But also a young girl. A girl with a boy who sends her letters.
And a witch. A witch with a cat that was very . . . special.
While her parents lay in bed, talking about their daughter . . .
‘It’s right proud of our girl I am,’ Joe Aching began.
‘And of course she is a really good midwife,’ Mrs Aching said, adding rather sadly, ‘But I wonder if she might ever have children of her own. She doesn’t talk about Preston to me, you know, and I don’t much like to ask. Not like with her sisters.’ She sighed. ‘But so much is changing. Even Wentworth, tonight . . .’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ Mr Aching said. ‘’Tis right for a lad to want to find his own feet, and most likely he’ll bluster for a bit and shout and argue, but he’ll be here when we’ve gone, looking after the Aching land, you mark my words. There’s nothing to beat land.’ He sniffed. ‘Certainly not them railways.’
‘But Tiffany’s different,’ his wife continued. ‘What she’s going to do I really don’t know, though I do hope, in time, that she and Preston might settle round here. If he’s a doctor and she’s a witch, that’s no reason why they can’t be together, is it? Tiffany could have children too then, like Hannah and Fastidia . . .’ They thought of their other daughters, of their grandchildren.
Joe sighed. ‘She’s not like our other daughters, love. I believe Tiffany may even surpass her grandmother,’ he said.
And then he blew out the candles, and they slept, thinking of their Tiffany, a skylark among the sparrows.
fn1 Basically, if it had something herbal in it, Magrat and Verence thought it would do you good. With some of the herbs in Granny’s garden, this might be doubtful. At least in the short term. And it might not be wise to stray too far from the privy.
fn2 And contrary to popular belief, no witch Tiffany knew had yet managed to control a broomstick whilst also using an umbrella.
CHAPTER 6
Around the Houses
WALKING STEADILY ALONG the road to Lancre with Mephistopheles trotting beside him and his little cart rattling behind, and swallows swooping overhead, Geoffrey realized that his old home seemed a long way away now. It had only been a week or so, but as they climbed higher into the Ramtops he began to understand what ‘geography’ meant in reality, rather than in the books Mr Wiggall had let him read – Lancre and its surrounding villages had a lot of geography.
At the end of a day’s long but satisfying walk for both boy and goat, they arrived outside a village pub which proclaimed its name as The Star, the sign promising excellent ales and food. Well, let’s see how excellent it is, Geoffrey thought. He unhitched the cart and went into the pub with the goat following close behind.
The pub was full of working men, who were now not working but enjoying a pint or two before dinner. It was rather stuffy inside with the usual rural tint of agricultural armpit. The regulars were used to people bringing a working dog in with them but they were amazed to see a dusty but well-dressed lad bringing a goat into their pub.
The rather skinny barman said, ‘We only allow dogs in here, mister.’
All eyes in the pub were by now focused on Mephistopheles and Geoffrey said, ‘My goat is cleaner and more knowledgeable than any dog. He can count to twenty, and when the time comes he’ll go outside to do his business. In fact, sir, if I can show him your privy now, he will use it when he needs it.’
One worker appeared to take umbrage at this point. ‘Do you think that just because we work on the land, we don’t know nothing? I have a pint here that says that the goat can’t do it.’
Innocently Geoffrey said, ‘You have a knowledgeable pint there, sir.’ And everyone in the pub laughed. Now every eye was on Geoffrey as he said, ‘Mephistopheles, how many people are in this pub?’
The goat looked down his nose – and it was a nose a dowager would have been proud of – at the men around the bar and started his count, delicately hitting the floor with his hoof, the noise suddenly being the only sound in the place.
He hit the floor eight times. ‘He got it right!’ declared the barman.
‘I saw something like that afore,’ said one of the men. ‘There was a travelling show. You know, clowns and tightrope walkers and folk with no arms and travelling doctors.fn1 They called it a carnival. And they had a horse they said could count. But it was just a trick.’
Geoffrey smiled and said, ‘If a couple of you gentlemen would care to step out for a moment, I will ask
my goat to do it again, and you will see that there is no trick involved.’
Intrigued now, several of the men stepped out while the others started to take bets amongst themselves.
‘Gentlemen, my goat will tell you how many people are still in the room,’ said Geoffrey.
Once again, daintily, Mephistopheles tapped out the correct number.
Hearing the cheers, the men who had gone out came back in again, looking curious – and Mephistopheles’s hoof registered each one as he entered. The barman laughed. ‘This trick deserves a meal for you and your remarkable goat, mister. What does he like?’
‘It’s no trick, I assure you, but thank you. Mephistopheles will eat almost anything – he’s a goat. Some scraps would be most acceptable. And for myself, just some bread would be welcome.’