His business done, Geoffrey jumped up into the small bed, which had a well-used, comfortable feel about it, and suddenly found himself missing his mother and his bedtime story. But before he had too much time to think, the door of the nursery opened gently and something wonderful happened. A small brown-and-white puppy with stubby little legs, floppy ears and a frantically wagging tail was pushed into the room. Without further ado, it rushed across the floor, jumped on his bed and started licking his face. Grand-mama followed the puppy into the room and pulled up a chair to the bedside. ‘I thought you might be a bit lonely, so I brought you a friend.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Geoffrey with delight.
‘Well, from the little puddle he’s just left outside your bedroom door while we were waiting to come in, I think I’d call him Widdler if I were you,’ said Grand-mama. ‘Like you he’s very young and misses his mother, so you’ll just have to look after each other. Now, would you like me to read you a story?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ said Geoffrey, as he settled down under the covers. But with Widdler curled up beside him he was happily asleep within minutes. Grand-mama blew out the candle and quietly slipped back down the stairs.
1 The simplest form of privy is a hole in the ground. Mankind, being ingenious, especially where it leads to reducing discomfort, soon devised easier ways of aiming over a hole in the ground without coming directly into contact with the cold earth. The idea progressed to building small sheds with a nice comfy seat with a hole in it,
or even two or three holes for convivial occasions. And thus the basic domestic privy was invented.
In hot weather it was a rich olfactory experience, which enabled the user to find the place on a dark night and without a candle. In the circumstances, this was probably a good thing if it was a very old and ripe privy, because no one should be standing anywhere near it with a naked flame. In cold weather there was less impact on the nose but the nether parts could well be exposed to a chilly draught, and proceedings were often hasty and unsatisfactory.
Sooner or later a hole in the ground, even if constructed carefully, would fill up. One solution was to move the privy and leave the hole behind. Eventually, the privy would have moved so far that a trip to the ‘Chapel of Easement’ might involve a walk of several miles and a packed lunch. The other option was to empty the privy. An intrepid band of craftsmen emerged; their sole job in life was to empty privies and dispose of their contents. These faecal heroes were known as night-soil men or gongfermors, and we shall meet them briefly later. They didn’t have many friends, except for those of the same occupation … However, they were well respected and as they walked down the street everyone would very quickly step out of their way and let them pass.
2 The good citizens of Ankh-Morpork burn coal, wood, dried dung and, when no other alternative beckons, anything that can be persuaded to go up in flames. There are forges and foundries along with dye-works, tanneries and slaughterhouses. In fact every smelly occupation you could think of, and some that you wouldn’t like to think of. In addition, with so many animals passing through and with so many people staying put, the heavy sullen smell of poo, in all its varieties, is the main melody in which the other smells are merely the high notes.
3 Actually, at the time young Geoffrey didn’t know it was a portico, but it was a portico all right and the fact that he didn’t know it was a portico didn’t stop it being one.
4 Once you have one old shed somehow you always end up with another one, and after that anything can happen.
5 The belief that a bird pooing on your head is good luck is common to many cultures. When you ask why, the ribald reply is often, ‘Well, it weren’t a cow.’ In fact birds were often perceived as messengers of the gods and their movements (both geographical and biological) as part of some divine plan. Needless to say only those endowed with arcane knowledge could understand the particular message in bird poo. However, it is believed that some Ephebian philosophers stood for hours under trees hoping for ‘a message’ – which they got, but invariably the message was that they should soon clean their jackets.
Bird poo is one of nature’s special garnishes. A bird’s insides are cunningly designed to preserve fluid and the slimy green poo is iced with white solid wee, as every schoolboy knows, or did, back in the days when schoolboys knew such things.
6 Sir Charles Lavatory is the president of the Guild of Plumbers and Dunnakin Divers in Ankh-Morpork. Geoffrey will make his acquaintance before too long.
A TRIP TO THE PARK AND A NEW FRIEND
VERY EARLY THE next morning Geoffrey ventured back into the water closet. He sat on the seat with his legs dangling while Widdler the dog ran round in circles unravelling a roll of soft paper, clearly in some kind of dog heaven. Geoffrey felt like a king on his grand throne. Indeed, like many a king, he was perched on the edge precariously, quite concerned that if he wasn’t careful he might slip off; in his case, into the great bowl and its contents below. Eventually, the business at hand being finished, Geoffrey was pleased to see he wouldn’t have to climb up again to reach the chain because someone had very kindly added a length of cord with a cotton reel on the end so it was low enough for him to reach with ease.
Picking up Widdler, Geoffrey wandered down to the kitchen hoping to find some breakfast. The big kitchen seemed empty but, as in many kitchens in old houses, there was a lot of life going on out of sight. There were rats romping along the drains, biting through pipes and the backs of cupboards, and popping up in the sink and through the skirting board. There were all manner of beetles and weevils and spiders and, in the damp corner under the sink, a collection of snails stuck to the wall. As Geoffrey opened a cupboard or two, hoping to find something to eat, he heard a scurrying scratchy sound coming from behind the pantry door. Between a pot of raspberry jam and a large jar of pickled eggs sat a small grey mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey and Geoffrey looked at the mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey again and then, possibly because it wanted to, or perhaps because it was frightened, did a poo, followed by another one and another one before running off.1
Mice are like that. And all that Geoffrey was left with was a number of small dark droppings, which he scooped up. I wonder if mouse poo is as lucky as bird poo, he thought. I must ask Mister Twaddle.
‘I wouldn’t put that in your pocket if I were you, my dear,’ said a friendly voice behind him. ‘Let me see what I can find for you.’
He turned round to see a jolly plump woman, standing in front of the old range. ‘My name is Hartley,’ she said, handing him an empty matchbox, ‘and I’m the cook. After you’ve washed your hands really well I’ll cook you some breakfast. How would you like a nice boiled egg and toast soldiers?’
After breakfast, Geoffrey helped Plain Old Humphrey feed the chickens and collect the eggs. ‘Some of these eggs must be quite lucky,’ said Geoffrey. ‘They’ve got chicken poo stuck to them.’2
Plain Old Humphrey scratched his head. ‘Well, there’s no doubt that when bird poo lands on your head it brings good luck, but the bird’s got to choose, see. Poo may not always be lucky but it’s certainly useful. I use it in the garden. Look over here. I mix horse apples and straw in with the garden waste and that rots down to the best compost you will find. And the thing is, you’ll also find lots of worms there, who burrow away, pooing to their hearts’ content, which helps to break it up and make it good and fine.’3
Geoffrey went to put his hand into the smelly compost heap to find some worm poo. ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘I’m sure I can find something that will make it easier for a likely young lad such as you to start his own poo collection.’
He went off to one of his sheds and Geoffrey heard a clattering and rattling and a nasty boingggg from within.4 Plain Old Humphrey emerged with a garden hose wrapped around him like a snake, which he finally managed to fight off and sling back into the shed. He disappeared again before returning moments later with a bucket and spade.
Taking the spade, Geoffrey carefully excavated a small hole at the bottom of the great heap and uncovered a tangled knot of wriggling pink worms. ‘What does worm poo look like?’ asked Geoffrey, bending down to get closer to the worms.
‘Well, it’s quite difficult to spot in there,’ said Plain Old Humphrey, ‘but see the little curly heaps of soil over here on the grass? That’s your worm poo, that is; it’s called worm casts.’ He brought out a cobwebby old jam jar and trowel for this delicate work, and with a bit of help, Geoffrey carefully transferred a sample of worm poo into the jar.
Meanwhile, Widdler was running in circles and barking at nothing in particular or anything in general. In the vegetable patch Geoffrey could see a large black cat digging a hole. ‘What’s that cat doing?’ he asked.
‘That dratted cat,’ said Plain Old Humphrey through gritted teeth, ‘is digging up my champion leeks again! I’ll swing for him, I will.’
‘Why is he digging?’
‘Because he’s doing a poo. And because cats is a bit particular. They like to bury it when they’re done, and because they’re a bit lazy, they like to bury it where I’ve already been digging.’ As the cat finished its business and stalked off, Geoffrey moved purposefully towards the spot, holding the bucket and spade. ‘I’d let that cool down a bit before you dig it up,’ warned Plain Old Humphrey. ‘Mark the place with a stick and collect it in a day or so. Pretty strong stuff your cat poo.5