by Kathryn Montague
Since her earliest memory, Clare Harcourt's greatest wish was to become a police officer. When she was very small, she didn't even know the term policewoman. She told her amused family that she wanted to be a lady policeman. Everyone assumed she would grow out of this ambition, perhaps moving on to wanting to run a sweet shop, then wanting to be an actress then growing up and wanting to marry and have babies. But Clare did not grow out of it. Throughout her time at school, when the possible careers for girls were suggested - teacher, nurse, secretary - Clare persisted in saying that she wanted to be a policewoman.
Clare was fortunate that her father's brother, her Uncle Miles, was the Chief Constable for the area and he at least took her seriously and told her stories about exciting and unexciting police work. Uncle Miles explained to Clare's parents that it would be difficult for her to be taken on to train for the police force, but that there were a few women now, and the numbers were slowly increasing as the government recognised a need for women police officers to handle some of the delicate work around women and children. After more than one application Clare succeeded in being accepted on to the training programme. She worked hard, trying to prove she was as fit and capable as the men, and managed to ignore the teasing and jibes from the male recruits until finally she succeeded in completing the training. Then, at twenty years old she was sworn in as Woman Police Constable (WPC) Harcourt.
Clare was thrilled to put on the jacket, skirt, hat and sturdy shoes of the WPC and turn up to work at the constabulary. She became a little disappointed, though, as day after day went by when she was just given typing to do. She complained that if she'd wanted to be a typist, she wouldn't have bothered with the fitness training and police exams, but the sergeant just laughed saying that Clare could hardly go and chase and catch a big burly burglar and, if she didn't like it, she could always leave.
Clare was determined to stick at it, but she begged for more interesting work. Weren't there some brothels she could raid? Apparently not, in the affluent market town in which she worked. Couldn't she patrol the docks to see that refugees from Europe weren't being led into the white slave trade? The docks, she was told, were off their beat. As time went on, though, the officers saw her tenacity and hard work, and they did start to give her a little more to do. She accompanied girls who had committed petty crimes to approved schools, and she occasionally went to the houses of women whose husbands were violent, though there was little she could do other than sympathise.
After a year of fairly mundane tasks, which Clare had tackled cheerfully, one day she was called into the office of the Detective Inspector. She stood to attention in front of his desk. "WPC Harcourt," he mumbled, from under his ginger moustache, "we have a rather special job for you."
Clare felt a thrill in her fingertips that sent sparks of electricity through her body. Was she finally going to get to do some really exciting police work? Something more than just typing up reports from other police officers' investigations, or having to investigate the theft of prize marrows.
"It's an undercover job that you are the most suitable person to do," he continued. "It could take a month or so and we need a young woman. How old are you?"
"I'm 21, sir," Clare replied.
The Detective Inspector looked at a paper on his desk. "Do you know Trembling-on-sea?" he asked, naming a small seaside town about twenty miles away.
Clare nodded. She'd been there for days out.
"And do you know Trembling Abbey?"
"The Catholic girls' school up on the cliffs? Well, I've heard of it. It looks like a really grim place. They say the girls are never allowed out."
"That's the place," nodded the Detective Inspector. "Intelligence suggests there's something going on there but the nuns won't let the police in so we need some in there undercover, doing a bit of investigating."
"So would I get a job teaching there?" asked Clare. "Because I don't know if I'd be very good at teaching and I can't cook so I'd be no good as kitchen staff."
The Detective Inspector waves these remarks aside. "Good God, no," he said. "The nuns appoint their own staff. We can't impose someone. No, you're going to be entered as a pupil."
"A pupil!" gasped Clare. "Oh, please no. I don't want to wear ghastly hideous school uniforms and sleep in a dormitory. I couldn't. I'm much too old."
The Detective Inspector appraised her appearance. "I think you'll convince all right," he said. "In the right clothes and with your hair out of that bun and tied in a couple of pigtails."
"But I don't want to!" declared Clare.
"WPC Harcourt," the Detective Inspector said firmly, "do I need to remind you that when you were sworn in, you promised to obey orders? This is an order. An order that comes from the Chief Constable, who I believe is your uncle. He has contacted Sister Conception, the Headmistress there, asking for his seventeen-year-old niece to be admitted as a pupil. You will go there in a week's time. He has advised that you tell your parents you're going on a holiday for a month. You can tell them that your uncle has decided to send you to St Tropez as a reward for all your hard work." The Detective Inspector chuckled. "But instead, you'll be at Trembling Abbey."
Clare sighed inwardly. This was a much bigger job than she'd had so far but dressing up and posing as a schoolgirl did not sound like it would be pleasant or even exciting. She gritted her teeth and smiled. "Thank you, sir," she said. "I'd better go and get ready."
A week later, Uncle Miles came to collect Clare from her parents' house. Her mother had been delighted at the idea of Clare going off on a nice holiday to a nice place as a nice girl might do, rather than playing around at her grubby police work. She kissed Clare goodbye, saying, "Perhaps, darling, you'll meet a nice chap in St Tropez and you'll give up this police nonsense forever."
"Perhaps, Mummy," said Clare, adding quietly, "but I wouldn't hold your breath."
Clare got into the car and Uncle Miles drove away. However, instead of driving Clare to the railway station so she could go to London and get the boat train from Charing Cross, he drove her just five miles away to his own house. "Right then," he said, when they arrived, "pop up to the spare room, slip your things off and put on the outfit that's waiting there. The school sent a list of all the required clothes, so I had everything ordered for you."
Clare nodded and went upstairs to the spare room in which she had often stayed if her parents were away. She put down the suitcase her mother had helped her pack, full of brand new sundresses and lingerie and exciting two-piece bathing costumes. She supposed that would just have to stay at Uncle Miles's house until this assignment was over. Clare saw laid out on the bed the clothes she was expected to put on. They were even worse than she'd thought.
Miserably, Clare pulled her tight-fitting Fair Isle sweater over her head, and slid her tweed skirt down her hips. She hung them both in the vast mahogany wardrobe. Standing in her slip, she surveyed the clothes on the bed. There was a woolly white vest and pair of plain white knickers and a pair of looser navy blue knickers with long legs and a little pocket on one leg. Clare sighed. She supposed she'd have to take off her art silk slip and knickers and put on these monstrosities. Was she supposed to take off her brassiere as well, she wondered. The minimum height requirement for a Woman Police Constable was 5'4. Clare just met this requirement. Her hourglass figure was envied by most women. She had a small waist with moderately size breasts curving out above it and moderately sized hips and bottom curving out below it. Her figure was shown to its full advantage when in her WPC uniform, with the belt pulled tight around the middle of the jacket. Clare felt that she couldn't really go without a brassiere at her size. She had been wearing one since the age of 12 and a half.
Decision made, she removed her girdle and her knickers, briefly stroking the silky material against her cheek, before putting on the austere white lock-knit knickers followed by the voluminous navy blue bloomers. She put on the vest over her brassiere. Then she added the cream-coloured blouse and buttoned it up to the neck, struggling a little to get the top button through the stiff starched collar. She saw a pair of black woollen stockings on the bed and wondered how she was supposed to hold them up without the hooks on her girdle. Then she saw the elastic garters underneath them. So this is how, with uncomfortable tight elastic bands around my thighs, how I suffer for the constabulary, she thought ruefully. Clare put on the stockings then pulled on the ghastly navy blue box pleated gymslip, tying it round the middle with a sash striped in navy blue and pale blue. She added a tie of the same blue stripes round her neck, and pushed her feet into some sensible low-heeled black shoes. They, at least, weren't too different from the shoes she wore with her police uniform.
The only other things on the bed were a navy blue raincoat and navy blue beret. Beside the bed stood a suitcase. Clare opened it and looked inside. It contained more knickers, stockings and blouses, pyjamas, a dressing gown, and a sponge bag with soap, toothbrush and hairbrush and comb. Her hair! Clare sat down in front of the dressing table and used the comb to find a centre parting. Deftly she plaited her hair into two neat plaits, securing the ends with navy blue ribbons. She grimaced at her reflection.
"Are you ready, Clare?" called Uncle Miles.
"Coming!" Clare answered. On a sudden whim she stuffed her discarded knickers into her handbag, then grabbed handbag, suitcase, hat and coat and hurried down the stairs. Uncle Miles was waiting at the foot of the staircase. He laughed when he saw her.
"If I didn't know better," he said, "I'd be completely convinced that you are just an innocent awkward schoolgirl."
"I suppose that's a compliment," said Clare. "But it doesn't feel like one. I look dreadful, I know. Oh, what's my name to be?" As she spoke, she looked in the collar of the raincoat for a name label. "Mildred Jones?" she said, aghast. "You're making me be called Mildred? That's the horridest name ever. The girls will call me mildew."
Uncle Miles took her suitcase. "I'm sure you can handle a little schoolgirl teasing," he said. "You're a woman on a mission. We're sure there's some suspicious activity going on in that place and you're going to find us the evidence. So, hat and coat on, dear niece. We have an appointment with the headmistress, Sister Conception, and we don't want to be late." He peered at Clare's face. "You're not wearing makeup, are you?" he asked.
"No," answered Clare. "The high colour is excitement."
"Glad to hear it, dear. You don't want the nuns making you write lines on your first day. Right, off we go."
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