‘Well .. . like … cheerfully.’
‘You all right, Dad?’
‘It was . .. the way …’ Poorchick paused. ‘Well, it’s not right,’ he continued. ‘It’s not right! She’s got no right to go around being cheerful at people! She’s never cheerful! And my boot is full of milk!’
Today Nanny Ogg was taking some time out to tend her secret still in the woods. As a still it was the best-kept secret there could be, since everyone in the kingdom knew exactly where it was, and a secret kept by so many people must be very secret indeed. Even the king knew, and knew enough to pretend he didn’t know, and that meant he didn’t have to ask her for any taxes and she didn’t have to refuse. And every year at Hogswatch he got a barrel of what honey might be if only bees weren’t teetotal. And everyone understood the situation, no one had to pay any money and so, in a small way, the world was a happier place. And no one was cursed until their teeth fell out.
Nanny was dozing. Keeping an eye on a still was a day and night job.
But finally the sound of people repeatedly calling her name got too much for her.
No one would come into the clearing, of course. That would mean admitting that they knew where it was. So they were blundering around in the surrounding bushes. She pushed her way through, and was greeted with some looks of feigned surprise that would have done credit to any amateur dramatic company.
‘Well, what do you lot want?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, Mrs Ogg, we thought you might be… taking a walk in the woods,’ said Poorchick, while a scent that could clean glass wafted on the breeze.
‘You got to do something! It’s Mistress Weatherwax!’
‘What’s she done?’
‘You tell ‘er, Mister Hampicker!’
The man next to Poorchick took off his hat quickly and held it respect fully in front of him in the ai-senior-the-bandidos-have-raided-our-villages position.
‘Well, ma’am, my lad and I were digging for a well and then she come past -‘
‘Granny Weatherwax?’
‘Yes’m, and she said -‘ Hampicker gulped, “‘You won’t find any water there, my good man. You’d be better off looking in the hollow by the chestnut tree.” An’ we dug on down anyway and we never found no water!’
Nanny lit her pipe. She didn’t smoke around the still since that time when a careless spark had sent the barrel she was sitting on a hundred yards into the air. She’d been lucky that a fir tree had broken her fall.
‘So … then you dug in the hollow by the chestnut tree?’ she said mildly.
Hampicker looked shocked. ‘No’m! There’s no telling what she wanted us to find there!’
‘And she cursed my cow!’ said Poorchick.
‘Really? What did she say?’
‘She said, may she give a lot of milk!’ Poorchick stopped. Once again, now that he came to say it…
‘Well, it was the way she said it,’ he added, weakly.
‘And what kind of way was that?’
‘Nicely!’
‘Nicely?’
‘Smilin’ and everything! I don’t dare drink the stuff now!’
Nanny was mystified.
‘Can’t quite see the problem –
‘You tell that to Mr Hopcroft’s dog,’ said Poorchick. ‘Hopcroft daren’t leave the poor thing on account of her! The whole family’s going mad!
There’s him shearing, his wife sharpening the scissors, and the two lads out all the time looking for fresh places to dump the hair!’
Patient questioning on Nanny’s part elucidated the role the Haire Reftorer had played in this.
‘And he gave it …
‘Half the bottle, Mrs Ogg.’
‘Even though Esme writes “A right small spoonful once a week” on the label? And even then you need to wear roomy trousers.’
‘He said he was so nervous, Mrs Ogg! I mean, what’s she playing at? Our wives are keepin’ the kids indoors. I mean, s’posin’ she smiled at them?’
‘Well?’
‘She’s a witch!’
‘So’m I, an’ I smiles at ‘em,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘They’re always runnin’ after me for sweets.’
‘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 a 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 GrannyWeatherwax she knew didn’t approve of music.
And she smiled when she saw Nanny, or at least the corners 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. 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 beds and walked, nay, run at the news that she was coming.