reading

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‘Father Christmas’s Fake Beard’ – Western Daily Press (1989, original title: ‘Santa Claus’s Chaos … when he behaves just like Father Christmas should in a toy shop’s grotto’); ‘The Blackbury Pie’ – Bucks Free Press (1967, original title: ‘The Story of the Blackbury Pie’); ‘Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh!’ – Western Daily Press (1971); ‘A Very Short Ice Age’ – Bath & West Evening Chronicle (1978, original title: ‘Snow, Snow, Thick Thick Snow’); ‘The Computer Who Wrote to Father Christmas’ – Western Daily Press (1988, original title: ‘The Computer Who Wrote to Santa Claus’); ‘Good King Wences-lost’* – Bucks Free Press (1969); ‘The Weatherchick’* – Bucks Free Press (1972); ‘Judgement Day for Father Christmas’ – Western Daily Press (1992, original title: ‘Judgement Day for Santa Claus’); ‘The Abominable Snow-baby’* – Bucks Free Press (1968); ‘The Twelve Gifts of Christmas’* – Bucks Free Press (1968); ‘Father Christmas Goes to Work at the Zoo’* – Bucks Free Press (1973)

* These stories were previously untitled, and so these titles have been attributed for the purposes of this collection

This book is dedicated to Terry’s readers across the globe who waited patiently until December 25th each year to unwrap the latest Pratchett.

There may be no more novels, but oh what a legacy.

Happy Hogswatch, One and All!

Rob Wilkins

The Chalk Valley, June 2017

This is the story of the Blackbury Pie, the thirty-three cooks, and the Christmas spirit of Horace Clinker, Mayor of Blackbury. I don’t know whether they still bake a special Blackbury Pie when Christmas comes to that odd little town, since Horace Clinker has long since passed away, and the grandsons of the thirty-three cooks are now in business there, but this is how they all came together to bake the first – and biggest – Blackbury Pie.

It was early December, 1871. Albert Sock was just closing his pastry shop when a small boy came up to him.

Of course, Sock knew he had to go. With his cookery book under his arm, he tramped through the narrow streets, his nose glowing in the cold.

He liked Horace Clinker – everyone in Blackbury did – but he was the sort of man who has Ideas. And they were the sort of Ideas that led to trouble of one sort or another, like the scheme for the underground railway that made the High Street cave in, or the new-fangled electrics that blew up the town hall.

It said a lot for Mr Clinker that the people of Blackbury still liked him – but he was always ready to give anyone a shilling, and knew everyone’s name and their children’s names, and was the best mayor the town had ever had.

When Sock reached the mayor’s parlour he found Clinker standing by the fire. There were thirty-two other people in the room – all the cooks, butchers and grocers in the town. Everyone shook hands, then Horace sat them down with a glass of port each to keep out the cold. Most sat on the floor.

‘I’m never one for beating about the bush,’ he said. ‘I want you to bake a special Blackbury Pie.’ He paused. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ he said, before they had a chance to. ‘You see, a lot of people in this town are very poor and will have a very hungry Christmas indeed. We can’t have that, not in Blackbury. So what I want you to do is make a pie that is big enough to give every man and woman and child in the town a large slice – with gravy.’

‘No, not my way. I’ll give you each five guineas a week to bake it. There must be beef in it, and pork, and veal, and mutton, and spuds, and carrots and apples and currants and mincemeat and peas and parsnips and turnips and cherries and nuts and chicken and turkey and duck and pheasant, and I can’t think of anything more,’ he said in one breath.

And so it was. Next morning the thirty-three cooks held a meeting, and some started building a big bonfire in a field outside the town, while others began to mix pastry in the public swimming bath, which had been emptied for the winter. They didn’t use a rolling pin, of course – they used the town’s steamroller.

‘What about a pie dish?’ said Sock; so workmen switched off the gas to one of the smaller gas storage tanks, then cut it off at ground level and towed the enormous empty tank over into the field. Using a crane and scaffolding, they lowered the pastry into it, while one hundred and twenty stokers got the fire going.

The mayor stood on a specially constructed platform and directed operations through a megaphone. He was really enjoying himself.

By this time the news of the great pie had spread, and people were flocking to the field outside Blackbury from all over Gritshire. Many brought tents, and sat round the big baking fire making toast – or lending a hand to the thirty-three cooks.

Meanwhile the lorries kept coming up loaded with pie filling, fifty cement mixers were making gravy, and in the middle of it all the great pie sat and cooked.

‘I’m a bit worried, sir,’ said Albert Sock, the chief cook, climbing up to the mayor’s lookout post. ‘You see, we aren’t allowing the pie to breathe.’ He told the mayor that the pie should have holes in the crust – otherwise the pie would blow up, just like a boiler.

‘Just like a boiler, eh? Well, we’ll just have to hope it doesn’t,’ said Clinker.

‘And another thing, sir, you’re filling it much too full. It’s reaching danger point, sir. I shudder to think of the strain on the crust.’

‘What could I do? Look at all those people – they’ve come from East Slate, Wookley’s Corner, Wambleford, Goombridge and Cumbley Street, Euston, just for a piece of our Christmas pie. I’ve got to put more in it – I don’t want anyone to go hungry.’

Christmas Day dawned, and the Bishop of Blackbury stood on top of the pie to conduct a special carol service in the field.

Then twenty lorries arrived, laden with presents and crackers, all paid for by the mayor. By now the field was crowded, and everyone was queuing up with plates.

The cooks started running, and soon everyone followed their example. They hid behind trees and rocks, and watched the pie rock back and forth in its dish.

‘My poor pie!’ moaned the mayor. ‘What can we give all these people to eat? And now it’s raining too.’

‘Best-tasting rain ever,’ said Sock. ‘It’s warm gravy.’ A lump of pie landed on his plate.

Pie rained over Gritshire, and everyone rushed around laying out plates on the ground. Perhaps because it was Christmas, the pie always seemed to land just where people wanted it to! It was still coming down on Boxing Day, just in time to be warmed up and none the worse for its trip into the sky – although a large flock of wild geese were nearly shot down by flying crust.

Also by Terry Pratchett