‘Yes, but … you’re … I mean … she … I mean … you don’t … I mean, well—’
‘And she’s a good woman,’ said Nanny. Common sense prompted her to add, ‘In her own way. I expect there is water down in the hollow, and Poorchick’s cow’ll give good milk and if Hopcroft won’t read the labels on bottles then he deserves a head you can see your face in, and if you think Esme Weatherwax’d curse kids you’ve got the sense of an earthworm. She’d cuss ’em, yes, all day long. But not curse ’em. She don’t aim that low.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Poorchick almost moaned, ‘but it don’t feel right, that’s what we’re saying. Her going round being nice, a man don’t know if he’s got a leg to stand on.’
‘Or hop on,’ said Hampicker darkly.
‘All right, all right, I’ll see about it,’ said Nanny.
‘People shouldn’t go around not doin’ what you expect,’ said Poorchick weakly. ‘It gets people on edge.’
‘And we’ll keep an eye on your sti—’ Hampicker said, and then staggered backwards, grasping his stomach and wheezing.
‘Don’t mind him, it’s the stress,’ said Poorchick, rubbing his elbow. ‘Been picking herbs, Mrs Ogg?’
‘That’s right,’ said Nanny, hurrying away across the leaves.
‘So shall I put the fire out for you, then?’ Poorchick shouted.
Granny was sitting outside her house when Nanny Ogg hurried up the path. She was sorting through a sack of old clothes. Elderly garments were scattered around her.
And she was humming. Nanny Ogg started to worry. The Granny Weatherwax she knew didn’t approve of music.
And she smiled when she saw Nanny, or at least the corner of her mouth turned up. That was really worrying. Granny normally only smiled if something bad was happening to someone deserving.
‘Why, Gytha, how nice to see you!’
‘You all right, Esme?’
‘Never felt better, dear.’ The humming continued.
‘Er … sorting out rags, are you?’ said Nanny. ‘Going to make that quilt?’
It was one of Granny Weatherwax’s firm beliefs that one day she’d make a patchwork quilt. However, it is a task that requires patience, and hence in fifteen years she’d got as far as three patches. But she collected old clothes anyway. A lot of witches did. It was a witch thing. Old clothes had personality, like old houses. When it came to clothes with a bit of wear left in them, a witch had no pride at all.
‘It’s in here somewhere …’ Granny mumbled. ‘Aha, here we are …’
She flourished a garment. It was basically pink.
‘Knew it was here,’ she went on. ‘Hardly worn, either. And about my size, too.’
‘You’re going to wear it?’ said Nanny.
Granny’s piercing blue cut-you-off-at-the-knees gaze was turned upon her. Nanny would have been relieved at a reply like, ‘No, I’m going to eat it, you daft old fool’. Instead her friend relaxed and said, a little concerned:
‘You don’t think it’d suit me?’
There was lace around the collar. Nanny swallowed.
‘You usually wear black,’ she said. ‘Well, a bit more than usually. More like always.’
‘And a very sad sight I look, too,’ said Granny robustly. ‘It’s about time I brightened myself up a bit, don’t you think?’
‘And it’s so very … pink.’
Granny put it aside and to Nanny’s horror took her by the hand and said earnestly, ‘And, you know, I reckon I’ve been far too dog-in-the-manger about this Trials business, Gytha—’
‘Bitch-in-the-manger,’ said Nanny Ogg, absent-mindedly.
For a moment Granny’s eyes became two sapphires again.
‘What?’
‘Er … you’d be a bitch-in-the-manger,’ Nanny mumbled. ‘Not a dog.’
‘Ah? Oh, yes. Thank you for pointing that out. Well, I thought, it is time I stepped back a bit, and went along and cheered on the younger folks. I mean, I have to say, I … really haven’t been very nice to people, have I …’
‘Er …’
‘I’ve tried being nice,’ Granny went on. ‘It didn’t turn out like I expected, I’m sorry to say.’
‘You’ve never been really … good at nice,’ said Nanny.
Granny smiled. Hard though she stared, Nanny was unable to spot anything other than earnest concern.
‘Perhaps I’ll get better with practice,’ she said.
She patted Nanny’s hand. And Nanny stared at her hand as though something horrible had happened to it.
‘It’s just that everyone’s more used to you being … firm,’ she said.
‘I thought I might make some jam and cakes for the produce stall,’ said Granny.
‘Oh … good.’
‘Are there any sick people want visitin’?’
Nanny stared at the trees. It was getting worse and worse. She rummaged in her memory for anyone in the locality sick enough to warrant a ministering visit but still well enough to survive the shock of a ministering visit by Granny Weatherwax. When it came to practical psychology and the more robust type of folk physiotherapy Granny was without equal; in fact, she could even do the latter at a distance, for many a pain-racked soul had left their bed and walked, nay, run at the news that she was coming.
‘Everyone’s pretty well at the moment,’ said Nanny diplomatically.
‘Any old folk want cheerin’ up?’
It was taken for granted by both women that old people did not include them. A witch aged ninety-seven would not have included herself. Old people happened to other people.
‘All fairly cheerful right now,’ said Nanny.
‘Maybe I could tell stories to the kiddies?’
Nanny nodded. Granny had done that once before, when the mood had briefly taken her. It had worked pretty well, as far as the children were concerned. They’d listened with open-mouthed attention and apparent enjoyment to a traditional old folk legend. The problem had come when they’d gone home afterwards and asked the meaning of words like ‘disembowelled’.
‘I could sit in a rocking chair while I tell ’em,’ Granny added. ‘That’s how it’s done, I recall. And I could make them some of my special treacle toffee apples. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
Nanny nodded again, in a sort of horrified reverie. She realized that only she stood in the way of a wholesale rampage of niceness.
‘Toffee,’ she said. ‘Would that be the sort you did that shatters like glass, or that sort where our boy Pewsey had to have his mouth levered open with a spoon?’
‘I reckon I know what I did wrong last time.’
‘You know you and sugar don’t get along, Esme. Remember them all-day suckers you made?’
‘They did last all day, Gytha.’
‘Only ’cos our Pewsey couldn’t get it out of his little mouth until we pulled two of his teeth, Esme. You ought to stick to pickles. You and pickles goes well.’
‘I’ve got to do something, Gytha. I can’t be an old grump all the time. I know! I’ll help at the Trials. Bound to be a lot that needs doing, eh?’
Nanny grinned inwardly. So that was it.
‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Mrs Earwig will be happy to tell you what to do.’ And more fool her if she does, she thought, because I can tell you’re planning something.
‘I shall talk to her,’ said Granny. ‘I’m sure there’s a million things I could do to help, if I set my mind to it.’
‘And I’m sure you will,’ said Nanny heartily. ‘I’ve a feelin’ you’re going to make a big difference.’
Granny started to rummage in the bag again.
‘You are going to be along as well, aren’t you, Gytha?’
‘Me?’ said Nanny. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Nanny got up especially early. If there was going to be any unpleasantness she wanted a ringside seat.
What there was was bunting. It was hanging from tree to tree in terrible brightly coloured loops as she walked towards the
Trials.
There was something oddly familiar about it, too. It should not technically be possible for anyone with a pair of scissors to be unable to cut out a triangle, but someone had managed it. And it was also obvious that the flags had been made from old clothes, painstakingly cut up. Nanny knew this because not many real flags have collars.
In the Trials field, people were setting up stalls and falling over children. The committee were standing uncertainly under a tree, occasionally glancing up at a pink figure at the top of a very long ladder.
‘She was here before it was light,’ said Letice, as Nanny approached. ‘She said she’d been up all night making the flags.’
‘Tell her about the cakes,’ said Gammer Beavis darkly.
‘She made cakes?’ said Nanny. ‘But she can’t cook!’
The committee shuffled aside. A lot of the ladies contributed to the food for the Trials. It was a tradition and an informal competition in its own right. At the centre of the spread of covered plates was a large platter piled high with … things, of indefinite colour and shape. It looked as though a herd of small cows had eaten a lot of raisins and then been ill. They were Ur-cakes, prehistoric cakes, cakes of great weight and presence that had no place among the iced dainties.
‘She’s never had the knack of it,’ said Nanny weakly. ‘Has anyone tried one?’
‘Hahaha,’ said Gammer solemnly.
‘Tough, are they?’
‘You could beat a troll to death.’
‘But she was so … sort of … proud of them,’ said Letice. ‘And then there’s … the jam.’
It was a large pot. It seemed to be filled with solidified purple lava.
‘Nice … colour,’ said Nanny. ‘Anyone tasted it?’
‘We couldn’t get the spoon out,’ said Gammer.
‘Oh, I’m sure—’
‘We only got it in with a hammer.’
‘What’s she planning, Mrs Ogg? She’s got a weak and vengeful nature,’ said Letice. ‘You’re her friend,’ she added, her tone suggesting that this was as much an accusation as a statement.
‘I don’t know what she’s thinking, Mrs Earwig.’
‘I thought she was staying away.’
‘She said she was going to take an interest and encourage the young ’uns.’
‘She is planning something,’ said Letice, darkly. ‘Those cakes are a plot to undermine my authority.’
‘No, that’s how she always cooks,’ said Nanny. ‘She just hasn’t got the knack.’ Your authority, eh?
‘She’s nearly finished the flags,’ Gammer reported. ‘Now she’s going to try to make herself useful again.’
‘Well … I suppose we could ask her to do the Lucky Dip.’
Nanny looked blank. ‘You mean where kids fish around in a big tub full of bran to see what they can pull out?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to let Granny Weatherwax do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only she’s got a funny sense of humour, if you know what I mean.’
‘Good morning to you all!’
It was Granny Weatherwax’s voice. Nanny Ogg had known it for most of her life. But it had that strange edge to it again. It sounded nice.
‘We were wondering if you could supervise the bran tub, Miss Weatherwax.’
Nanny flinched. But Granny merely said, ‘Happy to, Mrs Earwig. I can’t wait to see the expressions on their little faces as they pull out the goodies.’
Nor can I, Nanny thought.
When the others had scurried off she sidled up to her friend.
‘Why’re you doing this?’ she said.
‘I really don’t know what you mean, Gytha.’
‘I seen you face down terrible creatures, Esme. I once seen you catch a unicorn, for goodness’ sake. What’re you plannin’?’
‘I still don’t know what you mean, Gytha.’
‘Are you angry ’cos they won’t let you enter, and now you’re plannin’ horrible revenge?’
For a moment they both looked at the field. It was beginning to fill up. People were bowling for pigs and fighting on the greasy pole. The Lancre Volunteer Band was trying to play a medley of popular tunes, and it was only a pity that each musician was playing a different one. Small children were fighting. It was going to be a scorcher of a day, probably the last one of the year.
Their eyes were drawn to the roped-off square in the centre of the field.
‘Are you going to enter the Trials, Gytha?’ said Granny.
‘You never answered my question!’
‘What question was that?’
Nanny decided not to hammer on a locked door. ‘Yes, I am going to have a go, as it happens,’ she said.
‘I certainly hope you win, then. I’d cheer you on, only that wouldn’t be fair to the others. I shall merge into the background and be as quiet as a little mouse.’
Nanny tried guile. Her face spread into a wide pink grin, and she nudged her friend.
‘Right, right,’ she said. ‘Only … you can tell me, right? I wouldn’t like to miss it when it happens. So if you could just give me a little signal when you’re going to do it, eh?’
‘What’s it you’re referring to, Gytha?’
‘Esme Weatherwax, sometimes I could really give you a bloody good slap!’
‘Oh dear.’
Nanny Ogg didn’t often swear, or at least use words beyond the boundaries of what the Lancrastrians thought of as ‘colourful language’. She looked as if she habitually used bad words, and had just thought up a good one, but mostly witches are quite careful about what they say. You can never be sure what the words are going to do when they’re out of earshot. But now she swore under her breath and caused small brief fires to start in the dry grass.
This put her in just about the right frame of mind for the Cursing.
It was said that once upon a time this had been done on a living, breathing subject, at least at the start of the event, but that wasn’t right for a family day out and for several hundred years the Curses had been directed at Unlucky Charlie, who was, however you looked at it, nothing more than a scarecrow. And since curses are generally directed at the mind of the cursed, this presented a major problem, because even ‘May your straw go mouldy and your carrot fall off’ didn’t make much impression on a pumpkin. But points were given for general style and inventiveness.
There wasn’t much pressure for those in any case. Everyone knew what event counted, and it wasn’t Unlucky Charlie.
One year Granny Weatherwax had made the pumpkin explode. No one had ever worked out how she’d done it.
Someone would walk away at the end of today and everyone would know that person was the winner, whatever the points said. You could win the Witch with the Pointiest Hat prize and the broomstick dressage, but that was just for the audience. What counted was the Trick you’d been working on all summer.
Nanny had drawn last place, at number nineteen. A lot of witches had turned up this year. News of Granny Weatherwax’s withdrawal had got around, and nothing moves faster than news in the occult community, since it doesn’t just have to travel at ground level. Many pointy hats moved and nodded among the crowds.
Witches are among themselves generally as sociable as cats but, as also with cats, there are locations and times and neutral grounds where they meet at something like peace. And what was going on was a sort of slow, complicated dance …
The witches walked around saying hello to one another, and rushing to meet newcomers, and innocent bystanders might have believed that here was a meeting of old friends. Which, at one level, it probably was. But Nanny watched through a witch’s eyes, and saw the subtle positioning, the careful weighing-up, the little changes of stance, the eye contact finely tuned by intensity and length.
And when a witch was in the arena, especially if she was comparatively unknown, all the others found some excuse to keep an eye on her, preferably without appearing to do so.
It was like watchin
g cats. Cats spend a lot of time carefully eyeing one another. When they have to fight, that’s merely to rubber-stamp something that’s already been decided in their heads.
Nanny knew all this. And she also knew most of the witches to be kind (on the whole), gentle (to the meek), generous (to the deserving; the undeserving got more than they bargained for), and by and large quite dedicated to a life that really offered more kicks than kisses. Not one of them lived in a house made of confectionery, although some of the conscientious younger ones had experimented with various crispbreads. Even children who deserved it were not slammed into their ovens. Generally they did what they’d always done – smooth the passage of their neighbours into and out of the world, and help them over some of the nastier hurdles in between.
You needed to be a special kind of person to do that. You needed a special kind of ear, because you saw people in circumstances where they were inclined to tell you things, like where the money is buried or who the father was or how come they’d got a black eye again. And you needed a special kind of mouth, the sort that stayed shut. Keeping secrets made you powerful. Being powerful earned you respect. Respect was hard currency.
And within this sisterhood – except that it wasn’t a sisterhood, it was a loose assortment of chronic non-joiners; a group of witches wasn’t a coven, it was a small war – there was always this awareness of position. It had nothing to do with anything the other world thought of as status. Nothing was ever said. But if an elderly witch died the local witches would attend her funeral for a few last words, and then go solemnly home alone, with the little insistent thought at the back of their minds: I’ve moved up one.
And newcomers were watched very, very carefully.
‘’Morning, Mrs Ogg,’ said a voice behind her. ‘I trust I find you well?’
‘Howd’yer do, Mistress Shimmy,’ said Nanny, turning. Her mental filing system threw up a card: Clarity Shimmy, lives over toward Cutshade with her old mum, takes snuff, good with animals. ‘How’s your mother keepin’?’
‘We buried her last month, Mrs Ogg.’
Nanny Ogg quite liked Clarity, because she didn’t see her very often.
‘Oh dear …’ she said.
‘But I shall tell her you asked after her, anyway,’ said Clarity. She glanced briefly towards the ring.
A Blink of the Screen Page 20
