A/N: Whaddya know, I made it with only 1 footnote! Just had to get it out of my system, I guess. No Vetinari still, I'm sorry. But in the next chapter, I promise!
Hot and Cold: A Romance by samepaverge
Chapter 2
The Wishbone House, located adjacent to the manufactory, had seen better days. It was built in a style favored by the noveau-riche, but slowly disintegrated in the manner of the noveau-poore. The woodwork was rotting in places, a few windows had become warped and main door had to be kicked open and kicked closed. Cheap repairs had been keeping the house upright for a few years.
Duncehat Wishbone shielded himself from the rain with a sheet of canvas. He had a bag of figgins under his arm and when he reached up to knock on the door, the bag fell with a splosh.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, picking up the bag and cradling it up the other arm. He knocked again. "Can someone open the godsdamn door? It's pissing out here!"
A muffled voice from the inside yelled back, telling him to kick the door open. Duncehat gave a strong punt and the door flew open and banged on the wall, sending a jar from a high shelf to come crashing down.
"Well, there goes the pear jam," said Angela to the pile of goo. "'Twas good while it lasted." She spared a glance at Duncehat, who was looking flummoxed at the door. "Well don't let the rain in you idiot," she continued, "and take off them boots." She strode to the door, raised a leg, coaxed the door halfway with a foot and kicked it closed. The remaining jars on the shelf barely moved.
Duncehat stood by, looking astonished. "How come-?"
"Months of training," said Angela curtly. "Set the figgins on the table."
Duncehat took them out one by one and placed them on a plate. "A bit soggy, sorry," he said.
While Angela busied herself with a pot of tea by the fire, Duncehat took off the canvas and shoved it in a corner. He seemed to be looking for something in the room before he said, "You don't happen to know where the mirror in my old room went now, do you?"
"Mum had it moved into their-I mean her-room months ago," she said, without looking up from the brew. "It's a bit cracked now."
Duncehat left the room and Angela smiled to herself. You were always the vain one, Duncehat, she thought. At least he was the only one who could afford to be vain. Duncehat had the looks in the family, he was fairly smart too, if he could be arsed to it, but it was his features that had people turning their heads. He was handsome in a washed-out negative fashion, and had the appearance of a man who could not possibly be in a respectable profession. Duncehat probably thought he was so clever by evading all questions regarding his life in Pseudopolis, but everyone knew that he was smuggler. Angela thought it was a little ridiculous that he had no idea that nobody could care less what it was he did, business was business after all.
She set the teapot on the table and took the crockery from a creaky cabinet. Of course one of the cups had a chip and another had a missing handle, consistency is key-her father always said, whether consistently bad or consistently good, old Pa Strawhat did not really specify. Now, after all that had happened with the box company, she was not sure if Pa knew what the difference was.
"OY HARDHAT COMMEN GET TEA AN' FIGGINS!" she yelled at the ceiling, for Hardhat's room was directly above. She heard a muffled groan and, anticipating the loud thud that always follows when Hardhat falls out of bed, she lifted her apron protectively over the plate of figgins. It caught the wood dust that inevitably fell from the ceiling, and Angela shook the apron to get rid of them.
It was Duncehat who appeared first, in fresh trousers and a brown coat the pattern of which looked familiar to her.
"Is that Pa's coat?" She asked, more out of curiosity than doubt.
Duncehat stood at attention, gripping the coat by the lapels. "Slick, eh?" said he proudly with a rakish grin that would have buckled any lady's knees.
Angela shrugged and poured tea. "Haven't seen it for long. Where'd you find it?"
"In the folks' closet," he said, running his fingers over the shiny fabric. "It was the only one that wasn't moth eaten or threadbare. D'you think I should ask mum for it?"
Angela did a smile that went as quickly as it came. "Don't bother her about it," she answered. "I doubt she'll even remember," and in a whisper, she added, "Mum's been wearing the same dress for two years."
"Ah, all's fair then," he winked theatrically. "This one here's for keeps." Duncehat folded himself on a chair and reached out for a figgin.
"Did you happen to see Hardhat on your way down?" Angela asked.
"Aye," Duncehat said. "Saw him on the floor tangled with a blanket, kicking and swearing. Oh, he seems to have untangled himself just yet."
Hardhat walked into the room, although it could be more accurately described as the roundabout motion of an ant with squashed antennae. He, by some miracle surely, eventually reached a chair and collapsed on it.
"Hermme na cu' an' fing," Hardhat mumbled, and Angela pushed a cup of tea and a figgin towards him.
Duncehat looked askance at his brother. "Are you quite sure it isn't another language?" he asked Angela.
"Oh, it is," said she as a-matter-of-factly. "Being bilingual is a requirement for the men of his, um, profession."
"You mean Assessor," Duncehat said.
"Yea."
"Of brewed products," he continued.
"Mm-hm."
"At the Mended Drum."
"Right."
"How much does he get inna month, then?" Duncehat asked, indignant.
Angela sighed like one who has been asked the question before. "It's an apprenticeship," she said. "So he does not really get paid, per say, but he'll be an Ordinal Assessor soon enough. At least it's what he says, right, Hardhat?"
Hardhat looked at the both of them with a bleary eye and nibbled on his figgin like a caterpillar.
"Cushy," said Duncehat with narrowed eyes. "Gods wot I change my career then, now, eh? Easy penny for a cushy desk job assessing."
Angela smiled like a farmer that has led his cattle to slaughter. "What if you could?" she asked, weaving her fingers together and hunching over the table.
Duncehat shook his head "Naw," he said. And again, "Naw," he repeated, more to convince himself than his sister with the expectant look on her face.
"Why?" She angled. "You'll be closer to home."
Precisely why, Duncehat thought. "Not up to it," he said, not without a cough. "I, um, just can't leave my, um, job. It's got some high stakes, pretty serious. And if I give that up for a seat behind a desk, pushing paper? Why it would crush me." He paused, placing a hand on his chest. "High stakes, Angie, is what I'm made for."
"Like the prospect of prison?" she muttered.
"Whatsat?"
She had to think quickly. "Buy a posh pick of pisson*?"
*A popular ornamental plant in Ankh-Morpork that yields bright orange flowers
Duncehat raised an eyebrow. "What the bloody hell for, eh?"
Angela shifted her gaze. "It's, um, for Pa's grave?"
Duncehat gave her a look reserved for, well, dunces. "Then you wouldn't want to get pissons, then. Those are for ladies, for when you like them, and don't want to forget their, um, confiding love. Forever-nots are more appropriate."
"Forever-nots," said Angela. "How, erm, fitting. But I'm not talking about a job like Hardhat's," she continued, saying job like a loose spit on the ground.
"What, then?" Duncehat replied impatiently.
Angie swallowed, hesitated, and thought better of it. "What if it were, say, a production line involving containers of a cuboid morphology?"
"Like a box?" he said.
"Well-"
"Like a box company? A company that produces boxes?" Duncehat said with a raised voice.
"It's going to be pretty challenging, with lots of odds and high stakes and all and-"
"Like our BOX COMPANY, YOU MEAN?"
"-well it's not like there's anything we can do about it. Besides what's wrong-"
"ARE YOU JOKING? THE BLOODY THING'S BEEN RUN DOWN EVEN BEFORE PA DIED, EH? Sorry mum."
Mrs. Wishbone wheeled herself into the room. The mistress of the house had been in a wheeled-chair for four years now. Her gaunt frame, stooped shoulders, and hawk-like expression added to her years, but she had arms that could wrestle and win. Her palms were covered with a length of stray pieces of cloth that never stayed tied, so they hung freely and frequently got tangled at the wheels.
"Buggerit, ger em off!" The old lady said, yanking at the cloth with all her might.
"Here, mum, I got that-" Duncehat offered.
"Buggeroff, you buck!"
"Right-o," he said, raising both arms and turning back to the table. Then his face suddenly brightened. "Ha! I got it," Duncehat said, his face streaked with epiphany. "What if," he paused, "we let mum run the box company. After all, OW!" he yelled, after being hit on the head with a high velocity, missile precision copper pot.
The old lady fixed him with a beady glare. "Bloody kids wir' 'em dumb idear-"
"What?" Duncehat said to Angela, who had a raised eyebrow. "Lady's got a brass neck, look at her!"
"-been mutherin' all me life, raisin' these bloody kids-"
"She can keep 'em in check, and we could even build, um, ramps and such," he continued.
"-never gettin' any sleep, buggerem, scrapin' ferra livin'-"
"Mum," Angela mumbled.
"And we could even have those extra roomy privy stalls-"
"-brought 'em up from the cradle I did, bloody kids, and lost the use of me legs-"
"MUM," Angela repeated.
"Oh, and we could fix her up a nice room at the ground floor, with the desk facing the door, eh?"
"-can't stand the bloody whining, and the finger-pointin' at the market, 'Mama, mama, I want that!' bloody-"
"MUM!" Angela yelled over the noise. Both Duncehat and Mrs. Wishbone stopped their one-sided conversations to stare at her. Angela reached over the table and took a pastry from the plate. "Here's a figgin, mum," she said, and Mrs. Wishbone took it between her gauzed hands. "Now go back to staring out the window there's a good lady." Angela wheeled her mother out into the sitting room and positioned her by the window.
"I dern like this bloody window," Mrs. Wishbone grumbled. "It squeaks."
With a sigh, Angela wheeled her over to the next window, and when it was met with no resistance, she returned to the kitchen.
"Well?" said Duncehat.
Angela placed both hands on her narrow hips and asked the ceiling for patience. "That would be all and well," she said, "if mum were not slightly off her rocker."
"And what's that suppos'd to mean?"
"Senile, Duncehat," she replied, with the baldness of an illegally logged hilltop. "Senile. She has flown the coop, left the nest, dropped the marble, kicked the can, shuffled the deck, bitten the big Wahoonie, sniffed the-"
"Okay, okay, gods," Duncehat interrupted. "So, what do we do now?"
Angela weaved her fingers together and placed them under her chin. "You really don't want the, erm, job?"
"Ye gods, no!" said Duncehat in panic. "Besides, I have to return to Pseudopolis soon. I can't have business backed up. What about Hardhat right here? He's not going anywhere, isn't he?"
They had almost forgotten him. At the sound of his name, Hardhat picked his head up like a cat and dropped it again to pay attention to something else, like a cat.
Angela looked at her brother with a mixture of revulsion and pity. She sidled over next to Hardhat and placed an arm around him. "As you can see, he's quite occupied," she explained. "Aren't cha, Hardhat?"
Hardhat turned so slowly that she could almost hear his neck creak. He cast a wondering eye at her. "Haaaarm?" He said, breathing all over her face the smell of rotten piss and a figgin, down there, somewhere. Angela turned to Duncehat with a curled expression and managed to force it into a smile. "See?" she said.
"Well, if you get him into one of those reha-" he paused, "rehabeelee-" he paused and breathed, "those places where they put fellows who get too 'work-a-holic' and maybe they could set him to rights?"
This is going to be tricky, Angela thought. "We've tried that months ago," she said. "Hardhat's too dedicated for any institution. Watch this." She turned to Hardhat and said, "What Do You Want, Hardhat? What. Do. You. Want?"
All of a sudden, Hardhat straightened his back and with a beaming expression, he said, "A-bottle-of-whiskey-and-a-glass-o'-gin!" before slumping into stupor.
"It's all he thinks about, poor fellow," Angela said, patting Hardhat on the back. "Well if you wouldn't take the job, and if Hardhat's too busy, then all hope is lost then," she said, her voice reduced to a whisper.
Duncehat looked at her with a blank expression that slowly turned into triumph. "No," he said resolutely. "No," he repeated moving towards Angela with his arms stretched outward. "All hope is not lost, unless," he paused.
Angela looked at her brother with an expression of complete bewilderment. "Unless what?"
"Unless," he said once more, taking each of her hands into his. "Unless you...do."
"Me?" she said, with a note of rehearsed surprise. "You want me to take over the box company?"
Duncehat grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Who else could there be?" he said, using a voice that would send many a salesman to tears. "Despite your inexperience, naivete and all-around ingenuousness (how did I manage that word?), I am sure you would rise up to the situation and take the bull by the-"
"By the what?" Angela asked.
"By the horns, my dear!" he said with theatrical glee.
"I had heard from somewhere that that sort of thing is dangerous," she replied.
Duncehat rattled her once more. "Exactly!" he said, relying solely on the might of a solitary excalamation mark.
"But the company-"
"Will soon pull through under your leadership, I am sure," he said. "This is your hour, little Angie. The captain has abandoned his ship and you must take the helm and steer the ship through the storm. Pillar of flame, blaze of glory!" he continued.
Angela allowed herself to be bowled over by the meaningless phrases Duncehat sputtered like firecrackers. "You think I could do it?" she asked.
"Yes!" he cried, his fist pumping. "And bloody better than anyone else, too! So that's settled then? You will do it?"
Angela lowered her eyes and stood still, while Duncehat looked at her like a party-popper in a countdown. She sighed and acted as though she dithered between assent and refusal. A few seconds passed and she glanced up to her brother. "Yes," she squeaked.
"Yes!" Duncehat repeated for her, and he took Angela by the waist, lifted her up, and twirled her once before setting her down.
"Wonderful!" he said to himself. "Alright I'm off then."
Angela looked up in surprise. "Where are you going?"
"Well this deserves a celebration, at least!" he said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "Remember your favorite 'tater stew?" Duncehat took the canvas and set it down again; it was not raining anymore. He tugged at the door, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled at it with all his might, still, the door would not yield.
Angela strode to the window and threw it open. "Oy, you there!" she yelled to a passing stranger on the street. The stranger pointed to himself. Me? he asked.
"Yea," said Angela. "You mind giving the old door a kick? Right, thanks. Just a good punt, right there on the lower part, just remember nottomakeitto-" the door flew open and a jar fell and broke. "-strong. Thanks."
She turned to Duncehat and buttoned his new coat. "Well off you go then," she said. "Get em 'taters."
XoXoXoX
On another street in another part of Ankh-Morpork, meanwhile, the Guild of Merchants decided the fate of a failing box company on Lockbee Street.