A Blink of the Screen

utilitarian, earning its keep. Every flat surface in Nanny Ogg’s cottage had been pressed into service as a holder for ornaments and potted plants. People gave Nanny Ogg things. Cheap fairground tat, Granny always called it. At least in public. What she thought of it in the privacy of her own head, she never said.
    She rocked gently as the last ember winked out.
    It’s hard to contemplate, in the grey hours of the night, that probably the only reason people would come to your funeral would be to make sure you’re dead.
    Next day, Percy Hopcroft opened his back door and looked straight up into the blue stare of Granny Weatherwax.
    ‘Oh my,’ he said, under his breath.
    Granny gave an awkward little cough.
    ‘Mr Hopcroft, I’ve come about them apples you named after Mrs Ogg,’ she said.
    Percy’s knees began to tremble, and his wig started to slide off the back of his head to the hoped-for security of the floor.
    ‘I should like to thank you for doing it because it has made her very happy,’ Granny went on, in a tone of voice which would have struck one who knew her as curiously monotonous. ‘She has done a lot of fine work and it is about time she got her little reward. It was a very nice thought. And so I have brung you this little token –’ Hopcroft jumped backwards as Granny’s hand dipped swiftly into her apron and produced a small black bottle ‘– which is very rare because of the rare herbs in it. What are rare. Extremely rare herbs.’
    Eventually it crept over Hopcroft that he was supposed to take the bottle. He gripped the top of it very carefully, as if it might whistle or develop legs.
    ‘Uh … thank you ver’ much,’ he mumbled.
    Granny nodded stiffly.
    ‘Blessings be upon this house,’ she said, and turned and walked away down the path.
    Hopcroft shut the door carefully, and then flung himself against it.
    ‘You start packing right now!’ he shouted to his wife, who’d been watching from the kitchen door.
    ‘What? Our whole life’s here! We can’t just run away from it!’
    ‘Better to run than hop, woman! What’s she want from me? What’s she want? She’s never nice!’
    Mrs Hopcroft stood firm. She’d just got the cottage looking right and they’d bought a new pump. Some things were hard to leave.
    ‘Let’s just stop and think, then,’ she said. ‘What’s in that bottle?’
    Hopcroft held it at arm’s length. ‘Do you want to find out?’
    ‘Stop shaking, man! She didn’t actually threaten, did she?’
    ‘She said “Blessings be upon this house”! Sounds pretty damn threatening to me! That was Granny Weatherwax, that was!’
    He put the bottle on the table. They stared at it, standing in the cautious leaning position of people who were ready to run if anything began to happen.
    ‘Says “Haire Reftorer” on the label,’ said Mrs Hopcroft.
    ‘I ain’t using it!’
    ‘She’ll ask us about it later. That’s her way.’
    ‘If you think for one moment I’m—’
    ‘We can try it out on the dog.’
    ‘That’s a good cow.’
    William Poorchick awoke from his reverie on the milking stool and looked around the meadow, his hands still working the beast’s teats.
    There was a black pointy hat rising over the hedge. He gave such a start that he started to milk into his left boot.
    ‘Gives plenty of milk, does she?’
    ‘Yes, Mistress Weatherwax!’ William quavered.
    ‘That’s good. Long may she continue to do so, that’s what I say. Good day to you.’
    And the pointy hat continued up the lane.
    Poorchick stared after it. Then he grabbed the bucket and, squelching at every other step, hurried into the barn and yelled for his son.
    ‘Rummage! You get down here right now!’
    His son appeared from the hayloft, pitchfork still in his hand.
    ‘What’s up, Dad?’
    ‘You take Daphne down to the market right now, understand?’
    ‘What? But she’s our best milker, Dad!’
    ‘Was, son, was! Granny Weatherwax just put a curse on her! Sell her now before her horns drop off!’
    ‘What’d she say, Dad?’
    ‘She said … she said … “Long may she continue to give milk” …’ Poorchick hesitated.
    ‘Doesn’t sound awfully like a curse, Dad,’ said Rummage. ‘I mean … not like your gen’ral curse. Sounds a bit hopeful, really,’ said his son.
    ‘Well … it was the way … she … said … it …’
    ‘What sort of way, Dad?’
    ‘Well … like … cheerfully.’
    ‘You all right, Dad?’
    ‘It was … the way …’ Poorchick