‘But . . . our countrywomen? Washing clothes for the enemy?’ said Igorina, looking shocked.
‘If it’s that or starve, yes,’ said Polly. ‘I saw a woman come out carrying a basket of loaves. They say the keep is full of granaries. Anyway, you sewed up an enemy officer, didn’t you?’
‘That’s different,’ said Igorina. ‘We are duty bound to thave our fellow ma— person. Nothing has ever been said about his— their underwear.’
‘We could get in,’ said Polly, ‘if we disguised ourselves as women.’
Silence greeted this. Then: ‘Disguised?’ said Igorina.
‘You know what I mean!’ said Polly.
‘As washerwomen?’ said Igorina. ‘These are thurgeon’s hands!’
‘Really? Where did you get them?’ said Maladict. Igorina stuck out her tongue at him.
‘Anyway, I don’t intend that we should do any washing,’ said Polly.
‘Then what do you intend?’ said Igorina.
Polly hesitated. ‘I want to get my brother out if he’s in there,’ she said. ‘And if we could stop the invasion that would be a good idea.’
‘That might take extra starch,’ said Maladict. ‘I don’t want to, you know, spoil the spirit of the moment, but that is a really awful idea. The el-tee won’t agree to something as wild as that.’
‘No, he won’t,’ said Polly. ‘But he’ll suggest it.’
‘Hmm,’ said Blouse, a little later. ‘Washerwomen? Is that usual, Sergeant Jackrum?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I expect the women in the villages round here do it, just like they did when we held the keep,’ said Jackrum.
‘You mean they give aid and comfort to the enemy? Why?’
‘Better than starving, sir. Fact of life. It doesn’t always stop at washing, neither.’
‘Sergeant, there are young men here!’ snapped Blouse, blushing.
‘They’ll have to find out about ironing and darning sooner or later, sir,’ said Jackrum, grinning.
Blouse opened his mouth. Blouse shut his mouth.
‘Tea’s up, sir,’ said Polly. Tea was an amazingly useful thing. It gave you an excuse to talk to anyone.
They were in what remained of a half-ruined farmhouse. By the look of it, not even patrols bothered to come here – there were no signs of former fires or even the most temporary occupation. It stank of decay and half the roof was gone.
‘Do the women just come and go, Perks?’ said the lieutenant.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Polly. ‘And I had an idea, sir. Permission to tell you my idea, sir?’ She saw Jackrum raise an eyebrow. She was laying it on thick, she had to admit, but time was pressing.
‘Please do. Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘Else I fear you may explode.’
‘They could be spies for us, sir! We could even get them to open the gates for us!’
‘Well done, private!’ said Blouse. ‘I do like a soldier to think.’
‘Yeah, right,’ growled Jackrum. ‘Any sharper an{ he’ll cut hisself. Sir, they’re washerwomen, sir, basically. No offence to young Perks, keen lad that he is, but your average guard pays attention when Old Mother Riley tries to open the gates. There’s not just a pair of gates, neither. There’s six pairs, and nice little courtyards between ‘em for the guards to have a squint at you to see if you’s a wrong ‘un, and drawbridges, and spiky ceilings that drop down if someone doesn’t like the look of you. Try opening that lot with soapy hands!’
‘I’m afraid the sergeant has a point, Perks,’ said Blouse sadly.
‘Well, supposing a couple of women managed to knock out a few guards, sir, they could let us in through their little door,’ said Polly. ‘We might even be able to capture the commander of the fort, sir! I bet there’s plenty of women in the keep, sir. In the kitchens and so on. They could . . . open doors for us!’
‘Oh, come on, Perks—’ Jackrum began.
‘No, sergeant. Wait,’ said Blouse. ‘Astonishingly enough, Perks, in your boyish enthusiasm you have, although you haven’t realized it, given me a very interesting idea . . .’
‘Have I, sir?’ said Polly, who in her boyish enthusiasm had considered trying to tattoo the idea on Blouse’s head. For someone so clever, he really was slow.
‘Indeed you have, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘Because, of course, we only need one “washerwoman” to get us inside, do we not?’
The inverted commas sounded promising. ‘Well, yes, sir,’ said Polly.
‘And, if one as it were thinks “outside the box”, the “woman” does not in fact need to be a woman!’
Blouse beamed. Polly allowed her brow to wrinkle in honest puzzlement.
‘Doesn’t she, sir?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I quite understand, sir. I am perplexed, sir.’
‘“She” could be a man, Perks!’ said Blouse, almost exploding with delight. ‘One of us! In disguise!’
Polly breathed a sigh of relief. Sergeant Jackrum laughed.
‘Lord bless you, sir, dressing up as washerwomen is for gettin’ out of places! Milit’ry rules!’
‘If a man gets inside, he could disable any guards near the door, spy out the situation from a military perspective, and let the rest of the troops in!’ said Blouse. ‘If this was done at night, men, we could be holding key positions by the morning!’
‘But these aren’t men, sir,’ said Jackrum. Polly turned. The sergeant was looking right at her, right through her. Oh darn, I mean damn . . . he knows . . .
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They are . . . my little lads, sir,’ Jackrum went on, winking at Polly. ‘Keen lads, full of mustard, but they ain’t ones for cuttin’ throats and stabbin’ hearts. They signed up to be pikemen in the press, sir, in a proper army. You are my little lads, I says to ‘em when I signed ‘em up, and I will look after you. I can’t stand by and let you take ‘em to certain death!’
‘It’s my decision to make, sergeant,’ said Blouse. ‘We are at “the hinge of destiny”. Who, in the pinch, is not ready to lay down his life for his country?’
‘In a proper stand-up fight, sir, not getting beaten over the head by a bunch of nasty men for creeping around their fort. You know I’ve never been one for spies an’ hidin’ your colours, sir, never.’
‘Sergeant, we have no choice. We must take advantage of the “tide of fortune”.’
‘I know about tides, sir. They leave little fish gaspin’.’ The sergeant stood up, fists clenching.
‘Your concern for your men does you credit, sergeant, but it falls to us—’
‘A famous last stand, sir?’ said Jackrum. He spat expertly into the fire in the tumbledown hearth. ‘To hell with them, sir. That’s just a way of dyin’ famous!’
‘Sergeant, your insubordination is getting—’
‘I’ll go,’ said Polly quietly.
Both men stopped, turned and stared.
‘I’ll go,’ Polly repeated, louder. ‘Someone ought to.’
‘Don’t be daft, Perks!’ snapped Jackrum. ‘You don’t know what’s in there, you don’t know what guards are waitin’ just inside the door, you don’t know—’
‘I’ll find out, then, sarge, won’t I,’ said Polly, smiling desperately. ‘Maybe I can get to somewhere where you can see and send signals, or . . .’
‘On this issue, at least, the sergeant and I are of one mind, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘Really, private, it would simply not work. Oh, you’re brave, certainly, but what makes you think you stand a chance of passing yourself off as a woman?’
‘Well, sir . . . what?’
‘Your keenness will not go unrecorded, Perks,’ said Blouse, smiling. ‘But, y’know, a good officer keeps an eye on his men and I have to say that I’ve noticed in you, in all of you, little . . . habits, perfectly normal, nothing to worry about, like the occasional deep exploration of a nostril maybe, and a tendency to grin after passing wind, a natural boyish inclination to, ahem, scratch your . . . selves in public . . . that sort of thing. These are the kind of little details that’d give you away in a trice and tell any observer that you were a man in women’s clothing, believe me.’
‘I’m sure I could pull it off, sir,’ said Polly weakly. She could sense Jackrum’s eyes on her. You bloomi— you bloody well know, don’t you. How long have you known?
Blouse shook his head. ‘No, they would see through you in a flash. You are a fine bunch of lads, but there is only one man here who’d stand a chance of getting away with it. Manickle?’
‘Yessir?’ said Shufti, rigid with instant panic.
‘Can you find me a dress, do you think?’
Maladict was the first to break the silence. ‘Sir, are you telling us . . . you ‘re going to try to get in dressed as a woman?’
‘Well, I’m clearly the only one who’s had any practice,’ said Blouse, rubbing his hands together. ‘At my old school, we were in and out of skirts all the time.’ He looked around at the circle of absolutely expressionless faces. ‘Theatricals, you see?’ he said brightly. ‘No gels at our boarding school, of course. But we didn’t let that stop us. Why, my Lady Spritely in A Comedy of Cuckolds is still talked about, I understand, and as for my Yumyum— Is Sergeant Jackrum all right?’