Chelsea Barracks

Jolly good luck to the girl who loves a soldier

Walter de Frece

It was all very pleasant to begin with. The guard summoned an orderly, who bowed deeply to us. His terrier-daemon followed his example. Then he led us through a hallway and down a long corridor which tunnelled deep into the heart of the building. There was a blue carpet under Sunny's feet and the wood-panelled walls were hung with regimental flags, trophies and photograms. The pictures showed groups of soldiers - platoons, companies, whole battalions - formed up on parade. Some of them had obviously been taken in Brytain but many others dated from the time of the Empire's ascendancy. Men wearing tropical whites stood in rigid lines in front of the Pyramids of Ygypt or the Mahal of Koossh. Others were clad in furs and snowshoes and carried the carcasses of seals and arctic foxes over their shoulders. The northern lights hung in ghostly curtains above their heads. The air was heavy with military tradition, freighted with history.

The corridor was lit by flaring naphtha lamps fixed in wall-mounted sconces, spaced at regular ten-foot intervals. Our shadows crept silently across the floor and walls as we passed; now behind us, now before us. Sunny's red dress brushed against the carpet, leaving a rustling sussuration of silk in our wake. I held on to the dance-netting stitched to her left shoulder and looked over the top of the orderly's head. He was a short man and Sunny was tall for her age.

The corridor eventually opened out into a hallway with a wide staircase at the far end. The orderly, who had been voiceless throughout our progress down the passageway, indicated with a gesture of his arm that we should precede him up the stairs. We did so, Sunny lifting the hem of her dress with her left hand to prevent herself from tripping. We ascended the stairs at a stately, formal pace. A chandelier of iron and sparkling crystal hung from an ornate plaster moulding fixed high up in the stair-well and lit the greater expanses that had opened up around us. The walls were covered with large, elaborately-framed oil-paintings of long-dead Generals and long-fought battles; glorious in gold, silver and scarlet. The effect was imposing and very grand.

As we reached the top of the flight we became aware of the sounds of men talking and glasses chinking, and the smell of smoke-leaf hazing the air. A door, made of dark oak and bearing a regimental escutcheon of polished silver, was standing half open on the other side of the landing. It was from behind this door that the sounds were coming.

A row of grey-upholstered chairs stood against the walls of the landing. The orderly bowed again and pointed to them. His meaning was plain, and Sunny took a seat. Her skirts belled out around her ankles as she sat down. I left my place on her shoulder and crouched on the chair next to her. 'Sunny,' I said. 'I don't like this place. I really don't. It frightens me.'

Sunny smiled at me. 'Silly Alpharintus,' she said. 'There's nothing to worry about.' Her hair had come loose again and was tumbling down her back. My girl could never keep it tied up for very long; it was too unruly. She put out her hand and ran it up and down my spine, trying to reassure me that all was well.

We waited while the orderly crossed the landing and passed through the half-open door. I noticed that he slipped through the gap between the door and its frame without touching either or needing to open the door any further. Nothing happened for a minute or two. The talking inside the room carried on as before.

After a minute or two there was a burst of laughter and the door swung wide open. A man walked through it - a tall man, wearing full-length breeches and a mess-jacket of blue and red over a white shirt. He crossed the landing, bowed to Sunny and took her right hand, brushing it with his lips. 'Lady Gresham,' he said. 'I am Captain Howard. It is both an honour and a very great pleasure to meet you. Would you...?' and he indicated the door.

Sunny smiled very graciously and rose to her feet. The officer led her into the Mess, stepping back so that she could pass through the door. I was perched on Sunny's shoulder again and the man's panther-daemon walked beside us, her body sinuous and full of power. 'Lady Gresham,' said Captain Howard, 'May I present the gentlemen of the King's Guard?'

There were so many impressions for us to take in all at once; a large room with wood-panelled walls bearing battle honours, memorial plaques and regimental insignia. Sofas and chairs in polished, buttoned leather. Low tables, on which stood crystal glasses, filled with amber liquid. A deep-pile carpet of royal blue. Bright anbaric lighting. A white marble fireplace, in which a wood fire burned. On top of it a heavy mantlepiece, and above that a portrait of the King. A wide door on the far side of the room, through which could be seen a large dining table of red mahogany which gleamed with silver plate and Venetian glass. And, seated on the chairs and sofas, or standing in small groups were the officers of the King's Guard; immaculate in their perfectly-pressed uniforms, handsome in their moustaches and side whiskers, impressive with their large, elegant, perfectly-groomed daemons. They all stood up and bowed as we entered the room.

Captain Howard indicated a chair and Sunny, still smiling, sat down. Oh! How lovely she was then! How wonderful was our shared delight in the admiring glances she received! An orderly approached with a glass of liqueur on a tray and Sunny took it and sipped its contents. A perfect Chartreuse it was, sparkling like an emerald in its faceted goblet.

'Where is Major Clarke?' asked Sunny. Captain Howard assured her that the Major would be joining the gathering shortly - that he had been called away to deal with a small administrative matter. 'I shall be very cross with him when I meet him,' said Sunny, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 'I had hoped to see him sooner. But tell me, Captain, do you ride?'

'With the Quorn, when I can, Lady Gresham,' Captain Howard replied. 'There is little hunting to be had in London, but one does like to get away whenever possible, don't you know?'

'Oh yes. London can be so tiresome,' said Sunny and soon she, and the group of men who had gathered around her, were involved in an animated conversation involving tack, horses, stables, grooms, hounds, fences, coverts and, for all I know, stirrup-cups. Frankly, I was losing interest in the conversation.

All the same, the feeling of unease which had been haunting me ever since Sunny had decided to come to this place was beginning to dissipate. The Officer's Mess was a very grand place, but there was nothing so very sinister about it. The officers there were all fine-looking men, but more than a few of them were only boys behind their swagger, their chins soft and downy and their swords bumping clumsily against their sides. They were certainly not seasoned warriors. Slowly, progressively, I was lulled into a sense of well-being, caused at least in part by the effects of the liqueur of which Sunny had just accepted a second glass.

The talk was now of the War, and the likelihood of a Spring offensive - possibly as early as April, maybe as late as June - which would be the decisive event; securing the Holy City of Geneva in perpetuity for our Country, our People and our Faith. Sunny was expatiating on the role of the Navy in our ultimate victory when there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and landing outside. Ah! That would be the delayed Major Clarke.

The door swung wide open and every eye in the room turned to it. But it was no officer who stood there. Instead, a young woman wearing a velvet cloche hat over her short blonde hair walked in, unbuttoning her coat as she advanced towards us.

'Lady Gresham?' she said, smiling and holding out her hand.

Sunny stood up. 'Call me Sonya, please,' she said and offered her own hand in response. What happened next was so totally unexpected that it caught us both completely by surprise. We had not been told that another lady would be joining us, but neither was her appearance any particular cause for alarm. It was perfectly clear - from the way she walked, by the evident quality of her clothes, by the alertness of her daemon, by a certain look in her eyes - that she was a lady. In any other circumstances, though, she would not have attracted our attention for she was not at all well-favoured or good-looking.

So it was a total shock when instead of shaking Sunny's hand, the newcomer slapped her hard on the cheek. Sunny's head jerked over to the side and the woman's right hand caught it with a vicious backhander. The diamond ring she was wearing slashed across Sunny's face leaving a livid streak behind it, beaded with blood. Sunny put her hand up to the cut and was unprepared for a stunning blow on the ear, delivered by the woman's left hand. She cried out and fell back onto her chair.

The woman ignored her cries and turned to Captain Howard. 'Clear the room,' she said. 'Now!'

'Yes, Rebecca,' said the Captain, but he hardly needed to speak. The young men were already leaving, shepherded by their older comrades. One turned, as if to stay and help us, but another leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. His face turned red and he nodded submissively. Soon there were only four people left in the room; Sunny, the young woman, Captain Howard and another officer; a fighting man with a sabre-cut under his right ear. The doors slammed to, sealing us in.

'Now, you silly little tart,' said the woman. 'What's your real name?'

We were both shaking - not so much with the pain, for although Sunny's cheeks were reddened and scratched her assailant was, after all, only a woman with no more than a woman's physical strength. Sunny struggled back to her feet.

'I am Lady Sonya Gresham, as you well know,' she said putting one hand to her face. 'What the beggar-it did you do that for?'

'It is a common tart just as I thought, and foul-mouthed with it,' said the other woman to Captain Howard. She turned to Sunny. 'Sit down, slut,' she said, and pushed her back down into the chair. She landed hard and her head pitched back hard against the chair's frame. We gasped with the shock of it.

'Hold her,' said the woman, and the man with the facial cut put his hands on Sunny's shoulders, making it impossible for her to stand up. She writhed and struggled in the chair but the Captain seized hold of her legs and held them tightly.

'I suppose you thought you were very clever, didn't you?' The woman sat on a leather couch, facing Sunny and well out of reach of her. Her hawk-daemon perched on the arm of the sofa and preened his feathers. I had run to my girl's shoulder and was attempting to lick her wounded cheek. 'Well? What is your name?'

Sunny said nothing - she was still stunned. The woman nodded, and Captain Howard stepped forward and struck her hard on the side of the head with his open palm. The blow landed on the same ear that the woman had struck previously and Sunny gasped with the pain and surprise of it. The force of the man's attack knocked me to the ground. I hid under the chair, shivering with agony and humiliation.

'M-M-M-oon, Driver Third Class, 040261,' Sunny said though her sobs. Name, rank and serial number, I thought. We're in Enemy territory now.

'From now on, Driver Moon, Third Class, you will address me as "My Lady". You are in a very great deal of trouble. Do you know why you are in so much trouble?' The woman was sitting back now, fully in command of the situation. Sunny was clasping herself with her crossed arms.

'N-no, My Lady.'

'You are in trouble because you are a liar. A liar and an upstart.' Sunny sat up and started to speak in protest. Captain Howard struck her again. 'Speak when you're told to,' he said. The other man - the man with the scarred face - stood back with his arms folded, waiting.

'Thank you, Reginald. Last night, at Lady Margaret's Hospital, you lied. You lied to the Countess, you lied to the officers, you lied to the nurses and you lied to me. There was no Ladies' Carriage. You knew that perfectly well. When we arrived at that miserable, dirty place where you are employed we were turned away by some little chit of a girl. And why? Because Lady Margaret believed you when you told her that your name was Lady Gresham.

'Do you know that it is a treasonable offence to pretend to the aristocracy? I could have you taken to the Tower of London and flogged at the public whipping post for this. In my father's time you would have been hanged on the common scaffold, as an example to all the other liars and upstarts.'

I - coward that I am - hid under Sunny's chair and whimpered.

'You are not only a liar and an upstart, you are also stupid and vain. Only someone as full of herself as you would have come here tonight. No real lady would have accepted an invitation to an Officer's Mess by herself, unchaperoned. You have nobody but yourself to blame for the trouble that you are in now. Well? Do you have anything to say?'

Sunny was still shaking, but she lifted her head and faced her adversary. 'Yes, I have. I'm sorry for you, My Lady,' she said.

'What?'

'Yes, sorry. You poor thing; you're so terribly plain, aren't you?' No! I murmured from my hiding place. Don't make it worse! Sunny ignored me. 'You couldn't get any of the men interested in you, could you? Not even the ones who were very badly hurt. No wonder they all wanted to come to Mornington with me.' Sunny turned to Captain Howard and smiled. 'Look at the two of us, Captain. Compare us. What do you think?'

I groaned inwardly. Hadn't Sunny realised? The younger officer stepped forward. 'How dare you speak to my sister like that!' He struck Sunny again, repeatedly. She curled up in her chair, trying vainly to protect her face with her hands. 'You coward!' she screamed. 'You wouldn't have done that if Gerry were here! He'd soon stop you!'

The woman motioned her brother to stop. 'Who's Gerry?' she demanded.

'My brother,' said Sunny through her tears.

'And if he were here he would beat my Reginald, would he?'

'Yes! Yes, he would. With one hand tied behind his back!'

'Then it is most fortunate that he is not here. Now then... Let's think. What would be the most appropriate punishment for a lying streetwalker who happens to think that she's pretty? A scar across the face? Oh, but I've done that already, haven't I? Perhaps a dash of vitriol? No - too extreme. This is only a child, after all. Hmmm... Yes, I know. Lend me your sword would you, Reggie?'

Captain Howard pulled his ceremonial sword from its sheath. Three feet of polished, sharpened Sheffield steel, with a moulded groove running along the centre of the blade to provide a channel for the blood the weapon drank.

Sunny's mouth fell open. 'No! No!' she gasped.

'Sit still, or I will have to hurt you.' The woman stood up and took the sword from her brother's hand. She spoke to the older man. 'Take hold of the slattern's hair would you please, Major?'

All this time I was trying to gather together what little spirit I could. I was desperately ashamed of myself. I should have been standing by my Sunny's side, defending her. It never struck me - although it should have - that Sunny had taken all our courage into herself, leaving me with none. But as the Major grasped her hair and pulled her head back over the top of the chair I felt Sunny quail, and at that moment my own sense of honour began to reassert itself. What could I do, mink-formed as I was? I was no match for the woman's hawk-daemon, nor could I hope to stand up to the large and warlike she-daemons of the men. There was only only choice left to me, but it was an impossible choice. It was too special.

The woman raised her brother's sword high above her head and stood by the side of the chair. Sunny's neck was stretched across the chair's antimaccassar and her bare throat was exposed to the light of the chandelier above our heads. She closed her eyes. She seemed to have decided not to struggle or fight any more, but to accept her fate. Alfie, she said in my private ear. We're going to die now, aren't we?

Yes, we are, I replied.

Can you be brave for me, Alfie? I don't feel at all brave now.

For Gerry's sake?

Yes, for Gerry. We'll see him, won't we?

Yes, my darling, I'm sure we will. I love you, Sunny.

I love you too, Alfie.

See you in Heaven.

Soon?

Yes, very soon.

The sword rose. The sword fell. Neither of us saw it, for our eyes were closed, but we felt it. We felt it bite into Sunny's hair, close to her scalp. She screamed, and the wrenching impact of the blade forced me to open my eyes. A hank of dusky locks was hanging down from the Major's hands. The woman lifted the weapon again. She had cut through about a quarter of the rope of hair that the Major was grasping. She laughed. 'What coarse hair you... beauties have!'

Sunny's scalp was on fire - I felt it. The sword swept down again, severing another handful of ebony strands. 'No! No!' Sunny cried again. That was too much for me, at last. I dashed across the carpet and leapt onto the couch where the hawk-daemon stood. I cannoned into him, dislodging him from his perch and sending us crashing to the floor in a confusion of fur and feathers. The woman flinched. She threw down the sword - it clattered on the side of an occasional table - ran over to her fallen daemon and gathered him into her arms. Her eyes blazed revenge. 'Oromanthin!' she shrieked. 'Kill him!' She pointed to me.

The hawk-daemon raised his head. His beak was viciously hooked, his pinions razor-sharp. He could tear me to shreds in an instant. 'You bitch!' the woman said to Sunny. 'How dare you!' And again, to her daemon, 'Kill that animal!' The hawk left the woman's arms and alighted on the carpet next to me. His beak scythed through the air less than a foot from the tip of my nose.

I entered a kind of trance. My death would be our death. Our life was forfeit and it was all my fault. And another thing... the death we had thought we were facing only seconds before would have been Sunny's death, not mine, although I would have met my end by it. But now it was my body that would be ripped, my sinews that would be torn apart. I could not face that.

Oh Sunny, my Sunny. I have never been worthy of you.

The hawk's beak hissed past my eyes. It was now or never. I changed form.

The effects of this Change were always so dramatic, so special. Suddenly I was no longer face to face with the hawk, but looking down upon it. I seized the creature and held it firmly between my hands. It struggled, but could not escape from my grasp. 'Let go of her!' I shouted across the room to the Major. 'Let go of her, or I crush this daemon's throat!'

I had never Changed before such an audience. The effect was extraordinary; as if hands of ice had clutched the hearts of the people in the room, paralysing them. Nobody moved for many long seconds. Then the Major, the older, more experienced man, found his breath and spoke.

'Christ!' He named the Blasphemer. 'Jesus Christ!' Again he spoke the name that should not be spoken. 'Lord Almighty! Oh, God!' He pointed at me - in my form as a young, naked man - with a trembling hand. 'An incubus, by the Holy Spirit! A foul, disgusting, fornicating incubus!'

The King's portrait looked down upon us from its position above the fireplace. Our ruler was dressed in a Field Marshall's uniform and sat on a wooden chair placed in front of an army tent, his right hand resting upon his lioness-daemon's back. She was clad in bright armour, and her eyes regarded us with a steady gaze.

In our world, Jolly Good Luck To The Girl Who Loves A Soldier was a WWI recruiting song. It was performed by Vesta Tilley, a male impersonator who was best known for her portrayal of Burlington Bertie From Bow.