Lords And Ladies

'They're the same as Comic Artisans, I think,' said Carter the baker.

'I asked my mum what artisans are,' said Jason.

'Yeah?'

'They're us.'

'And we're Rude Mechanicals as well?' said Baker the weaver.

'I reckon.'

'Bum!'

'Well, we certainly don't talk like these buggers in the writing,' said Carter the baker. 'I never said 'fol-de- rol' in my life. And I can't understand any of the jokes.'

'You ain't supposed to understand the jokes, this is a play,' said Jason.

'Drawers!' said Baker the weaver.

'Oh, shut up. And push the cart.'

'Don't see why we couldn't do the Stick and Bucket Dance . . .' mumbled Tailor the other weaver.

'We're not doing the Stick and Bucket dance! I never want to hear any more ever about the Stick and Bucket dance! I still get twinges in my knee! So shut up about the Stick and Bucket dance!'

'Belly!' shouted Baker, who wasn't a man to let go of an idea.

The cart containing the props bumped and skidded on the rutted track.

Jason had to admit that Morris dancing was a lot easier than acting. People didn't keep turning up to watch and giggle. Small children didn't stand around jeering. Weaver and Thatcher were in almost open rebellion now, and mucking up the words. The evenings were becoming a constant search for somewhere to rehearse.

Even the forest wasn't private enough. It was amazing how people would just happen to be passing.

Weaver stopped pushing, and wiped his brow.

'You'd have thought the Blasted Oak would've been safe,' he said. 'Half a mile from the nearest path, and damn me if after five minutes you can't move for charcoal burners, hermits, trappers, tree tappers, hunters, trolls, bird-limers, hurdle-makers, swine-herds, truffle hunters, dwarfs, bodgers and suspicious buggers with big coats on. I'm surprised there's room in the forest for the bloody trees. Where to now?'

They'd reached a crossroads, if such it could be called.

'Don't remember this one,' said Carpenter the poacher. 'Thought I knew all the paths around here.'

'That's 'cos you only ever sees 'em in the dark,' said Jason.

'Yeah, everyone knows 'tis your delight on a shining night,' said Thatcher the carter.

'Tis his delight every night,' said Jason.

'Hey,' said Baker the weaver, 'we're getting really good at this rude mechanism, ain't we?'

'Let's go right,' said Jason.

'Nah, it's all briars and thorns that way.'

'All right, then, left then.'

'It's all winding,' said Weaver.

'What about the middle road?' said Carter.

Jason peered ahead.

There was a middle track, hardly more than an animal path, which wound away under shady trees. Ferns grew thickly alongside it. There was a general green, rich, dark feel to it, suggested by the word 'bosky[22]'

His blacksmith's senses stood up and screamed.

'Not that way,' he said.

'Ah, come on,' said Weaver. 'What's wrong with it?'

'Goes up to the Dancers, that path does,' said Jason. 'Me mam said no one was to go up to the Dancers 'cos of them young women dancing round 'em in the nudd.'

'Yeah, but they've been stopped from that,' said Thatcher. 'Old Granny Weatherwax put her foot down hard and made 'em put their drawers on.'

'And they ain't to go there anymore, neither,' said Carter. 'So it'll be nice and quiet for the rehearsing.'

'Me mam said no one was to go there,' said Jason, a shade uncertainly.

'Yeah, but she probably meant . . . you know . . . with magical intent,' said Carter. 'Nothing magical about prancing around in wigs and stuff.'

'Right,' said Thatcher. 'And it'll be really private.'

'And,' said Weaver, 'if any young women fancies sneaking back up there to dance around without their drawers on, we'll be sure to see 'em.'

There was a moment of absolute, introspective silence.

'I reckon,' said Thatcher, voicing the unspoken views of nearly all of them, 'we owes it to the community.'

'We-ell,' said Jason, 'me mam said . . .'

'Anyway, your mum's a fine one to talk,' said Weaver. 'My dad said that when he was young, your mum hardly ever had-'

'Oh, all right,' said Jason, clearly outnumbered. 'Can't see it can do any harm. We're only actin'. It's . . . it's make-believe. It's not as if it's anything real. But no one's to do any dancing. Especially, and I want everyone to be absolutely definite about this, the Stick and Bucket dance.'

'Oh, we'll be acting all right,' said Weaver. 'And keeping watch as well, o'course.'

'It's our duty to the community,' said Thatcher, again.

'Make-believe is bound to be all right,' said Jason, uncertainly.

Clang boinng clang ding . . .

The sound echoed around Lancre.

Grown men, digging in their gardens, flung down their spades and hurried for the safety of their cottages . . .

Clang boinnng goinng ding . . .

Women appeared in doorways and yelled desperately for their children to come in at once . . .

. . . BANG buggrit Dong boinng . . .

Shutters thundered shut. Some men, watched by their frightened families, poured water on the fire and tried to stuff sacks up the chimney . . .

Nanny Ogg lived alone, because she said old people needed their pride and independence. Besides, Jason lived on one side, and he or his wife whatshername could easily be roused by means of a boot applied heavily to the wall, and Shawn lived on the other side and Nanny had got him to fix up a long length of string with some tin cans on it in case his presence was required. But this was only for emergencies, such as when she wanted a cup of tea or felt bored.

Bond drat clang . . .

Nanny Ogg had no bathroom but she did have a tin bath, which normally hung on a nail on the back of the privy. Now she was dragging it indoors. It was almost up the garden, after being bounced off various trees, walls, and garden gnomes on the way.

Three large black kettles steamed by her fireside. Beside them were half a dozen towels, the loofah, the pumice stone, the soap, the soap for when the first soap got lost, the ladle for fishing spiders out, the waterlogged rubber duck with the prolapsed squeaker, the bunion chisel, the big scrubbing brush, the small scrubbing brush, the scrubbing brush on a stick for difficult crevices, the banjo, the thing with the pipes and spigots that no one ever really knew the purpose of, and a bottle of Klatchian Nights bath essence, one drop of