by Kaye Umansky
‘Mmm,’ mumbled Hugo. He was sitting in the chipped sugar bowl, frowning down at a tiny pad of paper and pulling on his whiskers. A pencil stub was in his little pink paw.
‘I mean, we see each other,’ continued Pongwiffy, ‘around and about. But we haven’t had a proper chat for ages.’
‘Mmm.’ Hugo tapped his teeth with the pencil.
‘So. How are things? What have you been up to? I expect you’re getting a bit bored with all this time on your paws. What with us not doing any spells and you having nothing to read now your daft little book’s lost. I expect you’d probably like me to give you a task to do. Like put the kettle on.’
Hugo looked up, brow furrowed. ‘Vot?’
‘I said put the kettle on. Sharkadder’ll be here any minute. I expect she’d like a cup of bogwater before we get started. We’re working on our original song tonight. For the Song Contest. Nothing like bogwater to oil the brains.’
‘You put it on. I busy.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re sitting in a sugar bowl,’ Pongwiffy pointed out. ‘If that’s busy, I smell like a rose garden.’
‘I write,’ said Hugo, waving his pad. ‘See? I busy.’
‘Oh,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I see. It’s writing now, is it? And what are you writing, may I ask? A letter to your stupid rodent relations? The world’s first Hamster novel? What’s it called? The Boring Adventures of Fluffy?’
‘If you must know,’ said Hugo stiffly, ‘I is composink a sonk.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Pongwiffy frowned. ‘A song? I thought I was the songwriter around here. Why are you writing a song?’
‘Vhy you sink? ’Cos ve is entering ze Sonk Contest, of course.’
‘We, meaning?’
‘Ze Familiars.’
‘The Familiars?’ Pongwiffy let out a rude cackle. ‘Entering the Song Contest? Don’t make me laugh!’
‘And vhy not?’ snapped Hugo.
Pongwiffy stopped laughing. You had to be careful with Hugo. He had a short fuse.
‘Everyvun else is. Ze Trolls, ze Gnomes, ze Banshees, ze Skeletons . . .’
‘Gosh. Really?’
‘Oh ya. It very popular. Zere goink to be strong competition, I sink.’
Pongwiffy didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried. It’s always nice to have ideas that are popular. On the other hand, strong competition meant that the Witches might not necessarily win.
Just then there came a knock at the door, followed by a shrill, ‘Cooooeeee! Only meeeee!’ And in came Sharkadder, wearing a long purple cloak and matching purple ankle boots. She was carrying a purple lace parasol, a purple handbag, a special purple drawstring bag in which she kept her harmonica and a large cake box. Much to Hugo’s disgust, Dead Eye Dudley was with her, swishing his tail and glowering at everyone.
‘Hello, Pong, sorry we’re late,’ said Sharkadder, looking around for somewhere to sit. It was a choice between the sofa, which was currently sprouting a fine crop of mushrooms, or a three-legged chair on which had been dumped a half-finished plate of skunk stew, a collection of dirty socks and a wide-open tin displaying the warning: Fishin Maggots. Kepe Furmly Clozed.
‘Have a seat,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘I’m trying to – I’m just picking off maggots. My, it’s disgusting in here. I brought Dudley along because he wants to write a song with Hugo.’
‘No I don’t,’ growled Dudley.
‘Yes you do, Duddles. Remember what Mummy said? You have a lot of musical talent. There’s no reason why you and Hugo shouldn’t work happily together, just like Pong and me.’ She beamed at Pongwiffy and added, ‘The Familiars are entering the Contest, did you hear?’
‘I heard,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘I told Dudley they should do one of his sea shanties.’
‘Over my fluffy body,’ sneered Hugo.
‘Ah, shut yer gob, small fry!’ spat Dudley.
‘Say zat again, fleabag!’ Hugo shot out of the sugar bowl and squared up.
‘Small fry! Squirt! Daft little fur ball!’ obliged Dudley.
‘Mangy old vindbag! Mummy’s boy! You sink you tough? I keel you!’
‘Is that so? Listen, sonny, if ’twasn’t for my bad back . . .’
‘Listen to them teasing each other,’ said Sharkadder fondly. ‘It’s a good thing they don’t mean it.’
‘I suppose we’d better get on,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘You’ve brought a cake, I see. Put the kettle on while I tune my guitar.’
With a little sigh, Sharkadder went to deal with the kettle while Pongwiffy pretended to fiddle with the tuning pegs. In the background, Hugo was poking Dudley with the pencil stub, while Dudley tried to flatten him with his paw.
‘I must say that things have improved now Sourmuddle’s taken over,’ remarked Sharkadder over her shoulder. ‘At least she’s keeping everyone in order. Things were getting a bit out of hand before, don’t you think?’
‘True,’ admitted Pongwiffy. ‘Thank badness she took those spoons away from Gaga.’
‘Absolutely. And stopped Greymatter singing. Now Sourmuddle’s in charge, you and I can concentrate on what we do best. Which is being creative and coming up with the winning song.’
This was true. Sourmuddle had lost no time in getting everyone organised. Everybody now had a proper role in the band and it was working much better. The line-up went like this:
Sourmuddle – band leader and piano
Pongwiffy – guitar and writer of winning song
Sharkadder – harmonica and co-writer of winning song
Ratsnappy – recorder
Twins – violins
Macabre – bagpipes (but not so loud)
Bendyshanks – backing vocals / percussion
Sludgegooey – backing vocals / percussion
Scrofula – backing vocals / percussion
Bonidle – drums
Gaga – backing dancer
Greymatter – mouthing the words
‘Mind you,’ said Pongwiffy, ‘I’m still not sure about Bonidle on drums. Drummers aren’t supposed to fall asleep between verses, are they?’
‘She snores very rhythmically, though,’ pointed out Sharkadder. She took two chipped mugs of bogwater to the cluttered table and found room between the piles of scribbled-on paper. She removed the stew, socks and maggot tin from the three-legged chair, drew it up to the table, spread out a clean purple hanky and sat down carefully.
‘Aren’t we having the cake?’ asked Pongwiffy hopefully.
‘Work first, cake later,’ said Sharkadder firmly. ‘We have to take this seriously. You said so yourself.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ agreed Pongwiffy hastily. She didn’t want anyone thinking she didn’t take songwriting seriously. Although a bit of cake would have been nice.
In the background, the door slammed. Hugo and Dudley had taken their argument outside.
‘Right,’ said Sharkadder. She opened her bag and took out her harmonica, a clean pad and a nicely sharpened pencil. ‘First things first. Are we absolutely sure we can’t do “Nose Song”?’
‘No. I keep telling you. It has to be a new original song.’
‘All right,’ sighed Sharkadder. ‘OK. New song. Are we starting with the tune or the words?’
‘The words,’ said Pongwiffy. Tunes were all the same to her, but she had a fine appreciation of words, being a talkative type.
‘I agree,’ said Sharkadder. She wrote WORDS on her pad and underlined it. ‘What should our song be about, do you think?’
Pongwiffy considered. Until now, most of her songs were rude ones about Hugo or boastful ones about the superiority of Witches. She had a feeling these were specialist interests. Witches would relate to them, of course, but the general public would want something a bit more – well, general.
‘I’m not sure it has to be about anything,’ she said. ‘I think it just needs to be easy. Something you sing in . . . places where people sing.’
‘Like in the bath, you mean.’
‘You mean meaningless?’
‘Well – yes. Meaningless, but catchy.’
‘Right.’ Sharkadder wrote it down. ‘Meaningless – but catchy. Like what?’
‘I dunno.’ Pongwiffy cast about desperately. ‘Like . . . I dunno . . . bing, bang, bong or something.’
‘Bing, bang, bong,’ nodded Sharkadder, scribbling away. ‘OK. I’ve got that.’
‘Or bong, bang, bing,’ improvised Pongwiffy. ‘Just as a variation.’
‘Good idea. Or – this is just a suggestion, mind – what about bing, bong, bang?’
‘Not bad,’ agreed Pongwiffy. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Or,’ added Sharkadder excitedly, ‘or even banga-langa binga-linga bonga-longa bing bong? Or is that going too far?’
‘No, no,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I think we can use it. Write it down.’
‘Or,’ suggested Sharkadder, really getting carried away now, ‘or, how about binga-linga banga-langa bonga-longa rum dum, rama dama root toot, ding dong do?’
‘Mmm. Getting a bit fancy now. But maybe it’ll slip in somewhere. Stick it down, just in case.’
‘We’re getting on well, aren’t we?’ said Sharkadder happily. ‘It’s fun collaborating, isn’t it, Pong? Don’t you agree?’
‘I would if I knew what it meant,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Shall we have the cake now?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Competition
It wasn’t only in Number One, Dump Edge, that preparations for the Song Contest were under way.
The Wizards’ Clubhouse (think pointy turrets and lashings of gold paint) stands on top of a hill in the Misty Mountains range. Despite erratic local weather conditions, the Wizards get excellent spellovision reception. In pride of place in the lounge is a set with the biggest screen you have ever seen.
Wizards love spellovision. They have taken to it like flies to a jam sandwich. They spend most of their waking hours slumped in armchairs waiting for the next meal anyway, so watching spello is the ideal way of passing the time. Nobody does the crossword puzzle now. Nobody reads. Nobody makes wise, Wizardly comments in loud voices. Conversation is a thing of the past.
Well, it was until Sheridan Haggard announced the forthcoming Spellovision Song Contest on the news. That got them talking all right.
‘. . . and specially selected juries will vote for the winner,’ explained Sheridan in his golden-brown voice. ‘Each team is invited to submit a specially composed song. This can be performed by a soloist, or it can be a group effort. The contest is open to all, except Goblins. Entry forms are available from Spellovision Centre, at the address displayed below on your screens.
‘The idea for a Spellovision Song Contest originally came from Witch Pongwiffy of the Witchway Wood Coven. A host of fabulous prizes awaits the lucky winners . . .’
And Sheridan went on to explain about the fabulous prizes, while the Wizards paid close attention.
‘. . . a silver trophy, a bag of gold, a recording contract and a week’s all-expenses-paid holiday in Sludgehaven-on-Sea. All of which will be presented –’ Sheridan paused and smirked at the camera – ‘by none other than myself. So, get that form filled in and sent off without delay.
‘And now, sport. The hockey match between St Banshee’s and Harpy Girls High got off to a bad start when –’
The sound cut off, leaving Sheridan mouthing soundlessly like a stranded carp. Dave the Druid – a short, plump wizard with a big beard and half-glasses – stood before the screen, obviously keen to say something. There were a few protests.
‘Turn it up!’
‘Hey! I was watching that!’
Dave held up a hand.
‘Did you hear that, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘A Song Contest! What about that for an idea?’
‘It’s clever,’ observed Gerald the Just, a hawk-nosed Wizard with a reputation for being fair. ‘It gets everyone interested, there’s the element of competition, and the studio won’t have to pay the performers because everyone wants to be on spellovision. Shame the Witches came up with the idea first. But it’s clever. You have to hand it to them.’
‘Let’s hope they don’t win as well,’ came a voice from thin air. It belonged to Alf the Invisible, who was supposed to take reversing pills, but kept forgetting. ‘That’ll be something else they can throw in our faces.’
‘They won’t win. Not if I can help it,’ declared Dave the Druid, eyes glinting with the light of battle. ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I reckon I can hold a tune. I come from the valleys, I do, and we’re known for our singing. And it can’t be that hard to come up with a song. If someone would have a bash at the words, I can set them to music. Any volunteers?’
A lone hand hesitantly rose and hovered in the air. The Wizards turned and stared at the owner.
The owner was the youngest Wizard there. His name was Ronald and he happened to be Sharkadder’s nephew. Three disadvantages, and that’s without even mentioning his spots. He went pink as everyone fell about laughing.
‘Think of yourself as a bit of a wordsmith, do you, young fellow?’ sneered Frank the Foreteller, who loved baiting Ronald.
‘I’ll give it a go, certainly,’ said Ronald.
‘Hmm. Well, let’s hope you come up with the goods. I’ve a feeling this Song Contest will be popular.’
He was right. The moment that the contest was announced, everyone wanted to be in it. Ali Pali could hardly open the studio door for entry forms.
The Trolls were into hard, heavy rock music. The hard, heavy rocks weren’t a problem. The music bit was more difficult. Trolls aren’t known for their singing talent. However, a youngster named Cliff Rigid had come up with some lyrics that sounded promising.
The Banshee Girls’ Choir was entering a jolly little ditty entitled ‘Oh Woe!’ The Zombies were working on some sort of comedy number. Xotindis and Xstufitu, the two Mummies who lived in the Wood, were singing a duet. There was a rumour that a lone Werewolf named Roger would be entering a ballad or something. Four Vampires had formed a barbershop quartet. If you went for a walk in the Wood at any time, day or night, you would hear snatches of song and bursts of drumming, twanging, scraping and honking issuing from caves, sheds, castles and underground holes.
The Familiars rehearsed in an old, ruined barn on the edge of the Wood. You already know Hugo and Dudley. You have also met Snoop, Rory, Vernon, Steve and Barry. The others are: Speks (Greymatter’s Owl); Bonidle’s Sloth (who has no name because Bonidle can’t be bothered to give him one); Filth (Sludgegooey’s Fiend); IdentiKit and CopiCat (twin Siamese cats belonging to the twins) and, last but not least, a large posse of Bats that hangs around Gaga.
They were gathered in the dimly lit barn. The Bats hung in a neat line from a shadowy rafter. Barry perched on the handle of an old rake. Vernon and Steve sat on a crate that had once held apples. IdentiKit and CopiCat had made themselves comfortable in a pile of straw. The Sloth was asleep on an ancient tarpaulin. Rory the Haggis was leaning against a rusty old plough. Filth the Fiend wasn’t there because he was the drummer with the Witchway Rhythm Boys and already had a rehearsal.
Snoop was in a corner, cleaning his nails with his pitchfork, sulking because he wasn’t in charge. It didn’t seem right, bearing in mind that his mistress was Grandwitch. However, although Snoop was a good organiser, his talents were sadly lacking in the musical department, and he had been elbowed to one side by Hugo, who was currently standing on a soapbox, holding a tiny sheaf of papers in his paw.
‘So what have ye got there, wee Hugo?’ asked Rory.
‘Is vords,’ explained Hugo. ‘Vords for our sonk. I hope you like.’
‘I very much doubt I will,’ muttered Speks, who, like his mistress, considered himself a bit of a poet. Greymatter was the intelligent Witch in the Witchway Coven. Speks often helped her with the crossword. (One Across. Night bird wit
h a reputation for wisdom. Three letters, beginning with O and ending with L. That sort of thing.)
‘Give him a chance,’ protested Vernon. ‘You haven’t heard it yet. Might be good.’
‘Ar. An’ fishes might use umbrellas,’ sneered a voice from the doorway. Dudley sauntered in, sat down and awarded Hugo a challenging glare.
Very sensibly, Hugo ignored him. He could fight Dudley any time. Right now, there was work to be done.
‘Sonk is called “Oh I Do Like to Be a Vitch Familiar”.’
‘Sounds promising,’ remarked Barry politely.
‘Sounds rubbish,’ scoffed Dudley.
‘Fire away then, wee Hugo,’ said Rory. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Hugo took a deep breath and burst into squeaky song.
‘Oh, I do like to be a Vitch Familiar,
I do like to help viz all ze spells.
I don’t even mind when zey go wrong, wrong, wrong,
Causing a great big bang and a terrible
pong, pong, pong . . .’
Yes. The Music Express had arrived in Witchway Wood all right, and everyone wanted to climb aboard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Car Problems
Much to his annoyance, Sheridan Haggard was being stalked by Goblins. Or, to be precise, his car was. Everywhere he went, there they were, gathered in a silent little cluster, open-mouthed and staring. Quite often, he noticed, they were carrying stuff – a bath, an old chair, bits of assorted ironmongery.
Whenever he left the limo unattended, they would creep out from behind trees and surround it. The second his back was turned, there they would be, crouching down, poking at the wheels, pushing the windscreen wipers to and fro, playing with the mirror and, worst of all, laying their grubby hands on the paintwork!
‘It’s intolerable!’ Sheridan raged to the Thing. ‘The nerve! I won’t put up with it, I tell you!’
Of course, Sheridan didn’t know what lay behind the Goblins’ disturbing behaviour. For the past few nights, they had been making regular raids on Pongwiffy’s Dump in order to collect items that fell under the general heading of Car Stuff.
They had had long discussions about the essential components that made up a car. So far, all they had agreed on was wheels, seats, doors, windows and, of course, fluffy dice. And probably some other bits and bobs. Then they would join them all together. Somehow.
