‘Oh, there’s no need to be hasty,’ said Shrucker, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with a woolly cloth. He lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and examined the stick in front of him.
‘I would be much obliged,’ said Tiffany.
Shrucker made the usual sucking noise through his teeth. ‘Well,’ he said slowly at last, ‘I could take the shell off. Perhaps a new staff?’
‘One of our gentlemen’s staffs,’ Dave added. He tapped his nose. ‘You know, with the . . . special indentation for the . . . delicate parts. A much smoother ride for the lad.’
‘Always wanted to get my hands on this stick,’ Shrucker said. ‘Do some proper work on it. But the dwarfs up there in the mountains said as Mistress Weatherwax always wanted, well . . .’
‘A bodge,’ Dave put in, his forehead creasing as if the word caused him actual pain.
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I am not that witch, but it’s always useful to be friends with any witch.’ She smiled sweetly and added, ‘I’m feeling friendly at the moment . . . but I might not later.’
This fell into a very handy pause as an almighty roar announced another train shooting overhead, smoke and smut billowing in the air.
‘Mistress Weatherwax was a powerful lady indeed,’ Shrucker said carefully once the noise had died down.
‘And I heard that she never paid her bills,’ Dave added grumpily.
‘I’ve got the money,’ said Geoffrey. He had been silent so far, allowing Tiffany to speak up for him, but after all, it was going to be his broomstick.
Tiffany saw the dwarfs look up with a smile, Shrucker only just managing to stop himself rubbing his hands together.
‘Some money,’ she said sharply, ‘but I don’t want my friend to have to use it – I promised him I would arrange this for him. Now, I will tell you what I will do. I will pay in obs.’ Obs were the unspoken currency of the dwarfs. Why waste gold? Humans would call it favours, and the currency was negotiable. The obligation of a witch was particularly valuable, and Tiffany knew that. ‘Look,’ she added, ‘the stick isn’t that bad.’
Shrucker sat down heavily on a chest brimming with bristles.fn2 ‘It’s funny you should suggest obs,’ he said slowly. ‘My lumbago is giving me gyp. Comes with the job, you know. Can you do something about that?’
‘All right, then,’ said Tiffany. ‘Just stay there.’ And she walked behind him. He shifted around a bit, then sat up straight with a look of amazement on his face.
‘Oh my, how did you do that?’
‘I’ve taken away your pain,’ Tiffany explained. ‘So now it’s my pain. And I have to congratulate you for dealing with it, for it is, I must say, very bad. And now I’ve got it hovering in the air, like a dog on a leash.’ The dwarfs automatically looked over her head, just in case there was some kind of big bubble up there marked ‘pain’, but all that happened was that a big drop of some oily substance fell right into Dave’s beard.
‘Is there a stonemason in these arches?’ Tiffany asked, watching the dwarf whip off his helmet and rummage through the beard. ‘If he needs some rocks split, I can use this pain to break them up!’ She looked appreciatively at the helmet. ‘But that would do,’ she added, and as Dave put it down on the ground, she shot the pain into the iron, which to the dwarf’s horror actually buckled, steam shooting up to mingle with the steam from the railways above.
The obs were paid. So, his pain gone, Shrucker – a new, upright, lively Shrucker – was now whipping out his measures. He eyed up both Geoffrey and the old stick as he worked his own form of magic.
‘How do you dress, sir?’ he asked at one point.
Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘I usually dress looking out of the window,’ he said.
There was a little hiatus as the dwarfs told Geoffrey what ‘dressing’ meant in the circumstances.
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I never thought about it before.’
Shrucker laughed and said, ‘Well, that’s about it. All down to me now, but I daresay that if you come back sometime tomorrow, I will have it working a treat.’
They left the dwarfs and Tiffany told Geoffrey they would now be visiting Mrs Proust, a witch who loved living in the city. She headed for the elderly witch’s shop, Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium on Tenth Egg Street. It would be an education for Geoffrey anyway, Tiffany thought. If he decided to follow the witching path, well, he might also need Boffo’s at some point – a lot of the younger witches liked Mrs Proust’s artificial skulls, cauldrons and warts to give them the right image for the job. To someone in need, someone punched so far down that it might seem there was no getting up again, well, a witch with the right look could make all the difference. It helped them to believe.
Mrs Proust – a witch who had no need to add nasty witch accessories to her everyday look, given that she had been naturally blessed with the right kind of hooked nose, messy hair and blackened teeth – heard the novelty graveyard groan of the door opening and came over to greet them.
Tiffany laughed. ‘That’s a new one,’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘Can’t keep them on the shelves. Nice to see you, Mistress Aching, and who’s this young man, may I ask?’
‘This is Geoffrey, Mrs Proust, and we’re in the city to fit him up for a witch’s broomstick.’
‘Are you indeed? A boy? A witch? On a broomstick?’
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘the Archchancellor uses a broomstick sometimes.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Proust, ‘but there might be trouble.’
‘Well, if there is,’ said Tiffany, ‘the trouble will come to me. I am the chosen successor to Granny Weatherwax, and I think it could be time for a few little changes.’
‘Well done,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s the spirit!’ She looked at Geoffrey, who was engrossed in the display of naughty doggy-dos. And then and there she loomed close to him, put a clawed hand on his shoulder, and said to him, ‘So you want to be a witch, do you?’
Geoffrey stood his ground well, and Tiffany was impressed. So was Mrs Proust.
‘Well, mistress,’ he said, ‘I think I can help witches anyway.’
‘Do you?’ said Mrs Proust with a glint in her eye. ‘We shall see, young man, won’t we?’ She turned back to Tiffany. ‘I am sure there will be some witches who will hate the idea,’ she said, ‘but it is your way, Tiffany, your time. And Esme Weatherwax was no fool. She could see the future coming.’
‘We’re staying in Ankh-Morpork until the dwarfs have finished with Geoffrey’s stick,’ Tiffany said. ‘Can we stop here? We might need to stay overnight.’
Mrs Proust grinned. ‘Well, there is plenty of space in my spare room, and it would be good to have a chinwag while you are here.’ She looked at Geoffrey. ‘Have you been to the city before, young man?’
‘No, Mrs Proust,’ he replied quietly. ‘We lived in the Shires, and my father was the only one to travel.’
‘Well then, my son Derek will show you around,’ Mrs Proust said, sounding satisfied. She followed this up with a shout for the lad, and Derek – the sort of lad you wouldn’t notice in a crowd of two, meaning that he shared very little in common with his mother’s looks – came stumbling up the stairs from the workshop below.
Ankh-Morpork, Tiffany thought, would definitely be an education.
As the two lads left, Mrs Proust said, ‘So how are things going with your young man then, Tiffany?’
Tiffany sighed. Why were elderly witches so nosy? But then she thought: Actually, all witches are nosy. It’s part of what being a witch is. And she relaxed. At least Mrs Proust wasn’t trying to push her Derek at her again.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I do like Preston and he likes me – he’s my best friend – but I’m not sure either of us are ready for, well . . . anything more. You see, he does a lot of wonderful work at the hospital and we write to each other and even meet up sometimes.’ She paused. ‘I think we are married to our jobs.’ She swallowed, a lump suddenly appearing in her thro
at. ‘It’s not that we don’t want to be together . . . I mean, I . . . but . . .’ The words trailed off and Tiffany just looked totally miserable now.
Mrs Proust did her best to look sympathetic. ‘You’re not the first witch to have that problem, my dear,’ she said. ‘Nor will you be the last.’
Tiffany could feel the tears beginning. She said, ‘But why do I feel like this? I know a part of me does want to be with Preston – and it would make my family so happy! – but I also want to be a witch. And I’m good at it – I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I measure myself against the other witches and I know I’m better than most of them when it comes to witchcraft. I can’t not do it.’ A tear threatened to trickle down her cheek. ‘Just like Preston can’t not be a doctor,’ she finished sadly.
‘Oh, I understand all that,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future. Just like my Derek.’
‘But that’s the difficulty,’ said Tiffany. ‘I don’t really want options. I know what I want to do. I enjoy my work, I really do.’ This last word came out as a squeal. ‘I just wish Preston could be with me,’ she added quietly. ‘Not here in the city.’
‘But you tell me he is training to be a doctor,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘And he loves his work. You wouldn’t want him to give that up for you, now would you? So don’t worry so much. Think yourself lucky and don’t run ahead of the world. There is a saying, Don’t push the river. Although, of course, in Ankh-Morpork you can push very hard,’ she added with a cackle.fn3 More encouragingly, she continued, ‘Maybe in a year or two your young man can be a doctor in the same place where you are a witch. I had my Mr Proust. You can have your Preston. Just not yet.’
‘When I go around the houses,’ Tiffany said quietly, ‘I also see how some of the marriages, well, they’re not really . . .’ That hung in the air.
‘There are happy marriages,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘Think of your parents, maybe? Isn’t that a happy marriage? Now, let your Auntie Eunice give you some help. Go and see your boy and have a chat to him.’ She paused and added shrewdly, ‘He’s not interested in anyone else, is he?’
‘Oh no,’ said Tiffany. ‘He’s working with the Igorsfn4 and he said that he didn’t fancy the Igor girls because he likes a girl who stays the same shape every day. The Igorinas like to experiment.’
Geoffrey came back late with Derek, singing a song worthy of Nanny Ogg, but Tiffany got a good night’s sleep – a rare treat! – and then a breakfast of ham and eggs courtesy of Mrs Proust. While Geoffrey and Derek still slept, Tiffany decided to go and visit Preston. Mrs Proust’s words had got her thinking.
She headed for the Lady Sybil Hospital over in Goose Gate, but paused at the door, strangely uncertain. She hadn’t told Preston she would be in the city. Would her visit be a good one, or . . .?
It was a free hospital, so there was a queue of people waiting, all hoping for the happy result of seeing a doctor before old Boney turned up with his scythe. It looked like nobody would be moving for some time, so Tiffany did something she knew she shouldn’t.
She stepped outside her body, leaving it standing demurely by the gates. It was an easy trick for a witch, but still dangerous, and she had no real reason to take the risk. Except . . . the Igor girls? They were beautiful . . . once you looked past the discreet stitches, anyway.
She slid silently through the crowd, doing her best to ignore her First Thoughts, Second Thoughts and even her Third Thoughts, and drifted into the hospital itself, floating along the corridors until she found Preston.
He was in his element, his gaze focused on a patient with a rather unsettling hole in the stomach – and when Preston looked at anything, it knew it was being looked at and was liable to stand up and salute. This was especially true of some of the spare parts the Igors used – a most unsettling experience – and Preston was indeed surrounded by Igors. And yes, that included girls. But, happy sight, he was paying them no attention.
Tiffany sighed with relief, and then – allowing herself to listen to her Second Thoughts, which were telling her off in a style uncomfortably like the voice of Granny Weatherwax – whisked herself back into her body, which wobbled slightly as she took control again.
The queue had moved a few inches. But the pointy hat took her to its head and the porter let her through immediately. She waved away his offer of directions and marched confidently off down the corridor, leaving the porter to mutter, ‘I didn’t even need to tell her where he was. That’s a proper witch, that is.’ For at the hospital it was all too easy to set off confidently for one place but find yourself in the basement – which these days was home to goblins, who maintained the huge boilers and had set up a workshop manufacturing the very finest surgical instruments. Still, most people eventually made it out of the hospital and the record seemed to be improving.
Preston was very glad to see Tiffany, saying, ‘I heard about Granny Weatherwax. Well done for being the top witch, it couldn’t happen to a better person; are you allowed to tell all the other witches what to do now?’
‘What!’ Tiffany laughed. ‘It’s like herding goblins. No! Goblins are easier. Anyway, it works like this: I don’t tell them what to do, and they allow me to work hard – just as I like it.’
‘Just like me and the Igors,’ said Preston. ‘But I’ve got good news too. Doctor Lawn is getting on now and he has promoted me to be a surgeon; usually only Igors can be surgeons, so that’s a real feather in my hat.’
Tiffany kissed him, and said, ‘That is good news; I am so proud of you! But I do wish he would give you more time off – and you could come and see me. Letters can only say so much . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘Though I do so love the way you write.’
‘And I like your letters too,’ Preston said, ‘and I wish I could visit home more. But I do enjoy the work here, Tiffany. And people need me. Every day. I’ve got a talent and it would be criminal not to use it.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Tiffany. ‘That’s the story of my life as well. Our skills, you will find, could be our gaolers.’ And it struck her that just as Preston was looking into people in one way – he knew the names of all the bones now, and could even say hello to a few of them – she was learning to look into people another way: into their heads, their minds. ‘But I couldn’t do anything else,’ she finished, a touch wistfully.
Preston said, ‘No. Me neither.’
Then the time for talking was over, and it was just Tiffany and Preston, together, snatching the moment and saying more with their eyes than any words could convey.
And it was magic; a different kind of magic.
Mrs Proust went with them to pick up Geoffrey’s broomstick – Granny Weatherwax’s stick had been a legend, and she was curious to see if the dwarfs had managed to make it work.
Dave greeted them and said, ‘Well, here it is. It’s a good stick, it really is. I reckon Mistress Weatherwax never took any care of it at all, no matter what we dwarfs did to fix it up.’
‘All she did was curse it,’ Shrucker put in a bit sourly. It was clear that, to him, a broomstick was almost like a living creature.
The stick gleamed. It shone. It looked almost alive, and the bristles were sleek. It was almost Granny Weatherwax’s old stick, if you discounted the new shell for the staff and new bristles.fn5 Tiffany and Geoffrey stared at it in amazement while the two dwarfs looked on, smiling.
‘It’s the best we ever made – I mean, mended,’ Shrucker added. ‘But please, use it gently and keep it oiled. Nothing but the best for Mistress Aching.’ He straightened up proudly, a dwarf who could stand tall to his full four foot once again.
Mrs Proust ran her fingers against the stick and nodded. ‘This is an excellent stick,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s even got a little cup to h
old your drink.’
Shrucker gave her a funny look. ‘And special today, for our good customers,’ he said instead, ‘those who don’t bring . . . trouble’ – with a sideways glance at Tiffany – ‘we have a bonus little gift.’ He proudly presented Geoffrey with two furry white cubes covered in assorted spots. ‘You can tie them on the strap,’ he said. ‘Very popular with the lads for their carriages, these. Some lads also keep birds in a little cage to sing as they go along. They call it in-carriage entertainment.’
Geoffrey shuddered at the thought. A bird, in a cage? His heart felt sorrow for them. But the broomstick, well, he could barely wait to have a go on it.
Dave sniffed and said, ‘There you go, young man. So, do you want to give it a test drive then?’ He handed him the stick, and said, ‘Go on. Go to the end of the arches and give it a whirl.’
Tiffany was about to speak, but already Geoffrey was sparkling with excitement. She looked at his glowing eyes and said, ‘Well, all right, Geoffrey. You’ve been on my stick with me, and watched the broomsticks going past overhead. Go up slowly, just a bit at a time.’
She might as well have talked to the wall. Geoffrey straddled his broomstick, ran past the neighbouring arch, jumped – and went skywards very fast. A series of nightmares flashed through Tiffany’s mind. There was a distant boom! Then a little dot in the sky got bigger, and there was Geoffrey, coming back down, grinning from ear to ear.
Tiffany almost squealed. ‘Look, Mrs Proust. He’s picked it up already. It took me ages to learn how to fly.’
‘But of course,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘That’s this here technology.’
And Shrucker said, ‘Wow! He’s a natural. Not even the goblins can do that.’ For Geoffrey had just looped the loop, then got off his stick, leaving it hovering a few feet above the cobbles.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Tiffany, genuinely impressed.
‘I don’t know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Just a knack, I suppose.’
And Tiffany thought: When Geoffrey’s not anxious, he radiates calmness, which probably means he sees more things and finds more things than other people do. It makes him open to new things too. Yes, it’s a knack all right.
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