Freddy was saved from further mental admonishment by the startling sight of a very large gleaming silver Rolls Royce purring into the driveway. What was even more startling was the fact that it seemed to be empty. Ainsley pressed his nose against the net curtains and could just make out the tops of two heads in the front seats, the driver's as bald as an egg and the passenger's carrying on its wavy blonde top what appeared to be a bird's nest.

Ainsley, now joined at the window by Freddy, watched in amazement as, in perfect unison, the two front doors of the Rolls swung noiselessly open and the two diminutive occupants almost jumped down onto the gravel. That is where unison stopped and discord, rather than harmony, took over. At great speed and with giant strides for such a small man Gregory Cartiledge made for the front door. Half a dozen paces behind him the little bird-nested lady pattered with tiny steps in his wake.

On any other occasion the watchers at the window would have found this amusing but, given the reason for this visit, Ainsley and Freddy merely stared through the lace in disbelief. Before they could make any comment to each other the door was flung open and the strange little man burst into the room followed by Matron Maud and, a few tiny steps behind, the little lady with the bird-nest hat.

Matron was already in full verbal flow. "I've confined the residents to their quarters as a safety precaution, Mr Cartiledge." She stopped dead in her tracks causing a collision with the following small body. Brushing the little lady away from her she fixed Ainsley and Freddy with her gimlet eyes. "What are you doing down here Brigadier and Squadron Leader? Were you not confined…"

"I am not here to be confined, madam, but to be cared for, cosseted and…" Ainsley thought 'caressed' would sound good with the other two words but felt in the circumstances it might be going a bit far.

He was saved from finding a suitably sounding verb by Freddy who chipped in, "I don't think any of us are in the confined game do you, Matron? We certainly won't be – and you never would be. If you get my point."

The sheer indelicacy, audacity and unsubtlety of the remark actually made Matron speechless just long enough for Gregory Cartiledge, who had understood none of the exchange and was becoming increasingly restless, to take over. Well aware that the care of these elderly men could secure him a long-coveted knighthood he put on a sickly smile and advanced on Freddy. At great speed and with the sharp twang of London's East End he barked, "Stand at ease. AC plonk Gregory Cartiledge, lowest of the low in the Raf, now a millionaire. And you are?" He thrust out a podgy hand which was not taken.

"Squadron Leader Frederick Foster, DFC and Bar, Royal Air Force, and it is you who may stand at ease."

It was a brave and, for its pomposity, totally uncharacteristic speech by Freddy which left him breathless and Gregory Cartiledge totally unabashed. Putting the proffered hand up to his forehead in mock salute he was interrupted in his move towards Ainsley by a quiet titter coming from, apparently, somewhere within Matron. Closer examination found that it came from immediately behind her, uttered by the little bird-nested lady.

"That's telling you, Gregory Cartiledge," she said, clutching her handbag to her bosom as if for protection.

"Quiet Gloria," hissed Gregory. "This is my lady wife, Gloria Cartiledge. Come around from behind Matron, Gloria, and say how-do to the gents." He swung round to Ainsley. "And you are?"

Ainsley pulled his gaunt frame up to its full height and balefully gazed downwards into the little man's eyes. "Brigadier Ainsley Bennington – and good-day to you Mrs Cartiledge. Welcome to our very humble, seen-better-days, needs-a-lot-spending-on-it abode. I trust you had a good journey here?" Then he added as an afterthought, "Although I doubt if either of you saw much of it, down there in the depths of your grand motor."

Matron, who had watched all this verbal exchange in unaccustomed silence felt it had all gone on quite long enough. She pulled back her shoulders causing various starched bits of material to squeak, and took over.

"I suggest you go to your rooms as I had previously ord – er – requested, gentlemen. Mr Cartiledge, perhaps you would like to inspect the premises before you carry out your duty as owner and deal with Colonel Hunter." With that she swung out of the room.

"Carry on." The Owner waved his hand in the air, dismissing himself from their presence, and marched into the hall. Gloria pit-patting behind him, turned at the door and smiled warmly.

"So nice to have met you all."

"She used to wear pink bloomers, you know. Elastic down to here." Basil's voice was hoarse with the enormity of it all.

Tubes, who had been reading an interesting account of the strange doings of a female 'starlet', a male masseur - he hadn't come upon one of them in any of Her Majesty's submarines - and a giant loofah, slowly lowered his newspaper. There was his old friend Basil indicating with both hands just below his right kneecap the point to which the bloomer leg had reached and been held by the said elastic.

As if to make the matter even clearer and the image more ghastly than ever Basil shifted his hands, now holding his pipe, to his other leg and repeated the demonstration in case Tubes might not be sure that ladies' bloomers had two legs - to match their occupants. As he did so he deposited a fair portion of burning tobacco onto his corduroys which he absent-mindedly brushed away.

Although he was impatient to return to the mysteries of the giant loofah, Tubes, realizing that Basil had gone to some considerable trouble to illustrate his point, showed interest.

"Who?"

He started to lift his newspaper back to a comfortable reading position but loofahs were quickly replaced in his somewhat over-fertile imagination by Basil's answer.

"Matron. The last one, that is." Then he added huskily, "I don't know about the Newbiggin jobs."

"You old rogue. I thought the late lamented Alastair Hunter was the only dark horse amongst us when it came to shenanigans with the un-late, unlamented Matron Maud Montague. Well, my dear chap…"

Basil was very confused. "Are you alright, Tubes? Not suffering from the bends or anything? Surfaced too quickly? Stop drivelling, there's a good fellow."

They went back to their newspapers, Tubes to the starlet, masseur and giant loofah and Basil to a page of unseen type as his memory clicked in even more vividly on the events surrounding Matron Maud's pink bloomers.

"Last Christmas," his voice came from behind the middle pages of The Telegraph.

Tubes, rather wishing he'd stayed on for the second round of toast, betrayed no interest even though, to his annoyance, these large items of women's unmentionables were beginning to take the place of giant loofahs in his daydreaming.

The Telegraph was lowered again but now Basil, needing to expiate his guilt by sharing it, leant across and tapped his friend's knee with his pipe. He hardly waited for Tubes to brush the smouldering ash from the sharp crease in his flannels before he was blurting out his terrible secret.

"She was putting up the decorations in the lounge. Up a ladder. D'you see? I was holding it for her." Basil's eyes gazed unseeing at the rooftops and trees bordering the garden. He didn't dare look at his friend. Again his voice became husky. "I glanced up."

There was a silence. Both were so aghast at the image invading their minds that they sat, immobile, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, hardly breathing.

Tubes broke the uneasy silence. "You would," he said, trying to comfort the tormented man, "You would. To see she was secure. Well anchored."

Basil's eyes were still staring into the distance. "Probably. There they were. On each leg."

This had all gone on for long enough. Tubes felt it would be safer for him to return all his attention to the giant loofah.

"They would be," he said firmly with all the authority of one who, in his youth, had fleetingly glimpsed a maiden aunt similarly under-attired. "That's the way bloomers are."

With that he firmly put the entire contents of Monday's Times between him and Basil - and the bloomers. He intended to force Basil to do the same with his Telegraph and, by so doing, wrench his mind away from its unsavoury meandering but he'd underestimated the degree of memory-stirring going on in the dark, one might say murky, recesses of his friend's mind.

The next utterance paled all the others into insignificance.

"It reminded me of my father."

Tubes gulped, snorted and, as a result, choked. A glimpse up a lady's frock at a pair of pink bloomers, however accidental or brief - the glimpse, not the bloomers - was one thing, but being reminded of one's father in association with the wretched garment was quite another. He felt it his duty to comment but feared that all this was becoming too deep even for a submariner.

"Your father? Women's undies, eh? Dashed awkward. I'd never have known looking at you. Fear not, Basil, your secret's safe with me."

Basil seemed to be totally oblivious of Tubes or, for that matter, anything else around him. He pulled out a slightly grubby hanky and wiped a watering eye.

"He used to put up the decorations, every Christmas. In India. Up a ladder. Me holding it."

With a telling flick of the pages Tubes resumed his Times reading and was just reacquainting himself with the starlet/masseur/loofah trio when another salvo, even more deadly than the previous ones, landed on target.

"It finally killed him."

Basil's voice was now so mournful that Tubes feared that all this reminiscing might prove too much for his old friend.

"I'm so very sorry, old chap. A stroke?"

"Two hundred and thirty volts - or was it a hundred and ten in India? The fairy lights, d'you see? There he was, putting one up the angel's skirt and down he went. Straight past me."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and then Basil relit his pipe and picked up his newspaper. His voice, now stronger and more relaxed, brought the matter to a close.

"I carried on holding the ladder," he said proudly.

Lisa now took over. "Come along now, dears. I'll show you where everything is. Sister wants you to meet everyone and see how we work before you start for real tomorrow."

She was bustling around them and her chivvying seemed to be having some effect because both of them found themselves moving towards the kitchen door where, to their consternation, the way was blocked by a large, unprepossessing man, holding a long, obviously very sharp knife.

"You can split the duties. Polishing, dusting, hoovering, washing, lavvies - look, that's Captain Cuthbert…" She wasn't sure why she'd done it, but she pointed to Clarence peeking through the cloakroom door. "You'll see a lot of him as you flit from one to the other. It's undies day tomorrow. That'll introduce you to our residents well enough."

Clarence mercifully stopped Lisa's flow just as it seemed to be getting out of control by pushing through them all, his zimmer, as usual, unerringly finding toes, before reaching the safe haven of the lounge and his fellow residents.

"Brigadier Lesley Bristowe." It was more of a command than an introduction.

"Dear Lord, no surely not. Not now. Where?" Sister pushed through to the front door and scanned the drive. "He could have waited until I got you two sorted."

"She, madam, SHE!"

"Stop making silly noises, pet. Off we go." Lisa tugged at the Brigadier's arm, but to no avail. Neither the arm, nor that to which it was attached, was going anywhere.

No-one had noticed the brief absence of Sister, but now she returned at speed through the front door.

"He's nowhere to be seen. What were you talking about, Mrs…? I don't know your name. The Agency didn't tell me you were coming."

"BRISTOWE." This was ludicrous. "In all my years of Service I've never …" The Brigadier got no further.

"Bristowe. Sounds familiar." Sister absentmindedly adjusted Phyllis's coat collar and brushed off some stray hairs. "Ah, yes. Oh Lord, this is going to be confusing. We have a new resident arriving with a similar name. Bairstowe or something like it. Now, you'd better come to my office and tell me about your years of service and all your other particulars."

"STOP."

They all stopped.

With such a command delivered with a power that belied the gaunt stature of the deliverer, there was no other course open to any of them. Pins would certainly have been heard dropping.

"I want no one to move or even whisper until you have listened very carefully to what I have to say. My name is Lesley Bristowe. I retired recently as a Brigadier in the Women's Royal Army Corps, I am honoured to be a Commander of the British Empire and am, the Lord help me, a new resident in your Home. And now if one of you will take me to your Matron Montague, you may all return to whatever it was you were doing before I and this kind lady arrived."

Still no one moved - except Ainsley who whispered to Tubes, "No wonder I couldn't find him in the Army list. He's a woman!"

"Is he now?" Tubes said a touch laconically.

Ainsley whispered on. "I didn't look under women."

"I did - once." Clarence shook a little more than usual causing his zimmer to rattle. "Nearly arrested. In the Far East. I was just looking at - oh, what was it called?"

Both Ainsley and Tubes moved Clarence back into the lounge and sat him firmly in a chair.

"Quiet, old boy." Tubes put his zimmer strategically out of reach. "You don't need to remember what it's called. Bits like that aren't for we chaps to know about."

Phyllis, having been brought up to respect the deep divide that exists each side of the green baize door, felt that none of this hoo-ha should be witnessed by the domestic staff and glided into the kitchen deftly taking the cook and his carving knife with her. This left Sister, Nurse Lisa, Brigadier Lesley and two large suitcases to act out the unfortunate scene on their own.

"Er, Brigadier?"

"Yes?"

"It's you being a woman, you see."

"What is, Sister?"

"Pardon?"

"What is me being a woman, you see?"

"We thought you were a man."

"Really. What part of me deceived you into thinking that, Sister? My body? My clothes? My voice?"

"No, no. Please don't get me wrong. It's Matron Montague, you see."

"What is Matron Montague?"

Lisa felt that all this was getting none of them anywhere. Sister seemed to have gone all to pieces, and if she fiddled with her cuffs and collar one more time she'd strangle her.

Sister adjusted her belt and smoothed her pleats. "Matron Maud has left, Brigadier, and gave no hint that the new resident - yourself - would be a woman so we have all been rather - er, how should I say - startled." She swung round to Lisa and used her curtest voice. "I suggest you go about your duties, nurse. It is my place to sort out this – er - confusion."

Lisa was about to add Sister strangulation to her many other duties when her would-be victim, as if reading her mind, flew her hand to her neck.

"Oh Lord. I've put you in Colonel Hunter's old room between Brigadier Bennington and Major Reardon. That'll never do."

"Make sure you're in neutral."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Neutral, dear - sorry, madam." He waggled the gear lever. "It is."

"Then there is no need for me to check it, is there Mr Middleton? I am happy to take your word for it, you being the expert."

He noted that she seemed to be talking through somewhat pursed lips.
"As the driver, madam, it is up to you to waggle it - that is, the gear lever." He could purse as well as the next person.

From thereon, things - not the car, thank goodness - went rapidly downhill.

"Depress the clutch. Select first gear, check the mirror, look over your shoulder, e-e-e-ase the clutch out as you de-e-e-press the accelerator." Nothing happened. He expected - rather hoped for - a violent jolt and a stalled engine. Nothing.

"Should we not have the engine making a noise, Mr Middleton?"

This had never happened to him before; not in his thirty or more years of instructing. This woman flustered him and seemed to already have him completely in her control. He lunged across her and, feeling for the ignition key on the steering column, switched it on. The starter motor surged.

"Push on the accelerator," he shouted, his head almost in her lap.

"Which is that? Please remind me, Mr Middleton."

"The right hand one, madam," he yelled loudly.

In her efforts to lift him from his unseemly position she inadvertently jammed his head against the steering wheel.

For a small car it was a very loud horn. This, coupled with a thrust to the floor by her right foot causing the engine to exceed six thousand revs a minute, turned the vehicle into a shaking, vibrating, shrieking and, it appeared, shortly disintegrating mechanical monster.

In this quiet suburban road it was remarkable how quickly a crowd could gather. People emerged from their houses, cyclists wobbled to a stop and, seeing a crowd gathering, the local bus pulled to a halt to provide its passengers with a rare bit of entertainment. What they all saw was a man with his head evidently jammed into the lap of a woman driver who appeared to be wrestling with him and sounding the horn in alarm.

As with most British bystanders, they did just that until two burly men decided to be heroes and wrenched the passenger door open. Still with the engine screaming in pain Mr Middleton was pulled from the vehicle and none-too-gently spread-eagled across the bonnet. Order was eventually restored and, once everything had calmed down, as if on cue, a policeman cycled up and began to create chaos all over again.

The 'Learner' sign on the roof of the car helped poor Horace Middleton to avoid being charged with attempted rape - the young policeman was at that over-zealous stage in his new career - and, as the crowds dispersed, the hapless instructor and his student parted company for what turned out to be the first and last time.

Sister climbed on the bus receiving commiserations regarding the lustfulness of men from the women shoppers and the hapless Middleton drove very slowly and shakily back to his home.

He wondered whether it was time to make a career change.

Tubes mumbled through his scarf, "Jolly decent of you, Lucy old thing. Not sure I'd be up to it. Don't know the ropes, d'you see? A bit rusty where youngsters are concerned."

With Ainsley and Basil both having recovered from their miffs, aware that they would have categorically refused had they been asked, they felt free to offer their opinions.

Ainsley fired first, "You'd do it splendidly, Tubes. A few little human torpedoes around you would make you feel really at home. Then once they're on your knee…"

Concerned for his friend, Basil interrupted. "My cousin..."

"Girls wriggle." Freddy's hand zoomed low and went into a tight turn. "At least, they did whenever I tried to kiss them. Then they'd break away. Of course they were much older. I remember one…"

Lucy felt that they were entering dangerous territory, "Yes, well. Can I count on you to help out, Commander?"

With a confused mix of enormous pride and immense foreboding Tubes decided to engage the enemy, "Provided the little blighters sit still…"

"No wriggling," popped in Freddy.

"No dangling," added Basil.

"Quite." The Lucy bundle fixed her eyes on the Tubes bundle. "Well, Commander?"

"In that case I will, Lucy. What time should I look in?"

"Ah," Lucy unfroze her joints and forced herself upright. "There's a teeny bit more to it than that and, if you'll allow me, I shall offer you all tea and tea-cakes in the café away from this howling gale and provide you with the details."

With that she set off and in no time five heavy bundles of warm winter woollies were bowling along the High Street towards warmth and revictualling in the Cosy Cot. With every step Tubes became less sure of the wisdom of his decision - and more certain that he wouldn't be allowed to go back on it.

Once tea and tea-cakes were in place and a slow thaw had set into their bones Lucy embarked on a detailed briefing session for the hapless Commander. As in her teaching days she took no notice of his various exclamations as the enormity of the operation was revealed to him.

"We'll get the outfit to you."

"Outfit?"

"The usual Father Christmas outfit. Red jacket and trousers, bobble hat…"

"Bobble?"

"I expect you'll have your own wellies but they must be clean. There are white furry bands to put round the top of them…"

"Furry bands?"

"You'll need to stuff a pillow inside your shirt - but not as big a one as poor Mr Butterfield. He was, er, a more normal, um, rather emaciated."

"Pillow?"

Tubes was getting more mournful by the minute. Freddy felt his friend needed a little encouragement.

"Are you sure he needs a pillow at all Lucy, the size he is?"

Tubes started to stand but was gently restrained by Ainsley and Basil each side of him. Lucy was too busy mentally ticking off the list of instructions to notice that her unwilling recruit had already nearly mutinied.

"It's lovely," she clapped her hands gleefully, "You won't need the whiskers or beard. You're just right."

Tubes seemed to have lost the ability to concentrate.

"Am I?"

"Absolutely. Oh, and don't worry, it's all been dry cleaned." She leant forward, drawing them to her, "A bit smelly, you see."

Ainsley nodded, "Little children."

Lucy shook her head, "Mr Butterfield."

"I do think, Lucy, that maybe…" Tubes was certain that the time had come for a strategic withdrawal, but to no avail; the opposing force closed in.

"You'll arrive by sleigh, having had such fun clip-clopping around the town."

"Clip-clopping?" It was a very faint enquiry.

"Mr Marchant. He's a churchwarden. His pony and trap. She giggled, "They strap a pair of antlers on him."

"Mr Marchant?" Basil knew he was being wicked and would probably be made to stand in the corner but all this wonderful disaster that was enveloping his dear old friend was just too good to be true.

"And you are whisked round the town..."

"Whisked?"

"Clanging your bell…"

"Clanging?"

"Shouting out Ho! Ho! Ho!"

"Ho, bloody Ho?" At last he exploded and the café customers, as one, swung round to him.

"Tubes, please," Basil was not amused

Neither was Lucy, "Commander, really."

They were quiet for a moment. The café customers returned to their chewing and chatting assuming these elderly citizens were now silently embarrassed, but being totally unaware of their audience they were no such thing. In fact they were experiencing a complete range of unseen emotions from hysteria, through delight to utter despair.
At last the forthcoming star of the show stirred.

"I think, dear Lucy," Tubes whispered, "that on reflection, maybe Mr Butterfield has another year in him. I'm sure he is much loved..."

"So sad. At last the internal bits start to give way..."

Tubes wondered if she was referring to him.

Half way down the table ex-Sergeant Simmonds, now reduced to the role of Cartiledge chauffeur, gazed across the table at Albert Coombe and his son George.

"Best Christmas ever, this. Hard times now so I've hardly noticed the festival passing these past few years." He gnawed at a turkey leg, a morsel fit for such a big man.

" 'ard times, mate? 'ard times?" Albert didn't like to even hear about such things, "I learnt a long time ago never to put up wiv 'ard times."

"That's all very well but..."

"Take last - when was it, George? The wallet job."

"Last Wednesday, Dad. I know because the day before had bin Tuesday."

Simmonds frowned. He'd had soldiers like this lad in his squad but somehow he never imagined them in civvy street.

Albert nodded. "Chap in the pub. I said to 'im I was a clair - what was I, George?"

"Bloody smart, Dad."

"You were a clairvoyant, Albert." Phyllis was wobbling with laughter causing her crimson tulle to oscillate, in its turn causing Clarence, sitting opposite her, to do something similar.

"Well, whatever. I bet 'im an 'undred smackers I could tell 'im exactly how much money 'e 'ad in 'is wallet. Exact, mind. 'E took me on, the stupid..."

"Albert!" The tulle shook disapprovingly. Mainly because of his powerful voice, her husband had the attention of most of the table.

"Go on then, 'e said. Right then, I said."

They could all have done with rather less detail but Albert ploughed on delighted to be the centre of attention.

"I thought 'ard – then I 'ad 'im. Two fivers and four onesers. That's fourteen quid, I said. And to cap it, a photo of a rather fat naked lady on a bed. He went white, 'is missus went red."

"I remember in the foothills…"

"All right Clarence, old bean. Another time." Freddy, the master of tactlessness showed that it takes one to know one.

"Were you right?" Having known many rascals like Albert in his service life Simmonds felt it was probably a superfluous question – and it was.

"Right?" Albert grinned at him. "Course I was right. Couldn't be wrong, could I?" He set back to serious drinking and eating.

No-one said anything. Festivities had been suddenly suspended.

"Better tell 'em, Dad."

"Tell 'em what? Oh, right." Albert popped a roast potato into his mouth. "No, you tell 'em, son. You did all the work."

"Picked it, didn' I? George punched an adjacent guest gleefully. "Quarter hour earlier. Checked the contents. Sixteen Quid."

"Fourteen." Simmonds liked accuracy.

George shook his head. Didn't they know anything? "Detail mate. Check the detail. I slipped the wallet back into 'is pocket and then I watched 'im spend a couple of quid at the bar. Did me sums. Easy. 'Undred smackers, weren't it Dad?"

It was said more as a statement than a question but Albert nodded. He was so proud of his son that he would like to have given him a big hug there and then.

And George was equally proud of his father. "Others wanted Dad to do the same wiv 'em but me 'ands was gettin' sticky what wiv all the beer an' that."

Albert burped loudly. "Pardon. Manners. Anyway, a ton's enough for one night's work, innit.