Maskerade

down in front of me. I’d have recognized it anywhere…”
    “I think it would be a good idea if we took you home, Mrs. Plinge,” said Granny.
    “Oh, dear! I’ve got all these ladies and gentlemen to see to! And anyway it’s dangerous going home this time of night…Walter walks me home but he’s got to stay late tonight…oh dear…”
    “Have another good blow,” said Nanny. “Find a bit that isn’t too soggy.”
    There was a series of sharp pops. Granny Weatherwax had interlocked her fingers and extended her hands at arm’s length, so that her knuckles cracked.
    “Dangerous, eh?” she said. “Well, we can’t see you all upset like this. I’ll walk you home and Mrs. Ogg will see to things here.”
    “…only I’ve got to attend to the Boxes…I’ve got all these drinks to serve…could’ve sworn I had them a moment ago…”
    “Mrs. Ogg knows all about drinks,” said Granny, glaring at her friend.
    “There’s nothing I don’t know about drinks,” agreed Nanny, shamelessly emptying the last glass. “Especially these.”
    “…and what about our Walter? He’ll worry himself silly…”
    “Walter’s your son?” said Granny. “Wears a beret?”
    The old woman nodded.
    “Only I always comes back for him if he’s working late…” she began.
    “You come back for him…but he sees you home?” said Granny.
    “It’s…he’s…he’s…” Mrs. Plinge rallied. “He’s a good boy,” she said defiantly.
    “I’m sure he is, Mrs. Plinge,” said Granny.
    She carefully lifted the little white bonnet off Mrs. Plinge’s head and handed it to Nanny, who put it on, and also took the little white apron. That was the good thing about black. You could be nearly anything, wearing black. Mother Superior or Madam, it was really just a matter of the style. It just depended on the details.
    There was a click. Box Eight had bolted itself. And then there was the very faint scrape of a chair being wedged under the door handle.
    Granny smiled, and took Mrs. Plinge’s arm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.
    Nanny nodded, and watched them go.
    There was a little cupboard at the end of the corridor. It contained a stool, Mrs. Plinge’s knitting, and a small but very well stocked bar. There were also, on a polished mahogany plank, a number of bells on big coiled springs.
    Several of them were bouncing up and down angrily.
    Nanny poured herself a gin and gin with a dash of gin and inspected the rows of bottles with considerable interest.
    Another bell started to ring.
    There was a huge jar of stuffed olives. Nanny helped herself to a handful and blew the dust off a bottle of port.
    A bell fell off its spring.
    Somewhere out in the corridor a door opened and a young man’s voice bellowed, “Where are those drinks, woman!”
    Nanny tried the port.
    Nanny Ogg was used to the idea of domestic service. As a girl, she’d been a maid at Lancre Castle, where the king was inclined to press his intentions and anything else he could get hold of. Young Gytha Ogg had already lost her innocence * but she had some clear ideas about unwelcome intentions, and when he jumped out at her in the scullery she had technically committed treason with a large leg of lamb swung in both hands. That had ended her life below stairs and put a lengthy crimp in the king’s activities above them.
    The brief experience had given her certain views which weren’t anything so definite as political but were very firmly Oggish. And Mrs. Plinge had looked as if she didn’t get very much to eat and not a lot of time to sleep, either. Her hands had been thin and red. Nanny had a lot of time for the Plinges of the world.
    Did port go with sherry? Oh, well, no harm in trying…
    All the bells were ringing now. It must be coming up to the interval.
    She methodically unscrewed the top off a jar of cocktail onions, and thoughtfully crunched a couple.
    Then, as other people started to poke their heads around the doors and make angry demands, she went to the champagne shelf and took down a couple of magnums. She gave them a damn good shake, tucked one under each arm with a thumb on the corks, and stepped out into the corridor.
    Nanny’s philosophy of life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time, and do it as hard as possible. It had never let her down.

    The curtains closed. The audience was still on its feet, applauding.
    “What happens now?” whispered Agnes to the next gypsy.
    He pulled off his bandanna.