Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  So. Now we know where they are and how they got there. Many more long, argumentative hours stretch ahead of them. We could stay and keep them company – but we won’t. Instead, we’ll move forward a few hours and drop in on the proceedings in Witchway Hall, where the dress rehearsal is about to begin.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Dress Rehearsal

  In Witchway Hall chaos reigned. At the back of the stage, Vincent Van Ghoul was standing on a stepladder, hanging the first backcloth. This was of Sherlock Holmes’s famous Baker Street study. It seemed that the great detective shared Vincent’s fondness for the colour red. His study was painful to the eyes. Nobody liked to say so, though, with Vincent being an artist and all. The general consensus was, he’d been paid a lot so it must be good.

  Elsewhere, nails were being hammered into cardboard trees. Chairs were being set in rows, with a great deal of scraping. In the orchestra pit, the Witchway Rhythm Boys were going through the overture. The din was unbelievable.

  Hugo clapped his paws for silence.

  ‘Right!’ he squeaked. ‘Leetle bit of ’ush now, if you pliz. All ze cast on stage and stand in line. Time for ze costume parade.’

  With a bit of giggling and pushing, the cast filed in and lined up, looking rather self-conscious as Hugo moved slowly along the line.

  The Babes were first. They were got up in frilly bonnets and large, matching sleepsuits. Agglebag’s was blue and Bagaggle’s was pink. Embroidered across the front on each, in large letters, was the word BABE. Each twin was sucking on a large dummy.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hugo doubtfully. ‘Perhaps ve should ’ave explained sings a bit more carefully ven ve ordered ze costumes. Oh vell. Too late now. Keep your tummies in and ’ope for ze best.’

  Next came the Three Princesses – Snow White, Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty – all got up in crowns and fancy frocks. In addition, Scrofula was wearing a straw-coloured wig which swept the floor and Bonidle was clutching a hot-water bottle.

  ‘Vot zose stains on your dress, Sludgegooey?’ asked Hugo sternly. ‘Vot you been eatink in ze dressing room?’

  ‘Beetroot doughnuts,’ confessed the fairest one of all.

  ‘Vell, don’t. You s’posed to be Snow Vhite, not Slush Grey. ’Ang your ’air over your arm ven you is dancink, Scrofula, it could do somevun nasty injury. Vake up, Bonidle, you is droolink. OK, you vill ’ave to do.’

  Bendyshanks was next.

  ‘Hmm. I ’ope you is puttink cardigan over zat lot. Zat a lot of skin you is showink,’ said Hugo.

  ‘Ah,’ beamed the great queen. ‘Well, it’s hot in Egypt, you see.’

  ‘Not zat ’ot,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘Vear a voolly. Zat’s an order. Zis is family show.’

  Next was Sourmuddle – a vision of loveliness in spangly net. She did a couple of tottery fairy-like twirls, then sank into a creaky curtsy with one eyebrow enquiringly raised.

  Everybody clapped politely.

  ‘Ees good,’ nodded Hugo. ‘Ees very good, Grandvitch. But ze vings is upside down. And I should leave off ze boots.’

  Sourmuddle looked shocked.

  ‘Not wear my boots? But I always wear my boots. These are my great-granny’s boots. They’ve been passed down from Grandwitch to Grandwitch, these boots.’

  ‘It just zat zey don’t quite go viz ze fairy image,’ Hugo tried to explain. ‘Fairies don’t vear steel toecaps.’

  ‘This one does,’ Sourmuddle informed him crisply. So that was that.

  With a little sigh, Hugo moved on to Sherlock Holmes.

  Greymatter’s checked cape and deerstalker hat were slightly the worse for wear, having been thrown into a snowdrift by Hog during his mad flight into the Wood.

  ‘Excellent, Greymatter, excellent. You really do look ze part. I see your magnifyink glass is cracked. ’Ow you manage zat?’

  ‘Accidentally, my dear Hugo,’ explained Greymatter, who tended to talk in role ever since landing the part.

  Hugo moved on down the line, where Sharkadder eagerly waited her turn for inspection. Her pipe-cleaner legs were encased in green tights and a feathered hat was placed at a jaunty angle on her head. She slapped her thigh, blew kisses and cried, ‘My public, I love you, I love you all!’

  ‘All right, zat’ll do,’ said Hugo. ‘Your tights is all baggy vere your knees aren’t. Pull zem up and stop hoggink ze limelight.’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to take orders from a Hamster,’ muttered Sharkadder. But she said it quietly. Hugo was proving a very good director in Pongwiffy’s absence. Everybody said so.

  Next came Ratsnappy as the Pied Piper, clad in a headache-inducing cloak of many colours. She saluted with her recorder and stood to attention.

  ‘Not bad, Ratsnappy. Just a leetle tip – try smilink. You ze friend of little children, ya? Zey love your merry music.’

  Ratsnappy tried smiling. It didn’t work. Her face just wasn’t cut out for it.

  Macabre was last. She bristled with cardboard weapons, looking quite terrifying in a floor-length tartan cloak. As Hugo approached, she threw back her head and cackled menacingly.

  ‘Very nice, Macabre. Er – per’aps ve can do vizzout ze bagpipes. Zey might get in ze vay durink ze fight scene. Vere is Gaga?’

  ‘She said she’d be a bit late,’ said Snow White, absent-mindedly blowing her nose on the hem of her dress. ‘She’s practising with her torch.’

  ‘Vot you mean, practisink viz ’er torch?’

  ‘Well, she’s borrowed all our kitchen chairs,’ explained Rapunzel, ‘and she’s got them set up in rows. And she’s making the Familiars be the audience and she’s showing them to their seats. And if they don’t do what they’re told, she – er – practises with her torch. On their heads. It looks rather painful.’

  ‘Fair enough. Right, ’ave I seen everybody? I got a feelink somevun missink.’

  ‘There is,’ said Cleopatra, bursting to tell. ‘Ronald. He’s still in his dressing room. We’ve told him to come out, but he won’t. He says he’s got a problem with his costume. He says he doesn’t want to be Prince Charming and it’s a silly old pantomime anyway.’

  ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ growled Sharkadder. ‘Right, leave this to me. This is a job for Dick.’

  She strode off in the direction of the dressing rooms. A moment later, everyone heard a thunderous banging.

  ‘Ronald! Come out this minute, d’you hear? This is your aunty calling! Do you want a smack? You’re not too big to be put over my knee, you know!’

  There was a pause. Then there came the sharp sound of a foot connecting vigorously with wood, followed by splintering noises. Then came muffled voices, followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting sharply with flesh. Seconds later, Sharkadder reappeared, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ she announced. ‘It’s amazing what a few kind words will do.’

  Everybody looked expectantly towards the wings.

  Poor Ronald. Things just weren’t going well for him lately. As well as losing his Extra Strong Invisibility Serum, he was being made to dress up in a ridiculous Prince Charming outfit and make a fool of himself on stage. The only good thing that had happened to him recently was that he had been awarded his own dressing room. Hugo had explained that this was for two reasons:

  1. He was the only male in the cast.

  2. Nobody liked him.

  Sulkily, he trailed on stage, clutching his reddened wrist. Everybody sniggered as he joined the end of the line.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he snarled.

  ‘Your trousers, for a start,’ said Snow White.

  It was true. Not only were his breeches too big, the elastic had gone. He had had to tie them around his waist with string. Everything else was wrong too. The jacket was too small, the puffy-sleeved blouse was too long in the arms, his cardboard sword was floppy and his crown looked as though it had come out of a Christmas cracker and was perched on top of his sticky-out ears in a very silly way.

  ‘Stand u
p straight, Ronald,’ ordered Hugo. ‘Prince Charmink not s’posed to ’ave caved-in chest. ’E supposed to look – ’ow you say? – dashink.’

  ‘How can I?’ cried Ronald, stamping his foot crossly. ‘Nothing fits! I gave you my measurements. You must have written them down wrong. How am I supposed to look dashing in a dwarf’s jacket and a giant’s trousers?’

  ‘It not my fault you got funny shape. And anuzzer sink. Vy vere you not at rehearsal last night?’

  ‘I – um – got lost in the snow,’ mumbled Ronald, going red.

  ‘Vell, you should ’ave been ’ere,’ Hugo told him sternly. ‘Specially as ve ’ad crisis on our ’ands.’

  ‘Dearie me. Did you?’ asked Ronald innocently.

  ‘We certainly did!’ put in Cleopatra. ‘The Goblins got away with our Pantomime Horse! Pongwiffy’s out there somewhere, trying to get it back.’

  ‘We’ve called in Professional Help,’ added the fairy, sounding smug. Calling in Professional Help sounded rather businesslike. Sourmuddle liked to think of herself as the leader of the sort of Coven that, from time to time, might call in Professional Help.

  ‘Oh, really? Who’s that?’ enquired Ronald.

  ‘Cousin Willy,’ burst in Dick. ‘Remember Willy, Ronald? The wildman? Cousin Pierre’s brother. He’s your mother’s sister’s husband’s uncle’s grandma’s nephew’s third cousin twice removed by marriage. Lives up in the mountains. Eating beans.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ronald vaguely. ‘Well, that’s nice. Cousin Willy, eh? Well, well. How’s he keeping these days?’

  (Not that he cared. He didn’t even remember Cousin Willy. He just wanted to draw the conversation away from the mysterious disappearance of Pongwiffy and the Pantomime Horse. He had a feeling that his role in the matter wouldn’t be appreciated.)

  ‘Look,’ said Hugo. ‘Look. Ve ’aven’t got time for all zis. Ve got a dress re’earsal to get on ze road. Clear ze stage, everybody. Is ze orchestra ready?’

  Various tootles, twiddles and smashings from the orchestra pit indicated that the orchestra was indeed ready.

  ‘Right, boys!’ squeaked the director. ‘Off you go. Take it from ze top!’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Trackin’

  Wildman Willy Racoon knelt in the cave, sniffing intently at the scattered ashes of a cold fire. All around lay a number of mysterious items. A box of matches. A Bunsen burner. The wrapper off a packet of Polos. A cardboard box with holes in. A host of little smashed pots, which rather looked as though somebody had hurled them at the cave wall in a fit of temper.

  There was also a piece of many-times-folded paper, which had probably fallen from an inside pocket. It had been cut from a furnishing catalogue and contained a lot of information about chairs!

  Willy Racoon prowled around some more. Behind a rock, he found another clue.

  A pointy hat! It was rather battered and one of the stars was hanging on by a single thread. It looked as though someone had recently given it a good kicking.

  Gingerly, he picked it up and peered inside.

  ‘RONALD THE MAGNIFICENT,’ read out Wildman Willy. ‘WASH SEPARATELY. Hmm.’

  He rolled up the hat and stuffed it into one of the pockets in his buckskins. Then, sucking noisily on a bad tooth, he walked to the cave entrance.

  Just outside, the snow appeared to have been churned up by many feet. To add to the mystery, an abandoned copper pot lay to one side, half submerged in a snowdrift. You or I, not being skilled in the ways of the wild, wouldn’t have known what to make of it, of course. Not so Willy. To his experienced tracker’s eyes, the scene spoke volumes. It all pointed to a Magical experiment that had gone horribly wrong.

  It was trusty-conk time again. Willy wiped his large, knowledgeable nose on his sleeve and snuffled at the air like a bloodhound.

  ‘Durned if Ah don’t smell Goblin!’ he growled to himself.

  Two rabbits watching from a nearby bush nudged each other.

  ‘Who is that man?’ breathed one.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ whispered the other. ‘That’s Wildman Willy Racoon, the famous tracker! Ain’t nothin’ can escape his eagle eye.’

  The pair of them watched admiringly as Willy picked up the crucible, examined it, cautiously rubbed a filthy thumb around the rim and held it up.

  ‘Wut in tarnation . . .’ began Willy, starting back, his experienced wildman composure deserting him for a moment. He could see through his thumb! It didn’t exactly vanish away completely – there wasn’t enough serum left for that – but, for a brief moment, it became transparent!

  The effect didn’t last long. As he watched, the thumb faded back in and became solid again! Cautiously, he wiggled it, just to make sure. Yep. It was back all right, dirty as ever.

  Then, suddenly, it all clicked. The clues added up to one thing.

  ‘Ha!’ he announced, slapping his thigh in triumph. ‘Ah’ll be jiggered! Durned if it ain’t a case o’ invisibility!’

  ‘Amazing!’ sighed the watching rabbits. ‘How does he do it?’

  Willy now turned his attention to the trampled snow.

  There was a mass of footprints, some overlapping and some going off in confused little circles. It was clear that a major pile-up had taken place. As far as he could make out, there were seven – no, eight – sets of footprints leading off into the trees. Or, to be precise, six sets of footprints – and two sets of hoofprints!

  The front set was big and rather silly-looking for hoofprints. The back set, which evidently belonged to a more conventional horse, was closely followed by two parallel lines which clearly had been made by a cart. Adopting a cautious, half-stooping gait, the legendary wildman followed the trail across the glade.

  The two rabbits watched until he vanished into the trees. Then, in chorus, they both said, ‘What a guy!’ before skipping off back to their holes to tell their grandchildren.

  Watching Willy work was indeed an education. Every broken branch, every overturned twig, every passing breeze told a story. Of course, it helped that there were footprints too.

  At one point, the trail split. Without a moment’s hesitation, Willy followed the tracks made by the hooves and the cart, which veered off to the right.

  The trail went on, winding wildly between the trees. At times, Willy was up to his waist in snowdrifts – but this was routine stuff for someone who lives up in the Misty Mountains, eating beans.

  Like a small, relentless snowplough, he plunged deeper and deeper into the Wood. At one point, he came across an overturned cart with one of its wheels firmly wedged in a ditch. From this point onwards, it became clear that the back set of hoofprints was gaining on the front set.

  It was some time later, as he rested by a fallen log, eating a handful of beans to keep his strength up, that he heard plaintive cries in the distance.

  ‘Heeeeelp!’ came the cries. ‘Heeeeellllllp!’

  The scene at the gum tree was, in all essential details, exactly the same as when we left it – except that both Pongwiffy and the Pantomime Horse were now permanently visible. Much to their relief, the effects of Ronald’s serum had finally worn off. It had taken a while, mind, and there had been some nasty moments. Fading in and out of sight has the same effect upon the system as riding up and down in a fast lift after a big dinner.

  At the base of the tree, Romeo still waited patiently, kicking his heels and snorting sweet nothings. All right, so his new girlfriend had strange, foreign ways. Roosting up trees, for a start, not to mention her distressing tendency to fade in and out of sight. But in a way that made her more interesting. Anyway, she was back now, spotty and beautiful as ever.

  ‘Heelllp!’ Pongwiffy and Plugugly were bellowing in chorus. ‘Heeeeeellllppp!’

  There was a stubborn silence from Sproggit’s end.

  ‘What’s he doing in there?’ complained Pongwiffy. ‘I don’t see why we should be doing all the work. Oi! Sproggit! Help us shout, d’you hear?’

  ‘Can’t,’ came the muf
fled squawk from the rear end. ‘I’ve fainted. I can’t ’old on no more. I’m finished, I tell yer.’

  ‘No, yer not,’ Plugugly told him. ‘Yer gonna ’ang on tight. We’s all in dis togedder, remember? We’s all gonna –’

  He broke off. Peering through the mouth hole, he had just spotted something. A small, determined figure in buckskins had suddenly stepped out from behind a bush and was striding towards them, deftly twirling a lasso.

  Romeo looked around, startled.

  ‘Whoa, boy,’ the stranger was saying soothingly. ‘Now then, now then, eeezy does it, eeeeezy does it . . .’

  There was a whistling sound, the spinning rope snaked through the air – and plopped neatly over Romeo’s head.

  Romeo let out an outraged whinny and reared up on his hind legs. What was this? Captured, just as he was about to become engaged? Never!

  ‘What was you sayin’, Plug?’ came Sproggit’s anxious voice.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said we wuz gonna do somethin’.’

  ‘Fall,’ said Plugugly tiredly. ‘I was sayin’, we’s all gonna fall.’

  With that, Romeo’s flailing front hooves lashed out, catching the trunk of the gum tree, which shuddered under the impact.

  ‘EEEEEEEEE . . . . . . . . . .’ went Pongwiffy.

  ‘NOOOOOOOO . . . . . . . . . .’ went Plugugly.

  ‘AAAAAAAH . . . . . . . . . .’went Sproggit.

  And the Pantomime Horse toppled from its branch and came plummeting down on to Romeo’s broad back like a sack of potatoes.

  And, seconds later, on top of it – plumph! Down came Pongwiffy.

  The effect on Romeo was electrifying. He looked around and his ears pricked up. He could hardly believe his good fortune. At last, his darling had relented! Oh joy! Now he could carry her off to his stable and show her his horse brasses. All he had to do was get rid of the pesky Witch and the even peskier Dwarf on the end of the rope.

  Nostrils flaring and mane tossing, off set Romeo at a mad gallop, Pongwiffy and the Pantomime Horse helplessly flopping and bouncing about on his back as they were borne off on yet another ghastly stage of their adventure.