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She knew the worth of sheep, and they’d seen her running around in her pants when she was growing up. So that was all right then.
Tiffany’s father tried to smile as he reached down and gave his dog a pork scratching. ‘A present for you, Jester.’ He looked up. ‘Of course, Tiffany’s mother would like to see her here more often, though she’s made up about our Tiff; can’t stop telling people about what she does, and neither can I.’ He looked over at the landlord. ‘Another pint for me when you’ve time please, John.’
‘Of course, Joe,’ said John Parsley, heading into the bar and returning with the foaming tankard in his hand.
As the pint was passed down to its destination, Joe said, ‘It’s strange, you know, when I think about how much time our Tiffany spends over in Lancre these days.’
‘Be a shame if she moved up there,’ Dick Handly commented. And the thought was there, floating in the air, though nobody said anything further. Not to Joe Aching, not on a Saturday.
‘Well, she’s always very busy,’ Joe said slowly, tucking Dick’s comment away in his head to think about later. ‘Lot of babies round here, lads!’ This brought a smile.
‘And it’s not just birthing. She came to my old mother when she was going,’ said Jim Twister. ‘Was with her all night. And she took the pain away! She does that, you know?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not just for barons, but that’s how the old boy went, you know – he had a nurse, but it was Tiffany who sorted him out. Made sure he had no pain.’
There was a sudden silence at the table as the the drinkers reflected on the many times Tiffany Aching had crossed their paths. Then Noddy Saunters said, almost breathlessly, ‘Well, Joe, we are all hoping as your Tiffany stays round here, you know. You have got a good one there and no mistake. Mind you tell her that when you sees her.’
‘I don’t need telling, Noddy,’ said Joe. ‘Tiffany’s mother would like her to settle down, o’ course, on the Chalk with her young man – you know, young Preston, who’s gone off to learn to be a proper doctor in the big city. But I reckon she won’t, not for a while anyway. As I see it, there’s lots of Achings around here but our Tiff is following in the footsteps of her granny, only more modern thinking, if you get me? I reckon she’s out to change the world, and if not the world, then this little bit called the Chalk.’
‘She’s a right good witch for us shepherds,’ Thomas Greengrass added, and there was a murmur of agreement.
‘Do you remember, lads, when shepherds would all turn up here and fight in the Challenge?’ said Dick Handly after a pause to empty his glass. ‘We didn’t have witches then.’
‘Aye,’ said Joe Aching. ‘Those old shepherds didn’t fight with their sticks, mind you. They arm-wrestled. And the winner would be named head shepherd.’
They all laughed at that. And most of them thought of Granny Aching, for Granny Aching had really been the last head shepherd. A nod from Granny Aching and a shepherd would walk like a king for the day, Challenge or no Challenge.
‘Well, we don’t have no head shepherd nowadays. We got a witch instead. Your Tiffany,’ said Robert Thick after another long silence in which more beer was drunk and pipes were lit.
‘So if we have a witch instead of a head shepherd . . . do you think any of you ought to arm-wrestle her?’ asked John Parsley with a big grin – and a sideways look at Tiffany’s father.
Robert Thick said, ‘A witch? No fear. I would mend my manners.’
Joe chuckled as the others nodded in agreement.
Then they looked up as a shadow passed over them and the girl on her broomstick shouted down, ‘Evening, Dad! Evening, all. Can’t stop. This one’s having twins.’
Roland de Chumsfanleigh,fn1 the young Baron on the Chalk, did want to be like his father in many ways. He knew the old man had been popular – what was known as an ‘old school baron’, which meant that everyone knew what to expect and the guards polished up their armour and saluted, and did what was expected of them, while the Baron did what was expected of him, and pretty much left them alone.
But his father had also been a bit of a bad-tempered bully at times. And that bit Roland wanted to forget about. He particularly wanted to sound the right note when he called round to see Tiffany Aching at Home Farm. For they had once been good friends, and, to Roland’s alarm, Tiffany was thought of as a good friend by his wife Letitia. Any man with sense was wise to be fearful of a wife’s best friends. For who knew what . . . little secrets might be shared. Roland, having been educated at home and with limited knowledge of the world outside the Chalk, feared that ‘little’ might be exactly the kind of comment Letitia might share with Tiffany.
He chose his moment when he saw her broomstick descend early that Saturday evening, at a time when he knew Joe Aching would be at the pub.
‘Hello, Roland,’ Tiffany said, not even turning round as he rode into the farmyard and dismounted from his horse.
Roland quivered. He was the Baron. Her father’s farm was his. And as he thought this, he realized how stupid a thought it was. As Baron, he had the bits of paper that proved his ownership. But this farm was the Achings’. It always had been, and it always would be. And he knew that Tiffany knew exactly what he’d just thought, so he went a bit pink when she turned round.
‘Er, Tiffany,’ he began, ‘I just wanted to see you and . . . er . . . well, it’s like this . . .’
‘Oh, come on, Roland,’ she urged. ‘Just get on with what you’ve come to say; it’s been a busy day and I need to get back to Lancre tonight too.’
It was the opening he needed. ‘Well, that’s what I came about, Tiffany. There have been . . . complaints.’ It wasn’t the right word, and he knew it.
Tiffany reeled at the word. ‘What?’ she said sharply.
‘Well, you’re never here, Tiffany. You’re supposed to be our witch, be here for us. But you’re off to the Ramtops almost every other day.’ He straightened up, a metaphorical broomstick up his spine. He needed to sound official, not wheedle. ‘I am your baron,’ he said, ‘and I ask that you look to your responsibilities, do your duty.’
‘Do my duty?’ Tiffany echoed weakly. What did he think she had been doing over the past few weeks, bandaging legs and treating sores, birthing babies and taking pain away from those nearing the end of their days, and visiting the old folk and keeping an eye on the babies, and . . . yes, cutting toenails! What had Roland been doing? Hosting dinner parties? Admiring Letitia’s attempts at watercolours? It would be far better if he could have offered Letitia’s help. For Roland knew, just as Tiffany did, that Letitia had the natural abilities of a witch. She could be useful on the Chalk.
