A Surprise for Mr Boot

It was an almost Pavlovian response.*

* A term invented by the wizard Denephew Boot**, who had found that by a system of rewards and punishments he could train a dog, at the ringing of a bell, to immediately eat a strawberry meringue.

** His parents, who were uncomplicated country people, had wanted a girl. They were expecting to call her Denise.

-- Terry Pratchett, "Jingo".

Discworld belongs to Terry Pratchett.

It was a small town and would have passed for a village had it not been for the few rows of three-storey houses that lined the Square. On Saturdays, it was a crowded place as folk from miles around flocked to the market, but for the rest of the week only a chronicler with a rampant taste for exaggeration would have spoken of a bustle.

By the corner of the Square, where the main street ended, stood an inconspicuous yellow house. On its ground floor was the shop, upstairs from that the kitchen and the parlour, and on the third floor Mrs Boot was currently involved in serious business with Mrs Plunger, the midwife.

Mr Boot stood by the parlour window and looked out into the Square. It lay almost deserted on this late Tuesday afternoon, but there were some signs of things to come. A group of children had assembled on the patch of grass by the linden tree, chatting excitedly. Tomorrow the Maypole would be erected there and laughter and merriment would fill the place. Mr Boot looked wistfully at the spot where the gypsy woman's caravan had stood during the summer fair. He had not been too convinced about consulting her, but his wife had insisted, and after seven years of childless marriage he was willing to try almost anything. And it had worked, hadn't it? The gypsy woman had promised them that they would have a little girl if they both took a daily drop of the potion she gave them. Mr Boot had thought that this should have been sufficient, but the gypsy woman had said that to make the potion work properly, they would both have to go to bed at eight o'clock every evening and without their nightgowns on. This had seemed very odd to Mr Boot, and he blushed slightly when he thought of the strange things it had led to, but he was willing to accept them as an unpredictable side effect, given that his wife was now indeed involved in serious business with Mrs Plunger.

He turned away from the window and sat down by the fireplace. A copy of the Almanack lay open on his wife's chair. He picked it up. In the margin, she had pencilled in her careful schoolgirl's hand:

Neecol

Chivonn

Deniece

The last name was circled and double underlined. Mr Boots sighed. Naming children seemed a daunting business. One of his neighbours, who had an inclination towards the sophisticated, had deemed it suitable to name his daughter by writing the name of his after-shave backwards. Simara hadn't fared too badly with this, but other people had been impressed by the concept, and now there was little Ecipsdlo toddling about, and the Grutters across the road had just named their new baby Engoloceduae.

Mr Boot was grateful that his wife was not prone to such folly. She had chosen good, solid names that had been popular in the area for years now. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Deniece. Still, he would have preferred Stayci.

Mr Boot thought he had many reasons to be grateful for his wife. With a feeling of pride, he surveyed the neat piles of pink vests, caps and bootees that she had knitted during the last few months. She had embroidered a quilt with a motif of pink bunnies. She had crocheted a pink lace shawl. She had even fashioned a handful of delightful pink rag dolls, and he could already picture in his mind's eye how little Deniece would play tea party with them.

Gingerly he took one of the strawberry meringues from the plate on the side table and began to eat it. He tried not to listen to the sound of muffled screams from upstairs. Mrs Plunger had told him not to. The meringue was delicious, as usual. He reflected on his good luck to have a wife who would make meringues for him even in her very ... advanced state. After he had finished the meringue, having absentmindedly given the last piece to the dog, he licked his fingers and returned his attention to the Almanack. Plague of carnivorous turnips in Muntab? He shook his head. That was foreign parts for you.

Half an hour later he noticed that it had gone quiet. Then he heard a door open and footsteps coming down the stairs. Mrs Plunger walked into the room, beaming at him.

"Mr Boot? You have a son."