Thief of Time

“You don't know me, but—” said Susan, and realized that Mrs Ogg was looking past her at Binky, who was standing by the gate. The woman was a witch, after all.

“Maybe I do know you,” said Mrs Ogg. “O'course, if you just stole that horse, you just don't know how much trouble you're in.”

“I borrowed it. The owner is… my grandfather.”

Another pause, and it was disconcerting how those friendly little eyes could bore into yours like an auger.

“You'd better come in,” said Mrs Ogg.

The inside of the cottage was as clean and new as the outside. Things gleamed, and there were a lot of them to gleam. The place was a shrine to bad but enthusiastically painted china ornaments, which occupied every flat surface. What space was left was full of framed pictures. Two harassed-looking women were polishing and dusting.

“I got comp'ny,” said Mrs Ogg sternly, and the women left with such alacrity that the word “fled” might have been appropriate.

“My daughters-in-law,” said Mrs Ogg, sitting down in a plump armchair which, over the years, had shaped itself to fit her. “They like to help a poor old lady who's all alone in the world.”

Susan took in the pictures. If they were all family members, Mrs Ogg was head of an army. Mrs Ogg, unashamedly caught out in a flagrant lie, went on: “Sit down, girl, and say what's on your mind. There's tea brewing.”

“I want to know something.”

“Most people do,” said Mrs Ogg. “And they can go on wantin'.”

“I want to know about… a birth,” said Susan, persevering.

“Oh, yes? Well, I done hundreds of confinements. Thousands, prob'ly.”

“I imagine this one was difficult.”

“A lot of them are,” said Mrs Ogg.

“You'd remember this one. I don't know how it started, but I'd imagine that a stranger came knocking.”

“Oh?” Mrs Ogg's face became a wall. The black eyes stared out at Susan as if she was an invading army.

“You're not helping me, Mrs Ogg.”

“That's right. I ain't,” said Mrs Ogg. “I think I know about you, miss, but I don't care who you are, you see. You can go and get the other one, if you like. Don't think I ain't seen him, neither. I've been at plenty of deathbeds, too. But deathbeds is public, mostly, and birthbeds ain't. Not if the lady don't want them to be. So you get the other one, and I'll spit in his eye.”

“This is very important, Mrs Ogg.”

“You're right there,” said Mrs Ogg firmly.

“I can't say how long ago it was. It may have been last week, even. Time, that's the key.”

And there it was. Mrs Ogg was not a poker player, at least against someone like Susan. There was the tiniest flicker of the eyes.

Mrs Ogg's chair was rammed back in her effort to rise, but Susan got to the mantelpiece first and snatched what was there, hidden in plain view amongst the ornaments.

“You give that here!” shouted Mrs Ogg, as Susan held it out of her reach. She could feel the power in the thing. It seemed to pulse in her hand.

“Have you any idea what this is, Mrs Ogg?” she said, opening her hand to reveal the little glass bulbs.

“Yes, it's an eggtimer that don't work!” Mrs Ogg sat down hard in her overstuffed chair, so that her little legs rose off the floor for a moment.

“It looks to me like a day, Mrs Ogg. A day's worth of time.”

Mrs Ogg glanced at Susan, and then at the little hourglass in her hand.

“I reckoned there was something odd about it,” she said. “The sand don't go through when you tip it up, see?”

“That's because you don't need it to yet, Mrs Ogg.”

Nanny Ogg appeared to relax. Once again Susan reminded herself that she was dealing with a witch. They tended to keep up.

“I kept it 'cos it was a gift,” said the old lady. “And it looks so pretty, too. What do them letters round the edge say?”

Susan read the words etched on the metal base of the lifetimer: Tempus Redux. “‘Time Returned’,” she said.

“Ah, that'd be it,” said Mrs Ogg. “The man did say I'd be repaid for my time.”

“The man…?” said Susan gently.

Nanny Ogg glanced up, her eyes ablaze.

“Don't you try to take advantage of me just 'cos I'm moment'r'ly a bit flustered,” she snapped. “There's no way round Nanny Ogg!”

Susan looked at the woman, and this time not with the lazy eye. And there was, indeed, no way round Mrs Ogg. But there was another way, with Mrs Ogg. It went straight through the heart.

“A child needs to know his parents, Mrs Ogg,” she said. “Now more than ever. He needs to know who he really is. It's going to be hard for him, and I want to help him.”

“Why?”

“Because I wish someone had helped me,” said Susan.

“Yes, but there's rules to midwifery,” said Nanny Ogg. “You don't say what was said or what you saw. Not if the lady don't want you to.”

The witch wriggled awkwardly in her chair, her face going red. She wants to tell me, Susan knew. She's desperate to. But I've got to play it right, so she can square it with herself.

“I'm not asking for names, Mrs Ogg, because I expect you don't know them,” she went on.

“That's true.”

“But the child—”

“Look, miss, I'm not supposed to tell a living soul about—”