort she was
using a heavy stick about three feet long.
She enjoyed the work, in a dumb kind of way. Her muscles did all the
necessary
thinking, leaving her brain free. No one knew for sure that the
Duchess was dead. It
more or less didn’t matter. But Polly was sure of one thing. The
Duchess had been a
woman. Just a woman, not a goddess. Oh, people prayed to her in the
hope that their
pleas would be gift-wrapped and sent on to Nuggan, but that gave her
no right to mess
with the heads of people like Wazzer, who had enough trouble as it
was. Gods could
do miracles, Duchesses posed for pictures.
Out of the corner of her eye Polly saw a line of women taking large
baskets from a
platform at the end of the room and stepping out through another
doorway. She
dragged Igorina away from the wash trough and told her to join them.
‘And notice
everything!’ she added.
‘Yes, corp,’ said Igorina.
‘Because I know one thing,’ said Polly, waving at the piles of damp
linen, ‘and it’s
that this lot will need the breeze . . .’
She went back to work, occasionally joining in the chatter for the
look of the thing.
It wasn’t hard. The washerwomen kept away from some subjects,
particularly ones
like ‘husbands’ and ‘sons’. But Polly picked up clues here and there.
Some were in
the keep. Some were probably dead. Some were out there, somewhere.
Some of the
older women wore the Motherhood Medal, awarded to women whose sons had
died
for Borogravia. The bastard metal was corroding in the damp
atmosphere, and Polly
wondered if the medals had arrived in a letter from the Duchess, with
her signature
printed on the bottom and the son’s name squeezed up tight to fit the
space:
We honour and congratulate you, Mrs L. Lapchic of Well Lane, Manx, on
the
death of your son Otto PwtrHanLapcbic on June 25 at ██
The place was always censored in case it brought aid and comfort to
the enemy. It
astonished Polly to find that the cheap medals and thoughtless words
did, in a way,
bring aid and comfort to the mothers. Those in Munz who had received
them wore
them with a sort of fierce, indignant pride.
She wasn’t sure she trusted Mrs Enid very much. She had a son and a
husband up
in the cells, and she’d had a chance to weigh up Blouse. She’d be
asking herself:
what’s more likely, that he gets them all out and keeps them safe, or
that there’s going
to be an almighty mess which might well harm us all? And Polly
couldn’t blame her if
she went with the evidence . . .
She was aware of someone talking to her. ‘Hmm?’ she said.
‘Look at this, will you?’ said Shufti, waving a sodden pair of men’s
long pants at
her. ‘They keep putting the colours in with the whites!’
‘Well? So what? These are enemy longjohns,’ said Polly.
‘Yes, but there’s such a thing as doing it properly! Look, they put in
this red pair
and all the others are going pink!’
‘And? I used to love pink when I was about seven.’*
* It is an established fact that, despite everything society can do,
girls of seven are
magnetically attracted to the colour pink.
‘But pale pink? On a man?’
Polly looked at the next tub for a moment, and patted Shufti on the
shoulder. ‘Yes.
It is very pale, isn’t it? You’d better find a couple more red items,’
she said.
‘But that’d make it even worse—’ Shufti began.
‘That was an order, soldier,’ Polly whispered in her ear. ‘And add
some starch.’
‘How much?’
‘All you can find.’
Igorina returned. Igorina had good eyes. Polly wondered if they’d ever
belonged to
someone else. She gave Polly a wink and held up a thumb. It was, to
Polly’s relief,
one of her own.
In the huge ironing room, only one person was working at the long
boards when
Polly, taking advantage of the temporary absence of Mrs Enid, hurried
in. It was
‘Daphne’. All the rest of the women were gathered round, as if they
were watching a
demonstration. And they were.
‘—the collar, d’you see,’ said Lieutenant Blouse, flourishing the big,
steaming,
charcoal-filled iron. ‘Then the sleeve cuffs and finally the sleeves.
Do one front half at
a time. You should hang them immediately but, and here’s a useful tip,
don’t iron
them completely dry. It’s really a matter of practice, but—’
Polly stared in fascinated wonder. She’d hated ironing. ‘Daphne, could
I have a
word?’ she said, during a pause.
Blouse looked up. ‘Oh, P . . . Polly,’ he said. ‘Um, yes, of course.’
‘It’s amazing what Daphne knows about pleat lines,’ said a girl, in
awe. ‘And press
cloths!’
‘I am amazed,’ said Polly.
Blouse handed the iron to the girl. ‘There you are, Dympha,’ he said
generously.
‘Remember: always iron the wrong side first, and only ever do the
wrong side on dark
linens. Common mistake. Coming, Polly.’
Polly kicked her heels for a while outside, and one of the girls came
up with a big
pile of fresh-smelling ironing. She saw Polly, and leaned close as she
went past. ‘We
all know he’s a man,’ she said. ‘But he’s having such fun and he irons
like a demon!’
‘Sir, how do you know about ironing?’ said Polly, when they were back
in the
washing room.
‘Had to do my own laundry back at HQ,’ said Blouse. ‘Couldn’t afford a
gel and
the batman was a strict Nugganite and said it was girls’ work. So I
thought, well, it
can’t be hard, otherwise we wouldn’t leave it to women. They really
aren’t very good
here. You know they put the colours and the whites together?’
‘Sir, you know you said you were going to steal a gate key off a guard
and break
his neck?’ said Polly.
‘Indeed.’
‘Do you know how to break a man’s neck, sir?’
‘I read a book on martial arts, Perks,’ said Blouse, a little
severely.
‘But you haven’t actually done it, sir?’
‘Well, no! I was at HQ, and you are not allowed to practise on real
people, Perks.’
‘You see, the person whose neck you want to break will have a weapon
at that
moment and you, sir, won’t,’ said Polly.
‘I have tried out the basic principle on a rolled-up blanket,’ said
Blouse
reproachfully. ‘It seemed to work very well.’
‘Was the blanket struggling and making loud gurgling noises and
kicking you in
the socks, sir?’
‘The socks?’ said Blouse, puzzled.
‘In fact I think your other idea would be better, sir,’ said Polly
hurriedly.
‘Yes . . . my, er . . . other idea . . . which one was that, exactly?’
‘The one where we escape from the washhouse via the clothes-drying
area, sir,
after silently disabling three guards, sir. There’s a kind of moving
room down the
corridor over there, sir, which gets winched all the way to the roof.
Two guards go up
there with the women, sir, and there’s another guard up on the roof.
Acting together,
we’d take out each unsuspecting guard, which would be more certain
than you against
an armed man, with all due respect, sir, and that would leave us very
well positioned
to go anywhere in the keep via the rooftops, sir. Well done, sir!’
There was a pause. ‘Did I, er, go into all that detail?’ said Blouse.
‘Oh, no, sir. You shouldn’t have to, sir. Sergeants and corporals deal
with the fine
detail. Officers are there to see the big picture.’
‘Oh, absolutely. And, er . . . how big was this particular picture?’
said Blouse,
blinking.
‘Oh, very big, sir. A very big picture indeed, sir.’
‘Ah,’ said Blouse, and straightened up and assumed what he considered
to be the
expression of one with panoramic vision.
‘Some of the ladies here used to work in the upper keep, sir, when it
was ours,’
Polly went on quickly. ‘Anticipating your order, sir, I had the squad
engage them in
light conversation about the layout of the place, sir. Being aware of
the general thrust
of your strategy, sir, I think I have found a route to the dungeons.’
She paused. It had been good flannelling, she knew. It was almost
worthy of
Jackrum. She’d larded it with as many ‘sirs’ as she dared. And she was
very proud of
‘anticipating your order’.
She hadn’t heard Jackrum use it, but with a certain amount of care it
was an excuse
to do almost anything. ‘General thrust’ was pretty good, too.
‘Dungeons,’ said Blouse thoughtfully, momentarily losing sight of the
big picture.
‘In fact I thought I said—’
‘Yessir. Because, sir, if we can get a lot of the lads out of the
dungeons, sir, you’ll
be in command inside the enemy’s citadel, sir!’
Blouse grew another inch, and then sagged again. ‘Of course, there are
some very
senior officers here. All of them senior to me—’
‘Yessir!’ said Polly, well on the way to graduating from the Sergeant
Jackrum
School of Outright Rupert Management. ‘Perhaps we’d better try to let
the enlisted
men out first, sir? We don’t want to expose the officers to enemy
fire.’
It was shameless and stupid, but now the light of battle was in
Blouse’s eyes. Polly
decided to fan it, just in case. ‘Your leadership has really been a
great example to us,
sir,’ she said.
‘Has it?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘No officer could have led a finer bunch of men, Perks,’ said Blouse.
‘Probably they have, sir,’ said Polly.
‘And what man could dare hope for such an opportunity, eh?’ said
Blouse. ‘Our
names will go down in the history books! Well, mine will, obviously,
and I shall jolly
well see to it that you chaps get a mention too. And who knows?
Perhaps I may win
the highest accolade that a gallant officer may obtain!’
‘What’s that, sir?’ said Polly dutifully.
‘Having either a foodstuff or an item of clothing named after one,’
said Blouse, his
face radiant. ‘General Froc got both, of course. The frock coat and
Beef Froc. Of
course, I could never aspire that high.’ He looked down bashfully.
‘But I have to say,
Perks, that I have devised several recipes, just in case!’