Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  And behind, flat on his bottom, clinging grimly to the length of rope, came the legendary wildman, the heels of his boots ploughing up great sprays of snow as he was tugged relentlessly ever onward.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Overture and Beginners

  The inhabitants of Witchway Wood tend to be somewhat tribal in their habits. Skeletons stick with Skeletons. Trolls tramp round with Trolls. Ghouls go round in gangs. Tree Demons hang out with other Tree Demons and so on. The only thing that prompts the various factions to bury their differences and mingle is the prospect of live entertainment. Stick up a poster advertising any sort of show and you can guarantee that they’ll all come crawling out of the woodwork.

  The prospect of a pantomime proved irresistible, particularly on a wintry Saturday night with a huge moon shining on the snow and the smell of Christmas in the air. The Wood rang with the chattering voices of excited theatregoers, all wrapped up warm and making for Witchway Hall, which Vincent Van Ghoul had decked out in red fairy lights for the occasion.

  On the edge of the glade, five invisible pairs of Goblin eyes watched from behind a handy clump of snow-covered bushes.

  ‘Come on, then,’ hissed Hog’s voice. ‘Are we goin’ in or what?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Slopbucket. ‘We don’t wanna draw attenshun. We gotta wait till everyone’s gone in. Then we’ll sneak in at the back.’

  ‘You sure this is a good idea?’ piped up Stinkwart, sounding doubtful.

  ‘Wassamatter? You don’t wanna see the pantymine?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, ’course I do. But s’posin’ we gets caught?’

  ‘ ’Ow can we get caught? We’re invizdibibble.’

  There was a pause. Then: ‘ ’Ow come we’re sneakin’ about be’ind bushes, then?’ asked Stinkwart, He had a point.

  ‘Traditional, innit?’ said Slopbucket. ‘We’re Goblins. Goblins always sneak about be’ind bushes. Anyway, stop bein’ a wet blanket, Stinkwart. At least we’re ’avin an outin’.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Stinkwart glumly. ‘I fergot I was ’avin fun. Sorry.’

  ‘There’s only one fing I’m sorry about,’ chipped in Hog, sounding pious. ‘I’m sorry that our good ol’ mates Plug an’ Sproggit ain’t wiv us. Don’t seem right, us out enjoyin’ ourselves when they’re stuck in a snowdrift with their legs wigglin’.’

  There was a long, rather guilty silence.

  ‘Ah, they’ll turn up,’ said Eyesore.

  ‘You keep sayin’ that,’ Hog reminded him. ‘But they ’aven’t, ’ave they?’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Slopbucket uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, we ’ad to get out, didn’t we? All that lyin’ low wuz doin’ my head in.’

  Lying low had indeed proved to be more than the Goblins had bargained for. Hour after hour after hour of sitting in a gloomy cave staring at the space where your body should be can get to you.

  It had been Lardo who cracked first. He had suddenly shot to his invisible feet, announced that he was feeling claustrophobic and that if he didn’t get out of there immediately he wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. Well, he didn’t actually use those words. They were much too long for a Goblin. What he actually said was, ‘Ahhhhhh! Lemmeoutlemmeoutlemmeout!’

  At any rate, he put into words what everyone else had been thinking for some time, and it was the signal for a mass exodus.

  If you had been an innocent bystander, you would have seen the boulder door roll to one side, a slight rippling effect in the cold air and five pairs of footprints suddenly appear in the snow. But that’s all. As yet, Ronald’s serum was showing no signs of wearing off. The Goblins were still well and truly invisible.

  Outside, as the long shadows of evening crept across the snow, they stood and debated what to do next.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Hog. ‘Can’t stay ’ere all night.’

  ‘I knows wot we can do,’ said Slopbucket suddenly.

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘We can cheer ourselves up an’ go on a little outin’.’

  ‘You mean, like, the seaside or summink?’ enquired Eyesore doubtfully. Even if he had any swimming trunks (which he didn’t), he wasn’t sure he could find them at such short notice. Besides, it was hardly seaside weather.

  ‘Nah, nah. Look down there, lads. Whadya see?’

  The Goblins looked. Far below, in the darkening Wood, there was a red glow. It lit up the snowy tops of the surrounding trees in a rather festive way. It appeared to come from the general area of Witchway Hall.

  ‘Know what’s ’appenin’ tonight?’ said Slopbucket, his voice all wobbly with excitement. ‘The pantymine! What do ya say, lads? Fancy a spot of entertainment?’

  ‘We mustn’t!’ gasped the others. ‘We’re not allowed in.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Slopbucket gleefully. ‘Ah. But they can’t stop us, can they? ’Cos we’s invizdibibble. Come on, lads. Foller me!’

  His footprints set off at a run down the slope – and after a moment, four more sets took off after him.

  And that is how the Goblins came to be skulking around in the bushes, waiting for the right moment to slip in and enjoy a night of Terror in the Wood.

  Backstage, in the dressing room, hysteria reigned as first-night nerves set in. The Babes had lost their dummies. Dick Whittington, having just redone her make-up for the seventeenth time, had suddenly discovered a ladder in her tights and was having a temper tantrum in a corner. Snow White had spilled an entire tin of rouge down herself and was trying to get it off using a cup of cold bogwater and Cleopatra’s wig. Rapunzel’s lethal hair was tripping everyone up, its owner included. Sourmuddle’s wings were giving trouble.

  ‘My wings won’t stay on! Who’s got the safety pins?’

  ‘There’s a ladder in my tights! A ladder, I tell you!’

  ‘I’ve lost my recorder! How can I play merry music without my recorder, for mercy’s sake!’

  ‘Has anyone seen my wig?’

  ‘Ouch! Mind where you’re putting that sword, Macabre . . .’

  Sherlock Holmes hadn’t a clue where she’d left her magnifying glass. Sleeping Beauty’s hot-water bottle was leaking. Barry was in the toilet, being sick again – and he was only Noises Off!

  Suddenly, without any warning, the call came. There was a knock at the door and the announcement came that set hearts pit-pattering and stomachs churning.

  ‘Overture and beginners, please!’

  There was an appalled silence.

  ‘Oo-er,’ said Bendyshanks. ‘That’s torn it. Too late to back out now.’

  Next door, all alone in his dressing room, Prince Charming stood before his mirror, eyes starting out of his white face and all ten fingers stuffed in his mouth in an attempt to still his chattering teeth. He was currently suffering from a shocking attack of stage fright. Despite all his efforts at keeping his theatrical activities under wraps, somehow his fellow Wizards had got to hear about them and the entire Clubhouse had promised to come along to cheer him on. He had thought the previous night had been the most embarrassing of his whole life. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  On the stage, peering through a crack in the curtains, Hugo stood alone, watching the seats fill up. It looked like it was going to be a packed house. Mistress would be pleased – if only she was here to see it. Anxiously, he took out a tiny pocket watch and examined it.

  Three minutes past seven. Time for curtain-up.

  With a little sigh, he put the watch away. It looked horribly like she wasn’t going to make it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Terror in the Wood

  Imagine it. The packed hall. The audience rustling and whispering in delighted anticipation. A single spotlight trained on the closed curtains.

  Snug in the warm darkness, a row of Wizards are noisily tucking into huge bags of popcorn. A small Thing in a Moonmad T-shirt is absent-mindedly eating his programme. A Skeleton hiccups, and everyone sniggers, apart from those who have had the misfortune to have fallen foul of the overenthusiastic Usherette. Th
ey are nursing their sore heads and moaning quietly.

  Everybody is present and correct. Pierre de Gingerbeard, the famous chef (twin brother, of course, to our old friend Wildman Willy Racoon), has managed to struggle along, despite his injuries. The Yeti Brothers have taken a rare night off and are sitting munching pizza next to a row of Banshees.

  Also present is a Gnome called GNorman; a couple of Mummies, with freshly laundered bandages put on specially for the occasion; a small, portly Genie by the name of Ali Pali, who is trying to sell a carpet to the large Troll sitting next to him; somebody called Mrs Molotoff, who is wearing a lot of fruit on her head and is apparently a seaside landlady; Mr Molotoff, who is called Cyril and is carrying a vacuum cleaner; Ernest Dribble, still grieving for the absent Romeo but not enough to go out there looking for him; one Dunfer Malpractiss (shifty-looking owner of the local Magic shop); and a rather bad-tempered Tree Demon who is refusing to share his fruit drops with anybody.

  The Royals are there too. Worried little King Futtout sits sandwiched between his vinegar-faced wife and his pouting daughter, who has a face like thunder. Honeydimple hates Hamsters, Witches and Pantomimes, in that order.

  One of the Mummies leans over, taps King Futtout on the shoulder and demands that he remove his crown. King Futtout hurriedly does so.

  Just along from the royal party sits Scott Sinister, star of stage and screen. He is yawning hugely and ostentatiously looking at his watch, even though it’s dark. He wishes to make it very clear that he does not want to be here. He has not brought Lulu.

  Suddenly, at the back, in a blast of cold air, the doors creak open, then shut themselves again.

  And now, at the very back, where there is standing room only, there are five invisible Goblins! But nobody knows that yet.

  Down in the orchestra pit, Filth picks up his sticks and plays a drum roll. Arthur plays a series of menacing chords, which are meant to conjure up visions of dark doings and wicked deeds. O’Brian puts his penny whistle to his lips and plays something altogether different, because he’s got his music in the wrong order.

  Time to begin. The curtains wobbled back, giving everyone a wonderful view of Vincent Van Ghoul’s paint-splattered rear end as he bent over making some last-minute adjustments to the vase of plastic poppies on Sherlock Holmes’s desk.

  The audience gave a united gasp at the redness of it all. Those who had brought them hastily put on their sunglasses.

  ‘Van Ghoul!’ hissed Hugo’s voice urgently. ‘Get off!’

  Vincent turned around, gave a startled little squeak and scuttled out of sight. The audience sniggered and delightedly nudged each other. It was a good start.

  On came Sherlock Holmes, Watson perched on his shoulder. Both looked horribly nervous, as anyone would be who had to start the whole thing off. Greymatter raised her trembling magnifying glass, inspected the audience and muttered something.

  ‘Mumble mumble mumble do?

  Mumble mumble mumble clue.’

  ‘What’s the funny man say, Mummy? shrieked a small Banshee very clearly from the back row.

  Greymatter cleared her throat and tried again.

  ‘Mumble mumble mumble do . . .’

  ‘Speak up!’ yelled a Mummy impatiently. ‘We can’t hear you.’

  Greymatter glared. ‘I said, cloth-ears, that I’m Sherlock Holmes, how do you do, I’m searching for a vital clue. And I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut, sonny. Some of us are trying to act up here.’

  The audience clapped. This was more like it. There was nothing like a bit of heckling to get everyone into the spirit of the thing.

  In command now, the great detective went on to explain the business of the missing Babes and his own personal role in the matter. He did it so movingly that several members of the audience wept into their hankies.

  ‘Is ze rhyming couplets,’ muttered Hugo to the Three Princesses who were waiting nervously in the wings. ‘Gets ’em every time.’

  Throughout Greymatter’s speech, Watson nodded encouragingly and made admiring noises, which is, of course, what the Watsons of this world are born to do.

  At the very back, the five invisible Goblins were struggling to get to grips with it all.

  ‘Wassappenin’?’ hissed Lardo, nudging Hog in his invisible ribs. ‘Wot’s ’e sayin’?’

  ‘I dunno. Summink about some missin’ kiddies.’

  ‘Wot kiddies? Why they missin’?’

  ‘ ’Ow should I know?’

  ‘Sssssh!’

  A Zombie sitting in the back row turned around crossly, intent on telling off whoever was making all the noise. Seeing nothing but fresh air and shadows, he looked puzzled, then turned back to face the stage.

  Greymatter finished her speech and stepped to the front of the stage. Hugo pulled on the rope and the curtains closed behind her. The Witchway Rhythm Boys struck up an introductory bar or two, and a large piece of cardboard descended from the wings with words on it. It narrowly avoided decapitating the great detective, who leapt out of the way just in time. To her credit, Greymatter recovered quickly and launched into her song.

  We have not heard this before, so we should give it a listen, as Hugo is particularly pleased with this song. It is set to the tune of ‘Oh, I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’, and right now Greymatter is giving it her all.

  ‘Oh, I do like to be a great detective,’ she trilled, enthusiastically conducting the audience with her magnifying glass, while Watson pointed to the words.

  ‘Detecting’s the thing I like to do,

  There is nothing I like more

  Than hunting on the floor

  Where I might just find

  A puzzling clue, clue, clue . . .’

  ‘Listen to zem!’ crowed Hugo. ‘It goink vell, ya?’ But the Three Princesses were too nervous to talk.

  ‘Oh, I do like to be a great detective,

  Detecting’s my specialiteeee,

  I can solve the hardest crime

  In a record-breaking time,

  Need a detective? Then call for me!’

  The song ended, to rousing cheers. Glowing with triumph, Greymatter and Speks made their exit.

  The Woodland Glade scene came next. The curtains parted and the onlookers were treated to yet another faceful of Vincent Van Ghoul’s visionary scenery. More gasps of astonishment at the beauty of it all.

  The Three Princesses stood in a circle, holding hands. The band struck up something vaguely skippy, and Sludgegooey, Scrofula and Bonidle rolled their eyes and proceeded to thump around a cardboard tree while the audience watched in fascinated disbelief.

  At the end of the dance, there was a storm of delighted applause. Dripping with sweat, the Princesses grinned sheepishly and stared uncertainly into the wings, unsure what to do.

  ‘Do it again!’ mouthed Hugo. ‘Go on!’

  So they did it again. And got another round of applause.

  They would have done it a third time, but the stage was beginning to splinter and Hugo signalled that enough was enough. With a sigh of relief, Bonidle slumped in a pile of paper leaves and promptly went to sleep, as the part demanded.

  As soon as Snow White and Rapunzel had rather breathlessly introduced themselves, on marched Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Their earlier triumph had given them real confidence. Greymatter’s business with the hanky was particularly compelling viewing and got a cheer.

  ‘Acting at its finest,’ whispered one Ghoul to another.

  When the great detective had unblocked his nostrils to his satisfaction, he enquired about the Babes and received the information that they had been taken off by force by a Scottish woman on a Haggis.

  ‘I knew ve should have vorked on zat line,’ sighed Hugo to Vincent Van Ghoul, who was watching from the wings. ‘It just not ze same, some’ow.’

  It didn’t matter. Out front, the audience were lapping it up. All except the Goblins. They were in a state of bewildered outrage.

  ‘ ’Ear that?’ spluttered Eyesore.
‘Some Scottish woman’s got them kiddies! Poor little nippers.’

  ‘Ssssh!’ said Lardo. ‘Snow White’s talkin’. I don’t wanna lose the thread.’

  ‘But some Scottish woman’s taken a coupla babies from their mammy . . .’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Sssshhh!’

  Up on stage, Snow White was suggesting to Sherlock Holmes that he call in a couple of professional heroes to help on the case.

  ‘Dick Whittington will help you out,

  Of that I’m sure there is no doubt.

  I also might suggest to you

  You call in the Pied Piper too.

  Why don’t you give them both a ring?

  But now, I think it’s time to sing.’

  The Witchway Rhythm Boys hastily put down their cups of tea, snatched up their instruments and played the opening bars of the next song. Snow White, Rapunzel and Sherlock Holmes linked arms and sang from the footlights. Bonidle stayed where she was, sleep-singing.

  ‘Rock-a-bye, babies, gone in the night

  Maybe to Scotland, hope they’re all right . . .’

  Everyone joined in, even the Wizards, who weren’t known for their community singing. When the song reached its conclusion, there was hardly a dry eye in the house. The curtains closed, the house lights went up and it was time for the interval. Gaga, clad in her Usherette’s uniform (consisting of a natty little hat teamed with a swirly skirt and, rather oddly, yellow wellington boots), hurtled down the aisle bearing a tray.

  With one accord, the audience leapt to their feet and swooped on the ice cream.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  More Terror

  As intervals go, it was a great success. There had been several interesting scuffles in the ice-cream queue and at one point the Usherette had been required to perform yet more vigorous work with her torch. As the lights went down for the second act, everyone hurried back to their seats, eager to find out what would happen next.