by Kaye Umansky
Hugo opened the door.
‘Fa lala lala leeee . . .’ Pongwiffy was warbling cheerfully in the background.
‘Oh,’ said Hugo. ‘It you. You got zat bad old cat viz you?’
‘No,’ said Sharkadder humbly. ‘Dudley’s home watching spellovision. I was just passing, and I was wondering if Pong was busy.’
‘Ya. She sink.’
The background honking broke off.
‘Who is it, Hugo?’ called Pongwiffy.
‘Vitch Sharkadder. Viz lot of shoppink.’
‘Really? Sharky? Oh good!’
Pongwiffy appeared in the doorway, guitar in hand and best welcoming smile on her face.
‘Hello, Pong,’ said Sharkadder slightly guiltily. It was the first time she had seen Pongwiffy since their row. ‘Can I come in for a minute and rest my feet? It’s these new boots. My toes feel like they’ve been sharpened.’
‘Come in?’ cried Pongwiffy heartily. ‘Of course you can come in. Old pal, old mate, old buddy.’
‘Really? I thought you weren’t speaking, after the words we had about You Know What.’
‘Oh, pooh! Long forgotten. Hugo, get out another cup – we’ve got a visitor.’ Pongwiffy peered down hopefully at Sharkadder’s bags. ‘Is there cake in any of those bags? By any chance?’
‘Yes, there is. A chocolate one, which I’m saving for –’
‘Good,’ interrupted Pongwiffy approvingly. ‘Plates, Hugo! Any biscuits?’
‘Well, yes, some jammy ones I’m planning to have tomo—’
‘We’ll have them too. Hugo’ll do it. Come on, I’ll play you my guitar.’ She led the way into the squalid hovel.
‘I noticed the guitar,’ observed Sharkadder, following behind with the bags. ‘Is it new? You never mentioned you played.’
‘Didn’t I? Oh yes,’ said Pongwiffy carelessly. ‘I’m rather good actually. Not quite in Wild Raspberry’s class yet, but then, we have different styles.’
She began rummaging in Sharkadder’s shopping, sorting out the things she liked.
‘Er . . . Wild Raspberry?’ enquired Sharkadder, puzzled.
‘Yes. I take it you’re not a fan.’
‘I prefer gooseberries myself,’ said Sharkadder, confused. ‘Especially in a flan.’
‘Ah!’ Pongwiffy emerged with a cake box and waved it triumphantly. ‘Here we are – Hugo, get slicing. Sit down, Sharky, and I’ll play you the song I wrote about you.’
‘About me?’ said Sharkadder, surprised and flattered. She sank gratefully into the nearest chair. ‘Really? You’ve written a song about me?’
‘Oh yes. It’s one of my better efforts. I call it “Nose Song”.’
Pongwiffy threw herself into her rocking chair, played her horrible discord – thrummmmmm! – took a deep breath and burst into song.
‘Of all the witches in the Wood,
There’s none like good old Sharky.
She wears a lot of lipstick
In unusual shades of khaki.
I love her very dearly
And I’m glad I have a friend
With a nose so long and pointy
That you cannot see the end.
Poi-nty!
Poi-nty!
Her nose is long and pointy
And you cannot see the end.’
Thrummmmmm!
‘Why, thank you, Pong,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Nobody’s written a song about me before. I’m really touched.’ She scrabbled in her handbag for a hanky and dabbed at her eyes.
‘You see?’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I look around me and observe interesting things like people’s noses, then compose songs about them. I wouldn’t have written that if I’d been watching spello, would I?’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Sharkadder humbly. ‘You wouldn’t. I’m terribly grateful, Pong.’
‘So you liked it.’
‘I loved it. Lovely words. Very – rhymey.’
‘Lyrics. They’re called lyrics, because they’re set to music.’
‘Oh, right. How does the tune go? Will you sing it to me again?’
Pongwiffy obliged. Then they had tea and cake while Hugo wrote the lyrics out neatly because Sharkadder wanted a copy to take home. Then Pongwiffy sang it a few more times, and Sharkadder joined in, in a shrill, wobbly soprano. Then they demanded more tea and cake, followed by biscuits. Then they talked about writing a second verse and called for more paper and ink.
That was when Hugo went to bed.
Much, much later, Dudley and the Broom were surprised when the door burst open and Sharkadder came flying in, scrabbled around in a drawer and emerged with an ancient harmonica before rushing out again, slamming the door behind her.
Well, they were surprised for half a minute. But it took no time at all before they settled back to watching spellovision.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gossip
Malpractiss Magic Ltd is a wandering shop that comes and goes as it pleases. This can be a bit inconvenient sometimes. However, you can usually catch it between the hours of midnight and dawn by the stream under the old oak tree. Some nights you might have to wait a bit while Dunfer Malpractiss, the owner, finishes serving the last customer in another dimension. But he and his shop generally turn up. He has a lot of regular customers in Witchway Wood.
This particular night – Friday – he was late, and a queue was forming by the patch of empty space where the shop currently wasn’t.
At the front was a female Skeleton with a blonde wig and a net shopping bag. She was avidly reading the latest article in The Daily Miracle about Sheridan Haggard (his favourite brand of soap and where he bought his bow ties).
Behind the Skeleton stood two large Trolls. They were discussing the latest programme to appear on their screens – a DIY show with a Troll slant entitled Changing Bridges. Both agreed it was much better than Zombie Decorating, which was getting a bit samey.
Behind them was a group of Witches: Bendyshanks, Ratsnappy and Scrofula. Guess what they were talking about? Right.
‘It’s undemanding, that’s what I like about Gnome and Away,’ Witch Bendyshanks was saying. ‘No plot to speak of. All the characters are the same. Restful viewing, that’s what it is. Like floating in warm treacle.’
‘You can have too much treacle, though, can’t you?’ mused Witch Ratsnappy. ‘I like the adverts myself. Better plots.’
‘That’s true,’ nodded Scrofula. ‘Although Barry and I like Fiends. And The News, with Sheridan Haggard, of course.’
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Bendyshanks and Ratsnappy. ‘That goes without saying.’
‘Such a lovely voice, hasn’t he?’ sighed Bendyshanks. ‘I could listen to him all night.’
All three Witches had run out of things that you can munch in the dark on a sofa, and had come out to stock up. Unlike Sharkadder, who spoiled Dudley dreadfully, they had brought their Familiars along to help carry the bags – Bendyshanks’s Snake (Slithering Steve), Ratsnappy’s Rat (Vernon) and Scrofula’s bald Vulture, Barry. They too were talking about spellovision.
‘Did you see Familiar Fortunes last night?’ Vernon was asking.
‘Too right I did,’ said Slithering Steve. ‘What’s with that Toad family? Talk about thick.’
‘Where do they find ’em, eh?’ agreed Barry, adding wistfully, ‘I wonder how you appear on it?’
‘That’d be something, wouldn’t it?’ sighed Steve. ‘To be on spellovision.’
‘That’d be something, all right,’ nodded Vernon. ‘We’d be famous then, eh?’
They laughed.
Just at that moment, the air gave a wobble and the Magic Shop appeared. It was rather like a caravan with a big cutaway section at the front where Dunfer served his customers. The blind shot up and there was the man himself, sucking on his moustache and leering unpleasantly over the till. The blonde Skeleton folded her paper, took out a shopping list and began pointing to various items on the shelves. The queue shuffled forward a fraction.
‘I wish she’d
hurry up,’ said Bendyshanks. ‘I want to get home. That weather girl, Brenda, said it might rain. Mind you, she always says that.’
‘At least we’re not missing anything good,’ remarked Ratsnappy. ‘Goblins in Cars, that’s all.’
‘We don’t like Goblins in Cars,’ chorused two more voices. Agglebag and Bagaggle, the twin Witches, had joined the end of the queue.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Bendyshanks, Ratsnappy and Scrofula. ‘Loada rubbish.’
(Witches and Goblins don’t get on. Goblins in Cars was the one programme the Witches didn’t bother watching, apart from Macabre, who had a violent streak, and Sharkadder, who would watch anything.)
‘Here,’ said Ratsnappy. ‘Has anyone seen Pongwiffy lately?’
‘I heard she’s come over all musical. Learning the guitar, I heard,’ said Scrofula.
‘Really?’ said Bagaggle with a little frown. ‘Did you hear that, Ag?’
‘I did, Bag,’ said Agglebag. ‘I bet she’s not as good as us.’
‘Fat chance, Ag,’ said Bagaggle. The twins played violins and mistakenly considered themselves very good at it.
‘Sharkadder’s been going round there most evenings, I heard,’ contributed Scrofula.
‘I thought they weren’t speaking,’ said Ratsnappy.
‘Oh, they’re all friends again now, apparently. Sharkadder’s taken up the mouth organ. They’re writing songs together.’
‘Fancy,’ said Ratsnappy. ‘Seems a funny thing to do when you could be watching spello. Although I must say it’s ages since I practised my recorder . . .’
In Number One, Dump Edge, Pongwiffy and Sharkadder were practising their new song. It was called ‘What Shall We Do with a Rude Familiar?’ and was intended to have a rollicking, seafaring sort of feel.
‘Poke ’em in the dark with a sharpened chair leg Early in the morning!’
they carolled merrily. Pongwiffy played her discord again, several times. Sharkadder sucked and blew her mouth organ, producing a series of wheezy chords. Then they both sat back and smiled at each other happily.
‘That’s three songs we’ve co-written,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Three whole songs and we’ve only been at it for three days and nights. We’re getting good, aren’t we?’
‘Good?’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘We’re better than good. We’re staggeringly, amazingly brilliant. Of course, I was writing good stuff before you started coming round, but I must say we make a good team. It’s fun doing things together again, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ agreed Sharkadder. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Better than watching spellovision. Go on, admit it.’
‘I do,’ said Sharkadder. ‘You’re absolutely right, Pong. There’s nothing like old-fashioned, home-grown entertainment. Can we sing “Nose Song” again? It’s still my favourite. And can I do another mouth organ solo between verses?’
‘By all means,’ said Pongwiffy graciously. ‘After three. One, two, three.
‘Of all the Witches in the wood –’
But just at that point, there came a knock on the door. This time, there was no Hugo to answer it. Rather tiresomely, he had gone missing again for the third night running. So had the Broom.
‘Oh, bother!’ cried Pongwiffy, jumping to her feet. ‘Who can that be? Hold that note, Sharky, I’ll be right back.’
It was Ratsnappy, standing on the doorstep, holding a recorder in one hand and a large paper bag in the other.
‘Hello, Pongwiffy,’ she said. ‘Can I come in? I just happened to be passing by with my recorder and this bag of delicious doughnuts.’
‘I see,’ said Pongwiffy, folding her arms. ‘Nothing on spellovision?’
‘Well – to be honest, I’ve been getting a bit bored with spello lately. I fancy a change. I heard you and Sharkadder were having musical evenings and I was hoping you might let me join in.’ She held up the bag. ‘They’re jammy doughnuts.’
‘Ah.’ Pongwiffy loved jammy doughnuts. ‘Funnily enough, I was thinking that the one instrument lacking was a recorder. In you come, Ratsnappy. Make yourself at home. Sharky! We’re a trio!’
They had hardly got settled when there came another knock on the door. This time it was the twins, armed with their violins and two more paper bags. It was common knowledge that the way to Pongwiffy’s heart was through her tummy.
‘Bag and I have come for the musical evening,’ announced Agglebag.
‘We’ve brought our violins,’ added Bagaggle.
‘Hmm,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What’s in the bags?’
‘Toffees,’ chorused the twins.
‘In you come,’ said Pongwiffy.
And that was only the beginning . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
Plans
Witch Macabre and her Familiar, a Haggis called Rory, sat slumped on the tartan sofa, eyes glued to the screen. Goblins in Cars was on. A number of old, beat-up vehicles were screeching around a dusty racetrack, backfiring and shedding various bits – wing mirrors, bumpers, doors, exhaust pipes, wheels and so on – as they took the corners at ludicrously high speeds.
Each car was driven by a demented Grotty who didn’t care about anything except going fast. Forget danger, rules, pain, all that stuff. Speed was the thing. The race didn’t appear to have a start, a finish, or any rules whatsoever. Engines regularly burst into flames. Every so often one of the drivers would take it into his head to screech to a halt, turn round and go the other way.
There were a lot of crashes. Not enough for Macabre, though.
‘Aye!’ bawled Macabre. ‘That’s it! Put yer sissy foot doon, Number Five! Aim for Number Three! Go on, go on! Faster, faster, bit left, straighten up, ye fool – och, blast! Missed. See that, Rory?’
‘Aye,’ scoffed Rory. ‘Flippin’ amateurs. Pass us a shortbread. Or have ye eaten them all?’
‘Aye,’ confessed Macabre. ‘Ah think Ah might have at that.’
‘Your turn to go to the cupboard,’ said Rory.
‘Ach, nooo!’ wailed Macabre. ‘That means Ah’ll havtay mooooove!’
The sofa was away from the window, so neither of them noticed that they were not alone. Outside in the chilly night, who should be crouching in Macabre’s toadstool patch, noses propped on the window sill, jaws dropped, eyes on stalks, goggling at the amazing Magic Box, but – the Goblins! They were over the Squidgets and had come to see for themselves whether or not Plugugly and Sproggit had been exaggerating about Goblins in Cars.
‘See what I mean?’ whispered Plugugly. ‘Ain’t it just – just de best fing you ever sawed?’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Hog, Lardo, Eyesore, Stinkwart and Slopbucket. Their boggling eyes were riveted on the flickering screen.
‘Told ya, didn’t we?’ squeaked Sproggit. ‘It’s just like what we said, ain’t it? About the Magic Box an’ everyfin’ – oof!’
He broke off as Slopbucket smacked a hand over his mouth.
From inside the room, there came a sudden noise like a miniature hailstorm. Macabre had stood up and was emptying her lap of the evening’s biscuit crumbs. As she did so, there came a strange, muffled cry from outside and a sort of urgent, disturbed, flapping noise, but when she moved to the window to investigate, there was nothing to be seen. She put it down to a night bird, drew the curtains and hurried to the kitchen on a quest for more shortbread.
Some time later, the Goblins arrived back at their cave. Plugugly heaved the boulder shut behind them. Then, quietly, with none of their usual fuss or argy-bargy, they all sat down in a circle.
They hadn’t uttered a single word all the way home. Not one. Not even ‘ouch’ when they walked into trees. It was as though they were in a trance. They didn’t argue or push or anything. Each was lost in his own thoughts. Well, thought. There was only room for the one thought, because it was such a big, overwhelming one. The thought was this:
CAR. WANT ONE.
Plugugly broke the silence.
‘So now you know,’ he said.
The Goblins nodded.
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‘Goblins in cars, just like we said,’ added Sproggit.
More nods, and some drooling.
‘C-a-a-r,’ whispered Eyesore, drawing the word out slowly as though testing the feel of it in his mouth.
‘Vroom, vroom,’ agreed Slopbucket faintly.
‘Eepy, beep,’ added Lardo dreamily, hands stretched before him, turning an imaginary steering wheel.
‘Eeeaaaaaaaaw – bang!’ contributed Hog, eyes closed as he relived one of the more spectacular crashes.
‘C-a-a-a-r,’ drooled Eyesore again. ‘Want c-a-a-a-r.’
‘Yes,’ said Plugugly. ‘We know dat, Eyesore. De fing is, ’ow is we going to get one? Dat’s what we got to fink about.’
‘C-a-a-a-r. C-a-a-a-a-r. C-a-a-a-a-r,’ droned Eyesore, rocking to and fro.
‘He’s got stuck in a groove. Someone sit on ’is ’ead,’ said young Sproggit.
Lardo obliged, and Eyesore’s unhelpful contributions to the discussion became blissfully muffled.
‘Come on,’ said Plugugly. ‘Fink. ’Ow do people get cars?’
‘Buy ’em from a car shop?’ suggested Hog.
‘No car shops round ’ere,’ said Plugugly. ‘Besides, we ’asn’t got no money.’
‘Let’s nick one,’ suggested Lardo. Loud snores came from beneath his posterior. Eyesore was asleep.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Plugugly. ‘An’ what ’appens when dey find it gone? Den what?’
Blank faces all round.
‘Dey’ll come lookin’ for clues, won’t dey?’ continued Plugugly, on a roll now. ‘Clues what will show who dunnit. An’ straight away, dey’ll see a dirty great big one.’
‘What?’ everyone asked.
‘Us drivin’ round in it. No point in ’avin’ a car you can’t drive round in.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said everyone, seeing the light. ‘Right.’
‘Seems like every plan we come up with ’as got a fatal flaw,’ sighed Slopbucket. ‘Can’t buy one, can’t steal one. I dunno.’
‘P’raps someone’ll give us one for a present,’ said Hog.
‘Who?’ came the chorus.
‘Santa?’
‘Nah. Won’t fit in the stockin’,’ Stinkwart pointed out.
