A Blink of the Screen

don’t feel right, that’s what we’re saying. Her going round being nice, a man don’t know if he’s got a leg to stand on.’
    ‘Or hop on,’ said Hampicker darkly.
    ‘All right, all right, I’ll see about it,’ said Nanny.
    ‘People shouldn’t go around not doin’ what you expect,’ said Poorchick weakly. ‘It gets people on edge.’
    ‘And we’ll keep an eye on your sti—’ Hampicker said, and then staggered backwards, grasping his stomach and wheezing.
    ‘Don’t mind him, it’s the stress,’ said Poorchick, rubbing his elbow. ‘Been picking herbs, Mrs Ogg?’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Nanny, hurrying away across the leaves.
    ‘So shall I put the fire out for you, then?’ Poorchick shouted.
    Granny was sitting outside her house when Nanny Ogg hurried up the path. She was sorting through a sack of old clothes. Elderly garments were scattered around her.
    And she was humming. Nanny Ogg started to worry. The Granny Weatherwax she knew didn’t approve of music.
    And she smiled when she saw Nanny, or at least the corner of her mouth turned up. That was really worrying. Granny normally only smiled if something bad was happening to someone deserving.
    ‘Why, Gytha, how nice to see you!’
    ‘You all right, Esme?’
    ‘Never felt better, dear.’ The humming continued.
    ‘Er … sorting out rags, are you?’ said Nanny. ‘Going to make that quilt?’
    It was one of Granny Weatherwax’s firm beliefs that one day she’d make a patchwork quilt. However, it is a task that requires patience, and hence in fifteen years she’d got as far as three patches. But she collected old clothes anyway. A lot of witches did. It was a witch thing. Old clothes had personality, like old houses. When it came to clothes with a bit of wear left in them, a witch had no pride at all.
    ‘It’s in here somewhere …’ Granny mumbled. ‘Aha, here we are …’
    She flourished a garment. It was basically pink.
    ‘Knew it was here,’ she went on. ‘Hardly worn, either. And about my size, too.’
    ‘You’re going to wear it?’ said Nanny.
    Granny’s piercing blue cut-you-off-at-the-knees gaze was turned upon her. Nanny would have been relieved at a reply like, ‘No, I’m going to eat it, you daft old fool’. Instead her friend relaxed and said, a little concerned:
    ‘You don’t think it’d suit me?’
    There was lace around the collar. Nanny swallowed.
    ‘You usually wear black,’ she said. ‘Well, a bit more than usually. More like always.’
    ‘And a very sad sight I look, too,’ said Granny robustly. ‘It’s about time I brightened myself up a bit, don’t you think?’
    ‘And it’s so very … pink.’
    Granny put it aside and to Nanny’s horror took her by the hand and said earnestly, ‘And, you know, I reckon I’ve been far too dog-in-the-manger about this Trials business, Gytha—’
    ‘Bitch-in-the-manger,’ said Nanny Ogg, absent-mindedly.
    For a moment Granny’s eyes became two sapphires again.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Er … you’d be a bitch-in-the-manger,’ Nanny mumbled. ‘Not a dog.’
    ‘Ah? Oh, yes. Thank you for pointing that out. Well, I thought, it is time I stepped back a bit, and went along and cheered on the younger folks. I mean, I have to say, I … really haven’t been very nice to people, have I …’
    ‘Er …’
    ‘I’ve tried being nice,’ Granny went on. ‘It didn’t turn out like I expected, I’m sorry to say.’
    ‘You’ve never been really … good at nice,’ said Nanny.
    Granny smiled. Hard though she stared, Nanny was unable to spot anything other than earnest concern.
    ‘Perhaps I’ll get better with practice,’ she said.
    She patted Nanny’s hand. And Nanny stared at her hand as though something horrible had happened to it.
    ‘It’s just that everyone’s more used to you being … firm,’ she said.
    ‘I thought I might make some jam and cakes for the produce stall,’ said Granny.
    ‘Oh … good.’
    ‘Are there any sick people want visitin’?’
    Nanny stared at the trees. It was getting worse and worse. She rummaged in her memory for anyone in the locality sick enough to warrant a ministering visit but still well enough to survive the shock of a ministering visit by Granny Weatherwax. When it came to practical psychology and the more robust type of folk physiotherapy Granny was without equal; in fact, she could even do the latter at a distance, for many a pain-racked soul had left their bed and walked, nay, run at the news