by Kaye Umansky
The bowl was passed round and everyone except Pongwiffy carefully took a nut. There was a lot of exaggerated lip-smacking and smarmy cries of ‘Delicious!’ and ‘My, that hit the spot!’ Buttering up Sourmuddle was in everyone’s interest.
‘Good,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Never let it be said that I’m mean with the catering.’ She walked over to the square box and put her hand on one of the knobs.
‘Well, you all know why you’re here. I’ve got one of these newfangled spellovision sets. Only for research, you understand. As Grandwitch, it’s my responsibility to keep up with any new fad that comes along. Anyway, it’s the very latest thing and I thought you’d like to see what all the fuss is about. Remember, you saw it here first. Can everybody see?’
‘Yes!’ came the excited chorus. Pongwiffy couldn’t, but thought she might be pushing her luck to say so. Out in the garden, things were getting interesting. Ashley had got its ribbon back and was being chased round the water barrel by Woody.
‘Ready?’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Here we go, then. Prepare to be amazed.’
She pressed the knob. A thrilled gasp went up as important-sounding music swelled and the screen flickered into life!
A smooth-looking Skeleton, wearing a smart bow tie, sat behind a desk with a pile of papers before him.
‘Oooh!’ gasped the watching Witches, craning forward excitedly. ‘Look at that! Just like real life!’
‘Hello and welcome,’ said the Skeleton in a rich, golden-brown voice. ‘I am Sheridan Haggard and you are watching the midnight news, brought to you from the Witchway news desk. Here are the main points. The Wizards have announced the date of their Annual Convention. It will take place on . . .’
‘Move your hat, Greymatter, I can’t see,’ complained Pongwiffy.
‘Ssshhh!’ hissed everybody.
‘. . . and will be staying as usual at the Magician’s Retreat, Sludgehaven-on-Sea. A Wizard was quoted as saying, “We like it there. The sausages are good.” ’
‘But I can’t see!’ insisted Pongwiffy, bobbing around, attempting to find a gap in the forest of pointy hats.
‘Once more and you’re out!’ snapped Sourmuddle.
Pongwiffy subsided.
‘Earlier today,’ continued Sheridan Haggard, ‘a daring masked Troll attempted to rob a small Gnome of his lunch. Young GNelson Pondworthy was out fishing when the attack occurred. The Troll swallowed a cheese sandwich, a strawberry yoghurt and half a carrot before being bravely beaten off with a fishing rod by have-a-go GNelson. His mother, Mrs GNorma Pondworthy, said, “My boy is a hero.”
‘The Banshee jumble sale, held last week, raised a record nine pence. It will go towards topping up the tin of tea bags, which is getting perilously low . . .’
‘Gnome muggings!’ scoffed Pongwiffy. She just couldn’t help it. ‘Jumble sales! Wizard Conventions! Ha! As if anyone cares.’
Rather to her surprise, nobody said a word. They were all hunched forward, eyes glued to the screen, hanging on to the Skeleton’s every golden-brown word.
Out in the garden, the Brooms had come to blows. Ashley had had enough and was attacking Woody with its stick. Woody was defending itself by trying to brush Ashley away. Other Brooms had gathered in a circle and were rustling wildly, egging the combatants on. It was quite exciting. Pongwiffy wished she was out there, cheering from the sidelines.
‘Sales of spellovision sets are rising hourly, due to unprecedented public demand,’ Sheridan Haggard announced. ‘From tomorrow, The Daily Miracle will be printing details of forthcoming programmes in place of the usual crossword puzzle. Order your copies now to beat the rush. That is the end of the news. And now a word from our glamorous weather girl. Brenda, over to you.’
The scene changed. A bored-looking female Zombie in a bright pink suit teamed with green hair and big brass earrings stood before a badly drawn map of Witchway Wood. She was chewing pink bubblegum and holding a fistful of cut-out cardboard clouds.
‘Oh. Is it me? Right. Yeah,’ said Brenda the glamorous weather girl. She reached into her mouth, took out the gum and used it to stick the largest cut-out cloud slap bang in the middle of the map, where it obscured pretty well everything.
‘ ’S gonna rain,’ she said. ‘Probubly. As if I care.’
She vanished, and Sheridan Haggard filled the screen again.
‘Thank you, Brenda. Well, that’s it from me. Stay tuned for tonight’s film, Gnome Alone, a comedy for all the family about a young Gnome who gets left alone only to find himself at the mercy of two wicked Brownies who . . .’
‘Not more Gnomes,’ complained Pongwiffy. She’d had enough Gnomes for one night. Her boredom threshold as far as Gnomes were concerned was very low. She was Gnomed out.
Night beckoned through the open window. To her disappointment, the Broom fight was over. The Brooms had lost interest and were wandering around sweeping up a few twigs and grass cuttings. Woody was currently bashing at the garden gate, desperate to be up and away. Ashley was licking its bristles over by the rain barrel. There was no sign of the green ribbon. Who had won or lost wasn’t very clear.
In the parlour, nobody spoke. On the screen, to the accompaniment of jaunty music, a family of Gnomes were packing suitcases and throwing fishing rods into a cart, obviously off on a fishing trip. The dialogue went like this:
FATHER: Let us go on a fishing trip.
MOTHER: Oh yes. It will be fun.
TEENAGE BOY GNOME: I will take my rod.
TEENAGE GIRL GNOME: We will catch some fish.
ALL: It will be good.
Pongwiffy gave a loud, ostentatious yawn. She had been involved in quite a few theatrical ventures in her time. She knew a bad script when she heard one.
‘Is it me,’ she enquired, ‘or does anyone else find the acting wooden? I mean, look at them. I’ve seen gateposts with more personality.’
Silence. It was very clear that everyone else found it enthralling.
‘Hello? Anyone listening?’
No one was, apparently.
‘No one’s bored, then? Personally, I am. I’m bored stiff. There was a Broom fight outside just now, did anyone notice?’
More silence.
‘Shall we turn it off now and have a cup of bogwater? I could tell you all about this new spell I’ve been working on. It’s very easy. You take a bucket of coal and mix it with treacle, by hand. Then add . . .’
‘Shhhhh!’ came the furious, hissed chorus. On screen, the Gnome family were in the fascinating process of locking up the house.
FATHER: I have a key. I will lock up the house.
MOTHER: Yes. Then we will go on our holiday.
TEENAGE GIRL GNOME: It will be fun.
TEENAGE BOY GNOME: Yes. Let us go.
Pongwiffy gave up. She slipped through the open window and left them to it. Woody came bounding up to meet her. She straddled the stick and they took off on a nice long flight to Crag Hill and back, which they both enjoyed.
Hugo was still up reading when they got back.
‘Hi. Haf good time? Vot you do?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been watching spellovision,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Vot zat?’
‘You haven’t heard of spellovision? I thought everyone knew. It’s a Magic box and you turn it on and watch rubbish.’
‘Vot sort of rubbish?’
So Pongwiffy told him all about it.
‘. . . and there are altogether too many Gnomes,’ she finished. ‘Nothing of interest for Witches. It’s just another fad. I’m sure it won’t catch on.’
CHAPTER THREE
Quite the New Thing
Spellovision did more than catch on. It took over. Before the week was out, almost everybody in the Wood had a spellovision set. If you stood on Crag Hill and looked in the direction of Witchway, you would notice a cold, bluish glow in an empty sky through which no Broomsticks flew.
Nobody went out at night any more. Nobody went herb gathering or shopping. The Skeletons stopped having
picnics. The Trolls stopped playing rockball. The Wood was empty of all but the rabbits and foxes. As for the Witches – they were well and truly hooked. If a Witch went scurrying by, you could be sure that she’d be on her way home with a last-minute takeaway before slumping on the sofa and growing square eyes. Nobody cooked any more. Nobody did any spells or any housework. Wands lay abandoned in dark corners. Nobody even picked up a crystal ball to talk to a friend.
Pongwiffy went round to Sharkadder’s to complain about it. They sat in the kitchen. Well, Pongwiffy sat. Sharkadder hovered by the door in a strange half-crouch, trying to conceal a large wooden crate that had arrived that morning and which she hadn’t yet had time to unpack. Dudley sat glaring down from the top of the dresser, drumming his claws and mumbling insults under his breath.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Pongwiffy, through a mouthful of fungus sponge (Sharkadder’s speciality). ‘Nobody goes anywhere any more. I just walked here and the Wood is practically empty. Everyone’s in bed asleep because they were up all night watching stupid spellovision. Lovely cake.’
‘Mmm,’ said Sharkadder vaguely, adding, ‘although I don’t know why you’ve got such a thing about it. What’s wrong with spellovision?’
‘Everything! It’s full of rubbish and it stops people doing things. It’s taking over the world. Even The Daily Miracle’s full of it. I mean, look.’ She pointed at the paper, which was spread on the kitchen table. ‘A huge story about that smarmy newsreader, splashed all over the front page.’
‘Sheridan Haggard,’ said Sharkadder rather dreamily.
‘Yes, him. The colour of his stupid limousine, the name of his dog, where he goes for his holidays, where he buys his daft ties. As if anyone cared.’
‘What is the name of his dog?’ enquired Sharkadder casually.
‘Ribs. Why? What does it matter?’
‘I don’t know. It’s interesting.’
‘No it isn’t. Nothing about Sheridan Haggard is remotely interesting. He’s just some Skeleton.’
‘But you must admit he does have a lovely voice. Like velvet . . .’
‘Velvet, my bum!’
Sharkadder looked shocked, as well she might.
‘And look at this!’ shouted Pongwiffy, really worked up now. ‘Here’s a photo of that weather girl, wotsername, Brenda. She used to be the receptionist up at the Wizards’ Clubhouse. I didn’t think it’d be possible to sink any further.’
‘Mmm. I like those little clouds she sticks on, mind . . .’
‘And look! They’ve even done away with the crossword! The whole back page is about tonight’s programmes. 6 pm. Embalming with the Mummies. 7 pm. The News, with Sheridan Haggard. 8 pm. Zombie Decorating. Good grief!’
‘Actually, Zombie Decorating’s quite good,’ said Sharkadder.
‘What d’you mean, good?’
‘Well, these Zombies paint a room. Then they sit and watch it dry. It’s very – soothing, isn’t it, Duddles?’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Dudley and I watched it over at the twins’ last night. They’ve got an extra-wide screen.’
‘Really?’ said Pongwiffy sharply. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh, I just popped in for a moment. I didn’t stay long. I wanted to catch the news. Then I watched Zombie Decorating for an hour. Then there was Gnome and Away. Well, I couldn’t miss that, could I?’
‘What’s Gnome and Away?’
‘It’s a soap opera. It’s on every night.’
‘A soap opera?’ Pongwiffy, a born soap avoider, was appalled. ‘What, they sing in the bath? What do they wear? Flannels?’
‘No, no! It’s nothing to do with soap. It’s about these Gnomes, you see, who –’
‘Enough with the Gnomes!’ Pongwiffy hurled the paper into a corner. ‘I don’t want to know about Gnomes. It amazes me why anyone does. I’m a Witch. I’m interested in Witchy things. I thought you were too.’
‘I am, I am!’ protested Sharkadder. ‘It’s just that GNarleen’s in love with GNorman, who’s secretly going out with GNometta, who’s got a secret crush on GNeville and . . .’ She caught Pongwiffy’s eye. ‘Well, anyway, it’s good,’ she ended lamely.
‘Good!’ spat Pongwiffy. ‘Good! What I want to know is, what happened to old-fashioned entertainment? Playing charades, or singing songs round a piano? All this sitting in front of a box watching Gnomes, it’s not healthy.’
‘It’s not just Gnomes. There’s Goblins in Cars. I watched it at Macabre’s. There’s this tribe of crazy Mountain Goblins and they’ve got hold of these beat-up old cars and they race them.’
‘I didn’t know Goblins could drive.’
‘They can’t. That’s the whole point. They bash into each other. It’s hilarious. Macabre loves it.’
‘I see,’ sneered Pongwiffy. ‘Car-driving Goblins bashing into each other hilariously. I see.’
‘And, just for your information –’ Sharkadder looked proud – ‘Cousin Pierre’s doing a cookery programme. Ten o’clock tonight, live from the Gingerbeard Kitchens. It’s called Pierre’s Pantry. Tonight, it’s marzipan frogs.’
Despite herself, Pongwiffy was impressed. Pierre de Gingerbeard, the famous Dwarf chef, was Sharkadder’s cousin, twenty-four times removed. He was an excellent cook. His marzipan frogs were amazing. She knew. She’d tasted them.
‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘So maybe, just occasionally, there might be something worth watching. But mostly, it’s rubbish. If I want to watch rubbish, I can look out of my window. You’d have to be mad to spend good money on a talking box.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Why are you crouching by the door like that? Why don’t you come and sit down?’
‘It’s all right. I like crouching.’
‘What’s in that crate you’re trying to hide?’
‘Hide a crate? Me?’ twittered poor Sharkadder. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
‘Stand aside,’ ordered Pongwiffy sternly. ‘I want to see it.’
‘No,’ said Sharkadder.
‘In that case, let me guess. Could it be a new cauldron, by any chance? Or a job lot of fish heads for Dudley? Hmm? Or – this is just a wild stab, mind – could it be a spellovision?’
‘Oh, all right!’ cried Sharkadder, stamping her foot. ‘So what if it is? I can have a spello if I want.’
‘Spello!’ mocked Pongwiffy. ‘Spello! What kind of a daft name is that? And you stood there agreeing with me and all the time you’re standing in front of one.’
‘I wasn’t agreeing with you.’
‘You weren’t disagreeing either.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Sharkadder’s temper was up now. ‘I was being polite, that’s all. But quite frankly, I’ve had enough. You’ve finished the sponge so you can go. I’ve got some unpacking to do. And don’t bother to come round later either. Dudley and I will be watching spello, won’t we, Duddles?’
‘Aye,’ agreed Dudley. ‘I likes the cat-food adverts.’
‘All right, then,’ said Pongwiffy, highly miffed. ‘See if I care.’
‘I don’t care if you care or not.’
‘And I don’t care whether you care whether I care. So there.’
A little silence fell. The clock ticked. Dudley swore under his breath.
‘So,’ said Pongwiffy stiffly. ‘Does this mean we’re breaking friends?’
‘I don’t know. Probably. I’ll think about it. Now go.’
‘Shall I see you at the Coven Meeting on Friday?’
‘Haven’t you heard? It’s cancelled. There’s a new show starting called Fiends. It looks terribly good from the clips, doesn’t it, Duddles? It’s all about this group of Fiends who sit and drink bogwater and talk about each other’s problems . . .’
Pongwiffy went home.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Fascinating Find
It had been raining, just as Brenda the weather girl had predicted. Mind you, it often rained in Witchway Wood, so the odds were in her favour. When Pong
wiffy arrived back at the Dump, the dampness had brought out the smells in force. A fox, made brave by her absence, stood nosing at an old cabbage that had escaped from a sack of rotten vegetables.
‘Mmm,’ murmured Pongwiffy. ‘There’s nothing to beat the smell of home . . . Oi! You! You leave that alone! What’s here is mine!’
The fox gave her a dirty look and slunk off, its eyes red in the moonlight.
‘That’s right!’ jeered Pongwiffy. ‘Clear off back to your daft den and don’t come back!’
And just to make absolutely sure the fox got her point (and because she was in a bad mood anyway), she aimed a kick at the cabbage. It flew from the tip of her boot, sailed up and over the mountains of junk and landed with a . . .
. . . plink.
Now, cabbages can land with a thump or, occasionally, a splat, depending on how mouldy they are. But they never land with a plink. Unless the thing they land on plinks.
‘Funny,’ said Pongwiffy. Her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she raised her head and sniffed the air.
Now, as you know, smell is Pongwiffy’s speciality. Smell fascinates her. She’s good at it. Not only does she have her own unique odour, carefully honed over many years, but she actually has a very highly tuned nose. What came to it now was a new smell. It was faint, but it was there. The smell of varnish. And wood. With faint overtones of metal. There was something new in the Dump – something she hadn’t smelled before.
Using her nose as a guide, Pongwiffy left the path and began wending her way towards the source.
It didn’t take her long to find. It lay half under the broken ping-pong table. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, but the shape was unmistakable.
‘Oooh,’ said Pongwiffy, picking it up. ‘A guitar.’
It was. All but one of the strings were broken and two of the pegs were missing, and the neck wobbled, but it was still a guitar.
Pongwiffy stood, turning it over in her hands. Using her sleeve, she gave it a brisk little rub. The moon glinted on polished walnut. Experimentally, she plucked at the string.
