She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in the ham-and-eggs.
And now, there was one other little thing.
The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through the high windows of the keep’s biggest kitchen. He was sitting alone at a long table by the fire, in full uniform, and he was eating a slab of thick bread plastered with pork dripping. A mug of beer was not far from his other hand. He looked up as she approached, and nodded companionably towards another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro. ‘Pork drippin’ with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,’ he said. That’s the ticket. You can keep your cuisine. Want a slice?’ He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing attendance on him.
‘Not right now, sarge.’
‘Sure?’ said Jackrum. ‘There’s an old sayin’: kissing don’t last, cooking do. I hope that it’s one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.’
Polly sat down. ‘Kissing is lasting so far,’ she said.
‘Shufti get sorted out?’ said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.
‘To her own satisfaction, sarge.’
‘Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?’
‘Dunno, sarge. I’ll go with Wa— with Alice and the army and see what happens.’
‘Best of luck. Look after ‘em, Perks, ‘cos I ain’t coming,’ said Jackrum.
‘Sarge?’ said Polly, shocked.
‘Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I dare say he will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.’
‘You’re sure, sarge?’
‘Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ “my country right or wrong” thing has had its day. Time to put my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping? It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style, in dripping.’
Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while Jackrum engulfed it.
‘Funny thing, really,’ she said, at last.
‘What’s that, Perks?’
‘Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns out you’re really part of someone else’s story. Wazz— Alice will be the one they remember. We just had to get her here.’
Jackrum said nothing but, as Polly would have predicted, pulled his crumpled bag of chewing tobacco out of his pocket. She slipped a hand in her own pocket and pulled out a small packet. Pockets, she thought. We’ve got to hang on to pockets. A soldier needs pockets.
‘Try this, sarge,’ she said. ‘Go on, open it.’
It was a small, soft leather pouch, with a drawstring. Jackrum held it up so that it twisted this way and that.
‘Well, Perks, upon my oath I am not a swearing man—’ he began.
‘No, you’re not. I’ve noticed,’ said Polly. ‘But that grubby old paper was getting on my nerves. Why didn’t you ever get a proper pouch made for yourself? One of the saddlers here sewed that up for me in half an hour.’
‘Well, that’s life, isn’t it?’ said Jackrum. ‘Every day you think “ye gods, it’s about time I had a new bag”, but then it all gets so busy you end up using the old one. Thank you, Perks.’
‘Oh, I thought, “What can I give the man who has^verything?” and that was all I could afford,’ said Polly. ‘But you don’t have everything, sarge. Sarge? You don’t, do you?’
She sensed him freeze over.
‘You stop right there, Perks,’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘I just thought you might like to show someone that locket of yours, sarge,’ said Polly cheerfully. ‘The one round your neck. And don’t glare at me, sarge. Oh, yeah, I could walk away and I’d never be sure, really sure, and maybe you’d never show it to anyone else, ever, or tell them the story, and one day we’ll both be dead and . . . well, what a waste, eh?’
Jackrum glared.
‘Upon your oath, you are not a dishonest man,’ said Polly. ‘Good one, sarge. You told people every day.’
Around them, beyond the dome, the kitchen buzzed with the busyness of women. Women always seemed to be doing things with their hands – holding babies, or pans, or plates, or wool, or a brush, or a needle. Even when they were talking, busyness was happening.
‘No one would believe yer,’ said Jackrum, at last.
‘Who would I want to tell?’ said Polly. ‘And you’re right. No one would believe me. I’d believe you, though.’
Jackrum stared into his fresh mug of beer, as if trying to see the future in the foam. He seemed to reach a decision, pulled the gold chain out of his noisome vest, unfastened the locket, and gently snapped it open.
‘There you go,’ he said, passing it across. ‘Much good may it do you.’
There was a miniature painting in each side of the locket: a dark-haired girl, and a blond young man in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.
‘Good one of you,’ said Polly.
‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,’ said Jackrum.
‘No, honestly,’ said Polly. ‘I look at the picture, and look at you . . . I can see that face in her face. Paler, of course. Not so . . . full. And who was the boy?’
‘William, his name was,’ said Jackrum.
‘Your sweetheart?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you followed him into the army . . .’
‘Oh, yeah. Same old story. I was a big strong girl, and . . . well, you can see the picture. The artist did his best, but I was never an oil painting. Barely a watercolour, really. Where I came from, what a man looked for in a future wife was someone who could lift a pig under each arm. And a couple of days later I was lifting a pig under each arm, helping my dad, and one of my clogs came off in the muck and the ol’ man was yelling at me and I thought: the hell with this, Willie never yelled. Got hold of some men’s clothes, never you mind how, cut my hair right off, kissed the Duchess, and was a Chosen Man within three months.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s what we used to call a corporal,’ said Jackrum. ‘Chosen Man. Yeah, I smiled about that, too. And I was on my way. The army’s a piece of piss compared to running a pig farm and looking after three lazy brothers.’
‘How long ago was that, sarge?’
‘Couldn’t say, really. I swear I don’t know how old I am, and that’s the truth,’ said Jackrum. ‘Lied about my age so often I ended up believing me.’ She began, very carefully, to transfer the chewing tobacco into the new bag.
‘And your young man?’ said Polly quietly.
‘Oh, we had great times, great times,’ said Jackrum, stopping for a moment to stare at nothing. ‘He never got promoted on account of his stutter, but I had a good shouty voice and officers like that. But Willie never minded, not even when I made it to sergeant. And then he got killed at Sepple, right next to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be, you didn’t kill him,’ said Jackrum evenly. ‘But I stepped over his body and skewered the bugger that did. Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t my fault. We were soldiers. And then a few months later I had a bit of a surprise, and he was called William, too, just like his father. Good job iMiad a bit of leave, eh? Me gran raised him for me, put him to a trade as an armourer over in Scritz. Good trade, that. No one kills a good armourer. They tell me he looks just like his dad. A captain I met once had bought a bloody good sword off him. Showed it to me, not knowin’ the hist’ry, o’ course. Damn good sword. It had scrollwork on the hilt and everything, very classy. He’s married with four kids now, I heard. Got a carriage and pair, servants, big house . . . yeah, I see you’re paying attention . . .’
‘Wazzer – well, Wazzer and the Duchess said—’
‘Yeah, yeah, they talked about Scritz, and a sword,’ said Jackrum. ‘That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me watchin’ over you lads. I knew you’d survive. The old girl needed you.’