‘Paul Perks, sir,’ Polly prompted.
‘I’m, er, not really in a position to know, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘I was working as a . . . I
was, er, in charge of, er, I was engaged in special work back at headquarters, er . . . obviously
I don’t know all the soldiers, Perks. Older brother, w— is he?’
‘Yessir. Joined the Ins-and-Outs last year, sir.’
‘And, er, have you any younger brothers?’ said the lieutenant.
‘No, sir.’
‘Ah, well. That’s something to be thankful for, at any rate,’ said Blouse. It was a strange
thing to say. Polly’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
‘Sir?’ she said.
And then she felt an unpleasant sensation of movement. Something was slipping slowly
down the inside of her thigh.
‘Anything the matter, Perks?’ said the lieutenant, catching her expression.
‘Nosir! Just a . . . a bit of cramp, sir! All the marching, sir!’ She clamped both hands
around one knee and edged backwards towards the door. ‘I’ll just go and . . . go and see to
your supper, sir!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Blouse, staring at her leg. ‘Yes . . . please . . .’
Polly paused outside the door to pull her socks up, retucked the end of one under her belt
as an anchor, and hurried down to the inn’s kitchens. A look told her all she wanted to know.
Food hygiene here consisted of making a half-hearted effort not to gob in the stew.
‘I want onions, salt, pepper—’ she began.
The maid who was stirring the soot-black pot on the soot-black stove glanced up, realized
she had been addressed by a man, and hastily pushed her damp hair out of her eyes.
‘It’s stoo, sir,’ she announced.
‘I don’t want any. I just want the stuff,’ said Polly. ‘For the officer,’ she added.
The kitchen maid pointed a soot-blackened thumb to a nearby door and gave Polly what
she probably thought was a saucy grin.
‘I’m sure you can have anything that takes your fancy, sir,’ she said.
Polly glanced at the two shelves that had been dignified by the name of pantry, and
grabbed a couple of large onions, one in each hand.
‘May I?’ she said.
‘Oh, sir!’ giggled the maid. ‘I do hope you’re not one of them coarse soldiers who’d take
advantage of a helpless maiden, sir!’
‘No, er . . . no. I’m not one of them,’ said Polly.
‘Oh.’ This didn’t seem to be the right answer. The maid put her head on one side. ‘Have
you had much to do with young women, sir?’ she asked.
‘Er . . . yes. Quite a lot,’ said Polly. ‘Er . . . lots, really.’
‘Really?’ The maid drew closer. She smelled mostly of sweat, tinged with soot. Polly
raised the onions as a kind of barrier.
‘I’m sure there’s things you’d like to learn,’ the maid purred.
‘I’m sure there’s something you wouldn’t!’ said Polly, and turned and ran.
As she made it out into the cold night air, a plaintive voice behind her called out, ‘I’m off
at eight o’clock!’
Ten minutes later, Corporal Scallot was impressed. Polly got the feeling this did not
happen often. Shufti had wedged an old breastplate beside the fire, had hammered some slabs
of horse-meat until they were tender, dipped them in some flour, and was frying them. The
sliced onions sizzled next to them.
‘I always just boil ‘em,’ said Scallot, watching him with interest.
‘You just lose all the flavour if you do that,’ said Shufti.
‘Hey, lad, the stuff I’ve ate, you wouldn’t want to taste it!’
‘Saute stuff first, especially the onions,’ Shufti went on. ‘Improves the flavour. Anyway,
when you boil you ought to boil slow. That’s what me mam always says. Roast fast, boil
slow, okay? This isn’t bad meat, for horse. Shame to boil it.’
‘Amazin’,’ said Scallot. ‘We could’ve done with you in Ibblestarn. The sarge was a good
man but a bit, you know, tough in the leg?’
‘A marinade would probably have helped,’ said Shufti absently, flipping over a slice of
meat
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