While Septimus sat rereading his letter, the messenger who had delivered it was suffering from an attack of cold feet. Even the two pairs of thick, stripy socks that Lucy Gringe habitually wore in the winter were no help that cold morning as she hung back in the shadows of the North Gate gatehouse, trying to pluck up the courage to announce herself to her mother.
Lucy had arrived at the Gatehouse early. She wanted to speak to her father first, before her mother ventured outside with his early-morning cocoa. Despite her father's gruff exterior, Lucy knew that Gringe would be thrilled to see her. "Dad's an old softy, really," she had told Simon before she had left. "It's Mum who'll be difficult."
But Lucy's plan had gone awry. She had been thrown by the unexpected appearance of a makeshift lean-to shelter along the side of the gatehouse, beside the road leading to the bridge. A sign on the shelter announced it to be CAFe LA GRINGE, from which came the (unfortunately) unforgettable smell of her mother's stew. This was accompanied by the equally unmistakeable sound of her mother cooking - clanging saucepan lids, muttered curses, and ill-tempered thumps and thuds.
Lucy stood in the shadows wondering what to do. Eventually the rank smell of the stew drove her to a decision. She waited until her mother was looking into one of the deep stew pans and then, head held high, Lucy marched right past CAFe LA GRINGE. It worked. Mrs. Gringe, who was wondering if anyone would notice the mouse that had fallen in overnight and suffocated, did not look up.
Gringe, a heavyset man with close-shorn hair and wearing a greasy leather jerkin, was sitting in the gatehouse keeper's lodge. He was keeping out of the chilly wind that blew off the Moat and, more importantly, out of the way of the stew. It was a quiet day. Everyone in the Castle was either at the last day of the Traders' Market - which had stayed later than usual that year - or were busy getting ready for the festivities of the Longest Night, when candles would be lit in every window throughout the Castle. And so, apart from taking toll money from a few bleary Northern Traders first thing that morning, Gringe had had nothing better to do than polish the few coins he had collected - a job he had taken over from Mrs. Gringe, now that she was, as he frequently complained, obsessed with stew.
When Gringe looked up at the newcomer, who he assumed was about to add to his meager pile of coins, he did not at first recognize his daughter. The young woman with big brown eyes and a nervous smile looked far too grown-up to be his little Lucy who, in her absence, had become ever younger in Gringe's fond memory. Even when the young woman said, "Dad!" a little tearfully, Gringe stared at Lucy uncomprehending, until his cold, bored brain at last made the connection. And then he sprang to his feet, enveloped Lucy in a huge hug, lifted her off her feet and yelled, "Lucy! Lucy, Lucy!"
A wave of relief swept over Lucy - it was going to be all right.
An hour later, sitting in the room above the gatehouse with her parents (while the bridge boy looked after the bridge and the stew looked after itself), Lucy had revised this opinion: It was possibly going to be all right, if she was very careful and didn't upset her mother too much.
Mrs. Gringe was in full flood, recounting for the umpteenth time the long list of Lucy's transgressions. "Running off with that awful Heap boy, not a care about me or your father, gone these last two years with never a word . . ."
"I did write to you," Lucy protested. "But you never replied."
"You think I got time to write letters?" asked Mrs. Gringe, insulted.
"But Mum - "
"I got a gatehouse to run. Stew to cook. On me own." Mrs. Gringe looked pointedly at both Lucy and Gringe who, to his discomfort, now seemed to be included in Lucy's wrong-doings. He stepped in hastily.
"Come, come, dear. Lucy's all grown up now. She got better things to do than live with her old mum and dad - "
"Old?" said his wife indignantly.
"Well, I didn't mean - "
"No wonder I look old. All that worry. Ever since she was fourteen she's bin running after that Heap boy. Sneaking out with him, even trying to marry him, for goodness' sake, and getting us into terrible trouble with them Custodians. And after all that we take her back out of the goodness of our hearts and what does she do? She runs off again! And never a word. Not a word . . ." Mrs. Gringe got out a stew-stained handkerchief and began noisily blowing her nose into it.
Lucy hadn't expected it to be this bad. She glanced at her father.
Say sorry, he mouthed.
"Um . . . Mum," Lucy ventured.
"What?" came her muffled voice.
"I . . . I'm sorry."
Mrs. Gringe looked up. "Are you?" She seemed surprised.
"Yes. I am."
"Oh." Mrs. Gringe blew her nose loudly.
"Look, Mum, Dad. The thing is, me and Simon, we want to get married."
"I'd 'ave thought you'd already done that," her mother sniffed accusingly.
Lucy shook her head. "No. After I ran away to find Simon - and I did find him" - (Lucy refrained from adding "so there," as she would have done not so long ago) - "well, after I found him I realized that I wanted us to be married properly. I want a white wedding - "
"White wedding? Huh!" said Mrs. Gringe.
"Yes, Mum, that's what I want. And I want you and Dad to be there. And Simon's Mum and Dad too. And I want you to be happy about it."
"Happy!" Mrs. Gringe exclaimed bitterly.