“Oh, bugger!”
“What?”
“I left Greebo up there!”
“Well, he likes meeting new people. Good grief, this place is a
Granny stepped out into a curved corridor, rather plusher than the one they had left. There was a series of doors along it.
“Ah. Now, then…”
She walked along the row, counting, and then tried a handle.
“Can I help you, ladies?”
They turned. A little old woman had come up softly behind them, carrying a tray of drinks.
Granny smiled at her. Nanny Ogg smiled at the tray.
“We were just wondering,” said Granny, “which person in these Boxes likes to sit with the curtains nearly shut?”
The tray began to shake.
“Here, shall I hold that for you?” said Nanny. “You'll spill something if you're not careful.”
“What do you know about Box Eight?” said the old lady.
“Ah. Box Eight,” said Granny. “That'd be the one, yes. That's this one over here, isn't it…?”
“No, please…”
Granny strode forward and grasped the handle.
The door was locked.
The tray was thrust into Nanny's welcoming hands. “Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do…” she said.
The woman pulled at Granny's arm. “Don't! It'll bring terrible bad luck!”
Granny thrust out her hand. “The key, madam!” Behind her, Nanny inspected a glass of champagne.
“Don't make him angry! It's bad enough as it is!” The woman was clearly terrified.
“Iron,” said Granny, rattling the handle. “Can't magic iron…”
“Here,” said Nanny, stepping forward a little unsteadily. “Give me one of your hatpins. Our Nev's taught me all kindsa tricks…”
Granny's hand rose to her hat, and then she looked at Mrs Plinge's lined face. She lowered her hand.
“No,” she said. “No, I reckon we'll leave it for now…”
“I don't know what's happening…” sobbed Mrs Plinge. “It never used to be like this…”
“Have a good blow,” said Nanny, handing her a grubby handkerchief and patting her kindly on the back.
“…there was none of this killing people… he just wanted somewhere to watch the opera… it made him feel better…”
“Who's this we're talking about?” said Granny.
Nanny Ogg gave her a warning look over the top of the old woman's head. There were some things best left to Nanny.
“… he'd unlock it for an hour every Friday for me to tidy up and there was always his little note saying thank you or apologizing for the chocolates down the seat… and where was the harm in it, that's what I'd like to know…”
“Have another good blow,” said Nanny.
“…and now there's people dropping like flies out of the flies… they say it's him, but I know he never meant any harm…”
“ 'Course not,” said Nanny, soothingly.
“…many's the time I've seen 'em look up at the Box. They always felt the better for it if they saw him… and then poor Mr Pounder was strangulated. I looked around and there was his hat, just like that…”
“It's terrible when that happens,” said Nanny Ogg. “What's your name, dear?”
“Mrs Plinge,” sniffed Mrs Plinge. “It came right down in front of me. I'd have recognized it anywhere…”
“I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs Plinge,” said Granny.
“Oh, dear! I've got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it's dangerous going home this time of night… Walter walks me home but he's got to stay late tonight… oh dear…”
“Have another good blow,” said Nanny. “Find a bit that isn't too soggy.”
There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm's length, so that her knuckles cracked.
“Dangerous, eh?” she said. “Well, we can't see you all upset like this. I'll walk you home and Mrs Ogg will see to things here.”
“…only I've got to attend to the Boxes… I've got all these drinks to serve… could've sworn I had them a moment ago…”
“Mrs Ogg knows all about drinks,” said Granny, glaring at her friend.
“There's nothing I don't know about drinks,” agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. “Especially these.”
“…and what about our Walter? He'll worry himself silly…”
“Walter's your son?” said Granny. “Wears a beret?”
The old woman nodded.
“Only I always comes back for him if he's working late…” she began.
“You come back for him… but
“It's… he's… he's…” Mrs Plinge rallied. “He's a good boy,” she said defiantly.
“I'm sure he is, Mrs Plinge,” said Granny.
She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs Plinge's head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details.
There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the doorhandle.
Granny smiled, and took Mrs Plinge's arm. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” she said.
Nanny nodded, and watched them go.
There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs Plinge's knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs.
Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily.
Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest.
Another bell started to ring.
There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port.
A bell fell off its spring.
Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man's voice bellowed, “Where are those drinks, woman!”
Nanny tried the port.
Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she'd been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence[7] but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king's activities above them.
The brief experience had given her certain views which weren't anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs Plinge had looked as if she didn't get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world.
Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying…
All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.
She methodically unscrewed the top off ajar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple.
