Maybeline was awoken from this dream predawn, on the morning of the King's visit, by the noise of The Master harrrurrrrrghhhing and flatulating stentorously on the day of his demise, somewhere outside in the loading bay where he was privileged to take a constitutional last hurrah with a bale of hay; and by the light drilling buzz of Sir Tarquin's stale port snore.
Gathering her senses from the phantasmagoria of motley, jaggling bells and courtly dancing that had filled her dream filled brain, and gathering her hair into a Rapunzel like cord she pulled herself from her marriage bed so as not to wake her husband (who was to desist from slumber at six). She lightfootedly tippy toed in her nightie across to the open bedroom window to find a ladder secured at the ledge on the outside wall. In the dawning gloom outside, she could see on the gravelly ground beneath, a little figure topped by foreshortening with Libby's head, and in the tenebrous black pale of a clouded Albion moon she could see her sister's hands swaying.
"Shhhhhhhhhhhh, don't wake Bastard Features! Come, get down, don't worry about dressing! I have the unicycle ready! We can change into our uniforms on the way!", came her sister's stagey whisper, hissing through the dew.
"But it's very early, Lib! Tarquin will notice!"
"Never mind him, come on! I've got things all worked out! Down the ladder! Quick! Get on the unicycle here!"
Maybeline heard the ladder rattle and thump on the stone wall under the pound of her heart in her throat, as she headed down, her cold bare feet beneath her dropping onto rung after rung.
"Come on, come on, sis!! I see a streak of dawn light over Staines Heath."
"I'm coming! I'm all in a tangle -- blasted nightie -- okay! Down! Phew! Where's the unicycle?"
"By the wall."
"I can't see, it's dark!"
"Here, take my cigar and use it as a torchlight."
" Cigar smoking now? I thought I could smell something! Well, Libby, you really are a New Woman! Smoking cigars and riding unicycles! Right, I'm on! Which way do we go?"
"Follow me, keep close! The dawn will follow us. Keep the cigar! Smoke it!"
"Pfffuughhhh!! It's strong!"
"Turn this way, over the gravel! Try not to make too much of a scrunch on the pebbles. Turning here! There's a gap in the hedge."
"But isn't there a stream coming up? Babbler's Brook?"
"I put a plank over it. Don't worry! Keep peddling!"
Maybeline had never ridden a unicycle so she was a bit wobbly on it. She fell once or twice and burned a hole in the nightie with cigar, but she found it fun anyway!
The mastery of the unicycle took some doing but she'd seen Charles Hardy-Banger's best bomber pilots Z Division and his taste for unicycle riders. She set her jaw and was determined to tackle this skill and she was riding easy pie high in the sky in no time! She rode that unicycle to her dreams as she moaned a bit, thinking of her dear Charles in those regulation army knickers!
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Amid the swarthy furze hedges and dewscented roadside rhododendrons, in the darkblue reddening twilight of dawn, they wobbled, banged, steered their way until the black wall of the barracks appeared on the top of Pokers' Hill.
"There it is! Here, stop off, and we'll change into these outfits!"
The two ladies downed their unicycles in a nearby ditch from which a curious badger watched as they took off their nighties and pulled from a large sack two regulation army uniforms, buttoning them hurriedly and piling their hair under green felt army hats. The badger was bemused to see these two ladies affix large handlebar moustaches under their noses, practice speaking deeply and climb up a ladder that the badger had seen one of the ladymen put up on the wall of the barracks an hour before. He watched them climb up and up into the blackness, up onto the top of the wall, then heard two crashes as hedgerow leaves flew upwards into the startled morning air.
He chuckled to himself. “And they said badgers weren’t naughty” he thought as he picked up the nighties and dragged them back to his hideaway. What a grand surprise it would be to see them flying from the flagpole for the morning reveille! Oh! he was one clever badger!
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
In the stumbling fumblerumble of tumbling dawn the sisters cluttered about the concrete drive to the barracks searching for an open window or back door but, of course, all was locked up. Their only strategy was to go through the front and greet a sentry with papers Libby had forged as a contingency.
"Corporal Dumbmoppe and Flight Lieutenant Bugges here from Vitalogy Department. Come to check on the men to see if they're sticking to their Self Pollution programme."
"Jolly good, men. Papers seem to be in order. Go straight in. Major Twaddle is in the office having his early gin."
And the two ladymen coughed under the effort of their deep voices and passed through the building's deep oak doors until the smell of kneecap ointment and boot polish rebounded about the shiny walls and floors leading to the airmen's dormitory and the sleeping Charles!
But before they could arrive there, they were called by a sharp bark.
Major Twaddle was as wide as he was tall. The flap on his forehead stained brown from his continual smoking habit sunk over his brow line making his small red beady eyes look like he was peering from a foxhole. Having lost his arm in a poker game accident one of his sleeves was neatly pinned to the back of his coat. He thought himself clever than most as he hid his gin neatly tucked inside his unused sleeve.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
"Yes, you two! Where are you lollygaggin' off tah, eh?" His loud slobbery bullybeef voice rasped in an elastic echo about the sisters' felt hatted ears.
"Er, Self Pollution. We've come to take samples."
"Never mind all that. This is a bloomin' emergency. Captain Jellybottom turned went AWOL last night on the thought of flying for the King, and Corporal Twatt went with him. We're got half of Z division patrolling the boats at Dover lookin' for 'em. We need two replacements. I sent up tah Vitalogy for two recruits. You'd be them, then. Come on then, follow me, we'll getcha along to the trainin' room and getcha ready for flyin'! Just have tah call the other pilots now at reveille, includin' Hardy-Banger. Great man dat. Right, come along, look sharp! Are we men? Yes!!! Forward, march!!! Left, right, left, right!!!!"
As Maybelline’s doubts started growing she was thinking of politely bowing out. But all of a sudden a great golden light seem to illumine the doom and gloom of the hallway and out stepped Hardy-Banger seemingly to have grown in stature his trousers a bit tight for his well endowed physique. The first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon haloed around his trouser leg. He stopped and smiled a blinding glisten from his white teeth bounced and hit the cufflink attached to Major Twaddles sleeve pinned to the back of his coat. Maybelline’s breath quickened her resolve returning even stronger.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Oh, but she must maintain her facade for now, her man's guise! And fly in the team with Charles? She? Fly? She'd fantasized broomstick bewitchery with Rita Vita Bagge many moons ago at Boneridge towers but as for real flying! In the air! Over the King's head? Oh! What to do? What to do?
Charles approached her, scrutinising her moustache intently.
"You look an interesting chap. I like a man with a cruel mouth. What's your name?"
"Er, er, Bugges."
"I've got bugs! I've got bugs in my room! Dashed dormitory's infested with the buggers. And this is?"
"Dumbmoppe", Libby intoned low, giggling under her face wig.
"Bally well spiffing, what? You know", whispered Hardy-Banger, pulling Maybeline lightly aside by the elbow. "I like a man with spunk. Edge. Determination. There's something about cha. I can tell from the first." Maybeline blushed as Charles winked at her, er, him.
The Master stirred on his back flatulating, snorting his morning thoughts preventing him from turning and snuggling on his stomach. He had moved into Maybelline’s warm place after she had crept out and was getting the best of that poodle in his waking dreams. Sir Tarquin reached over in his sleep and put his arm around his bed partner.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Sir Tarquin mumbled dreamily as the porker happily snogged his face. "Beryl, you're a naughty girl! Disobey me! How I love your insubordination! That pout! That squint eyed petulence! Your talk of daddy and his gammy leg, and his limp on the workers' marches! Hmmm, kiss me slowly, hmmmm, you naughty thing...."
Tarquin's good eye opened. Face to face with him on the pillows, smiling merrily and sliding his long rubbery tongue along his cheek was the full, glorious, pinky visage of the pig.
"Oink", said The Master, by way of good morning.
"Great Scott's frozen leghairs! What in the name of demented gerbildom is this! Aggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!! What confounded minion did this? Maybeline? Where are you? Let me pull the bell cord! Get off me, you beast! Help, ho! Help! Maids! Slackpole! Fetch a bucket of cold water and some stirrups!"
Minutes later, the Scuttletongues' bed chamber was awash with randomly hurled water, littered pig muck and odd broken limbs of chairs and a slumped dressing table. Cosmetic implements were scattered about the trodden carpet; sodden bedclothes lay piled abstractedly. Sir Tarquin, nursing a bruised head and his food stuck in a jerrypot, sat slumped in the confusion, surrounded by chambermaids. "Sabre toothed hamsters of Hades! Get that bloody pot of my foot before it turns green! Staggers, go after the pig. Where did the blighter bugger off to? Is there no-one good enough to fetch him? Send for that butcher and tell him to make it sharpish. And send for Mr Cleftwedge the repairman to seal that poke hole in the wardwobe, it's disgusting. And help me up. I've got to get to the smith early! Early! I'm late!"
Slackpole bent his creaking back to tug at the jerrypot, ooarrrrcorblimeyin' and flippineckin' and begginyerpardonsirrin' as he sweated to pull it off the old baron's foot.
"It won't budge, Sir."
"Nothing for it. Get a sledgehammer. There's one under the bed."
"Right you are, Sir."
"Now, stand over me and bring the hammer down gently. This is a very delicate operation. Precision is everything. That's it. Angle it. It doesn't need force. Hit the china in a weak spot, where the flowers are embossed. It'll break. That's it. Bring it down. Gently does it."
At that point The Master shot out from beneath the dresser and banged into the back of Slackpole's legs. Slackpole dropped the hammer hard bang on the pisspot, smashing it to shivers, and right onto Sir Tarquin's toe.
The pot burst into hundreds of pieces and The Master scurried away. Blast!! Damn!!! Slackpoooolee!! yelled Sir Tarquin. I think it’s broken!!! Run quick double time and get the doc we have little time for this!!!!!! I need my eye!! Fetch my eye!!!! Where is everyone bellowed Sir Tarquin in frustration his toe throbbing with pain.
Slackpole managed to shuffle out the room and his fast was equivalent to thick molasses running out of deep round jar. “I said DOUBLE TIME” yelled Sir Tarquin. Slackpole slowly and patiently turned his head towards Sir Tarquin and said in his low monotone voice..……..this…….….. is ……….. double..time……....… for….……me….… and with that disappeared down the hall.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Half an hour later Sir Tarquin's foot was placed in a cast by the doctor amid ribald anglo saxonisms and throwing of shoes at passing domestics. Downstairs, the maids were all in a bustle in their soup dirtied aprons as they dropped trays and forks while scuttling about the banquet hall, laying the giant table for the King and company. In the kitchens, the pheasants were plucked, the geese goosed, the cabbages simmering in pots, the herbs sprinkled, and the chef, Olivier, drunk and passed out under the cutting table after six bottles of sherry.
Meanwhile, a search party was sent around the grounds to look for Maybeline; and Sir Tarquin was being wheeled across the grounds at a death pace in his makeshift chair by Slackpole.
"Faster, Slickpile!!! Hurry to the stables!!! Giddyup!"
"Slackpole, sir."
"Never mind that! Faster, you worsted stockinged nincompoop! Otherwise I'll be shoeing you with felt. Might make ya a bit faster, I daresay! Mush!"
Libby and Maybeline stood in a row of wing-moustachioed pilots, all in flight gear, goggles, helmets and wide britches, and leather jackets. Maybeline whimpered under her face hair as Major Twaddle inspected each and every man.
"Private Wenkelle, stand up straight tharr, laddie. We'll see some rectitude in our men, here. This your first jump?"
"Y-y-y-es, sir."
"Well, don't be all mummy help me and knee quivering, you lilylivered boy! This is the air force, and when Hardy-Banger throws you out of the plane, be ready to pull the cord on your bloomin' parachute! Self Pollution division has trained you enough in cord pullin', so let's not be hearing any more nonsense. Now, Bugges. Ready?"
"Yissss -- I mean, yosssssss, Sir", frogthroated Maybeline, trying to sound manly.
"Good-o. You'll be head pilot of the lead Spitfire. You know the routine. Flipturn, flapdoodle wigwam formation patterning, upside down super lotus position butterfly vrooom and to finish off ten loop the loops and near collisions with Hardy-Banger's plane. Got that?"
"Er, er"
"Good job. Next. Dumbmoppe?"
"Yes, Sir?", giggled Libby enthusiastically.
"You be co-pilot with Bugges. Right, men, follow me to the hanger. Let's get acquainted with the aircraft."
Right then from the speakers of the airplane hanger blasted Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." Unbeknowst to the rest of the pilots, one pilot carried a snapshot of her first trip to the mall next to a red rabbit's foot key chain. As a good actress, a Tony Award winner performance if there was one, she looked as confused and shocked as everyone else.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Our sly Jersey girl had a feeling she was in a time-warp. Upon discovery of the truth she resolved to read more about 1947 and any posts thereof. At this time she just thought she was in retro 1997, and was quite content to think thus.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
At that point, Sir Tarquin and his browbeaten old faithful arrived at the stable door. "Helloahhhhhh? Helloaaaaaahhh?", Sir Tarquin called into the echoing wooden barn in which two prize stallions stood in shining broken loft light, neighing and snorting contentedly at neighbourly bluebottles.
"Helloaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!!! Where's Jeffers! He was supposed to shoe Black Jeremy, His Majesty's champion runner! Look! The confounded bugger still has his old tattered shoes on! What will we do? The King will be here soon with his party! It's no good, Slop-pail, you'll have to shoe the fella yourself."
"Me, Sir?"
"Yes, you, you supercillious laundry basket! Here, here's four horseshoes. You won't need more. You still got that sledgehammer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right, well, use that, and here's some nails that blummin' hog knocked out of the sideboard when he was trying his best to impregnate the damned thing. They should work."
"But what if he kicks me, Sir?"
"Who?"
"Black Jeremy, Sir."
"Tshhh tshhh, don't talk piffle, man. he's a trained tamed royal stallion. He only kicks serfs and smelly types, not the servile, brownnosing classes. He's pedigree! Now, go in that stable and shoe! Shoo!"
Slackpole's shoulders shook as he entered the fusty barn, negotiating badly the steaming straw and woodchip piles festooning the ground like the debris of a woodpeckers' wedding feast. Standing several giants' hands high was Black Jeremy, blowing blue swarthy blasts of hot air from his enormous curly nostrils and eyeing Slackpole askance from his enormous eyes, volcano black and red. Black Jeremy ushered his massive long head forward and evidenced teeth each as big and broad, Slackpole thought, as sister Mabel's wood chip board shutters back at home in Six Mile Bottom.
"Easy boy, easy.....", stammered Slackpole bending down to touch the beast's left foreleg while it bent to a mouthful of straw, catching it between his teeth and dumping it square on Slackpole's bald head.
"Pfffhhhh.... Stay! Stay! Er, heel! Give me your heel! That's it, boy!"
"Come on, Slippiddle, that's it!" bellowed Sir Tarquin from the stable door. "Take his blummin' foot. Lift it! There, catch this horseshoe! I'll throw it to you!" With that, Sir Tarquin was just about to fling the heavy steel implement underarm when a second voice clamoured through the barn.
"Don't do that!! He'll heel you on the bonce if you touch him! He's a cantankerous one!", yelled Jeffers, coming into the light just as Sir Tarquin's horseshoe connected with his head, laying him flat unconscious in the hay, with Black Jeremy munching yellow strands about him.
"You've done it now, Slackpole!", roared Sir Tarquin from his chair! "He's flat out! What will we do now?"
"Sir, sir... I've just noticed. His shoes have been done already, maybe this morning."
"Well why didn't you say so in the first place, you blithering custard head? Come on, I'll wheel myself back. Bring Black Jeremy up to the saddlers and we'll get him ready! Hurry, we're expecting His Majesty here in an hour! And where in the name of Vasco de Gama's oceanwide knickers is Maybeline???"
Maybeline was being instructed in the ins and outs of the Spitfire by Snide the mechanic.
"That red lever sends you up full throttle. You'll shoot up seven thousand feet. That blue one drops you down again. The yellow one spins you round and round. The green one is the ejector seat. Don't touch that one. The orange one opens the drinks stash. You'll find a nice bottle of scotch for you. Particularly useful if your plane's on collision course with a cliff. And, um, that's it."
"Is there an autopilot?"
"You're it."
Maybeline gulped as she was huddled into her pilot's seat and strapped into position. Red was full throttle, blue was drop down, yellow spun you round ... yes, she thought she could handle it. She looked out at the overgrown stretch of runway where, on top of the flight tower, a small badger was tying her discarded petticoats to a radar mast.
This was it. The big one. She just had to sit here for an hour and wait for instructions to lead take off with the rest of the team.
"Dumbmoppe, reporting!", cackled Libby as she joined beside her in the co-pilot's seat, effortlessly strapping herself in and admiring her moustache in the rear view mirror.
"How do I look darling?"
"Fine, as ever, Libby, but you know, Libby, we're for it! We can't fly this thing!"
"Course we can! Think positive! Think New Woman! We can ride unicycles! We can smoke cigars! Rita Vita Bagge can even grow a beard! There's nothing we can't do in this day and age! And you and I are going to lead Z Division in the finest aeronautical display of daredevil dashing virtuosity ever!!!!!!!!! And when Charles discovers it was you who led the team, he'll fall in love with you on the spot!"
"Problem is, Lib, I think he's fallen in love with me already, only he thinks in this get up that I'm, well, a chap."
"Well, maybe you can turn him around in time."
"I hope so, Lib, I jolly hope so", Maybeline sighed.
Back at the Manor, the red carpet was unfurled on the gravel, the maids, servants and cooks (bar the sozzled Olivier) were lined up outside on the great steps to the house, and Slackpole was inspecting them all while that fine stallion, Black Jeremy, saddled, shoed and ready for the King's constitutional gallop, snorted and steamed behind him. Ties were straightened, hems pulled down, stockings tweaked, etebrows combed, nostril hair clipped and cufflinks pulled into sharp crisp shape.
Inside the Manor, the banquet room smelled of a thousand basket apples and hot loaves; the air was alive with the throb of wait for the entrance of His Majesty. Hyacinths, orchids, roses and lilies, redblooming fuschia and imported Dutch tulips of red white and blue, gathered in straw baskets and Waterford crystal vases, blooming and lounging tastefully and bountifully about the huge oval oak dining table. Fifty places were laid with dazzling knives - plate and fish - soup spoons and forks, china place mats and lace frilled drinking goblets for wine, ale and port. A buzz of expectancy electrified the building.
Meanwhile a search party of maids scoured the upstairs wardrobes looking for Maybeline, being followed with a cane by mad aunt Marjory poised for attack, always with her gramophone horn in tow. "I heard that! What? I heard that! I'll catch you! You can't get away! I heard that! What?"
Mad aunt Marjory’s head perked up! I think I hear the King coming! Yes! Yes! Yes! She shouted to make herself heard! She took the gramophone off her ear and brought it to her mouth once again shouting, “The King!!! Everyone listen!!! The King is coming,” she said again!!! Everyone looked at Marjory and shook their heads. It was way too early for the King to arrive and there was still Maybelline to find and final preparations to be made. Everyone dismissed her mad utterings and went on with their duties.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
A resplendent golden and black coach careened with stately recklessness around the driveway corner dragged by four grey mares; one postillion with a musket gun, tricorn hat and cloak taking aim at the poacher's arse. "That'll teach ya to thrive off aristocratic property, ya scruffy little turnip seed, ya!"
Sir Tarquin peered through his trusty pier glass and saw the great equine head of His Majesty in the coach window. "Cripes, he's here! And Maybeline's not about! Beryl?"
Beryl appeared from the line of maids.
"Yes, Bastard?"
"Listen, I'll pay for your father's baroncy if you rush upstairs, put on the wife's garb and come down again. pretending to be her --"
"Oh ho no! No chance! Nada! Uhh huhhh!"
"Pardon?"
"No way. I'll want my own dependency, fifty thousand a year Sterling before we could even begin to negotiate this."
"Done. Anything."
"And my own maids."
"Yes."
"And holidays paid."
"All. Anything. Anything!"
"Alright. I'll do it. But if you double cross me I'll tell everyone in the parish about that incident with you, me, that man in the Father Christmas outfit, and the reindeer."
The coach pulled up, the head postillion blew his conch until his cheeks purpled, the ravens in the nearby towers flapped and sqwawked and rippled golden shadows of Old England fell on the dulcit silverings of the nearby duckponds. His Majesty, a portly, bearded man with Germanic jowls, a pointy brown beard and top hat moved his massive body out of the coach door and threw himself down the coach step onto the gravel.
"Sir Tarquin, old chum. Sportin' to see ya. Anywhere I can put me 'ores up for the afternoon?"
"Horses? We have stables, Your Majesty."
"Not 'orses. 'ores."
"Thinking of going rowing, Your Majesty? Oh, I see. Um. Yes, there's some chambers we can, er, prepare."
"Jolly good. How'd ya bugger your leg up?"
"Spot of rough polo."
"Polo? Bloody sissies' sport. Now jerrypot wrestlin's my thing. You get your foot stuck in a pisspot and get yer valet to try an' pull it off. Now if you'd said that, I'd have been impressed. I suppose you want me to sign yer cast?"
"Oh, please!"
"There... K-I-N-G." That should do it. Did I tell ya the Empire just absorbed the Federal Union of Changopoolia today? I'd better add the F.U.C. as a prefix. There."
"Let me check my watch. Ten minutes from now. We've the chairs organised, port, cigars, light jazz. Your stallion, Black Jeremy's waiting for you too."
"Ah yes, but never mind that. I knackered meself climbin' out of the bathtub the other day to greet the Prime Minister, and the doc's put this blasted splint on. Stones me footman has to apply this cream. That'd make ya sing soprano for weeks, that muck. They have to keep it refrigerated too."
"Sorry to hear that, Your Majesty. Ah, Your Majesty, allow me to introduce my wife, Maybeline."
"How'de do", curtseyed Beryl behind Maybeline's veiled hat.
"Mightily splendid, m'lady", replied His Majesty, squinting through his cigar smoke and thinking how the lady's figure reminded him of that naughty little Beryl, the showdancer he'd met on one of his nightly crawls when still Prince of Wales many moons ago.
Comments
Gathering her senses from the phantasmagoria of motley, jaggling bells and courtly dancing that had filled her dream filled brain, and gathering her hair into a Rapunzel like cord she pulled herself from her marriage bed so as not to wake her husband (who was to desist from slumber at six). She lightfootedly tippy toed in her nightie across to the open bedroom window to find a ladder secured at the ledge on the outside wall. In the dawning gloom outside, she could see on the gravelly ground beneath, a little figure topped by foreshortening with Libby's head, and in the tenebrous black pale of a clouded Albion moon she could see her sister's hands swaying.
"Shhhhhhhhhhhh, don't wake Bastard Features! Come, get down, don't worry about dressing! I have the unicycle ready! We can change into our uniforms on the way!", came her sister's stagey whisper, hissing through the dew.
"But it's very early, Lib! Tarquin will notice!"
"Never mind him, come on! I've got things all worked out! Down the ladder! Quick! Get on the unicycle here!"
"Come on, come on, sis!! I see a streak of dawn light over Staines Heath."
"I'm coming! I'm all in a tangle -- blasted nightie -- okay! Down! Phew! Where's the unicycle?"
"By the wall."
"I can't see, it's dark!"
"Here, take my cigar and use it as a torchlight."
" Cigar smoking now? I thought I could smell something! Well, Libby, you really are a New Woman! Smoking cigars and riding unicycles! Right, I'm on! Which way do we go?"
"Follow me, keep close! The dawn will follow us. Keep the cigar! Smoke it!"
"Pfffuughhhh!! It's strong!"
"Turn this way, over the gravel! Try not to make too much of a scrunch on the pebbles. Turning here! There's a gap in the hedge."
"But isn't there a stream coming up? Babbler's Brook?"
"I put a plank over it. Don't worry! Keep peddling!"
"There it is! Here, stop off, and we'll change into these outfits!"
The two ladies downed their unicycles in a nearby ditch from which a curious badger watched as they took off their nighties and pulled from a large sack two regulation army uniforms, buttoning them hurriedly and piling their hair under green felt army hats. The badger was bemused to see these two ladies affix large handlebar moustaches under their noses, practice speaking deeply and climb up a ladder that the badger had seen one of the ladymen put up on the wall of the barracks an hour before. He watched them climb up and up into the blackness, up onto the top of the wall, then heard two crashes as hedgerow leaves flew upwards into the startled morning air.
"Corporal Dumbmoppe and Flight Lieutenant Bugges here from Vitalogy Department. Come to check on the men to see if they're sticking to their Self Pollution programme."
"Jolly good, men. Papers seem to be in order. Go straight in. Major Twaddle is in the office having his early gin."
And the two ladymen coughed under the effort of their deep voices and passed through the building's deep oak doors until the smell of kneecap ointment and boot polish rebounded about the shiny walls and floors leading to the airmen's dormitory and the sleeping Charles!
But before they could arrive there, they were called by a sharp bark.
"Men! Where are you going?"
It was Major Twaddle.
"Er, Self Pollution. We've come to take samples."
"Never mind all that. This is a bloomin' emergency. Captain Jellybottom turned went AWOL last night on the thought of flying for the King, and Corporal Twatt went with him. We're got half of Z division patrolling the boats at Dover lookin' for 'em. We need two replacements. I sent up tah Vitalogy for two recruits. You'd be them, then. Come on then, follow me, we'll getcha along to the trainin' room and getcha ready for flyin'! Just have tah call the other pilots now at reveille, includin' Hardy-Banger. Great man dat. Right, come along, look sharp! Are we men? Yes!!! Forward, march!!! Left, right, left, right!!!!"
Charles approached her, scrutinising her moustache intently.
"You look an interesting chap. I like a man with a cruel mouth. What's your name?"
"Er, er, Bugges."
"I've got bugs! I've got bugs in my room! Dashed dormitory's infested with the buggers. And this is?"
"Dumbmoppe", Libby intoned low, giggling under her face wig.
"Bally well spiffing, what? You know", whispered Hardy-Banger, pulling Maybeline lightly aside by the elbow. "I like a man with spunk. Edge. Determination. There's something about cha. I can tell from the first." Maybeline blushed as Charles winked at her, er, him.
The Master stirred on his back flatulating, snorting his morning thoughts preventing him from turning and snuggling on his stomach. He had moved into Maybelline’s warm place after she had crept out and was getting the best of that poodle in his waking dreams. Sir Tarquin reached over in his sleep and put his arm around his bed partner.
Tarquin's good eye opened. Face to face with him on the pillows, smiling merrily and sliding his long rubbery tongue along his cheek was the full, glorious, pinky visage of the pig.
"Oink", said The Master, by way of good morning.
"Great Scott's frozen leghairs! What in the name of demented gerbildom is this! Aggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!! What confounded minion did this? Maybeline? Where are you? Let me pull the bell cord! Get off me, you beast! Help, ho! Help! Maids! Slackpole! Fetch a bucket of cold water and some stirrups!"
"It won't budge, Sir."
"Nothing for it. Get a sledgehammer. There's one under the bed."
"Right you are, Sir."
"Now, stand over me and bring the hammer down gently. This is a very delicate operation. Precision is everything. That's it. Angle it. It doesn't need force. Hit the china in a weak spot, where the flowers are embossed. It'll break. That's it. Bring it down. Gently does it."
At that point The Master shot out from beneath the dresser and banged into the back of Slackpole's legs. Slackpole dropped the hammer hard bang on the pisspot, smashing it to shivers, and right onto Sir Tarquin's toe.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!"
Slackpole managed to shuffle out the room and his fast was equivalent to thick molasses running out of deep round jar. “I said DOUBLE TIME” yelled Sir Tarquin. Slackpole slowly and patiently turned his head towards Sir Tarquin and said in his low monotone voice..……..this…….….. is ……….. double..time……....… for….……me….… and with that disappeared down the hall.
Meanwhile, a search party was sent around the grounds to look for Maybeline; and Sir Tarquin was being wheeled across the grounds at a death pace in his makeshift chair by Slackpole.
"Faster, Slickpile!!! Hurry to the stables!!! Giddyup!"
"Slackpole, sir."
"Never mind that! Faster, you worsted stockinged nincompoop! Otherwise I'll be shoeing you with felt. Might make ya a bit faster, I daresay! Mush!"
Libby and Maybeline stood in a row of wing-moustachioed pilots, all in flight gear, goggles, helmets and wide britches, and leather jackets. Maybeline whimpered under her face hair as Major Twaddle inspected each and every man.
"Private Wenkelle, stand up straight tharr, laddie. We'll see some rectitude in our men, here. This your first jump?"
"Y-y-y-es, sir."
"Well, don't be all mummy help me and knee quivering, you lilylivered boy! This is the air force, and when Hardy-Banger throws you out of the plane, be ready to pull the cord on your bloomin' parachute! Self Pollution division has trained you enough in cord pullin', so let's not be hearing any more nonsense. Now, Bugges. Ready?"
"Yissss -- I mean, yosssssss, Sir", frogthroated Maybeline, trying to sound manly.
"Good-o. You'll be head pilot of the lead Spitfire. You know the routine. Flipturn, flapdoodle wigwam formation patterning, upside down super lotus position butterfly vrooom and to finish off ten loop the loops and near collisions with Hardy-Banger's plane. Got that?"
"Er, er"
"Good job. Next. Dumbmoppe?"
"Yes, Sir?", giggled Libby enthusiastically.
"You be co-pilot with Bugges. Right, men, follow me to the hanger. Let's get acquainted with the aircraft."
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
"Helloaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!!! Where's Jeffers! He was supposed to shoe Black Jeremy, His Majesty's champion runner! Look! The confounded bugger still has his old tattered shoes on! What will we do? The King will be here soon with his party! It's no good, Slop-pail, you'll have to shoe the fella yourself."
"Me, Sir?"
"Yes, you, you supercillious laundry basket! Here, here's four horseshoes. You won't need more. You still got that sledgehammer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right, well, use that, and here's some nails that blummin' hog knocked out of the sideboard when he was trying his best to impregnate the damned thing. They should work."
"But what if he kicks me, Sir?"
"Who?"
"Black Jeremy, Sir."
"Tshhh tshhh, don't talk piffle, man. he's a trained tamed royal stallion. He only kicks serfs and smelly types, not the servile, brownnosing classes. He's pedigree! Now, go in that stable and shoe! Shoo!"
"Easy boy, easy.....", stammered Slackpole bending down to touch the beast's left foreleg while it bent to a mouthful of straw, catching it between his teeth and dumping it square on Slackpole's bald head.
"Pfffhhhh.... Stay! Stay! Er, heel! Give me your heel! That's it, boy!"
"Come on, Slippiddle, that's it!" bellowed Sir Tarquin from the stable door. "Take his blummin' foot. Lift it! There, catch this horseshoe! I'll throw it to you!" With that, Sir Tarquin was just about to fling the heavy steel implement underarm when a second voice clamoured through the barn.
"Don't do that!! He'll heel you on the bonce if you touch him! He's a cantankerous one!", yelled Jeffers, coming into the light just as Sir Tarquin's horseshoe connected with his head, laying him flat unconscious in the hay, with Black Jeremy munching yellow strands about him.
"You've done it now, Slackpole!", roared Sir Tarquin from his chair! "He's flat out! What will we do now?"
"Sir, sir... I've just noticed. His shoes have been done already, maybe this morning."
"Well why didn't you say so in the first place, you blithering custard head? Come on, I'll wheel myself back. Bring Black Jeremy up to the saddlers and we'll get him ready! Hurry, we're expecting His Majesty here in an hour! And where in the name of Vasco de Gama's oceanwide knickers is Maybeline???"
"That red lever sends you up full throttle. You'll shoot up seven thousand feet. That blue one drops you down again. The yellow one spins you round and round. The green one is the ejector seat. Don't touch that one. The orange one opens the drinks stash. You'll find a nice bottle of scotch for you. Particularly useful if your plane's on collision course with a cliff. And, um, that's it."
"Is there an autopilot?"
"You're it."
Maybeline gulped as she was huddled into her pilot's seat and strapped into position. Red was full throttle, blue was drop down, yellow spun you round ... yes, she thought she could handle it. She looked out at the overgrown stretch of runway where, on top of the flight tower, a small badger was tying her discarded petticoats to a radar mast.
This was it. The big one. She just had to sit here for an hour and wait for instructions to lead take off with the rest of the team.
"Dumbmoppe, reporting!", cackled Libby as she joined beside her in the co-pilot's seat, effortlessly strapping herself in and admiring her moustache in the rear view mirror.
"How do I look darling?"
"Fine, as ever, Libby, but you know, Libby, we're for it! We can't fly this thing!"
"Course we can! Think positive! Think New Woman! We can ride unicycles! We can smoke cigars! Rita Vita Bagge can even grow a beard! There's nothing we can't do in this day and age! And you and I are going to lead Z Division in the finest aeronautical display of daredevil dashing virtuosity ever!!!!!!!!! And when Charles discovers it was you who led the team, he'll fall in love with you on the spot!"
"Problem is, Lib, I think he's fallen in love with me already, only he thinks in this get up that I'm, well, a chap."
"Well, maybe you can turn him around in time."
"I hope so, Lib, I jolly hope so", Maybeline sighed.
Inside the Manor, the banquet room smelled of a thousand basket apples and hot loaves; the air was alive with the throb of wait for the entrance of His Majesty. Hyacinths, orchids, roses and lilies, redblooming fuschia and imported Dutch tulips of red white and blue, gathered in straw baskets and Waterford crystal vases, blooming and lounging tastefully and bountifully about the huge oval oak dining table. Fifty places were laid with dazzling knives - plate and fish - soup spoons and forks, china place mats and lace frilled drinking goblets for wine, ale and port. A buzz of expectancy electrified the building.
Meanwhile a search party of maids scoured the upstairs wardrobes looking for Maybeline, being followed with a cane by mad aunt Marjory poised for attack, always with her gramophone horn in tow. "I heard that! What? I heard that! I'll catch you! You can't get away! I heard that! What?"
"Heeeeelllllllp!!!!! Hellllllllllpppp!!!!! They're firin' at me, Sir!"
"Who?", enquired Sir Tarquin from his chair.
"His Majesty's henchmen, Sir! They're on their way with coach and horses!"
Sir Tarquin peered through his trusty pier glass and saw the great equine head of His Majesty in the coach window. "Cripes, he's here! And Maybeline's not about! Beryl?"
Beryl appeared from the line of maids.
"Yes, Bastard?"
"Listen, I'll pay for your father's baroncy if you rush upstairs, put on the wife's garb and come down again. pretending to be her --"
"Oh ho no! No chance! Nada! Uhh huhhh!"
"Pardon?"
"No way. I'll want my own dependency, fifty thousand a year Sterling before we could even begin to negotiate this."
"Done. Anything."
"And my own maids."
"Yes."
"And holidays paid."
"All. Anything. Anything!"
"Alright. I'll do it. But if you double cross me I'll tell everyone in the parish about that incident with you, me, that man in the Father Christmas outfit, and the reindeer."
"It's your word against mine."
"And I'll show them the negatives."
"Done."
"You will be."
"Sir Tarquin, old chum. Sportin' to see ya. Anywhere I can put me 'ores up for the afternoon?"
"Horses? We have stables, Your Majesty."
"Not 'orses. 'ores."
"Thinking of going rowing, Your Majesty? Oh, I see. Um. Yes, there's some chambers we can, er, prepare."
"Jolly good. How'd ya bugger your leg up?"
"Spot of rough polo."
"Polo? Bloody sissies' sport. Now jerrypot wrestlin's my thing. You get your foot stuck in a pisspot and get yer valet to try an' pull it off. Now if you'd said that, I'd have been impressed. I suppose you want me to sign yer cast?"
"Oh, please!"
"There... K-I-N-G." That should do it. Did I tell ya the Empire just absorbed the Federal Union of Changopoolia today? I'd better add the F.U.C. as a prefix. There."
"I'm, er, honoured."
"Er, pig's off, sorry."
"Off where?"
"If only we knew. He made a run for it."
"Sorry to hear that, old boy. And the airshow?"
"Let me check my watch. Ten minutes from now. We've the chairs organised, port, cigars, light jazz. Your stallion, Black Jeremy's waiting for you too."
"Ah yes, but never mind that. I knackered meself climbin' out of the bathtub the other day to greet the Prime Minister, and the doc's put this blasted splint on. Stones me footman has to apply this cream. That'd make ya sing soprano for weeks, that muck. They have to keep it refrigerated too."
"Sorry to hear that, Your Majesty. Ah, Your Majesty, allow me to introduce my wife, Maybeline."
"How'de do", curtseyed Beryl behind Maybeline's veiled hat.
"Mightily splendid, m'lady", replied His Majesty, squinting through his cigar smoke and thinking how the lady's figure reminded him of that naughty little Beryl, the showdancer he'd met on one of his nightly crawls when still Prince of Wales many moons ago.