Tiffany bridled. If there was one thing she hated more than ‘my dear girl’, it was ‘dear Tiffany’. And she well remembered the ‘counsel’ Mrs Earwig had given to her protégée Annagramma Hawkin, who had taken over a witch’s cottage knowing everything possible about runes and tinkly spells but nothing at all useful. She had needed Tiffany’s help. As for implying that Nanny Ogg would not be a good mentor . . .
‘Well, my dear,’ Mrs Earwig continued, ‘as one of the most senior witches in this area, I therefore feel I should take the place of Granny Weatherwax. It’s the way it has always been done, and for a good reason – people need a senior witch to be a person whom they can respect, someone they can look up to. After all, my dear girl, a witch of high standing would never be seen doing the washing.’
‘Really?’ said Tiffany, gritting her teeth. A second ‘my dear girl’? One more and she would want not only to thrust Mrs Earwig into the suds but also to hold her head under for quite some time. ‘Granny Weatherwax always said, “You do the good that is in front of you,” and I don’t care who sees me doing an old man’s washing. There’s lots to do and a lot of it is dirty, Mrs Earwig.’
Mrs Earwig flamed at that and said, ‘Ah-wij, my dear girl.’
‘Not my dear girl,’ Tiffany snapped. ‘Mrs Earwig’ – not a trace of Ah-wij – ‘your last book was called To Ride a Golden Broomstick. Can you tell me, Mrs Earwig, how does it fly? Gold is rather heavy. You might say, in fact, that it is extremely heavy.’
Mrs Earwig growled. Tiffany had never heard her growl before but this one was a heavy-duty growl. ‘It’s a metaphor,’ she said sharply.
‘Really?’ said Tiffany. Now she was angry. ‘What’s it a metaphor for, Mrs Earwig? I’m on the sharp end of witchcraft, which means doing what should be done as best you can. It’s all about the people, Mrs Earwig, not about the books. Have you ever gone round the houses, Mrs Earwig? Helped a kid with his arse halfway out of his trousers? Do you even see the little children with no shoes? The cupboards with no food in them? The wives with a baby every year and a man down the pub? You have been kind enough to offer some advice. If I may offer you some advice in return, you will impress me if you too go round the houses – and not before. I am the acknowledged successor of Granny Weatherwax, who was brought up as a witch by Nanny Gripes, who learned it from witches going all the way back to Black Aliss, and that doesn’t change, whatever you might think.’ She stood up and opened the front door. ‘Thank you for taking the time to come and see me. Now, as you have pointed out, I have lots to do. In my own way. And clearly you haven’t.’
One thing about Mrs Earwig, Tiffany thought, was that she could flounce. She flounced so much that it almost hurt. Things jingled a merry farewell around her, and one charm even made a spirited attempt to stay by hooking itself around the doorknob as Mrs Earwig turned at the threshold.
The last thing she said to Tiffany as she untangled the little pendant was, ‘I tried, I really tried. I invited you to take advantage of all I know about witchcraft. But no. You flung my good will right in my face. You know, we could really have been friends, if you weren’t so stubborn. Farewell, my dear girl.’ Having got the last word in, Mrs Earwig slammed the door behind her as she left.
Tiffany looked at it and said to herself, I do what is needful, Mrs Earwig, not what I want to do.
But the banging of the door as punctuation caused Tiffany to think and she thought suddenly, I want to do it my way. Not how the other witches think it should be done. I can’t be Granny Weatherwax for them. I can only be me, Tiffany Aching. But she realized something else too. ‘Mrs Earwig was right about at least one thing,’ she said aloud. ‘I am trying to do too much. And if Jeannie is right and there is something awful coming’ – she shuddered – ‘which I will have to deal with, well, I really hope Miss Tick can find me a girl who might be some use. I do need some help.’
‘Aye, would seem so,’ said the voice of Rob Anybody.
Tiffany almost exploded. ‘Are you always looking after me, Rob Anybody?’
‘Och aye. Remember, there’s a geas upon us tae look after ye day and nicht and it’s
a greet geas.’
A geas. Backed up by tradition and magic, Tiffany knew that a geas was an obligation no Feegle would ever fail to meet. Except Daft Wullie, of course, who often mixed up his ‘geas’ with a flock of big burdies. She understood all this, but it still rankled. ‘You watch me all the time? Even when I’m bathing?’ she said wearily. It was a familiar argument. Tiffany – for no reason Rob could understand – seemed to take exception to the Feegles being around her everywhere. They had already come to an agreement about the privy.fn2
‘Och aye, that we do. Not lookin’, ye ken.’
‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘could you do me a favour?’
‘Och aye,’ said Rob. ‘Would you like yon Earwig wifie dropped in a pond or something?’
Tiffany sighed. ‘Alas, no. I’m not that kind of person.’
‘Ah, but we is,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully. ‘And anyway, ’tis traditional, ye ken. And we are guid at tradition, bein’ as we are part of folklore . . .’ He smiled hopefully.
‘A very nice thought,’ said Tiffany. ‘But no, once again, no. Mrs Earwig is not really a bad soul.’ That is true, she thought. Stupid, sometimes overbearing, unfeeling, and not really, if you get down to it, a very good witch. But there is a steel there at the core.
Tiffany knew Nanny Ogg rarely did any washing – what were daughters-in-law for? – but she realized suddenly that she had never seen Granny Weatherwax doing any laundry for the old gentlemen either, and that thought stopped her for a moment. I need time to work this out, she thought, looking at the Big Man of the Nac Mac Feegles standing in front of her, ready for anything. This would be a tough task for them, she knew.
‘I’ve a wee geas tae lay on ye,’ she said.
‘Och aye?’
‘Rob, have you heard of washing clothes?’
‘Och aye, we ken it happens,’ said Rob Anybody. He scratched at his spog and a mixture of dead insects, half-gnawed chicken’s foot bones and the like showered out.
‘Well then,’ said Tiffany, ‘I would deem it a favour if you could spend some time in my scullery whilst I am about my business. You would be helping an old man, indeed you would. He likes to be clean, and to have clean clothes.’ She glared down at him. ‘A circumstance, Rob, which would be well considered by yourself.’
She approached the scullery door in trepidation when she got back from her visits. Everything was shining clean, and draped among the trees outside were old Mr Price’s unmentionables, as white as white could be. Only then did Tiffany draw breath.
‘Excellent,’ she said to Rob Anybody.