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Magrat Garlick, aged 17, wasn’t much to write home about as far as Granny Weatherwax was concerned[*] but she was basically a good sort of girl and not entirely without promise. Granny had broadly Not Disapproved of Goody Whemper taking her on, for all the girl was a wet hen of the highest, and wettest, order. Like a bantam perched on a barn in a monsoon, she was. She also dithered, which was unbecoming in a witch. If a witch didn’t know her own mind then the people she was helping out doing witching for would start thinking they needed to take the reins, and Granny absolutely could not be having with that sort of thing.
Nanny was a little more forgiving, as she had several very silly daughters who had grown up to have wills of the sort of iron that would make any dwarf look twice. She did concede, however, that Magrat had a long way to go. And that as may be, but whether she went that long way was another matter entirely, Granny thought.
Magrat at 27 was not a whole lot more impressive than Magrat at 17, as far as Granny could make out.
“Now Esme,” Nanny Ogg said. “She’s a nice, careful sort of gel. It takes all kinds, we can’t all be laissez faire types like me or bull ahead like you.”
“I do not bull ahead! I think it over good and hard before I do whatever I want,” Granny said. “Anyway, what’s a laissez faire?”
“I couldn’t rightly say, really,” Nanny replied. “I’ve never been to one. But I reckon it’s a sort of anything goes kind of event, from what Our Wayne’s youngest over in Genua says in his letters.”
Granny sniffed and Nanny cackled in a way that undermined its witchiness by virtue of it being utterly filthy[**].
Magrat at 37 was kind of pushing it as far as ‘maiden’ went, but she was shaping up to be an acceptable fit for ‘mother’ even if she was taking a different approach to the role than Nanny Ogg had. They were both earthy, albeit in widely diverging ways. Although, that said, Magrat was certainly not anything like as blushing and virginal as she had once been[***].
Granny, who had never had children of her own, felt a little unsure of herself around her at times, although she would never admit such a thing, not least to herself. She had no regrets about her own choices and if she had wanted to be a mother she certainly would have been one. But knowing that Magrat had an area of expertise that was her own and that she, Granny, could never lay claim on was, perhaps, maybe, possibly, a little humbling. In theory.
Magrat had also, of course, always been better at the doctoring and the midwifery and such, since she took more mind of which herb was which and what would cure you of the runs and what would cure you of the runs permanently. And now the little wretch was giving it all up!
“I really don’t have time to be keeping up with The Craft these days,” Magrat said, pregnant again and with little Esme pulling at her skirts, capital letters clanging into place in that annoying way they always did around those words in her mouth. “Perhaps when the children are a little older I’ll come back to it.”
“Huh!” Was what Granny had to say about that. “I’ll tell you what for nothing, Magrat Garlick, you are wasting a talent.”
Magrat beamed. She had gotten good, over the years, at finding the compliment in the criticism.
“Don’t you go smirkin’ at me, young miss!” Granny said to the queen consort of her country and Magrat put her hand over a widening smile.
“Certainly not, Granny,” she said.
“You’ll still call over to young Penelope[****] Jones?” said Nanny, from over the top of her knitting. “You were so good to her when she was having her first and the poor thing’s face fell when she saw it was Agnes coming to call. Pour me a hot drop when you have a minute there, Magrat, pet.”
“I hope Agnes didn’t take it too hard,” said Magrat, going to lift the teapot and top Nanny’s cup up. Nanny then topped herself up with her preferred milk alternative[*****]. “I remember when people wanted to see Goody Whemper rather than me.”
“Never mind that!” said Granny. “Agnes is old enough and bold enough to look out for herself. Will you visit with the Jones girl or won’t you?”
“Certainly, Granny,” Magrat replied. “I can fit it in between things without too much hassle.”
“Well,” Granny said, with another sniff and a slight nod. “Good.”
If Magrat had been hoping for more effusive praise than that, she would perhaps be a lot more silly than even Granny believed her to be. But, at this point in her witching career (from which no witch ever truly retired, as she would learn off and on for the next several years) a nod and sniff spoke volumes.
[*]If she had ever travelled far enough to necessitate writing home.[†]
[†]Or, indeed, if she had anyone who she cared to write home to. [return to text]
[**]That is, by its lack of virtue. [return to text]
[***]Which typically did go with the territory of getting qualified to be ‘the mother’ of a coven. [return to text]
[****]Pronounced Pen-ell-opp. Her mother liked to read Ephebian poetry, but she had had to rely upon the collective sounding-out powers of her own parents, to whom it had all been Ephebian to. [return to text]
[*****]Brandy. [return to text]