Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

The Goblins, of course, hadn’t dared go for ice cream. Not only would they have been trampled in the rush, but there was the distinct possibility that food eaten by an invisible body might well remain on view. Five splodges of chewed-up goo floating in the air didn’t bear thinking about. Instead, they had whiled away the interval mulling over the events of the first act. Indignation kept their minds off their empty tummies.

  ‘Wicked, I calls it,’ Hog was saying in a hoarse whisper. ‘Stealin’ ’elpless liddle kiddies away from their mammy . . .’

  ‘What’s the world comin’ to, I wanna know?’ agreed Eyesore. ‘We should do somethin’. We should form a search party.’

  ‘Wot, like the one we didn’t form when Plug and Sproggit went missin’?’

  ‘Yeah, but this is different. This is liddle kiddies we’re talkin’ about ’ere . . .’

  ‘Sssh. It’s startin’.’

  There was an ominous roll of thunder, the curtains jerked apart and Lady Macbeth rode on stage, bristling with cardboard weapons and hauling the Babes behind her on the end of a long rope. She reined in centre stage, glared at the audience and uttered a wild laugh, just in case anyone was in any doubt about whether or not she was a baddy.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, HA!’

  The entire audience erupted in a cacophony of boos and hisses.

  ‘It’s her!’ squawked Lardo, quite beside himself. ‘It’s that Scottish woman! The cheek of it! She’s got the Babes! There they are, look!’

  ‘Get her! The Scottish one! She did it!’ howled Hog.

  ‘You leave them Babes alone!’ bellowed Stinkwart.

  ‘Yeah!’ screeched Slopbucket. ‘Stop bullyin’ them Babes, you wicked ol’ woman, you!’

  Luckily, everyone else was making such a noise that nobody noticed the racket from the back.

  Enjoying herself, Macabre delivered her big speech with lip-smacking relish, tied the twins to a cardboard tree and strode offstage on a quest for a pencil.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ moaned Eyesore. ‘They’ve let her go!’

  It was Agglebag and Bagaggle’s big moment. They removed their dummies, rolled their eyes at each other and lisped their lines.

  ‘Alas! Alack! Oh, boo, hoo, hoo.

  Whatever can we poor Babes do?

  Oh, for a rescuer to come

  And reunite us with our mum.’

  ‘Aaaaah,’ snivelled the mothers in the audience. ‘Poor little dears. Shame.’

  Looking rather pleased with themselves, the twins lay down at the foot of the tree and buried themselves under a pile of red-paper leaves.

  This was the cue for Cleopatra’s dream sequence. The lights dimmed, the Witchway Rhythm Boys struck up with something snake-charmerish, and Bendyshanks hurtled on stage with Steve coiled dramatically around her neck. The exotic effect was slightly spoilt by the addition of a woolly cardigan, but even so she made the audience sit up.

  In ringing tones, she informed everybody that she was Cleopatra from the Nile and that she had a unique dancing style, which she was about to demonstrate.

  ‘Who’s this?’ whispered Hog, struggling to get a grip. ‘What’s she doin’ ’ere?’

  He wasn’t the only one. The confused audience rustled their programmes and whispered amongst themselves, not quite keeping up with the subtleties of the plot. Nobody could work out what an Egyptian queen in a woolly cardigan was doing in the Wood at this particular stage in the story.

  It didn’t really matter, of course. All that mattered was that the dance was entertaining. Bendyshanks gambolled energetically around the stage, pointing her toes and rattling her tambourine, with Steve clinging on for dear life. It was a thoroughly abandoned performance. At one point, she got so hot, she removed her cardigan, hurling it wildly into the audience, where it was caught by Mrs Molotoff’s Cyril, who took it home for a souvenir. The audience cheered like billy-o, and it all went straight to Bendyshanks’s head. Next to come off was her wig, which was batted around a bit before being neatly fielded by the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt, who ate it. She would have gone further, but caught sight of Hugo sternly shaking his head. So she contented herself with a final leap or two before sinking into the splits with a tearing sound. She got a nice round of applause, more for enthusiasm than anything else.

  With a little yodel, the Pied Piper came bounding on, Rat at heel.

  ‘You weren’t expecting me, I’ll bet.

  I’m the Pied Piper, with my pet.

  To comb this wood is my intent

  We’ll find those Babes, where’er they went.’

  ‘I should jolly well fink so too!’ said Slopbucket disgustedly. ‘Time someone did summink. Who’s this skinny geezer comin’ now?’

  On strode Sharkadder with Dudley in tow, waving her sword and slapping her thigh and declaring that she was Dick, the hero bold. The four of them then commenced prowling about the stage, pointedly avoiding the pile of leaves hiding the missing Babes.

  This was all too much for the Goblins. Why, it was patently obvious where the Babes were hiding. How could anyone not see it? They simply couldn’t contain themselves any longer.

  ‘They’re behind you!’ screamed Lardo, jumping up and down in an agony of frustration. ‘You stupid or what?’

  ‘Yeah!’ chimed in Hog. ‘I can see their liddle tummies, look, pokin’ out from them leaves!’

  ‘Behind you!’ shrieked Stinkwart. ‘Behind you! Behind you! Behind you!’

  With one accord, both cast and the entire audience turned around to see where the heckling was coming from.

  It should have been all right, of course. After all, the Goblins are protected by their invisibility, right?

  Wrong. Whatever the reason – whether it was overexcitement, the heat of the theatre, the fact that all spells wear off in time or simply plain old bad luck – at this extremely critical moment, just when the Goblins had rashly drawn maximum attention to themselves, the serum began to wear off!

  ‘Behind you!’ they were screaming. ‘Behind you! Behind you! Behi—’

  Suddenly, they became aware of all eyes on them. Their voices tailed off. They looked down at themselves, then at each other. They were back again. Hopelessly solid as ever. As visible as visible can be.

  ‘Oooops a dandelion!’ said Slopbucket.

  On stage, all action had stopped. Dick Whittington and the Pied Piper stood rooted to the spot, their mouths forming identical Os. Aware of the sudden silence, the missing Babes emerged from their pile of leaves and sat up.

  You’ve probably heard the expression ‘It Never Rains But It Pours’. Consider what happened next.

  The floor began to shake and from outside there came the unmistakable sound of approaching hooves. The door burst open with a crash – and there, framed in the doorway, was Romeo, looking overtired and sulky. Mounted on his back was the small, triumphant figure of Wildman Willy Racoon. In his hand he held a rope. Tied to the end, looking very much the worse for wear and drooping with exhaustion, was the missing Pantomime Horse. And sitting on its back was . . .

  ‘Mistress!’ whooped Hugo ecstatically, throwing his script in the air. ‘You back! Hooray!’

  And he ran from the wings, down the stage steps, scuttled up a red-spotted leg, up Pongwiffy’s arm and on to her shoulder, where he proceeded to throw his paws around her neck.

  ‘You take over,’ he begged in her ear. ‘It all too much for me.’

  ‘Cousin Willy!’ squealed Sharkadder. ‘You see? I told you he’d find them!’

  ‘Well, I never!’ gasped the Goblins. ‘It’s Plug an’ Sproggit!’

  ‘Romeo!’ cried Ernest Dribble, leaping from his seat. ‘Romeo, Romeo! Where’s your cart now, Romeo?’

  ‘I dun it!’ shouted Willy. ‘I got both yer hosses back. Have Ah missed the dancin’ gals?’

  By now, the word had spread backstage and the entire cast came pouring from the wings.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Pongwiffy’s back! With the Pantomime Hor
se!’

  ‘That’s not all! There’s Goblins in the theatre!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There, look! Up at the back!’

  ‘They’ve gatecrashed our pantomime!’

  ‘Let’s get ’em!’

  The pantomime was forgotten as the entire cast poured from the wings and down the stage steps into the auditorium. The Goblins clutched at each other and rolled their eyes in panic in the face of the advancing tide. Then:

  ‘HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!’

  The voice had authority. It rang out, clear and strong. Everybody hesitated and looked at the stage. There stood Pongwiffy, face grim and arms akimbo. At her side was the Pantomime Horse, looking rather sheepish (if it’s possible for a horse to be sheepish) and swaying slightly in the spotlight.

  ‘Zat’s right, you tell ’em, Mistress!’ urged Hugo from her shoulder. ‘Break a leg!’

  ‘This will not do,’ announced Pongwiffy. ‘It’s always the same, isn’t it? Everything always ends in chaos. I come up with these exciting ideas, just to brighten up our humdrum lives a bit, you know, and there’s always some disaster. Well, this time, it’s not going to happen, see? I’m back now and I’m taking over. Me and Hugo here have written a lovely pantomime and you’re jolly well going to enjoy it. Dribble, remove that wretched horse. Everybody else, simmer down. If you’re not in the pantomime, get back to your seats. Actors, get backstage and wait for your cue. Wildman Willy, keep an eye on those Goblins and make sure they don’t escape. They’re under house arrest. I’ll deal with them later. But right now, there’s a show going on. Do it. NOW!’

  Everyone was so surprised, they did it. The audience obediently took their seats and the cast meekly began to shuffle back towards the stage.

  ‘And while everyone’s getting themselves settled,’ continued Pongwiffy, ‘the Pantomime Horse will entertain you. With a dance.’

  ‘Eh?’ came two startled voices from inside the horse suit.

  ‘You heard,’ muttered Pongwiffy out of the corner of her mouth. ‘This is show business. Dance. Or else.’ Raising her voice, she shouted, ‘We all want to see the horsey dance, don’t we, boys and girls?’

  ‘Yes!’ came the thunderous response.

  ‘Then, music, maestro, please!’

  The Witchway Rhythm Boys looked at each other, shrugged and struck up with a jolly version of ‘Yankee Doodle’.

  There was nothing else for it. Plugugly and Sproggit took deep breaths, picked up their leaden feet and began to dance. And, what’s more, they did it well.

  As the tune picked up speed, their tiredness fell away and suddenly each found he had a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Legs coordinating beautifully, the Pantomime Horse kicked up its heels and skipped about the stage with its tail swishing and its head held high.

  At the end of the routine, its front legs crossed and it gave a deep bow.

  The audience went wild.

  ‘More!’ they shouted. ‘More!’

  It would be nice to say that the Pantomime Horse’s dance was the highlight of the show. But it wasn’t. Not quite.

  The fight between Lady Macbeth, Dick Whittington and the Pied Piper proved very exciting, and the goodies triumphed, of course, although the general feeling was that Lady Macbeth won on points. Then, a mysterious fairy turned up and gave everyone three wishes, which was very nice. It was a pity her wings fell off, but most people were polite and pretended not to notice. She was the Grandwitch, after all.

  When Sherlock Holmes finally found the missing Babes and everything was sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, the entire cast took to the stage for the final rousing song. The whole thing reached its grand climax when Prince Charming, brick red with embarrassment, trailed on stage and, to the great delight of the watching Wizards and his own everlasting shame, awarded each of the smirking Three Princesses a grudging peck on the cheek.

  Yes, of course his trousers fell down. They’d have to, wouldn’t they?

  When the howls of glee finally began to die down, Greymatter stepped forward and delivered the closing lines.

  ‘And now at last our panto’s done.

  We hope you had a lot of fun.’

  ‘Hooray!’ roared the crowd. ‘We did! What a show!’

  ‘Author!’ yelled the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt. And everybody else took up the cry.

  ‘Author! Author!’

  It was music to Pongwiffy’s ears. She walked on stage, Hugo sitting proudly on her hat.

  ‘Thank you!’ she cried. ‘Thank you, one and all. As some of you may know, this pantomime has had its fair share of problems. But I think for once I can safely say that everything ended happily ever after.’

  The cheers rose to fever pitch.

  ‘Hugo,’ said Pongwiffy, ‘I think this is my finest hour.’

  And, so saying, she stepped over the edge of the stage and fell like a stone into the orchestra pit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Christmas Eve

  Snowing again, I see,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘You’ll have to shovel the path, Hugo. After you’ve cooked my supper.’

  ‘Ya, OK,’ said Hugo. He was standing on a stepladder, putting the finishing touches to the Christmas tree. The Broom stood below, handing up the tinsel.

  ‘I want a proper invalid supper, mind. Maybe a little soup, or a lightly poached egg.’

  ‘Ya, ya, OK.’

  ‘Shouldn’t those mince pies come out of the oven now? Actually, skip the invalid stuff. I’ll just make do with those.’

  ‘You ’ave to vait. Zey not ready yet.’

  ‘But I’m hungry!’ wailed the invalid. ‘I haven’t eaten a thing since teatime. I’ve got to keep my strength up.’

  ‘ ’Ave some leftover skunk stew. Zere’s a big pot of it under ze sink.’

  ‘I don’t fancy it,’ grumbled Pongwiffy. ‘It’s months old. There’s green speckly bits in it. I want mince pies and I want them now.’

  ‘Ya, ya, OK, OK! Vait a minute, vill you? ’Ugo, do zis, ’Ugo, do zat. ’Ugo, don’t forget to ’ang up my stockink, ’Ugo, put anuzzer log on ze fire, ’Ugo, pop out and buy some more Christmas cards. You not sink I got enough to do?’

  ‘Ah, but I’ve got a broken leg.’

  ‘Zat not my fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is. You said, break a leg. And I did.’

  ‘I keep tellink you! Break a leg is old theatrical sayink. It not mean you got to go and do it!’Pongwiffy had, indeed, broken a leg. It was the left one. Right now, she was sitting in her favourite rocking chair with her leg heavily encased in plaster and a crutch lying across her lap. On Christmas Eve too.

  A knock came at the door and the Broom swept over to open it. A flurry of snowflakes blew into the hovel along with Sharkadder, who was carrying a large sack over her shoulders.

  ‘Surprise! Hello, Pong. I’ve brought you your Christmas present.’

  ‘Really?’ Pongwiffy looked more cheerful. ‘What’s that, then, Sharky?’

  ‘Well, you’re not supposed to open it until tomorrow, but as you’re poorly, I’ll let you. Here.’

  She dug into the sack and withdrew a parcel wrapped in old newspaper.

  ‘Oh,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Gift-wrapped, I see.’

  She unwrapped it and held up a large, shapeless, sludge-coloured cardigan.

  ‘It’s hand-knitted,’ explained Sharkadder. ‘I hope you like the colour.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do. Sludge. Lovely. Just like the other hand-knitted sludge-coloured cardigans you’ve given me for the last fourteen Christmases.’

  ‘I thought you could wear it to the big Christmas lunch at Sourmuddle’s tomorrow,’ explained Sharkadder. ‘Twelve o’clock prompt, mind. Don’t forget. Everyone’s invited. We’re all bringing something. Cousin Willy’s bringing beans and Cousin Pierre’s made us a lovely Christmas pudding.’

  ‘I’ve got some nice leftover skunk stew,’ began Pongwiffy, but Sharkadder shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no, Pong. You’re the guest of
honour, on account of the wonderful job you did with the pantomime. We’ve raised loads of money, you know. Anyway, you’ve got a poorly leg. How is it feeling?’

  ‘It hurts,’ said Pongwiffy with a sniff. ‘It hurts a lot. There’s only one thing that’s cheering me up.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I don’t hurt as badly as the Goblins,’ said Pongwiffy with a little chuckle.

  ‘I was going to ask you about that. I know Sourmuddle said you could decide on their punishment, to make up for all the suffering they caused you. So what did you do with them?’

  ‘I turned them over to Gaga,’ said Pongwiffy with malicious pleasure. ‘She practised on them with her torch.’

  Over in the Wizards’ Clubhouse, the Wizards sat in overstuffed armchairs before a roaring fire. A row of stockings was pinned hopefully to the mantelpiece. There was a general air of seasonal festivity. Boxes of chocolates, heaped bowls of candied fruit and little glasses of smoking green stuff were very much in evidence.

  The door opened quietly and Ronald slipped in, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He had kept himself to himself since the night of the pantomime. He couldn’t face all the teasing and jokes at his expense. He had made the excuse of a bad cold and had stayed in his chilly attic room, eating his meals off a tray.

  However, it was Christmas Eve and the sound of clinking glasses and rumbling laughter had finally drawn him down to the lounge. He rather hoped that his acting debut would have been forgotten by now. He would just slip quietly in and warm his hands before the fire for five minutes . . .

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Frank the Foreteller. ‘If it isn’t Prince Charming! Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Your Royal Highness?’

  ‘I’ve had a cold, actually,’ muttered Ronald.

  ‘Oooh dear, sorry to hear that. Probably caught something from all that princess-kissing, eh?’

  He gave a wink and everybody but Ronald fell about in paroxysms of wheezy laughter.

  ‘Look,’ said Ronald bitterly. ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it, all right? I’m not going to spend my whole Christmas being the butt of your jokes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retire to my room . . .’