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There were always a handful of sheep up in this part of the downs, whatever the weather. At this time of year there were half-grown lambs kicking their heels and chasing about while the ewes grazed nearby. Here was a well-known landmark for those who knew. A special place for sheep and farmers alike. The place where Granny Aching now lay beneath the turf.
Only the iron wheels of her hut and the old pot-bellied stove with its chimney were still visible, but the ground, the ground was holy: Tiffany came to look at it every time she felt the world grinding her down, and here, where the wind never stopped blowing, she felt that she could deal with anything.
With the help of the horse and a strong rope, Tiffany hauled the rusty wheels out of the turf where they had been embedded, and painstakingly greased and coaxed them back together. Rob Anybody had watched her for a while after she had rebuffed his offer to help, then departed with a puzzled look on his face, muttering about geases, and what he’d like to do to them.
The following day, Tiffany went to visit old Mr Block, the local carpenter. He had once made her a doll’s house when she was a little girl; now she had a bigger home in mind.
He was pleased to see her but was startled when he discovered what she wanted from him.
‘Mr Block, I would like you to teach me to be a carpenter. I am going to build myself a hut – a shepherding hut.’
The carpenter was a kindly man and offered to help. ‘You are a witch,’ he said. ‘I’m a carpenter. A little hut like that wouldn’t take me long. Your granny was very good to our family and you helped my sister Margaret. I’d be happy to do it for you.’
But Tiffany was very definite. ‘That’s nice of you,’ she said, ‘but all the work on this hut must be done by me. It will be mine, from top to bottom, and I will pull it to where the larks rise. And I’ll still be a witch when anyone should call. But there I will live.’ On my own, she thought to herself. For now, anyway, for who knew what the future might bring . . . And her hand crept to her pocket, where she had Preston’s latest letter to savour.
And so Tiffany learned carpentry every evening after her day’s work was done. It took her some weeks to finish it, but eventually there was a new shepherd’s hut stationed close to Granny Aching’s grave.
There were three steps up to its wooden door, a horseshoe and a tuft of sheep’s wool – the sign of a shepherd – already nailed in place there, and the roof arched over a small living space into which she had built a bed, a little cupboard, a few shelves and a space for a wash basin. From the bed, she could see out of a small window – see clear across the downs, right to the horizon. And she could see the sun rise, and set, and the moon dance through its guises – the magic of everyday that was no less magic for that.
She loaded up the old farm horse again with the bedding from her little room in the farmhouse and her few possessions, said goodbye to her parents and headed up the hill in the late afternoon sun.
‘Are you sure, jigget, that this is what you really want?’ said her father.
‘Yes, it is,’ Tiffany replied.
Her mother cried and handed her a new quilt and a freshly baked loaf of bread to go with the cheese Tiffany had made that morning.
Halfway up the hill, Tiffany turned to look down at the farm and saw her parents still arm in arm. She waved and carried on climbing without looking back again. It had been a long day. They were always long days.
Later that evening, once she had made her little bed in the hut, she went out to collect some kindling. The white cat, You, followed close behind.
The little tracks of the Chalk were very familiar to Tiffany. She had walked along them with Granny Aching years ago. And as she reached the wood at the top of the rise, Tiffany thought she saw somebody walking through the dusky shadows under the trees.
Not just one person alone. There seemed to be two figures, both strangely familiar. Beside them, alert to every gesture, every nod, every whistle, trotted two sheepdogs.
Granny Weatherwax, Tiffany thought. Side by side with Granny Aching, Thunder and Lightning at their heels. And the little words in her head came unbidden: You are the shepherd’s crown, jigget. You are the shepherd’s crown.
One of the figures looked over and gave her a brief nod, whilst the other paused and bowed her head. Tiffany bowed back, solemnly, respectfully.
And then the figures were gone.
On the way back to the hut, Tiffany looked down at the cat and, on a sudden impulse, spoke to it.
‘Where is Granny Weatherwax, You?’
There was a pause, and the cat made a long meow, which appeared to end, ‘Meow . . . vrywhere.’ And then purred, just like any other cat, and rubbed her hard little head against Tiffany’s leg.
Tiffany thought of the little spot in the woods where Granny Weatherwax lay. Remembered.
And knew that You had been right. Granny Weatherwax was indeed here. And there. She was, in fact, and always would be, everywhere.
There was a long stream of visitors to the shepherding hut once it became known that Tiffany was back on the Chalk for good.
Joe Aching came up to deliver some messages – and a new letter, from Preston! – and bring Tiffany some things her mother had decided she needed. He looked around the neat little hut with approval. Tiffany had made the space very comfortable. He looked at the books on the shelf and smiled. Tiffany had left Granny Aching’s Diseases of the Sheep at the farm, but both Flowers of the Chalk and The Goode Childe’s Booke of Faerie Tales had their place by the little shepherd’s crown he had given her. On the back of the door was a wooden peg on which hung her witch’s hat.
‘I reckon ye’ll find some use for this too,’ her father said as he took a bottle of Special Sheep’s Liniment (made according to Granny Aching’s recipe) out of his pocket and placed it on the shelf.
Tiffany laughed and hoped her father hadn’t heard the cry of ‘Crivens!’ from the roof of the hut.
