‘I’m a goblin, miss.’ He hesitated as he said it. It sounded like a lie.

‘I thought goblins had horns,’ said Glenda.

‘Only the grown-up ones, miss.’ Well, that was true, for some goblins.

‘You lot don’t do anything nasty, do you?’ said Glenda, glaring at Nutt.

But he recognized it as a kind of residual glare; she’d said her piece, and now it was just a bit of play-acting, to show she was the boss here. And bosses can afford to be generous, especially when you look a little fearful and suitably impressed. It worked.

Glenda said, ‘Trev, fetch Mister… ?’

‘Nutt,’ said Nutt.

‘Fetch Mister Nutt some bubble and squeak, will you? He looks half-starved.’

‘I have a very fast metabolism,’ said Nutt.

‘I don’t mind about that,’ said Glenda, ‘so long as you don’t go showing it to people. I have enough—’

There was a crash from behind her.

Trev had dropped the tray of bubble and squeak. He was stock still, staring at Juliet, who was returning the stare with a look of deep disgust. Finally, she said, in a voice like pearls, ‘ ’ad your bleedin’ eyeful? You got a nerve, largin’ it in here wiv that rag round your neck! Everyone knows Dimwell are well pants. Beasly couldn’t carry the ball in a sack.’

‘Oh yeah right? Well, I hear that the Lobbins walked all over you last week. Lobbin Clout! Everyone knows they’re a bunch o’ grannies!’

‘Oh yeah, that’s all you know! Staple Upwright was let out of the Tanty the day before! See if you Dimmers like him stamping all over you!’

‘Old Staple? Ha! He’ll clog away, yeah, but he can’t run above a canter! We’ll run rings around—’

Glenda’s frying pan clanged loudly on top of the iron range. ‘Enough of that, the pair of you! I’ve got to clean up for the day, and I don’t want football dirtying up my nice surfaces, you hear me? You wait here, my girl, and you, Trevor Likely, you get back to your cellar, and I shall want that dish cleaned and back here by tomorrow night or you can try begging your meals off some other girl, right? Take your little friend with you. Nice to meet you, Mister Nutt, but I wish I could find you in better company.’

She paused. Nutt looked so lost and bewildered. Gods help me, she thought, I’m turning into my mum again. ‘No, wait.’ She reached down, opened one of the warming ovens and came back again with another large dish. The scent of cooked apples filled the kitchen. ‘This is for you, Mister Nutt, with my compliments. You need fattening up before you blow away. Don’t bother to share it with this scallywag, ’cos he’s a greedy beggar, ask anyone. Now, I’ve got to clean up, and if you boys don’t want to help, get out of my kitchen! Oh, and I’ll want that dish back as well!’

Trev grabbed Nutt’s shoulder. ‘Come on, you heard what she said.’

‘Yes, and I don’t mind helping—’

‘Come on!’

‘Thank you very much, miss,’ Nutt managed, as he was dragged down the stairs.

Glenda folded her oven cloth neatly as she watched them go.

‘Goblins,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever seen a goblin before, Jools?’

‘What?’

‘Have you ever seen a goblin?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Do you think he’s a goblin?’

‘What?’

‘Mr Nutt. Is he a goblin, do you think?’ said Glenda, as patiently as possible.

‘He’s a posh one, then. I mean, he sounded like he reads books and stuff.’

This was a discrimination that was, in Glenda’s view, at practically forensic standards of observation for Juliet. She turned around and found to her surprise that Juliet had gone back to reading something, or at least staring intently at the words. ‘What have you got there?’ she asked.

‘It’s called Bu-bubble. It’s like, what important people are doing.’

Glenda looked over her friend’s shoulder as she leafed through the pages. As far as she could tell all the important people shared one smile and were wearing unsuitable clothes for this time of year. ‘So what is it that makes them important?’ she asked. ‘Just being in a magazine?’

‘There’s fashion tips too,’ said Juliet defensively. ‘Look, it says here chrome and copper micromail is the look for the season.’

‘That’s the page for dwarfs,’ sighed Glenda. ‘Come on, get your things and I’ll take you home.’

Juliet was still reading as they waited for the horse bus. Such sudden devotion to a printed page worried Glenda. The last thing she wanted was to see her friend getting ideas in her head. There was such a lot of room in there for them to bounce around and do damage. Glenda herself was reading one of her cheap novels wrapped in a page of the Times. She read the way a cat eats: furtively, daring anyone to notice.

While the horses plodded up towards Dolly Sisters, she took her scarf out of her bag and absent-mindedly wrapped it around her wrist. Personally, she hated the violence of the football, but it was important to belong. Not belonging, especially after a big game, could be dangerous to your health. It was important to show the right colours on your home turf. It was important to fit in.

For some reason, that thought immediately turned her mind to Nutt. How strange he was. Kind of ugly, but very clean. He had stunk of soap and seemed so nervous. There was something about him…

The air in the Uncommon Room had gone as cold as meltwater.

‘Are you telling us, Mister Stibbons, that we should be seen to enter a game for bullies, louts and roughs?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘That would be impossible!’

‘Unlikely, yes. Impossible? No,’ said Ponder wearily.

‘Most certainly not possible!’ said the Senior Wrangler, nodding at the Chair. ‘We would be trading kicks with people from the gutters!’

‘My grandfather scored two goals in a match against Dimwell,’ said Ridcully, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. ‘Most people never managed one in their lives, in those days. I think the most number of goals scored by one man in his whole life is four. That was Dave Likely, of course.’

There was a ripple of hurried rethinking and retrenchment.

‘Ah, well, of course, those were different times,’ said the Senior Wrangler, suddenly all syrup. ‘I’m sure that even skilled workmen occasionally took part in a spirit of fun.’

‘It wasn’t much fun if they ran into Granddad,’ said Ridcully, with a faint little grin. ‘He was a prizefighter. He knocked people down for money and pubs sent for him if there was a really dangerous brawl. Of course, in a sense, this made it even more dangerous, but by then most of it was out in the street.’

‘He threw people out of the buildings?’

‘Oh yes. In fairness, it was usually from the ground floor and he always opened the window first. He was a very gentle man, I understand. Made musical boxes for a living, very delicate, won awards for them. Teetotal, you know, and quite religious as well. The punching was just a job of casual work. I know for a fact he never tore off anything that couldn’t be stitched on again. A decent chap, by all accounts. Never met him, unfortunately. I’ve always wished I had something to remember the old boy by.’

As one wizard, the faculty looked down at Ridcully’s huge hands. They were the size of frying pans. He cracked his knuckles. There was an echo.

‘Mister Stibbons, all we need to do is engage another team and lose?’ he said.

‘That’s right, Archchancellor,’ said Ponder. ‘You simply forfeit the game.’

‘But losing means being seen not to win, am I right?’

‘That would be so, yes.’

‘Then I rather think we ought to win, don’t you?’

‘Really, Mustrum, this is going too far,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

‘Excuse me?’ said Ridcully, raising his eyebrows. ‘May I remind you that the Archchancellor of this university is, by college statute, the first among equals?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Well, I am he. The word first is, I think, germane here. I see you scribbling in your little notebook, Mister Stibbons?’