‘Looks like it’s got the start of bracket fungus in the base joint,’ the second dwarf suggested.
‘Wouldn’t be surprised at anything, with your elm,’ said the first dwarf.
‘Look, can you just patch it up enough to get me home?’ Tiffany asked.
‘Oh, we don’t “patch things up”,’ said the first dwarf loftily or, rather, metaphorically loftily. ‘We do a bespoke service.’
‘I just need a few bristles,’ said Tiffany desperately, and then, because she forgot she hadn’t been going to admit to the truth, ‘Please? It wasn’t my fault the Feegles set fire to the broomstick.’
Up until that point, there had been quite a lot of background noises in the dwarf workshop as dozens of dwarfs had been working away on their own benches and not taking much heed of the discussion, but now there was a silence, and in that silence a single hammer dropped to the floor.
The first dwarf said, ‘When you say Feegles, you don’t mean Nac Mac Feegles, do you, miss?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The wild ones? Do they say … Crivens ?’ he asked very slowly.
‘Practically all the time,’ said Tiffany. She thought she ought to make things clear and added, ‘They are my friends.’
‘Oh, are they?’ said the dwarf. ‘And are any of your little friends here at this moment?’
‘Well, I told them to go and find a young man of my acquaintance,’ said Tiffany, ‘but they are probably in a pub by now. Are there many pubs in the city?’
The two dwarfs looked at one another. ‘About three hundred, I should say,’ said the second dwarf.
‘That many?’ said Tiffany. ‘Then I don’t expect they’ll come looking for me for at least half an hour.’
And suddenly the first dwarf was all frantic good humour. ‘Well, where are our manners?’ he said. ‘Anything for a friend of Mrs Proust! Tell you what: it will be our pleasure to give you our express service gratis and for nothing, including free bristles and creosote at no charge whatsoever!’
‘Express service meaning you leave straight away afterwards,’ said the second dwarf flatly. He took off his iron helmet, wiped the sweat off the inside with his handkerchief and put it back on his head quickly.
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ said the first dwarf. ‘Right away; that’s what express means.’
‘Friends with the Feegles, are you?’ said Mrs Proust as the dwarfs hurried to deal with Tiffany’s broomstick. ‘They don’t have many, I understand. But talking of friends,’ she continued in a suddenly chatty tone, ‘you did meet Derek, didn’t you? He’s my son, you know. I met his father in a dance hall with very bad lighting. Mr Proust was a very kind man who was always gracious enough to say that kissing a lady without warts was like eating an egg without salt. He passed on twenty-five years ago, of the crisms. I am very sorry I couldn’t help him.’ Her face brightened. ‘But I’m glad to say that young Derek is the joy of my’ – she hesitated – ‘middle age. A wonderful lad, my dear. It’s going to be some lucky girl who takes her chance on young Derek, I can tell you. He’s tot
ally devoted to his work and pays such attention to detail. Do you know, he tunes all the whoopee cushions every morning and frets if any of them are wrong. And conscientious? When we were developing our forth-coming “Pearls of the Pavement” hilarious artificial dog poo collection, he must have spent weeks following just about every type of dog in the city with a notebook, a scoop and a colour chart, just to get everything exactly right. A very meticulous lad, clean in his ways, with all his own teeth. And very careful about his company …’ She gave Tiffany a hopeful but rather sheepish look. ‘This isn’t working, is it?’
‘Oh dear, did it show?’ said Tiffany.
‘I heard the spill words,’ said Mrs Proust.
‘What’s a spill word?’
‘You don’t know? A spill word is a word that somebody almost says, but doesn’t. For a moment they hover in the conversation but aren’t spoken – and may I say that in the case of my son Derek, it is as well that you didn’t say them aloud.’
‘I’m really very sorry,’ said Tiffany.
‘Yes, well, be told,’ said Mrs Proust.
Five minutes later, they walked out of the workshop with Tiffany towing a fully functional broomstick behind her.
‘Actually,’ said Mrs Proust as they walked, ‘now I come to think about it, your Feegles remind me a lot of Wee Mad Arthur. Tough as nails and about the same size. Haven’t heard him say “Crivens”, though. He’s a policeman in the Watch.’
‘Oh dear, the Feegles really don’t like policemen,’ said Tiffany, but she felt she ought to balance this somewhat, so she added, ‘But they are very loyal, mostly helpful, good-natured in the absence of alcohol, honourable for a given value of honour and, after all, they did introduce the deep-fried stoat to the world.’
‘What’s a stoat?’ said Mrs Proust.
‘Well, er … you know a weasel? It’s very much like a weasel.’