Making Money by Terry Pratchett Page A

didn’t say I thought you were a bad person,” said Mrs. Lavish. “And Mr. Fusspot likes you and he is a remarkably good judge of people. Besides, you’ve done wonders with our post office, just as Havelock says.” Mrs. Lavish reached down beside her and pulled a large bottle of gin onto the desktop. “A drink, Mr. Lipwig?”
    “Er…not at this time.”
    Mrs. Lavish sniffed. “I don’t have much time, sir, but fortunately I have a lot of gin.” Moist watched her pour a marginally sublethal measure into a tumbler.
    “Do you have a young lady?” she asked, raising the glass.
    “Yes.”
    “Does she know what you’re like?”
    “Yes. I keep telling her.”
    “Doesn’t believe you, eh? Ah, such is the way of a woman in love,” sighed Mrs. Lavish.
    “I don’t think it worries her, actually. She’s not your average girl.”
    “Ah, and she sees your inner self? Or perhaps the carefully constructed inner self you keep around for people to find? People like you…” she paused and went on: “…people like us always keep at least one inner self for inquisitive visitors, don’t we?”
    Moist didn’t rise to this. Talking to Mrs. Lavish was like standing in front of a magic mirror that stripped you to your marrow. He just said: “Most of the people she knows are golems.”
    “Oh? Great big clay men who are utterly trustworthy and don’t have anything to declare in the trouser department? What does she see in you, Mr. Lipwig?” She prodded him with a finger like a cheese straw.
    Moist’s mouth dropped open.
    “A contrast, I trust,” said Mrs. Lavish, patting him on the arm. “And now Havelock has sent you here to tell me how to run my bank. You may call me Topsy.”
    “Well, I—” Tell her how to run her bank? It hadn’t been put like that.
    Topsy leaned forward. “I never minded about Honey, you know,” she said, slightly lowering her voice. “Quite a nice girl, but thick as a yard of lard. She wasn’t the first, either. Not by a long way. I was Joshua’s mistress once myself.”
    “Really?” He knew he was going to hear it all, whether he wanted to or not.
    “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Lavish. “People understood more then. It was all quite acceptable. I used to take tea with his wife once a month to sort out his schedule, and she always said she was glad to have him out from under her feet. Of course, a mistress was expected to be a woman of some accomplishment in those days.” She sighed. “Now, of course, the ability to spin upside down around a pole seems to be sufficient.”
    “Standards are falling everywhere,” said Moist. It was a pretty good bet. They always were.
    “Banking is really rather similar,” said Topsy, as though thinking aloud.
    “Pardon?”
    “I mean the mere physical end in view is going to be the same, but style should count for something, don’t you think? There should be flair. There should be inventiveness. There should be an experience rather than a mere function. Havelock says you understand these things.” She gave Moist a questioning look. “After all, you have made the Post Office an almost heroic enterprise, yes? People set their watches by the arrival of the Genua Express. They used to set their calendars!”
    “The clacks still makes a loss,” said Moist.
    “A marvelously small one, while enriching the commonality of mankind in all sorts of ways, and I’ve no doubt that Havelock’s tax men take their share of that. You have the gift of enthusing people, Mr. Lipwig.”
    “Well, I…well, I suppose I do,” he managed. “I know if you want to sell the sausage you have to know how to sell the sizzle.”
    “Well and good, well and good,” said Topsy, “but I hope you know that however gifted you are as a sizzle salesman, sooner or later you must be able to produce the sausage, hmm?” She gave him a wink which would have got a younger woman jailed.
    “Incidentally,” she went on, “I recall hearing that the gods led you to the treasure