Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Hang about, hang about, keep your hair on. What d’you think, gentlemen? Shall we give it to him now?’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ urged Dave the Druid. ‘Let him have it. He needs cheering up.’

  For the first time, Ronald became aware of a large, gaily wrapped parcel sitting in the middle of the lounge.

  ‘For me?’ he said.

  ‘For you,’ chorused the Wizards.

  ‘We had a whip-round,’ explained Fred the Flameraiser.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Gerald the Just. ‘Open it.’

  So Ronald opened it. He ripped off the fancy paper, removed the top of the box and peered inside. What he saw caused a lump to form in his throat and tears of gratitude to well up in his eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh. Thank you so very, very much. It’s just what I always wanted.’

  It was a chair. A chair of his very own. It had a carved back. It had a cushion with tassels on. It had a plaque with his name on. Ronald the Magnificent, it said.

  It rather seemed that Christmas wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  Far away, somewhere in the Lower Misty Mountains, lies Gobbo Towers, home of the Great Gobbo. Tonight, there is something special going on. A fancy dress ball, no less.

  The Great Gobbo sits on a raised dais at one end of the great hall. You can tell this is the Great Gobbo, because his braces are made of gold thread and he wears a crown over his bobble hat. He is also being fed grapes by a bevy of Goblin handmaidens in pink bikinis, just like Lardo described.

  The floor is packed with Goblins of all shapes and sizes. They have been dancing the night away to hideous sounds provided by the Goblinaires – an enthusiastic trio whose instruments consist of a burglar alarm, a dustbin lid and a blackboard (for scraping the fingernails down).

  The time has now come to judge the fancy dress competition. The Great Gobbo claps his hands for silence and runs his eyes over the massed ranks before him. It is not a promising sight. There is only so much you can do with twigs and birds’ nests. The place is packed with Randolph the red-nosed wassits and Goldisockses.

  Only one Gaggle of Goblins stands out from the rest. At least their costumes are original.

  They are covered in bruises. At least three have black eyes and two have cauliflower ears. Bandaged limbs and sticking plaster are much in evidence. It all looks terribly realistic.

  The Great Gobbo crooks his finger. The bandaged ones start and, uttering things like, ‘Who, us? Does he mean us?’, hobble painfully to the dais, where they stand awestruck before their great leader.

  The Great Gobbo picks a grape pip out of his teeth and surveys them in silence for a moment. Then he speaks.

  ‘ ’Oo you s’posed ter be, then, lads?’

  The one with the badly dented saucepan on his head clears his throat nervously.

  ‘As you can see, Great Gobbo, we has made a group effort. We has come as a Gaggle o’ poor, innocent Goblins who, through no fault o’ deir own, has got tangled up with a loada spiteful ol’ Witches. We has come as a dreadful warnin’ to you all. We calls ourselves the Dreadful Warnin’ Boys. Sir.’

  ‘I like it,’ said the Great Gobbo. ‘It’s different. It’s new. It don’t involve twigs. I award you first prize.’

  He waved his hand and a huge hamper was ceremoniously brought on and dumped at the feet of the incredulous winners. When the lid was raised, it was found to contain a year’s supply of tinned nettle soup!

  ‘Oh, wow!’ gasped Plugugly, quite overcome. ‘Dis is too much! Some Christmas dinner iss gonna be dis year, lads.’

  It was only when they got home that they realised they didn’t have a tin opener. But that’s another story.

  Time now for the happy ending. What could be nicer than Witchway Wood on this Christmas Eve, with the snow falling gently down on the houses of the sleeping inhabitants. Even Pongwiffy is asleep. She is lying in a sea of mince-pie crumbs, dreaming of riding a red-spotted Pantomime Horse around a vast stage, with loud cheers ringing in her ears.

  Beside her, on the pillow, Hugo is curled up in the tea cosy he likes to use as a sleeping bag. At the end of the bed hang two stockings. One is the size of a postage stamp. The other is outsize and has a note pinned to it. The note reads: ‘BROKUN LEG. GIVE JENERUSLY’.

  Right now, both stockings are empty. But not for long. From far away, there comes the unmistakable silvery tinkle of bells. They are coming nearer . . .

  Time to leave now.

  Turn the page for another

  Pongwiffy adventure!

  WHAT’S ON

  SPELLOVISION

  6.00

  Zombie Decorating

  The Zombies paint a room – and watch it dry.

  7.00

  The News with Sheridan Haggard

  The Skeleton with the Golden Voice brings you all the Witchway news.

  Followed by the weather, presented by our glamorous Zombie weather girl, Brenda.

  7.30

  Gnome and Away

  GNarleen’s in love with GNorman, who’s secretly going out with GNometta, who’s got a secret crush on GNeville . . .

  Repeated tomorrow at 12 noon

  8.00

  Familiar Fortunes

  Tonight the Toad family try for the big prizes.

  9.00

  Goblins in Cars

  Those crazy Mountain Goblins are racing more beat-up old cars. No rules, no skills, just lots of crashes.

  Repeated Friday at 10.30 pm

  10.00

  Fiends

  Six Fiends sit and drink bogwater and talk about each other’s problems.

  See Pick of the Week: page 24

  DON’T FORGET – TOMORROW NIGHT

  THE GREAT

  SPELLOVISION

  SONG CONTEST!

  Get your entry forms

  NOW for the

  SPELLOVISION SONG

  CONTEST

  SONGS MUST BE ORIGINAL

  FABULOUS PRIZES TO BE WON!

  ANYONE CAN ENTER – EXCEPT

  GOBLINS

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Visit to Sharkadder

  Moon’s up. I think I’ll go out,’ announced Witch Pongwiffy to Hugo, her Hamster Familiar.

  ‘OK,’ said Hugo, not even looking up. He was comfortably settled in the tea cosy, nose deep in a very small book. A saucer full of chopped carrot was within easy reach. The kettle was boiling, ready to pour into a thimble of cocoa.

  ‘You coming?’ asked Pongwiffy, taking her hat from its hook.

  ‘No. I is readink.’

  ‘Who said you could read? You’re supposed to be working for me, not reading. What is it, anyway? A book of stamps? Hmm? Little sticky stamps? Is that why you’ve had your nose stuck in it for days?’

  ‘No. Is Ze Little Book of Hamster Vit and Visdom. Is collection of clever Hamster sayinks.’

  ‘Oh yeah? No wonder it’s small. OK, OK, only joking. Tell me one.’

  ‘Hamsters might be small, but zey haf great big hearts,’ Hugo read out.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Pongwiffy. ‘If your hearts were big, there wouldn’t be room for the rest of the stuff. Your tummy and lungs and daft little kidneys. What else?’

  ‘Hamsters are better zan cats.’

  ‘Hamsters are better than cats?’ scoffed Pongwiffy. ‘What kind of saying is that? That’s not wise or witty.’

  ‘Is true though,’ said Hugo firmly.

  ‘Why? How are they better?’

  ‘In every vay. Hamsters better lookink, tougher, got better personality. See zis scar?’ Hugo pointed to his ear. ‘A cat did zat. Boy, voz he sorry.’ He turned a page of his book and gave a little snigger. ‘Listen. Zis good vun. If ignorance is bliss, vhy are cats so miserable?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Is there a lot of anti-cat stuff in the book?’

  ‘Loads,’ said Hugo. ‘Vant to hear more?’

  ‘No. I’m bored with cats.’

  ‘How about zis, zen? Blue are ze violets, red are ze roses. Hamster
s are furry, viz little pink noses.’

  ‘Good grief! Is that the best you lot can come up with?’ said Pongwiffy, unimpressed. ‘I’m off. Perhaps I’ll take the Broom and fly over to Sharkadder’s.’

  The Broom, which had been quivering hopefully in a dark corner, came flying out and started attacking the door enthusiastically.

  ‘OK,’ said Hugo, head back in his book. ‘Bye, zen.’

  ‘Sure you won’t come?’

  ‘Huh? Oh. No. Zis is gripping stuff.’

  ‘About as gripping as the elastic on my oldest pair of knickers,’ sneered Pongwiffy. Which was a rude thing to say, but we’ll forgive her because she was disappointed that Hugo wasn’t coming.

  Out she went, with the Broom whizzing eagerly round her in little circles, keen to be up and away.

  Pongwiffy’s hovel – Number One, Dump Edge – stood on the edge of a huge rubbish dump. The beauty of it was that the view from her window was constantly changing. There was the rusty cooker and the broken mangle and the three-wheeled pram and the pile of mouldering old mattresses, of course. They’d been there for years. But every week, fresh junk magically appeared, adding fascinating new smells and textures. As Pongwiffy was always boasting to anyone who would listen, she never got bored.

  She stood in her doorway, closed her eyes, and breathed in the familiar smell of rotting rubbish. Tonight, it had subtle new overtones. There had obviously been a new delivery. Should she go and pick over it now, or save that pleasure for later?

  Her mind was made up by the Broom (Woody), which had been cooped up for too long and was now fly-crazy. It kept jumping up at her in an annoying, puppyish way, then nipping round and banging into the back of her knees, trying to get her to climb on.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Stop your nonsense, we’re going, we’re going.’

  Seconds later, they were airborne. They skimmed over the trees, enjoying the cool night breeze. Below lay Witchway Wood – dark, silent and strangely empty.

  ‘Seems quiet down there tonight,’ shouted Pongwiffy over the wind. ‘No smoke from the chimneys. Looks like everyone’s out. Hey! It’s not the last Friday of the month, is it? I’m not missing a Coven Meeting, am I?’

  The Broom didn’t reply. It could only speak in Wood. Besides, it wasn’t the brightest Broom in the cupboard. It never knew what day it was.

  ‘Actually, it’s Tuesday,’ mused Pongwiffy. ‘I remember now, because yesterday was Monday, when I always water the toadstools under my pillow. Strange how quiet everything is, though . . .’

  Witch Sharkadder stood on her step, locking the door. She was dressed up to the nines – hair a mass of tortured curls, spiderleg eyelashes, lipstick (Mad Mildew), perfume (Oppression, French, very posh), freshly sharpened nails, the works. Her Familiar, a one-eyed cat called Dead Eye Dudley, was glaring sullenly out of the window, clearly put out at being left behind. Her Broom, name of Ashley, was propped against the drainpipe. A green ribbon was tied in a floppy bow around its stick.

  Everyone winced as Pongwiffy came hurtling down into the flower bed, boots ploughing up the neat row of delicate crocuses that had just begun to show their shy little heads.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sharkadder with a little sigh. ‘It’s you, Pong. What a pity, I’m just off out.’

  ‘Lucky I caught you, then,’ said Pongwiffy, climbing off her Broom, which took one look at Ashley’s ribbon and fell about laughing. (To your ear and mine, this would sound like straightforward rustling.)

  ‘But I’m going out,’ repeated Sharkadder, popping her key in her handbag.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll come with you. Where are you going, anyway?’

  ‘Visiting.’

  ‘Well, I can see that. Who?’

  ‘Oh – just a friend,’ hedged Sharkadder, snapping the bag shut. ‘I can’t stay here talking to you all night – I’m late as it is.’

  ‘What friend?’ persisted Pongwiffy. ‘A better friend than me?’

  ‘No, of course not. You’re my best friend, you know that.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Nobody special.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well – Sourmuddle, if you must know.’

  ‘Oh really? Nobody special, eh?’ Pongwiffy sneered. Sourmuddle was only Grandwitch, boss of the Witchway Coven. She was certainly special.

  ‘She’s having a sort of small select gathering,’ mumbled Sharkadder, going a bit pink.

  ‘Really?’ Pongwiffy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sourmuddle wasn’t known for her hospitality. She usually took her meals at other Witches’ cottages. It was one of the advantages of rank. ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well – me. And I think Macabre will be there.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Well – the twins. And Ratsnappy.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Greymatter. Oh, and Gaga.’

  ‘What about Sludgegooey and Scrofula?’

  ‘Um . . . yes. I believe so.’ Sharkadder had reached the carefully-looking-the-other-way stage.

  ‘And Bonidle and Bendyshanks?’ enquired Pongwiffy sternly.

  Sharkadder looked down and twiddled her high-heeled shoe.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘That’s not a small select gathering,’ Pongwiffy pointed out. ‘That’s the whole Coven!’

  ‘Erm – yes.’

  ‘Everyone except me!’

  ‘Erm – yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s just terrific!’ sulked Pongwiffy. ‘I was wondering where everyone was. And now I know. There’s a thundering great party at Sourmuddle’s and I’m not invited!’

  ‘It’s not exactly a party.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Oh, all right, if you must know. Sourmuddle’s got one of those new spellovisions and we’re all going round to watch it. It’s not that she doesn’t want you, Pong. But you know how small her parlour is and, quite frankly, your smell in an enclosed space is . . .’

  ‘Never mind my smell. Go back a bit. She’s got a what?’

  ‘A spellovision.’

  ‘And what’s that, when it’s at home?’

  ‘Surely you must have heard of spellovision!’ Sharkadder pretended to be amazed, although, in fact, she had only just heard about it herself. ‘It’s quite the new thing. It’s a sort of square box and you sit and watch it.’

  ‘What’s the point of sitting and watching a box?’ asked Pongwiffy. ‘I’ve got a box at home. I keep coal in it, along with my spare socks. I’ve never felt the need to sit and watch it, though.’

  ‘No, no. This is different. It’s – a new sort of Magic. Invisible pictures come through the air and get caught in the box. Sourmuddle says it’s got a screen. You twiddle knobs and the pictures come alive and you watch them.’

  ‘What are the pictures of?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m going to Sourmuddle’s to find out.’

  ‘Well!’ said Pongwiffy, highly miffed. ‘I think I’ll just come along too. I don’t see why I should be left out.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go all huffy. If it’s any consolation, the Familiars aren’t allowed to come. No room, see. So you’re not the only one.’

  ‘That’s different. I’m a Witch. It’s discrimination, that’s what it is, and I shall say so in no uncertain terms. In fact, I shall give Sourmuddle a piece of my mind.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Sharkadder with a shrug. ‘But don’t bring me into it.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Watching Spellovision

  So I called in on Sharkadder and she mentioned she was about to come over to you and I was wondering if I could come in and watch your spellovision, please?’ begged Pongwiffy humbly. It was easy to talk about giving Sourmuddle a piece of her mind, but a bit different when she was there in the flesh, glaring on the doorstep.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ said Sharkadder disloyally. ‘I didn’t ask her.’

  Sourmuddle peered over the top of her glasses.

  ‘It’s very crowded in the
parlour,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make myself small.’

  ‘It’s stuffy too. I’m not sure I can accommodate you.’

  ‘It’s my smell, isn’t it? My smell’s not welcome. All right. Just this once, I’ll squirt myself with Sharkadder’s perfume.’

  ‘What, at ten pounds a bottle? Not likely,’ said Sharkadder unhelpfully.

  ‘Then I’ll sit by the window.’

  ‘There aren’t enough peanuts,’ said Sourmuddle.

  ‘I don’t mind. I’m not hungry. Look. I’m getting on my knees and begging.’ Pongwiffy sank to her knees and wrung her hands in supplication. ‘Please! Oh pretty please! Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple asepleasepleasepleaseplea—’

  ‘All right,’ said Sourmuddle grudgingly. ‘But you’ll have to keep quiet. This is a momentous occasion and I’m not having you spoiling it.’

  ‘I’ll be good,’ promised Pongwiffy, which was rather like a monkey promising not to eat bananas.

  The parlour was hot and crowded. Every available seat was taken, apart from the rocking chair, which was reserved for Sourmuddle. Witches Macabre, Greymatter and Agglebag and Bagaggle, the twins, were squashed on the sofa. Bonidle snoozed in an armchair, flanked by Ratsnappy and Sludgegooey, who perched on the arms. Bendyshanks and Scrofula sat on upright chairs that had been brought in from the kitchen. Gaga hung from the curtain rail, because she preferred dangling to sitting.

  They all faced a large, mysterious, square box with a grey screen, which sat in pride of place on Sourmuddle’s best coffee table.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bendyshanks, rising hastily. ‘It’s Pongwiffy. I’ll open the window.’

  Agglebag and Macabre squeezed up even more to make room for Sharkadder, and Pongwiffy picked her way over to the open window and stood obediently in the draught.

  Out in the starry garden, she noticed Woody had pulled off Ashley’s ribbon and was waving it around in a confrontational sort of way.

  ‘Right,’ said Sourmuddle, coming in from the kitchen with a very small bowl. ‘Nuts first. Pass them round, would you, Ratsnappy? I think you’ll find there’s exactly one each. Except for Pongwiffy, who wasn’t invited.’