by Kaye Umansky
And if they didn’t, well, see if he cared. He would just bottle the serum up, sell it for a vast profit – and use the money to buy himself a chair. A big, flash one. With a cushion. Ha!
Carefully, he measured out half a teaspoon of powder from a little jar labelled ‘Dried Scotch Mist’ and added it to the bubbling mixture in the crucible. He followed this with a pinch of Essence of Fog and three drops from a small phial containing a black, slippery substance which was, apparently, Extract of Shadow. There was a series of small explosions as the new substances got to know each other. Then the mixture settled down and simmered away happily. Ronald let out a relieved breath. So far, so good. Now all that remained was to add the final vital ingredient – a handful of Fresh Snow.
Gleefully, he reached for the stoppered flask. Then: ‘Blast!’ shouted Ronald. ‘Blast, bother and blow!’
The flask was empty, apart from a small amount of brackish-looking water. That was the trouble with snow. It had a very short sell-by date. Now he’d have to wait until the next snowfall – whenever that might be – then go out and collect some more. What a disaster!
To add to his troubles, there came the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Ronald gave a guilty start, turned off the Bunsen burner, grabbed up the crucible (burning his fingers in the process) and hastily tipped the milky-white stuff down the cracked sink in the corner. He then scooped everything – Bunsen burner, crucible, books, papers, jars, the lot – into a cardboard box, which he kicked under the bed. Finally, he ran around the room, flapping at the air to dispel the white mist and the telltale smell.
The reason for his panic was the small notice that was displayed on his wall. It read:
STRICTLY NO MAGICAL EXPERIMENTS
IN THE BEDROOMS!
It was a sensible rule. In the past, Wizardly research carried out in bedrooms had proved a major fire risk. Alone and unaided, Fred the Flameraiser had burned down the entire Clubhouse at least three times. Of course, with oodles of Magic at their disposal, it didn’t take the Wizards long to rebuild it. Nevertheless, it was a terrible nuisance, and nobody could ever agree on the exact shade of wallpaper. In the end, it had been decided that all Magical experiments must be conducted in the special fireproof laboratory which was located in the basement.
The trouble was, the lab was a very public place. Your fellow Wizards tended to wander in, peer over your shoulder, enquire what you were working on, sneer a bit, then sneak off and pinch your idea.
Ronald didn’t want anyone to know what he was working on. Not yet. Not until he’d cracked it.
There came a thunderous knocking at the door.
‘Just a minute,’ called Ronald, snatching up a can of Reeka Reeka Roses air-freshener and spraying it around.
Hastily, he threw himself down on his bed and looked casual. Only just in time. The door opened and a head, topped with a tangled green beehive hairdo, peered around it. It was Brenda, the Zombie receptionist.
‘You got visitors,’ announced Brenda, through a mouthful of bubblegum. ‘I told ’em they ain’t supposed to come outside of visitin’ hours, but –’
‘Out of the way, young woman!’ interrupted a crisp voice that Ronald recognised with a sinking heart. ‘We’re here on Witch business!’
The door was flung open and Ronald’s visitors stamped in.
‘Oh,’ said Ronald, rising from his bed with little enthusiasm. ‘It’s you, Aunt Sharkadder.’
‘Good afternoon, Ronald, dear. Pong and I thought we’d pay you a surprise visit. Say hello to Ronald, Pongwiffy.’
Pongwiffy and Ronald curled their lips at each other in mutual dislike.
‘So! This is your room, is it?’ cried Sharkadder gaily. ‘Well, well, well. It’s got a funny smell, hasn’t it? Like cheap air-freshener with an underlying whiff of cooked marsh gas.’
‘That’s his aftershave,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘I hardly think you’re in a position to comment on horrible smells, Pongwiffy,’ said Ronald with a sniff.
‘Actually, I consider myself a bit of an expert,’ said Pongwiffy, who did. ‘And if you really want to know what I think,’ she added, ‘I think Ronald’s been cooking up a bit of Magic on the sly. Right here, in the shoebox he calls his bedroom.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ lied Ronald, going red.
‘Yes, well, I must say I expected something a bit grander,’ remarked Sharkadder. ‘After everything you’ve told me, Ronald, I rather had the impression that you Wizards lived in style. Well, come on, then. Haven’t you got a kiss for your aunty?’
There came a snigger from the doorway. Ronald went pink. It wasn’t done to admit you had a Witch aunty. Particularly one who kissed you.
‘All right, Brenda, I won’t keep you,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Thanks awfully for bringing them up and everything. Er – you won’t forget about that chair I asked for, will you? Super earrings, by the way.’
Brenda popped a rude bubble and withdrew. Sharkadder clutched Ronald in a tight embrace and planted a bright green lipsticky kiss on his forehead.
‘There!’ she said. ‘That’s because I haven’t seen you for ages. How come you never visit me for tea any more, you bad boy?’
‘Actually, you haven’t invited me,’ Ronald pointed out, struggling from her grasp.
‘Oh, poo! You’re more than welcome any time you like. Day or night, the kettle’s always on for my favourite nephew. Haven’t I always said that, Pong?’
Pongwiffy was wandering around Ronald’s room, fiddling with things. She pulled the handle off his wardrobe. She tried out his bed and broke a spring. She opened his diary, ran her eyes down a page and sneered.
‘You put that down, Pongwiffy,’ said Ronald. ‘Tell her, Aunty. She’s touching my things.’
‘Just having a look,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Professional interest, you understand. What’s this?’ She turned a page and read aloud: ‘ “1 September: Got up . . . Hung about . . . Had a nurly nite . . . Luked for a char . . . Didunt find one. 2 September: Got up . . . Sossijuss for super . . . Had another nurly nite . . . Still no char.” Badness me, Ronald, what an exciting life you do lead. What are all these Nurly Nites of which you speak? And what’s all this about a char?’
‘Stop it! You can’t read that – it’s private!’ Ronald protested and made a leap.
Pongwiffy evaded him and gleefully continued turning pages. ‘Aha! Here’s something interesting. “Werked in bedroom on new seecret formuler.” I knew it! So where’s all the stuff? Is that what’s in that big cardboard box I see poking out from under your bed?’
‘Put it down!’ howled Ronald. ‘You’ve got no right to read people’s diaries.’
‘Oh, all right, keep your hair on. Just thought you might like a few writing tips.’
Pongwiffy threw the diary over her shoulder. Ronald caught it and thrust it deep into his robe.
‘Ha!’ he scoffed. ‘Since when do you know anything about writing, Pongwiffy?’
‘Since I became a playwright, actually,’ said Pongwiffy with a smug air.
‘A playwright? You? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘I am so. Aren’t I, Sharky?’
‘Well, yes. As a matter of fact, Ronald, that’s why we’re here. We’ve come to offer you a wonderful opportunity. It’s a tremendous honour and you’re a very lucky young man.’
‘Oh, really?’ groaned Ronald. He was getting a bad feeling. ‘What’s that, then, Aunty?’
‘You,’ announced Sharkadder, ‘are going to be Prince Charming in the lovely pantomime that Pongwiffy’s writing. Won’t that be fun?’
Ronald suddenly came over all weak. His legs gave way and he collapsed on to his bed with a little moan.
‘Why?’ he managed to choke out. ‘Why me?’
‘Because there’s nobody else,’ said Pongwiffy bluntly. ‘I didn’t really want you, but Hugo says we have to have a prince. To kiss all the princesses.’
‘All the princesses?’ repeated Ronald faintly. ‘How many wo
uld that be?’
‘Three,’ said Pongwiffy gleefully. ‘Snow White, Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty. Played by Sludgegooey, Scrofula and Bonidle.’
It was all too much. Ronald rallied.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘I won’t do it! I won’t!’
‘I beg your pardon, Ronald?’ purred Sharkadder in a voice like razor blades cutting through silk. ‘Did I hear you say you won’t?’
‘That’s right. I’m sorry, Aunty, but I’m a serious Wizard. I’m working on a new project. I can’t spare the time.’
‘Oh dear. That is a pity, isn’t it, Pong?’
‘It certainly is,’ agreed Pongwiffy sadly. ‘I guess there’s nothing else for it. We’ll just have to report him. We’ll just have to go down right now and announce that he’s been breaking the rules and working on a silly old secret formula in his room. Come on, Sharky. We’ll take the evidence with us.’
Purposefully, they moved towards the bed.
‘Wait!’ cried Ronald.
They paused.
‘Yes?’ said Sharkadder. ‘Is there something you wanted, Ronald?’
‘When’s the first rehearsal?’ said Ronald brokenly.
CHAPTER SIX
The Read-Through
The first rehearsal took place in Witchway Hall. A large circle of chairs had been placed on the stage. Everyone was present, with the exception of the eagerly awaited playwright and her assistant. Ronald was there too, maintaining a stiff air of aloofness and standing apart from the rest of them. This was for the following reasons:
1. It showed he didn’t want to be there.
2. No chair. Again.
There was an air of expectancy and great excitement. It was common knowledge that Pongwiffy had finished writing the script. She and Hugo had been shut up in Number One, Dump Edge for days, refusing to answer the door except for important deliveries of ink, paper and takeaway pizzas with extra skunk topping. Various would-be thespians had come knocking to see how their parts were coming along, but to no avail. Gaga’s Bats had been sent to spy through the window and had reported scenes of great industry, with candles burning at both ends and a steadily growing pile of manuscript.
Then, that very morning, the hovel door had burst open and the pair of them had staggered out into the fresh air, spraying each other with fizzy demonade and thumping each other’s backs in celebratory fashion. When questioned, however, they had refused to give away a thing.
‘Wait until this evening,’ Pongwiffy had said mysteriously. ‘All will be revealed then.’
And now it was this evening and the tension was wound up to breaking point. There were a lot of flushed faces, damp palms and peals of high, nervous laughter. People kept saying that, of course, they didn’t mind if they only got a small part, oh dear me no. But they didn’t mean it. Barry the Vulture was so flustered by it all that he had gone off somewhere to be quietly sick. Gaga was in the last stages of complete hysteria and kept rushing off to hang from the curtains. Only Sourmuddle looked confident. As Grandwitch, she could be sure of a decent part – or, as she told Snoop, she’d want to know the reason why.
Just as the excitement reached fever pitch, the long-awaited writing team arrived. Pongwiffy was clutching a fat sheaf of papers under her arm and wearing a look of great triumph. Hugo sat perched on her hat, looking pale but proud.
‘Aaaah!’ breathed the expectant company. ‘Here they are.’
‘Yep!’ cried Pongwiffy, almost bursting with importance. ‘Here we are – and the panto’s finished, like I said it would be. And, what’s more, it’s all in poetry.’
‘What’s it called?’ shouted Ratsnappy.
‘It’s called Terror in the Wood.’
Everybody tried it out. Terror in the Wood. It wasn’t exactly traditionally pantomime-ish, but it had a certain something.
‘I’ve got copies of everybody’s part and I suggest that the first thing we do is have a read-through. I’ll talk you through the story and when it comes to your bit, read it out. I shall be looking for volume, clarity and a deep sense of commitment.’
Pongwiffy bustled around the circle, handing out sheets of paper covered with spidery writing. Eager hands received them and heads bowed as everybody studied their part. She took her seat and held up her hand dramatically.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Imagine it. The orchestra has played the overture. The stage is in darkness. The curtains part. Slowly, the lights come up on Sherlock Holmes’s study. Enter Sherlock with his magnifying glass. Go on, Greymatter. That’s you.’
‘What about Speks?’ said Greymatter. ‘He wants to be in the panto too. Don’t you, Speks?’
The small owl seated on the back of her chair agreed that yes, indeed, he would very much like to be in the panto.
‘Not possible,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘There isn’t a part for him.’
‘He can play Watson,’ insisted Greymatter. ‘Watson, my faithful owl, who helps me with all my cases.’
‘Watson wasn’t an owl,’ argued Pongwiffy.
‘Sherlock Holmes wasn’t an elderly Witch with a rather nasty perm, but that hasn’t stopped Greymatter,’ Sharkadder chipped in. ‘Don’t be mean, Pong. Let Speks be Watson.’
‘Yes!’ came several voices raised in agreement. ‘Speks for Watson!’
Pongwiffy sighed. They hadn’t even started and already people were arguing.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right. Enter Sherlock Holmes with his magnifying glass and his ridiculous owl called Watson. Go on, Greymatter. Say your opening lines.’
‘Ahem,’ said Greymatter. ‘Right. Er –
‘And now at last our panto’s done.
We hope you had a lot of fun.’
‘I think you’ve got the pages mixed up,’ said Pongwiffy stiffly. ‘That’s the end.’
‘Oh – right. Sorry. Um –
‘I’m Sherlock Holmes. How do you do?
I’m searching for a vital clue.
The Babes are missing in the wood –’
She broke off as Agglebag and Bagaggle clutched at each other with excited little screams.
‘That’s us!’ squeaked Agglebag. ‘We’re the Babes, Bag!’
‘I know, Ag, I know! Oh my!’
‘Shush!’ Pongwiffy warned them sternly. ‘No interruptions, if you please. Carry on, Greymatter. And try to sound less like a brick.’
Greymatter adjusted her glasses and carried on reading.
‘The Babes are missing in the wood.
No news of them. This is not good.
I have to solve this mystery
Or those poor Babes is history . . .
‘Actually, Pongwiffy, that should read are history. Hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.’
Pongwiffy gave a little frown.
‘Well, all right, change it if you must. But I don’t want you to think you can go round changing lines just because they don’t suit you. We creative types can get very upset when people mess about with our work. It took me a long time to write this pantomime. Long, lonely hours, just me, my pen and my incredible imagination . . .’
‘Ahem!’ came a warning cough from her hat.
‘Well, all right, Hugo helped a bit.’
‘AHEM!!’
‘A lot,’ amended Pongwiffy hastily. ‘Hugo helped a lot. Anyway, at this point you sing a jolly song, Greymatter, but we won’t bother about that now. We’ll move on to the next scene, which is set in a lovely woodland glade, with Snow White, Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty dancing gracefully around a tree.’
‘What?’ chorused Sludgegooey, Scrofula and Bonidle, sounding startled.
‘You heard. You’ve got to do a graceful dance.’
‘What – now?’ asked Sludgegooey. ‘In front of everyone?’
‘No, not now. We’ll work on the dance another time. Just say your lines.’
Sludgegooey pulled her nose with filthy fingers and intoned:
‘I am Snow White, as you can see,
These are my good friends here wi
th me,
We laugh and play and have such fun
And then we lie down in the splodge.’
‘What?’ said Pongwiffy.
‘There’s an inkblot over the last word. I can’t read it. What do we lie down in, Pongwiffy? After we’ve had all this fun?’
‘Sun,’ said Pongwiffy coldly. ‘You lie down in the sun. It’s obvious. It’s got to rhyme with fun. Anyway, you’d hardly lie down in a cowpat, would you?’
‘I might,’ said Sludgegooey defensively.
‘You might. But Snow White wouldn’t, would she? You’ve got to stay in role. Right, your turn, Scrofula.’
Scrofula held up her sheet of paper and read:
‘I am Rapunzel with long hair
And Sleeping Beauty’s over there.
‘How come my bit’s shorter than Sludgegooey’s?’
‘And how come I don’t get anything to say at all?’ Bonidle wanted to know.
‘Because you’re asleep, of course,’ snapped Pongwiffy, beginning to sound exasperated. ‘Anyway, you’ve got a line.’
‘Have I? What is it?’ asked Bonidle.
‘ “ZZZZZZZZZ,” ’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Now do it.’
Obediently, Bonidle did it. And that was the last they heard from her that evening.
‘Right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘On to the next bit. Sherlock Holmes questions the witnesses.’
‘When does the fairy come in?’ Sourmuddle wanted to know.
‘Not yet,’ said Pongwiffy through gritted teeth. ‘Be patient, Sourmuddle, everyone can’t enter at the same time.’
‘I’m Grandwitch,’ said Sourmuddle tartly. ‘I can enter any time I like.’
‘Not in a pantomime. You’ve got to wait your turn. Carry on, Greymatter.’
The great detective cleared her throat.
‘Ah ha! Now, who is this I see?
Three beauties dancing round a tree.
Good morrow to Your Royal Highnesses.
