Strandpiel 13: Eerste volwasse drankie - first grown-up drink
How dual nationality works out for one proud user.
Currently embuggered by loads of ideas and very little time to commit to record because of the demands of a new job. LOTS of ideas for continuing old stories ("Many worlds", et c) and barely enough time to sketch them out for retrieval later. Building skeletons, basically. Still, taking sick leave has some advantages… pain and discomfort are a bugger but at least I can do this.
A series of episodes and glimpses into the later life of a new character. Readers do appear to want to find out more about her. Trying to keep everything in roughly chronological and sequential order with lots of call-backs and flashbacks to related tales.
Also keeping an eye on the Ireland – South Africa rugby international, which is on TV as I write. The Bokkies are currently losing 18-0. Oh dear. Not kiff and possibly even siff.
Match-end update: Ireland 38, South Africa 3. I think Danie Smith-Rhodes would not be too upbeat about this. Lovely quote from the Irish manager: "They've gone back to the old traditional style of South African rugby which is basically just beat them up up in front and if that doesn't work, well, beat them up even more. It's working for them. It's going to be an absolutely massively physical game because the route one is exactly what they're going to want to do".
The staffroom at the Assassins' Guild School could have been connected to teachers' lounges, staffrooms and restrooms anywhere in the Multiverse by a sort of theoretical T-Space. It had been the staffroom for a long, long time. It had an engrained aura composed of sweat, resignation, desperation, tobacco smoke in varying degrees of freshness, a permanently bubbling tea-urn, and bumptious PE teachers. (1)
Sister Mary Conception of the Convent School of Seven-Handed Sek, who had brought another batch of her girls here for The Lecture, felt at home. Granted, most teachers didn't normally wear openly-displayed weaponry. But she accepted this was a local quirk of her hosts and probably inevitable in the circumstances. As a professional peer and a guest, she'd been invited up here for a refreshing cup of tea. She appreciated this. Her native Hergen ran on the stuff.(2) At least, when the pubs were closed.
"Reading between the lines, your Miss Shauna O'Hennigan is your school's lively case?" her hostess inquired, offering a biscuit. Sister Mary Conception took it with thanks and a slight shudder.
Gillian Lansbury smiled a knowing smile and patted her shoulder in a we all get one sort of way. As between teaching equals.
"And her best friend and possible partner in crime is Rebecka Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons." Gillian remarked. They both glanced over to where Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes was taking her ease in the window recess which was her Spot. Johanna didn't appear to have noticed.
"Funny how these things keep coming back. As if some sort of script is playing out." Gillian remarked. "You'll probably get to see it for yourself when you're a few years into your career. It's a remarkable phenomenon. I saw it first with Mariella Smith-Rhodes and Rivka ben-Divorah. Either on her own was a handful. Put them together…"
Sister Mary Conception noticed how several other Assassin teachers, who were quietly listening, either shuddered a little or looked suddenly distant and reflective.
"And a year or two later, we got Emma Roydes, and yes, that is an unfortunate name, and Johanna Smith-Rhodes Maaijande. A walking definition of the phrase Déjà vu. I was their Housemistress."
More shuddering and thousand-yard stares. Sister Mary felt she was being warned about something.
"And now you've got the same thing going on at your school." Gillian remarked. "Keep an eye on them. They're not bad as such or malicious in any way. They never really are. Just larger than life. And other girls tend to look up to them. Role-models. Natural leaders."
Sister Mary Conception felt glad of the advice. Shauna's Gang was a potent force, like an alternative power-structure. A lot of the nuns were watching them. Just in case. And the Smith-Rhodes girl was already getting vocational training for when she left school. Any careers advice to that one would be brief and perfunctory. It had already been worked out.
But what to do with the O'Hennigan girl? She wasn't exactly cut out to be a hairdresser or a sales assistant or a clerical receptionist or any of the sort of approved careers SHS recommended for its girls. Her personality was wrong. Shauna would want something livelier than that. Sister Mary was worried she might drift into something immoral or dubious or not recommended. And every time an SHS girl featured in The Times, she was most likely to appear alongside a report concerning her appearance in court, what the charge was, and what the eventual punishment turned out to be. Mother Superior deplored this. The school comedian kept a scrapbook of Eminent Old Girls.
Sister Mary shut her eyes at an awful picture that emerged, unbidden, on the inner screen of her mind, of Shauna O'Hennigan as a sales assistant at Boggi's or Horrids.
"Faith, darlin', that doesn't fecken' suit you. With your arse being that bloody big, you look like a sack of shite tied in two at the waist, so you do… look, I'll find you something half-decent from the Fat Girls rack, how's that? Clothes For Women Who Need To Put That Bloody Fork Down, we've got a range. Now come away from the window. Your arse is blocking out the daylight."
Bekki put the book down gratefully. It was one her father, who meant well, had found for her from the Library at Unseen University.
It had been as hard going as the title suggested.
Sociological, cultural, and political aspects of the history of the practice of Witchcraft in the Sto Plains and the Ramtops.
Naturally, it had been written by a wizard. And it was dry as dust. It was only interesting for what it revealed of the exclusively male world of wizardry, and what it collectively thought about the necessary but, it must be strictly monitored and controlled, practice of Magic by the untrained, untutored, ill-educated and irrational distaff side.
Bekki wanted to meet that wizard and explain to him, simply and without ambiguity, what was wrong with his arguments concerning women and magic. To ask him if he'd actually, you know, ever met any witches. Ever. And after she'd hit him, she'd tell him his book was a load of crap, too. (3)
There was another book, shorter and thinner. The Librarian had given it to her with an Oook! that meant "Don't tell your father."
This was entitled
Matriarchal Magic in a Patriarchal World
And subtitled
If a Man Can Be A Warlock, A Woman Can Be A Wizard
The author was Professor E. Smith, PhD, UU. And lots of other tacked-on seemingly random letters. There were six letters and a period mark in . And at least forty after her name.
Bekki had been astonished to see Professor Smith's full first name was Eskarina. She devoured the book in a sitting. Then read it again. She wanted more of this sort of thing. It made sense. It answered questions.
Is Eskarina Smith still alive? she wondered. It wasn't a given thing with wizards. But still. A woman Wizard? Who'd started out by training as a Witch? With the fabled Mistress Weatherwax?
And then Shauna's Gang convened. The girls met with hugs and whoops. Then got on to the pressing business of (i) Why was there never enough money? And (ii) When was that bloody lad Emmanuel-Martin going to do the decent thing and develop an interest in girls? He's too handsome a fella to not be interested. Waste. And (iii) If the meeting accepts that Emmanuel-Martin de Lapoignard is not interested right now, who else is there, and what is the general availability of fit lads in our area? The Chair will accept submissions from the floor.
Bekki loved this. In the middle of being at school all day and training for witchcraft, it was easy to forget she was still thirteen and female and wanted to do normal thirteen-year-old-girl things with like-minded normal people. Or else she'd go nuts. Mum quietly insisted she should make time for being a normal teenager. Thanks, mum. It was understood. Dad usually slipped her a couple of dollars and said "be careful out there." He wanted her to be as normal as possible too.
And if the gang convened at Bekki's, Blessing or Eve would see to it that refreshments were made available. Bekki felt uneasy about friends like Joyce or Janey getting maid service. That they'd go away thinking Bekki was a spoilt little rich kid or something.
Shauna was appreciative. Her usual reaction was something like "Eve, has anyone told you today how lovely you are?"
Eve the maid would smile and join in the joke on a perfectly relaxed social-equals level. The maid, speaking to a Dimwell street-scruff.
"Shauna, you are only saying that to encourage me to come back soon with more! Compliments are nice, but I prefer cash."
The two would banter for a while, perfectly relaxed.
Bekki compared this to being addressed as "Little Madam", or "more usually now as "Miss Rebecka", and sighed.(4) She was Madam's daughter. Of course the staff had to be deferential. But with the other girls, Eve and Blessing were a lot more informal. Probably the way things were.
"Two of me sisters are in service." Shauna said. "And one brother. Can't see me signing on as an upstairs maid anywhere, any time soon. Not to a bloody Morporkian noble."
"Shauna, you'd tell them to ram it right up their bum." Janey said.
"Almost right, but I wouldn't use the word "bum". Have you ever heard me call an arse a bum?" Shauna agreed. "Anyway, what are we doing, sitting here talking about what jobs we're going to do after we leave school? That's so fecken' depressing!"
Bekki looked at Davvie Bellamy. They were the only two who knew. With assured futures. One as a Witch, the other as an Assassin. The other girls, all SHS, were up in the air about it.
"Anyway. Your Maureen might have started out as an upstairs maid. She didn't last long." Joyce remarked. "My mum knows her from Sheer Street. Same House of Repute."
"Everybody's got to live." Shauna said, unoffended. "And she's making twenty times more than she did working for that whore's get Lady Regina bloody Rust. Bloody good luck to her!"
There was a brief meaningful pause.
"Shauna?" Joyce said, quietly and firmly. "I'm a whore's get. Literally. None taken."
"Sorry, darling. didn't mean you. Or your mum. Lady Rust is the other sort of whore's get. The wrong sort."
The apology was accepted. Everybody knew Shauna was okay. She just ran off at the mouth. It was accepted.
They speculated for a while about Seamstressing. You know, as a career. Could we do it without wanting to go "yeccch!" or throw up?
"Our Maureen says you get to see men at their most ridiculous." Shauna said. "Says she has a hard job to stop herself laughing sometimes."
They discussed this for a while, in the sort of twisty-turny-Moebious way that discussions among teenage girls took. Bekki suspected they were all talking about something of which they had very, very, little actual experience and only incomplete practical knowledge. It made her feel slightly uneasy. But it was great to be with friends.
Shauna stayed over that night. Bekki asked her, in the quiet of the night, if she really had given any thought as to what she'd do after she left school.
Her friend was quiet and thoughtful. And serious. And, the bravado gone, a little bit worried.
"Bekki. I just don't have a fecken' clue. And that's Sek's honest truth!"
Bekki and her friend hugged each other to sleep. On the cusp of sleep, she heard a voice, speaking Vondalaans.
"Bekki, liewe hecksie. Reassure your friend not to be so anxious. She's clever and resourceful. And determined. She will do well."
"Johanna Lavinia?" Bekki asked, sleepily. She now knew her guides' voices as individuals. She asked a question she had simply not thought to ask before. An obvious one. "You can see into the future too?"
She heard her great-great aunt laugh, amused.
"Only vaguely, liewe heksie. I regret we cannot tell you anything useful, such as which horse will win a specific race and at what odds. It doesn't work like that. Shame. But we get to see outlines. Possibilities. Shapes of what may be. We are also constrained as to what we may tell the living. There are rules. But I can say your friend has strong arms and a clever mind. And if that fails, she is to trust in her God. Sek isn't a bad God, as Gods go. He does sometimes answer prayer and remember those who serve Him. When He can be bothered."
"You get to meet the Gods too?" Bekki asked.
Great-great-aunt Johanna Lavinia laughed again.
"Periodically, one slums it by visiting the Afterlife." she said. "For some Gods, this is part of the job description. Like the university teacher who strives to avoid contact with students, but now and again has no choice. The same principle applies."
Bekki tried to visualise this. Dead people, who she had been told were shorn of all Discly illusions and often a bit pissed off that the Afterlife wasn't what they'd been led to expect. And then a God descends among them expecting a continuation of worship and adoration. There would then be some serious complaining to the management going on. After all, what can you do to me here, you stuck-up divine bastard? Smite me to death? And if her attitudinal relatives, in the same family line as Mum, ganged up on a God...
She tried not to smile. What was the little ritual Witches had whenever the name of the presumed-deceased Esmerelda Weatherwax came up? Invariably mention of her name would be followed with a ritual mayhersoulhavemercyontheGods.
Bekki had asked about this. She'd asked, naively, wasn't the usual formulation of the phrase May the Gods have mercy on her soul?
Olga, Irena, Nottie and Mrs Proust had all looked at her.
"Devyushka." Irena had said. "You never met Mistress Weatherwax, did you? We all did!"
"MayhersoulhavemercyontheGods." The other witches chorused. Bekki now knew to join in.
Bekki suspected any God going near the deceased Johanna Smith-Rhodeses would have an uncomfortable time, for much the same reasons. Her mother, after all, was renowned for having won the Teatime Prize four or five times. Mum hadn't inhumed a God yet. Yet. There was time.
"Johanna Lavinia?" Bekki asked. "Why are you here tonight?"
"I like being near you. Your friends are nice, pleasant, funny girls. It was pleasant to be there. I felt young again. Also, a time of decision for you is close. Not very close. But tonight you discussed directions for your futures. The time is coming when you must consider your own. I would find out more about Lancre and the Chalk, liewe hecksie. There is no rush yet. But be prepared."
She nodded over at Grindguts, who was perched on the dresser and silently watching. Grindguts was used to this sort of thing by now. He was companion to a witch and a thing of magic himself. He also knew to respect people called Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Living or dead.
"And you have a strange companion. A funny sort of bloemmie kabouter.(5) From a strange sort of flower. But his heart is good, anyway. Now I feel I should leave you to sleep."
"Bekki? Who are you talking to?" Shauna asked, sleepily. "You're talking in Howondalandian. And I'd swear somebody was replying."
"Long story." Bekki sighed. "Just accept for now I was talking in my sleep? Nothing to worry about."
People on the edge of sleep can hear and see ghosts, Bekki realised. More open, more suggestive. What does Dad call it in wizardspeak? The hypnagogic state? In two worlds at once. Maybe it might work for Mum. She might get to see them and talk to them. At least in passing. I'd love it if she could.
Bekki passed into sleep. She dreamt of high snowy mountains and scattered villages clinging to their sides and foothills, clinging on among deep dark woodland. There was a castle on a ravine over a river. It looked like the classic fairy-tale castle that had been allowed to fall into shabby disrepair and had seen better centuries, Any Princess living there, Bekki suspected, would tend to wear hair-curlers, slouch around in an old stained dressing-gown and beaten-up carpet slippers with trodden-down heels, have collapsing makeup and a cigarette butt sticking out of the side of her mouth… and she'd complain incessantly about having been stuck up there for forty-odd bleeding years with no Prince in sight.(6)
Pyn the cat had leapt up on the bed with them. He had opened one suspicious eye to Johanna Lavinia Smith-Rhodes, dismissed her as fundamentally uninteresting, and curled up to sleep. Bekki accepted this. Once settled and sleeping, Pyn, like his sister Smart, was unshiftable. Ah well. It's a big bed. It has to be. (7)
Bekki slipped between the vision of small hamlets and woods clinging to the side of high snowy mountains with the shabby castle clinging to a cliff-edge over a river, and the familiar contours of her own bedroom; flicking back and forth between contending realities in the way that often happens on the cusp of sleep; and then her mind and body conclusively decided sleep was the better option. The majority vote switched her off completely, and she knew no more till morning.
It had been a relaxed Saturday evening at the Watch. Olga and Irena had gone about routine ground duties on the rooftop air station, pitching in with cleaning and tidying alongside the others, and had started singing something stirring in Far Überwaldean. After a whole, some of the Dwarfs who were employed as ground crew joined in. It was a pleasant evening. Bekki focused, and after a while joined in. She picked up rhythms and new languages quickly and soon got the words, even if she had no idea what they actually meant.
Полюшко-поле,
полюшко, широко поле, Едут по полю герои, Эх, да Красной Армии герои.
Девушки плачут, Девушкам сегодня грустно, Милый надолго уехал, Эх, да милый в армию уехал.
Девушки, гляньте, Гляньте на дорогу нашу, Вьётся дальняя дорога, Эх, да развесёлая дорога.
This was a side of Olga and Irena she hadn't seen before. It was compelling and she wanted to join in.
"They'll get a vodka bottle out as soon as they come off shift." Nottie said, tolerantly. "Just you wait. By the way, you're not old enough for vodka yet."
Bekki was happily singing along with "Polyushko-pole, polyushko, shiroko pole"… and felt she didn't need any vodka to be happy like this. It was infectious. She was trying to follow the song.
"Devushki, glyan'te, Glyan'te na dorogu nashu, V'yotsya dal'nyaya doroga, Eh, da razvesyolaya doroga."
She frowned.
"I know "devushka" means "girl" or "kid". Or "kid who is a girl". she said. "they call me that often enough. But I can't get much of the rest."
Olga and one of the Dwarfs were doing a whirling sort of dance in the middle of the landing-circle, on top of the big "H". It involved almost sitting down, with folded arms, but without a chair there, and enthusiastically kicking your legs out. It looked uncomfortable. The others were whooping and cheering them on.
Nottie smiled tolerantly.
"I don't get it all. But it's about the usual sort of thing. We've been to war. We rode out and fought. We came back alive. The rest is gravy. So let's crack the vodka open and celebrate being here and alive. Sort of thing. I'm paraphrasing, of course."
"What's the occasion?" Bekki asked, interested.
"They're from Far Überwald. They don't need an excuse. And it's been a busy few weeks. Lots going on. Olga does this every so often. Letting off steam, I guess."
Bekki experimented with the squatting-down-and-kicking-your-legs-out dance. She fell over. She tried again. She fell over again. She didn't care. This was fun. She wanted to join in. People cheered and encouraged her. One of the Dwarfs had brought out an oddly shaped guitar sort of thing. Bekki didn't realise Dwarfs were musical. But it made sense.
"Come on, devushka." Irena said. "I'll teach you. You're entitled. You're a flier now. One of us." she said.
Bekki looked over. Then realised.
Irena hugged her.
"Sending you up solo soon." she said. "We may as well celebrate. Our little chick is getting her wings."
There was a quick conference. Olga nodded.
Then a broomstick was brought out.
"Make it quick." Irena said. "Two or three circuits. Then land. Remember everything I told you. Then we celebrate you."
Bekki focused. Then did her first short solo flight. Without an instructor. There were cheers as she landed. She was led across to a hastily set up table. There was a bottle full of clear watery liquid. It looked safe enough. From a distance. And lots of glasses. They were filled and passed out.
"I'll make it quick!" Lieutenant Olga Romanoff called. "I know I can be such a long-winded pompous old cow. Let's avoid that. Tonight we have a new member of our family. We have a new pilot!"
People cheered.
"She's just gone solo. You all saw her. Our devushka has her wings! She's still not old enough to be Air Police, but that doesn't matter. She's a witch, poor innocent little chick. But she can fly! Let us welcome her aboard in the usual way!"
Olga embraced and kissed Bekki.
"Welcome, new babiuschka." she said. "Liewe Heksie."
Shortly after that, she drank her first glass of vodka. It tasted nasty and left a burny sensation in her mouth and throat, but she knew not to splutter or cough.
"Just the one. Well, maybe two. You aren't even fourteen yet." Olga said.
This time she got her balance right to do the squatting-down-and-kicking-your-legs-out dance without falling over. The vodka tasted horrible but it seemed to help her balance. It also seemed to help her learn a bit more Far Überwaldean. Irena nodded appreciation and taught her the stock phrases, like hello, goodbye, please, thank you, can't be helped, and I've got to get you home, young lady, it's best you do not have another glass of vodka.
"Did her first solo flight, did she?" Mum asked. She seemed unsurprised. "Well, at least she's still upright."
Mum shook her head. She looked at Bekki with what she thought was surprising tolerance, for her mother. She'd half expected Mum to go totally spare.
Get to bed. Devyushka." she said. And "Thanks, Irena. I appreciate she only had a couple of glasses. I accept she deserved those. You fly. You have your little rituals. And some of them involve strong drink. Well, many of them involve strong drink. And Bekki is now a pilot and a flyer. So a couple of glasses. That is fair. In the company of people who have her best interests at heart and are looking out for her."
Bekki's first hangover the next morning convinced her she was never going to drink again. Ever. Mum smiled slightly and let this happen too.
"It's a life lesson." she said, later. "Be careful when drinking with Far Überwaldeans. Any people who distil vodka as a national drink are to be treated with respect. I was out cold for a day, and I was hungover for two more."
Mum crossed to a cupboard, unlocked it, and took out a bottle Bekki recognised as vodka. She shuddered.
She watched her mother pour some into a saucer. Then she struck a match. The vodka burnt for a long time with a pale blue flame. They watched it together.
"I'm not sure if any ghosts are around." she said. "But they're welcome to that. Did you see what I just did? If you can set fire to it, don't drink more than three glasses. If it actually explodes, don't drink it at all. If it melts the saucer, use it as a weapon."
Mum smiled. "Feeling better yet? No? Well, you've learnt another little lesson there, meisie. And some lessons you cannot teach. You have to learn them."
Bekki felt glad it was Octeday morning. No school.
And people did this for pleasure? Drank strong spirits which tasted foul, knowing they'd feel this way the next morning?
Mum smiled. Her dad frowned.
Breakfast, I think."
It was a big greasy fry-up, what they called a full Morporkian. Fried sausage. Fried bread. Lots of fried eggs. Fried mushrooms. And oh, what a surprise. Fried bacon. They didn't normally have this for breakfast. Bekki looked at her mother.
"Eat it all up." Mum said, encouragingly. "good for you. Settles your stomach. Be quick, we're going to Kerk."
Realising her mother was doing this on purpose, Bekki set to…
(1) Who contributed most of the sweat. This is an ongoing bone of contention in staffrooms. Everywhere.
(2) It's an interesting fact that, per capita, Ireland drinks twice as much tea as the British and is probably the world's gold-medal-winning tea-drinking nation. If there was an Olympic event in tea-drinking, the Irish would win it every time out. Father Ted and the memorable Mrs Doyle are not complete caricatures.
(3) deep down, Bekki took after her mother. It would surface every so often. People were briefly surprised.
(4) Little Madam was a title that had passed down the chain from Bekki first to Famke, and then to Ruth. Famke was now "Miss Famke" to the staff. Ruth was the current Little Madam.
(5) I know. A nod to that TV show, die Liewe Heksie. In which Lavinia the Little Witch has a companion sprite called Bloemmie, who is a gormlessly child-like but good-natured pixie. A kabouter, in Afrikaans. A sort of flower-fairy.
(6) Bekki felt guilty about this when, much later, she realised the relevant Princess was her friend and tutor Nottie Garlick, Witch and Crown Princess of Lancre. Nottie might not be conventionally attractive, but she did take care of her appearance and didn't smoke. And didn't swear. Much.
(7) and did I mention that as well as a flower-fairy, Lavinia die Liewe Heksie also has a little cat, who doesn't do much but sits there miouwing a lot and generally acts as a cute and fragile little companion kittie? Bekki die Liewe Heksie has Grindguts the Destroying Demon – and Acerian Maine Coons… (there's nothing like taking an iconic children's TV show, even one obscure outside its intended audience in South Africa, and racking it Up To Eleven… very satisfying….)
Notes Dump:
Somewhere in a sea roughly halfway between two continents, the one of the tale being currently written and the semi-glimpsed one of future tales yet to be committed to paper, where isolated ideas are given lifebelts and a signal rocket against being spotted and rescued.
Interesting point, from reader bissek: thank you, bissek!
bissek
. chapter 12
Given that this is several years in the future from most of your other fics, would Vimes have gotten started on his "New Ankhtown" project of providing decent affordable lower-class housing with a landlord who is actually responsible for the building's upkeep and can be held accountable for it? Shauna's family could use that.
Reply:
Good point. worth considering. But a big project that amounts to rebuilding and ultimately rehousing the best part of an entire city takes time... I wonder how I can dovetail this into events of "The Civilian Assistant" and add to cross-story continuity. Actually, you've made a really good point here. Thank you. This is worth factoring in! A bit of scheming from Johanna and some creative constructive meddling, perhaps… Maybe Johanna's sense of basic decency kicks in and she meddles, with good intentions, and talks to people. I do see "Shauna's Gang" being mortified with embarrassment when their actual mothers go out minge-drinking together, having bonded in the adversity of being mothers to teenage daughters... the democracy of a bunch of thirty and forty-something respectable wives and mothers of all social backgrounds and occupations collectively deciding "To hell with it. Let's let our hair down and get hammered." There may be productive mirth here.