Among the complexities that made up the intelligent biped known to the rest of the world as Mrs Whitlow was this: there was no such thing as an informal meal in Mrs Whitlow's world. If Mrs Whitlow made sandwiches even just for herself she would put a sprig of parsley on the top. She placed a napkin on her lap to drink a cup of tea. If the table could have a vase of flowers and a placemat with a tasteful view of something nice, so much the better.
It was unthinkable that she should eat a meal balanced on her knees. In fact it was unthinkable to think of Mrs Whitlow as having knees, although the Senior Wrangler had to fan himself with his hat occasionally. So the beach had been scoured to find enough bits of driftwood to make a very rough table, and some suitable rocks to use as seats.
The Senior Wrangler dusted one off with his hat. 'There we are, Mrs Whitlow …'
The housekeeper frowned. 'Ai'm really sure it's Not Done for the staff to eat with the gentlemen,' she said.
'Be our guest, Mrs Whitlow,' said Ridcully.
'Ai really can't. It does not Do to get ideas above one's station,' said Mrs Whitlow. 'Ai would never be able to look you in the face again, sir. Ai hope Ai know my Place.'
Ridcully looked blank for a moment, and then said quietly: 'Faculty meeting, gentlemen?'
The wizards went into another huddle a little way along the beach.
'What are we supposed to do about that?'
'I think it's very commendable of her. Her world is Below Stairs, after all.'
'Yes, very well, but it's not as if there're any stairs on this island.'
'Could we build some?'
'We can't let the poor woman sit off by herself somewhere, that is my point.'
'We spent ages on that table!'
'And did you notice something about the driftwood, Archchancellor?'
'Looked like perfectly ordinary wood to me, Stibbons. Branches, treetrunks and whatnot.'
That's the strange thing, sir, because—'
'It's very simple, Ridcully. I hope that, as gentlemen, we know how to treat a woman—'
'Lady.'
'Let me just say that was unnecessarily sarcastic, Dean,' said Ridcully. 'Very well. If the Prophet Ossory won't go to the mountain, the mountain must go to the Prophet Ossory. As they say in Klatch.'
He paused. He knew his wizards.
'I believe, in fact, that it's in Omnia that—' Ponder began.
Ridcully waved a hand. 'Something like that, anyway.'
And that is why Mrs Whitlow dined alone at the table, while the wizards sat around the fire a little way away, except that very frequently one of them would lumber over to offer her some choice bit of nature's bounty.
It was obvious that starvation would not be a problem on this island, although dyspepsia and gout might be.
Fish was the main course. Frenzied searching had failed to locate a steak bush so far but had found, in addition to numerous more conventional fruits, a pasta bush, a sort of squash that contained something very much like custard and, to Ridcully's disgust, a pineapple-like plant the fruit of which was, when the husk had been stripped away, a large plum pudding.
'Obviously it's not really a plum pudding,' he protested. 'We just think it's like a plum pudding because it tastes exactly like a … plum pudding …' His voice trailed off.
'It's got plums and currants in it,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Pass the custard squash, will you?'
'My point is that we only think they look like currants and plums—'
'No, we also think they taste like currants and plums,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Look, Archchancellor, there's no mystery. Obviously wizards have been here before. This is the result of perfectly ordinary magic. Perhaps our lost geographer did a bit of experimenting. Or it's sourcery, perhaps. Some of the things that got created in the old days, well, a cigarette bush is very small beer by comparison, eh?'
'Talking of small beer …' said the Dean, waving his hand, 'pass me the rum, will you?'
'Mrs Whitlow doesn't approve of strong liquor,' said the Senior Wrangler.
The Dean glanced at the housekeeper…
