“Just so long as he understands that he doesn’t start kicking up the gutters when he gets back to the city,” Vimes said. “Some of that stuff will kick back.”
“He should learn about the countryside. He should know where food comes from and how we get it. This is important, Sam!”
“Of course, dear.”
Lady Sybil gave her husband a look only a wife can give. “That was your put-upon-but-dutiful voice, Sam.”
“Yes, but I don’t see—”
Sybil interrupted him. “Young Sam will own all this one day and I’d like him to have some idea about it all, just as I’d like you to relax and enjoy your holiday. I’m taking Young Sam over to Home Farm later on, to see the cows being milked, and to collect some eggs.” She stood up. “But first I’m going to take him down to the crypt, to see his ancestors.” She noted her husband’s look of panic and added, quickly, “It’s all right, Sam, they aren’t walking around; they are, in fact, in very expensive boxes. Why don’t you come too?”
Sam Vimes was no stranger to death, and vice versa. It was the suicides that got him down. They were mostly hangings, because you would have to be extremely suicidal to jump into the River Ankh, not least because you would bounce several times before you broke through the crust. And they all had to be investigated, just in case it was a murder in disguise,* and whereas Mr. Trooper, the current city hangman, could drop someone into eternity so quickly and smoothly that they probably didn’t notice, too often Vimes had seen what amateurs managed to do.
The Ramkin family crypt reminded him of the city morgue after hours. It was crowded; some coffins were stacked edgewise, as though they were on shelves in the mortuary, but, it was to be hoped, they didn’t slide out. Vimes watched warily as his wife carefully took their son from plaque to plaque reading out the names and explaining a little about every occupant, and he felt the cold, bottomless depths of time around him, somehow breathing from the walls. How could it feel for Young Sam to know the names of all those grandfathers and grandmothers down the centuries? Vimes had never known his father. His mum told him that the man had been run over by a cart, but Vimes suspected that if this was true at all, then it was probably a brewer’s cart, which had “run him over” a bit at a time for years. Oh, of course there was Old Stoneface, the regicide, now rehabilitated and with his own statue in the city which was never graffitied because Vimes had made it clear what would happen to the perpetrator.
But Old Stoneface was just a point in time, a kind of true myth. There wasn’t a line between him and Sam Vimes, only an aching gulf.
Still, Young Sam would be a duke one day, and that was a thought worth hanging on to. He wouldn’t grow up worrying about what he was, because he would know, and the influence of his mother might just outweigh the enormous drag factor of having Samuel Vimes as a father. Young Sam would be able to shake up the world the right way. You need confidence to do that, and having a bunch of (apparently) loony but interesting ancestors could only impress the man in the street, and Vimes knew a lot of streets, and a lot of men.
Willikins hadn’t entirely told the truth. Even city people liked a character, especially a black-hearted one or one interesting enough to materially add to the endless crazy circus show which was the street life of Ankh-Morpork, and while having a dr
unkard for a father was a social faux pas, having a great-great-great-grandfather who could drink so much brandy that his urine must surely have been inflammable, and then, according to Willikins, proceeded to go home to a meal of turbot followed by roast goose (with appropriate wines) and then played a hand of saddle pork* with his cronies until dawn, winning back his earlier losses…Well, people loved that sort of thing, and that sort of person, who kicked the world in the arse and shouted at it. That was an ancestor to be proud of, surely?
“I think…I’d like to go for a walk by myself,” said Vimes. “You know, have a look round, poke about a bit, get the hang of this countryside business at my own pace.”
“Willikins ought to accompany you, dear,” said Lady Sybil, “just in case.”
“In case of what, my dear? I walk around the streets of the city every night, don’t I? I don’t think I need a chaperone for a stroll in the country, do I? I’m trying to get into the spirit of things. I’ll look at daffodils to see if they fill me with joy, or whatever it is they’re supposed to do, and keep an eye open for the very rare grebe warbler and watch the moles take flight. I’ve been reading the nature notes in the paper for weeks. I think I know how to do this by myself, dear. The commander of the Watch is not afraid to spot the spotted flycatcher!”
Lady Sybil had learned from experience when it was wise not to argue, and contented herself with saying, “Don’t upset anybody, at least, will you, dear?”
After ten minutes of walking, Vimes was lost. Not physically lost but metaphorically, spiritually and peripatetically lost. The fragrances of the hedgerows were somehow without body compared with the robust stinks of the city, and he had not the faintest idea what was rustling in the undergrowth. He recognized heifers and bullocks, because he often walked through the slaughterhouse district, but the ones out here weren’t bewildered by fear and stared at him carefully as he walked past as if they were calmly taking notes. Yes—that was it! The world was back to front! He was a copper, he had always been a copper, and he would die a copper. You never stopped being a copper, on the whole, and as a copper he walked around the city more or less invisible, except to those people who make it their business to spot coppers, and whose livelihood depends upon their spotting coppers before coppers spot them. Mostly you were part of the scenery, until the scream, the tinkle of broken glass and the sound of felonious footsteps brought you into focus.
But here everything was watching him. Things darted away behind a hedge, flew up in panic or just rustled suspiciously in the undergrowth. He was the stranger, the interloper, not wanted here.
He turned another corner, and there was the village. He had seen the chimneys some way off, but the lanes and footpaths criss-crossed one another in a tangle, repeated in the overflowing hedgerows and trees, that made tunnels of shade—which were welcome—and played merry hells with his sense of direction, which was not.
He had lost all his bearings and was hot and bothered by the time he came out into a long dusty lane with thatched cottages on either side and halfway down a large building which had “pub” written all over it, particularly by the three old men who were sitting on the bench outside it eyeing the approaching Vimes hopefully in case he was the kind of man who would buy another man a pint. They wore clothes that looked as if they had been nailed on. Then, when he got closer, one said something to the other two and they stood up as he passed, index fingers touching their hat brims. One of them said, “Garternoon, yer grace,” a phrase which Vimes interpreted after a little thought. There was also a slight and meaningful tip of the empty tankards to indicate that they were, in fact, empty tankards and therefore an anomaly in need of rectification.
Vimes knew what was expected of him. There wasn’t a pub in Ankh-Morpork which didn’t have the equivalent three old men sunning themselves outside and ever ready to talk to strangers about the good old days, i.e., when the tankards they were nursing still had beer in them. And the form was that you filled them up with cheap ale and got a “Well, thank you, kind sir,” and quite possibly little bubbles of information about who had been seen where doing what and with whom and when, all grist to the copper’s mill.
But the expressions on these three changed when another of them whispered hurriedly to his cronies. They pushed themselves back on the wooden seat as if trying to make themselves inconspicuous while still clasping the empty flagons because, well, you never knew. A sign over the door proclaimed that this was the Goblin’s Head.
Opposite the pub was a large open space laid, as they say, to grass. A few sheep grazed on it and toward the far end was a large stack of wood licker wicker wood hurdles, the purpose of which Vimes could not guess. He was, however, familiar with the term “village green,” although he had never seen one. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t very big on greens.
The pub smelled of stale beer. This helped as a bulwark against temptation, although Vimes had been clean for years, and could face the occasional sherry at official events, because he hated the taste of it anyway. The smell of antique beer had the same effect. By the pitiful light of the tiny windows Vimes made out an elderly man industriously polishing a tankard. The man looked up at Vimes and gave him a nod, the basic nod which is understood everywhere as meaning “I see you, you see me, it’s up to you what happens next,” although some publicans can put an inflection on a nod which also manages to convey the information that there might just be a two-foot length of lead piping under the counter should the party of the second part want to start anything, as it were.
Vimes said, “Do you serve anything that isn’t alcoholic?”
The barman very carefully hung the tankard on a hook over the bar and then looked directly at Vimes and said, without rancor, “Well, you see, sir, this is what we call a pub. People gets stuffy about it if I leaves out the alcohol.” He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment and went on, uncertainly, “My wife makes root beer, if that takes your fancy?”
“What kind of root?”
“Beetroot, as it happens, sir. It’s good for keeping you regular.”
“Well, I’ve always thought of myself as a regular kind of person,” said Vimes. “Give me a pint—no, make that half a pint, thanks.” There was another nod and the man disappeared briefly behind the scenes and came back with a large glass overflowing with red foam. “There you go,” he said, putting it carefully on the bar. “We don’t put it in pewter because it does something to the metal. This one is on the house, sir. My name is Jiminy, landlord of the Goblin’s Head. I dare say I know yours. My daughter is a maid at the big house, and I treat every man alike, the reason being that the publican is a friend to any man with money in his pockets and also, if the whim takes him, perhaps even to those who temporarily find themselves stony broke, which does not, at the moment, include them three herberts outside. The publican sees all men after a couple of pints, and sees no reason to discriminate.”
Jiminy winked at Vimes, who held out his hand and said, “Then I’ll happily shake the hand of a republican!”