by Kaye Umansky
‘All right, the Tooth Fairy, then.’
‘She only leaves pennies, stupid,’ jeered Slopbucket. ‘Since when ’as the Tooth Fairy left a car under yer piller? Stupid, you are.’
‘Say that again,’ said Hog crossly, ‘an’ I’ll punch you really ’ard an’ knock all yer teeth out and you can put ’em all under the piller an’ maybe we’ll get enough to buy a car after all.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Quiet, or I’ll knock yer ’eads togevver,’ threatened Lardo.
‘Oh yeah?’ (Slopbucket and Hog)
‘Yeah!’ (Lardo)
‘Dere’s only one fing we can do,’ said Plugugly slowly, away in his own world, not even listening. ‘It’ll be hard, mind. But if we all work as a team, we might jus’ pull it off.’
‘Yeah?’ said everyone. ‘What?’
‘We’ll make one,’ said Plugugly.
CHAPTER NINE
They’re Playing Music!
Beg pardon, Snoop? They’re doing what?’ bellowed Grandwitch Sourmuddle. She was watching Fiends on spellovision. The volume was up full because she was a bit deaf.
‘Playing music in Witchway Hall, Mistress. And singing,’ bawled Snoop.
Snoop was Sourmuddle’s Demon Familiar. He was small and red, with horns. Right now, he was toasting currant buns over the fire, using the prongs on his pitchfork. Sourmuddle hadn’t bothered to go out for her meals for some time. In fact, she didn’t even go into the kitchen. These days, she was rooted in the parlour, where she could adjust the volume to ear-splittingly loud and eat buns. (Buns, she had discovered, were ideal spello food, being too big to lose down the side of the sofa and more filling than peanuts.)
‘What?’ howled Sourmuddle. ‘Speak up! They’re doing what?’
Snoop reached out and turned the volume down.
‘Singing. If that’s what you call it. More like a cat’s concert, if you ask me.’
‘What d’you mean, singing? Who said they could sing?’
‘No one, I reckon,’ said Snoop, with a shrug. ‘Why? Do you need permission to sing?’
‘Most certainly, if you do it in Witchway Hall,’ said Sourmuddle firmly. ‘Everything that goes on in there needs my permission. If you want to breathe in there, you need my permission. Who was there?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t stop to count. I was just passing. On my way home with the buns.’
‘Well, you should have checked,’ scolded Sourmuddle, wagging her finger. ‘Whoever was there is breaking the rules. All bookings are supposed to go through me. Fetch the Bookings Book. I need to look into this.’
It took a while for Snoop to come up with the Bookings Book. Both he and Sourmuddle had become rather lax with the housework lately. Somehow, there never seemed to be a long enough gap between programmes to deal with it. Newspapers, magazines and mail just got dumped on the kitchen table, along with dirty coffee cups and screwed-up bun bags.
‘You need to clear this place up a bit,’ grumbled Sourmuddle from the sofa. ‘I’ve just noticed what a tip it is. Come on, where’s that book?’
‘I’m looking, I’m looking, all right?’
Finally, he found it in the bread bin of all places. He handed it to Sourmuddle with bad grace, then threw himself on to the sofa and settled down to Fiends.
Sourmuddle brushed off the crumbs, flipped the book open and ran a finger down the page. ‘Nope. Just as I thought. Nothing down for tonight. Turn the spellovision off, Snoop.’
‘Huh?’
‘Turn it off.’
‘Huh?’
‘The spello. Turn it off.’
‘Turn it off?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But we never turn it off.’
‘Tonight, we do.’
‘But Familiar Fortunes is on next.’
‘You’ve seen it – it’s a repeat. Turn it off, we’re going out.’
‘Out? Out where?’ said Snoop, confused. Going out was a thing of the past, unless you were on the bun run.
‘Where d’you think? To Witchway Hall. If there’s illegal singing going on, I want to know A, why it hasn’t been registered in the Bookings Book in a proper manner and B, why I haven’t been invited. Now, where’s my hat?’
Pongwiffy’s musical evenings had proved unexpectedly popular – so much so that it was no longer possible to fit everyone into Number One, Dump Edge, which was a very small hovel and not really geared up for visitors. Every night for the past week, more and more wannabe band members had turned up on the doorstep, keen as mustard, waving bags of confectionery and begging to be let in. Musical evenings at Pongwiffy’s were becoming the new In Thing.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t come in,’ Pongwiffy would explain airily on the doorstep to the latest supplicant. ‘I’m running out of space. Besides, we’ve got enough singers. I’m restricting it to people who can play an instrument.’
‘But I can!’ the eager Witch would cry. ‘Look! I’ve brought my castanets/triangle spoons/comb and paper/bagpipes/Panamanian hip flute! And a bag of sherbet lemons. Oh, please!’
In the end, Pongwiffy always relented. She was a Witch of Dirty Habits who didn’t get many visitors. It was a novelty, having all these people coming round with food bribes, begging to be let in the hovel instead of weeping to be let out.
‘Oh, all right then,’ she would say, rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘If you must.’ But she could never resist adding with a sarcastic little smirk, ‘Although I thought you’d rather be at home watching spellovision.’
To which the sheepish visitor would generally respond with, ‘Oh no! I wouldn’t, really I wouldn’t. I’d much sooner be here. I saw Sharkadder/Sludgegooey/the twins yesterday and they said it’s fun. Oh, please let me in. I’ve brought a trifle . . .’
Finally, when the number of band members swelled to twelve, it became clear that Pongwiffy’s place really was too small. Nobody seemed to be using Witchway Hall these days, so it made sense to gather there.
Right now, they were in the middle of rehearsing a new song. Eleven chairs were arranged in a semicircle facing the twelfth, on which sat Pongwiffy, loudly strumming her all-purpose discord. Attempting to play along with varying degrees of success were: Agglebag and Bagaggle (violins); Ratsnappy (recorder); Bendyshanks (castanets); Scrofula (cowbell); Sludgegooey (comb and paper); Sharkadder (harmonica); Bonidle (triangle); Gaga (spoons); Greymatter (tambourine) and last and most certainly not least, Macabre on bagpipes.
The rehearsal was a bit of a shambles. Nobody seemed to know quite where they were in the new piece. It had been written jointly by Pongwiffy and Sharkadder and was entitled ‘Witchway Stomp’. It featured a long harmonica solo and Pongwiffy’s discord, played quite fast.
Ratsnappy, who could only play if she had the music, had lost her score and was crawling about on the floor, searching. Sharkadder had stopped playing owing to a serious lipstick build-up in the holes of her harmonica. Sludgegooey’s comb-and-paper combination was giving her trouble (disintegrated paper, toothless comb). The twins appeared to be playing a different piece altogether, although none of that mattered because Macabre’s bagpipes drowned everything else out anyway.
The rhythm section was totally out of control. Gaga was sitting directly behind Scrofula and kept clonking her on the head with a spoon. Scrofula was hitting back with her cowbell. Bendyshanks hadn’t quite got the hang of her castanets, but she was a queen of rhythm compared to Greymatter on the tambourine.
‘Hang on, hang on!’ Pongwiffy shouted over the cacophony. ‘Stop! This isn’t working. Sharky, what’s happened to your harmonica? I can’t even hear you.’
‘Sorry,’ called Sharkadder, poking around with a hairgrip. ‘Lipstick stopped play. I’m just digging it out.’
‘Well, hurry up. How can we keep in time if people keep dropping out just when they feel like it? Gaga, keep your spoons to yourself. Greymatter, please don’t sing. You’ve got a voice like a toad with indigestion. Macabre,
not so loud – it’s giving us all headaches. Right, everybody, let’s start again. Is anybody listening to me? Right. From the top. One, two – ooooooer!’
There was a bang, a green flash, and a very disgruntled-looking Sourmuddle appeared in their midst, holding a smoking Wand. Snoop materialised at her side, clutching the Bookings Book. Green smoke drifted around the stage, causing a lot of coughing.
‘And what’s all this about?’ demanded Sourmuddle. ‘Of course, I know I’m only Grandwitch, nobody important, but maybe somebody might inform me as to exactly what’s going on?’
‘We’re having a musical evening, Grandwitch,’ explained Greymatter. ‘Pongwiffy started it.’
‘I see,’ said Sourmuddle frostily. ‘And why, may I ask, is it not entered into the Bookings Book?’
‘We didn’t think it was necessary,’ admitted Pongwiffy. ‘I mean, nobody’s using the Hall these days, are they? All that space going begging. We thought we’d use it, that’s all.’
‘We did, did we?’ snarled Sourmuddle. ‘Funny how we never got round to mentioning these musical evenings to me.’
There was a guilty silence. It was true. Nobody had thought to mention the nightly gatherings to Sourmuddle.
‘We hadn’t seen you, that’s all,’ Pongwiffy hastened to explain. ‘You’re always cooped up indoors watching spello. We weren’t trying to keep you out on purpose.’
‘I should think not,’ said Sourmuddle. Adding, ‘Especially as I’m such a talented pianist.’
‘You are?’
‘Oh yes. Of course, I haven’t played for years, but it’s like riding a Broom. You never forget.’
And to everyone’s astonishment, Sourmuddle climbed down into the orchestra pit, where the old piano had its permanent home. She whisked off the dust sheet, sat on the stool, opened the lid, cracked her knuckles, paused for a moment with her fingers suspended over the keyboard and her eyes closed – then lowered her hands and played.
She had a slapdash, who-cares-about-the-odd-wrong-note sort of style – but that didn’t matter, because the tunes she played were jolly, romping, tinkley-tonkley ones, the sort that people sing standing on tables whilst hilariously showing their knickers. For the next ten minutes, the admiring Witches crowded round and tapped their feet. When she finally played the last, triumphant chord and smashed the piano lid down, everyone burst into spontaneous applause.
‘Wow!’ gasped Pongwiffy. ‘That was good, Sourmuddle. And I’m talking as one musician to another. You can really tickle those ivories, can’t she, girls?’
The assembled company couldn’t have agreed more.
‘And there was me thinking I was good,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Were ye?’ said Macabre rather unkindly. ‘Nobody else was. Ye’re rubbish, actually. Hands up who thinks Sourmuddle should be bandleader from now on?’
Everyone’s hand shot up, apart from Pongwiffy’s. Even Sharkadder’s.
‘Well, thanks very much,’ said Sourmuddle briskly. ‘A very wise decision. I’m sure I’ll live up to the confidence you have placed in me.’
‘Hey, hang on!’ complained Pongwiffy, hurt. ‘Whose idea was it, having musical evenings, in the first place?’
‘Too bad. I’m Grandwitch and what I say goes. Right. Everyone bring your chairs down here and regroup round the piano. I’m taking over.’
‘Don’t take it to heart, Pong,’ whispered Sharkadder. ‘I think you’re wonderful.’
‘So why vote for Sourmuddle, then?’
‘Well, I don’t want to get into her bad books, do I? And neither do you. Look at it this way. If you don’t have to be leader and worry about what everyone else is doing, you can concentrate on playing your discord, can’t you? And we can still write our songs together.’
Pongwiffy thought about this. Actually, if the truth be known, she was quite relieved that Sourmuddle was taking over. Under her own control, things had been a bit . . . well, chaotic, really.
‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘Sourmuddle can be leader, I suppose. But I’m still chief songwriter. And I just hope nobody forgets that this was my idea in the first place.’
‘What are you talking about?’ enquired Ratsnappy, as they moved their chairs round the piano.
‘The fact that the musical evenings were my idea,’ explained Pongwiffy.
‘Were they? I’d forgotten.’
By the end of the evening, though, Pongwiffy had to admit that things were improving under the musical leadership of Sourmuddle. Sourmuddle had a good, solid left hand that maintained a steady beat. People didn’t get so mixed up. Also, they behaved better. Gaga stopped playing Scrofula’s head with her spoons. Scrofula kept her cowbell to herself. When Sourmuddle said to play a solo, solos got played. When people were told to sing up during the chorus, they sang up. To everyone’s relief, Sourmuddle took Greymatter’s tambourine away and sent her into a corner with instructions to write poetry.
They ended the evening with a vigorous, almost recognisable rendition of that old favourite, ‘When the Stoats Go Marching In’.
‘Hey!’ shouted Pongwiffy, all cheerful again. ‘We’re getting good. You know what? They ought to put us on the spello! We’re a bloomin’ sight better than most of the tripe they have on.’
Instant silence. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone was thinking – hard. Finally, Sourmuddle spoke.
‘Pongwiffy,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t often go along with your ideas, which, quite frankly, are usually bonkers. But this time, I think you just might have something . . .’
CHAPTER TEN
An Important Meeting
At Spellovision Centre, in a grand boardroom full of polished wood and potted plants, an important meeting was taking place. The head of the studio, a portly Genie by the name of Ali Pali, was addressing his team, which consisted of five members: the Star, the Cameraman, the Soundman, the newly appointed Head of Glamour and the Everything Else Boy, who was currently in charge of the tea trolley.
Clearly, the Studio Head wasn’t best pleased. He sat at the top end of a long table, arms folded, scowling beneath his turban. Beside him was a flipchart, showing a graph with a steeply descending line. Before him was a pad, a feathered pen and inkpot, and several sharpened pencils.
‘. . . and so, as you can see, the ratings continue to slide,’ he was saying, in tones of deepest gloom. ‘Not good. Not good at all. In fact, worse than not good.’
‘That’d be bad, then,’ said the Head of Glamour, who was none other than Brenda the weather girl.
‘Well, I hope you’re not blaming me,’ drawled the Star, Sheridan Haggard, in his rich, golden-brown voice. ‘I’m still popular enough, if my fan mail’s anything to go by. Aren’t I, Ribsy? Isn’t Daddy a star?’ He patted the small bundle of bones on his lap. This was Ribs, Sheridan’s adored pet dog, who ate from a silver bowl and wore a bejewelled collar.
Ribs wagged his skeletal tail and gave a little woof.
‘I am not blaming anyone,’ Ali Pali told him wearily. ‘I am just stating a fact. People are switching off. In the beginning, we could palm them off with any old rubbish, even Zombie Decorating. Novelty value, you see. But now, alas, boredom is setting in. Which is why I’ve called this meeting. We must decide which programmes get the chop, and come up with some new, exciting ideas quickly, before I start losing money.’
The Cameraman – a pale Vampire called Vincent Van Ghoul – stuck up his hand.
‘Mr Pali?’ he said.
‘Yes, Vincent?’
‘I think we should cut Goblins in Cars. Nobody watches it. It came bottom in the viewers’ poll.’
‘Yeah. Vince is right – it’s rubbish,’ agreed the Soundman, a small, bad-tempered Tree Demon wearing earphones.
‘Apart from anything else, it’s dangerous to film,’ added Vincent. ‘They’re crazy, those Grottys. Drive straight at us, don’t they, TD?’
‘I thought I was mad,’ growled the Tree Demon.
‘We should stop giving them cars,
’ continued Vince. ‘It’s irresponsible. Mindless violence. What if little kiddies see it?’
‘Very well,’ said Ali Pali. He took a pencil and made a note on his pad. ‘Cut Goblins in Cars. Any more suggestions?’
‘Well, of course, personally, I feel it would make sense to extend The News,’ said Sheridan Haggard, never backward in coming forward. ‘After all, it’s me they want. By the way, will this take much longer? I have a skull polish at three. The limo’s outside with the engine running.’
‘Yes, well, of course, it would be. And at my expense, no doubt,’ snapped Ali Pali, slamming down his pencil, which broke. Everyone stared. It was rare for him to lose his composure. The situation was clearly critical.
‘Nice cup of tea, Mr Pali?’ suggested the Everything Else Boy.
The Everything Else Boy was a small, furry, energetic Thing in a Moonmad T-shirt. It had started out in spellovision as the tea boy, but people took advantage of its enthusiasm and its career had taken off. It was now make-up artist, set designer, production assistant, casting director and a whole host of other things too numerous to mention. But it liked making tea most. You knew where you were with tea. Plus, you got to wear a frilly apron.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Ali Pali. ‘Tea would be good.’
The Thing raced to the trolley and started crashing about with cups.
‘Sixteen sugars for me,’ said the Head of Glamour, who had a large, dirty foot on the table and was painting her toenails pink.
‘No tea for me. I only ever drink champagne,’ announced Sheridan Haggard airily. ‘And Ribs will have a bowl of fizzy mineral water, with half a slice of lemon.’
‘What about Zombie Decorating?’ went on Ali Pali, ignoring him. ‘Chop or no chop? Vince? TD? What do you think?’
‘Chop,’ chorused Vincent Van Ghoul and the Tree Demon.
‘And personally, I think we’re overdoing the Gnomes,’ added Vincent. ‘There are Gnomes in nearly every programme.’
‘But Gnomes are cheap,’ Ali Pali, ever the businessman, reminded him. ‘Desperate to get into showbiz, Gnomes. You know what they say. There’s Gnome Business Like Show Business.’
