by Kaye Umansky
To their great dismay, Goblins in Cars was no longer on spello, so they didn’t even have that as a reference any more. Examining Sheridan’s limo just might give them some clues.
(The Goblins weren’t the only ones who were fed up about losing Goblins in Cars. As we know, it was Macabre’s favourite programme. When it got taken off, she had thrown a boot through the screen and vowed never to watch spello again.)
Funnily enough, people didn’t seem to be watching spellovision so much these days. Making music seemed to be the current fad. Not that the Goblins cared what everyone else was into. Car assembly was their thing.
Anyway, Sheridan had a dilemma. He didn’t want to stop using his limousine, which was one of the top perks of being a famous newsreader. But he didn’t want it swarmed over by Goblins every time he left it unattended. He couldn’t leave the Thing to mind it because who would open doors, pour champagne, fluff up his cushion, wipe his brow and sharpen his newsreading pencil?
In the end, he decided to try leaving Ribs to guard it. This would have worked fine if Ribs had had a guard-dog-type disposition. But he didn’t. He was a mild, jolly little dog who liked everybody. Even Goblins.
The limousine was currently parked outside the spellovision studios where Sheridan was reading out the first news bulletin of the evening. The moment he disappeared inside, with the Thing hot on his heels, seven squat shapes crept from behind the bushes and clustered around the car. Ribs instantly perked up, stood on his hind legs and smiled toothily through the window, bony tail wagging like mad.
‘Ah, look at him,’ said Plugugly, staring through the glass, a soppy smile on his face. ‘Dere’s a good little doggy. Hello dere, little feller. Who’s a nice little doggy den? Who’s got a pretty sparkly collar? Coooeeee, doggy, doggy, doggy.’
‘Wot, is there a dog in the car or summink?’ asked Lardo, who had been bending down, studying a tyre.
‘Yes. He got a waggy tail, look!’ Plugugly tapped on the glass. ‘Hello, little doggy.’
‘Woof,’ said Ribs, jumping up and slobbering all over the window. Quite how he managed to slobber, considering he was made entirely of bones, is something of a mystery – but slobber he did.
‘I fink I see where the smoke comes out,’ shouted Hog, who was lying underneath the limousine, peering up at its underside. ‘There’s a pipe fing. I’ll see if it’s hot. Ow, ow, ow, me finger! Yes.’
‘Can you see where it’s comin’ from, though?’ Slopbucket wanted to know.
‘No,’ admitted Hog. ‘It’s too dark.’
‘Well, we need to find that out, don’t we?’ said Eyesore. ‘ ’Cos it’s the smoke what makes it go, I reckon.’
‘Know what I reckon?’ chipped in Stinkwart. ‘I reckon there’s a little horse in here. Under this bit.’ He rapped on the gleaming bonnet.
‘How’s it make the smoke, though?’ asked Eyesore.
‘Perhaps it’s smokin’ a pipe,’ said Stinkwart.
‘Horses don’t smoke pipes, do they?’ enquired young Sproggit.
‘Trained specially, I expect,’ said Stinkwart, unwilling to let the smoking-horse idea go. ‘Trained to go an’ stop and smoke a pipe.’
‘It’s a very quiet horse,’ observed Slopbucket. ‘You don’t hear it neighin’ or anyfing.’
‘Or coughin’,’ added Lardo. ‘It’d cough, wouldn’t it? If it smoked a pipe. I don’t reckon there’s a horse in there at all. It’s sumfin’ else makin’ it go. A baby dragon, perhaps. What d’you reckon, Plug?’
But Plugugly wasn’t paying attention. He was too taken with Ribs, who was now bouncing around on the back seat, crashing playfully into the window.
‘Nice little doggy,’ cooed Plugugly. ‘Is oo hungry? Does oo want a bone?’
‘ ’ E’s got a bone,’ remarked Sproggit. ‘If ’e was that hungry, ’e could eat his own foot.’ He gave a little snigger.
Just at that moment, there came an enraged cry. Sheridan had finished reading the news and had spotted them through the studio window, which overlooked the car park.
‘Hey! You there! What have I told you? Get away from my car!’
‘Oops,’ said Slopbucket. ‘Time to skidoodle.’
And with one accord, they took to their heels. Well, six of them did. Plugugly was still besotted with Ribs and didn’t notice.
‘Poor little doggy,’ he was crooning, as Ribs thrashed around, beside himself with excitement. ‘Did dey leave oo on oo’s ownio? Did dey? I wouldn’t, not if you was mine. Dere, dere, never mind . . .’
He broke off as he found his arms gripped firmly by Hog and Lardo, and was dragged off into the night.
Abandoned, Ribs gave a sad little whimper as his new friend was borne away. Without much hope, he launched himself at the window one last time. His bony back leg landed accidentally on the door handle. There was a click and, to his surprise, the heavy door swung open.
Freedom!
With a happy little woof, Ribs jumped out and merrily scampered off in pursuit of Plugugly.
The moonlight streamed in as the Goblins rolled the boulder to one side and squeezed into their cave. There wasn’t much room, because of all the Car Stuff. It rose in a vast, teetering pile, slap bang in the middle.
There was one broken cartwheel. One old pram. One supermarket trolley. Two nude deckchairs (i.e. no cloth, frame only). One rotten garden bench. Four broken kitchen stools. One overstuffed armchair with a spring sticking up through the seat. A bundle of forks. A roll of garden wire. String. A box of candles. A collection of rusty saucepans. One large tin of turquoise paint. One collapsed umbrella. Three bottomless buckets. A set of taps, both hot and cold. The grill from a camping stove. A broken anglepoise lamp. One parrot cage. One large tin bath. One mangle . . .
No. I can’t bear it any more. Imagine it for yourselves.
‘Here we all are, then,’ said Stinkwart. ‘ ’Ome again. Back to the pile.’
‘We got enough stuff now, ain’t we?’ asked Sproggit. ‘Ain’t it time we started?’
‘Yeah!’ came the united chorus. ‘Yeah! Let’s make the car! Let’s make the car! Let’s make . . .’
‘All right,’ agreed Plugugly. He sounded a bit reluctant, though. ‘We’ll start. Even if I is still feelin’ sad an’ not at my best. Don’t fink I has forgiven you for pullin’ me away from dat little doggy. I liked dat little doggy, I did. I wish I had a little doggy of my own.’
‘You’ll like ’avin’ a car though, won’tcha?’ soothed Stinkwart. ‘Come on. You know you will.’
‘True,’ agreed Plugugly, cheering up. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he stepped towards the huge junk mountain that soared up into the shadows and spat on his palms. ‘You is quite right, Stinkwart. I will like dat. So what is we waitin’ for? Come on, boys! Let’s make a car!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Song
Over now to Witchway Hall. Pongwiffy and Sharkadder are about to unleash their lovely new song on the Coven.
‘I’m feeling a bit nervous, aren’t you?’ whispered Sharkadder, applying a fresh coat of prune lipstick with a shaky hand. ‘How do I look?’
‘Fine,’ mumbled Pongwiffy, without looking. To tell the truth, she was feeling a bit queasy. They were running late because Sharkadder kept changing her mind about what to wear – plus, they had had a lot to carry. So Pongwiffy had used one of her unreliable transportation spells, which got them there in double-quick time but left their tummies lagging three minutes behind in the process.
The Coven was all ready and waiting. Excitement was in the air. Witches like nothing better than the opportunity to criticise.
‘I must say I’m looking forward to this,’ remarked Bendyshanks to Ratsnappy as the composers took their seats and nervously organised themselves with music stands, guitar, harmonica, glasses of water, flask, emergency sandwiches, throat sweets and lyrics, copied on to a sheet of paper in Sharkadder’s neat hand. ‘I wonder what they’ve come up with. If it’s awful, let’s boo.’
&n
bsp; ‘I hope it’s a nice ballad,’ said Sludgegooey. ‘I love a nice, romantic ballad, me.’
‘Ballad!’ scoffed Macabre, overhearing. ‘We dinnae need that sissy stuff. We need somethin’ dark an’ dramatic, wi’ words that reflect the true Witch experience. Damp caves an’ blasted heaths an’ cauldrons full o’ heavin’ murk.’
‘But only Witches would like that, wouldn’t they? We need a song that’ll appeal to everyone, don’t we?’ mused Scrofula. She raised her voice and shouted, ‘What’s it called, Pongwiffy?’
‘ “Banga Langa Bing Bong Boo”,’ said Pongwiffy and Sharkadder together. There were a few raised eyebrows at this, and a certain amount of muttering.
‘Why?’ asked Greymatter politely.
‘Why not?’ said Pongwiffy, plucking a string and fiddling with a peg as though she knew what she was doing.
‘Let’s save the questions for later, shall we?’ said Sharkadder briskly. ‘Trust us, Greymatter, we know what we’re doing. We’ve been writing songs together for ages now, haven’t we, Pong?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘We’re very experienced.’ And she swept her hand over the strings. Thruuuuuuuummmmmm. ‘Right. That’s me tuned up.’
‘Get a move on, then,’ said Sourmuddle, who was sitting at the piano with her arms folded. ‘Let’s hear it. I hope it’s good. We want to win this contest.’
‘On my count, Sharky,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘One, two, three!’
And together, over Pongwiffy’s horrible thrumming, they burst into song.
‘Well, here’s a little ditty
We’re sure you’ll want to sing.
It isn’t very witty
And it doesn’t mean a thing,
But we know you’re gonna love it,
Of that we have no doubt,
’Cos once it’s lodged inside your head
You’ll never get it out!
Oooooooooooh . . .
Banga-langa binga-linga bonga-longa,
bing, bong, boo,
Rooti-tooti, that’s a beauty, rama-
dama ding, dong, do,
Twiddle-twaddle, nod your noddle,
see if you can do it too,
Banga-langa binga-linga bonga-longa,
bing, bong, boo!’
Pongwiffy played her discord one last time, Sharkadder gave her harmonica a long, vigorous suck, then there was silence. A long, long silence.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Pongwiffy hopefully.
More silence.
‘Would you like to hear it again?’ offered Pongwiffy.
All eyes were on Sourmuddle, who was sitting with her head on one side and her eyes closed. She was the Grandwitch. Nobody liked to venture an opinion until she had spoken. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, gave a brisk little nod and said, ‘It’ll do.’
‘She likes it!’ shrieked Pongwiffy.
‘She likes it!’ trilled Sharkadder. They both leapt to their feet, linked arms and did a celebratory little jig.
‘I’m not saying it’s great music, mind,’ added Sourmuddle. ‘In fact, musically speaking, it’s rubbish. But it’s rubbish with universal appeal. The sort of thing people hum in the bath. Am I right?’
It didn’t do to disagree with Sourmuddle. With one accord, everyone else decided that they liked it too.
‘It’s catchy, I’ll say that,’ agreed Scrofula.
‘Aye. It wasnae what Ah was expectin’, but Ah must say Ah’m pleasantly surprised,’ nodded Macabre.
‘Sing it again,’ ordered Sourmuddle. ‘Without the harmonica solo this time. Pongwiffy, don’t thrum so much.’
‘I like to thrum,’ said Pongwiffy, hurt. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘Well, do it quieter,’ ordered Sourmuddle.
So Pongwiffy and Sharkadder sang it again. And again. By the third time, everybody knew the words and was singing along. Even Bonidle roused herself enough to clap along and Gaga started dancing on the piano until Sourmuddle made her stop. There followed a noisy, cacophonous hour while those with instruments tried to work out what they would play and the singers practised getting the tune right. Then they tried it again.
And again.
And again.
And very slowly they began to improve.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘How Do Dey Make Cars Anyway?’
Goblins are just not practically minded. They have trouble doing up their own bootlaces, so it isn’t surprising that building a car from scratch was proving a tad challenging.
Right now, most of them were gathered worriedly around the huge pile of junk, scratching their heads and talking about wheels. The problem wasn’t how many were needed. They had already agreed on that. One on each corner and a spare on the back. Seven. Easy. No, the problem was that the wheels they had collected didn’t match. They had: one cartwheel (broken), three pram wheels (two bent, one buckled) and four silly little ones from the old supermarket trolley.
‘Car wheels are s’posed to look the same, ain’t they?’ said Slopbucket. ‘You can’t ’ave ’em different sizes. It won’t work, will it?’
‘They ain’t even proper car wheels,’ said Eyesore. ‘They’ll look funny.’
‘And another thing. What do we fix ’em to?’ fretted Eyesore. ‘We gotta join ’em on to the bit we sit in. And we ’aven’t decided what that’s gonna be, ’ave we?’
‘The bath,’ said Hog. ‘It’s gotta be. It’s the only fing big enough.’
‘Here!’ said Lardo suddenly, clapping a hand to his head. ‘Where’s my hat?’
‘Who cares? I’m bored. Why can’t we stop talkin’?’ whined young Sproggit.
‘What about the seats, though?’ said Stinkwart, ignoring them both. ‘There’s gotta be seats, right? We agreed.’
‘Oh yeah,’ concurred Hog. ‘You never see a car wivout seats.’
‘It’s gone, ain’t it?’ cried Lardo, all panicky. ‘I’ve lost it, ’aven’t I? I’ve lost my hat!’
‘Let’s start,’ whinged Sproggit. ‘There’s too much talkin’. I wanna start.’
‘These ain’t proper car seats, though, are they?’ said Eyesore to Stinkwart, Slopbucket and Hog. ‘They won’t fit in the bath, will they?’
They cast uneasy eyes over the motley array of seats. Two deckchair frames, a sagging garden bench, four dilapidated stools and a large armchair. Lardo had lost interest and was running round in circles, looking for his missing hat.
‘They’d fit if we chopped ’em up,’ suggested Stinkwart.
‘But then they’re not seats, are they?’ pointed out Hog. ‘What we got then is a bath full o’ wood.’
‘Sit on that an’ we’ll get splinters in our bums,’ observed Sproggit, grinning.
Loud guffaws erupted at this. Any mention of bums is guaranteed to send Goblins into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
‘Ha ha!’ they roared. ‘Bum! ’Ear that? Oh ha ha ha!’
Lardo didn’t join in. He was too upset about his hat. Neither did Plugugly, who was sitting a little way apart. He had given himself the task of making the fiddly bits. Right now, he was hopelessly wondering how to make a car horn out of a garden hose, a piece of string and a lemon grater.
‘Oi, Plug?’ sniggered Sproggit. ‘I said bum. ’Ear me? Tee hee.’
The Goblins collapsed anew with mirth.
‘I heard,’ sighed Plugugly. He had so hoped that, somewhere along the line, inspiration would come and the way forward would miraculously become clear. But it hadn’t.
‘So why ain’t you laughin’?’
‘ ’Cos,’ said Plugugly, ‘ ’cos dis is serious. Dis isn’t a game we is havin’. Car buildin’ is serious, right? We gone to all dat trouble gettin’ all dis stuff an’ tryin’ to look at how cars is fitted togedder an’ now we has got to de hard bit an’ if we don’t stop messin’ about an’ – an’ pull togedder an’ work out how to do it, we has wasted our time. I can’t do it by myself. We has all got to do it. Right?’
This was probably the longes
t, most solemn speech he had made in his entire life. The rest of the Gaggle listened to it with respectful incomprehension.
‘Right,’ said Sproggit. ‘Still – bum,’ he added, with a little snort, setting the Goblins off again.
Plugugly looked at them writhing around helplessly. Then he looked at the huge pile of junk. Briefly, he closed his eyes, and the vision came to him. The vision that haunted his dreams. The one where he was bowling along a road at the wheel of a shiny limousine, the twin of Sheridan Haggard’s, exactly like it except just a fraction bigger, with the sun shining and the windows open. Off to the seaside, with a posh picnic in the boot. Wayfarers pointing and crying out with amazement as he passed . . .
He opened his eyes. Lardo was looking down his own trousers for his hat. Hog had climbed on to the seat of the armchair and was bouncing up and down, making chicken noises. Sproggit was poking Stinkwart with the collapsed umbrella and Eyesore and Slopbucket had placed buckets over their heads and were charging each other head first.
Why had he ever thought it would work? Why?
‘I dunno,’ he said sadly. ‘How do dey make cars anyway?’
Nobody even heard.
He heaved a deep sigh, threw down the hose and the string, kicked the lemon grater into a corner and walked out of the cave.
Outside, just to bring him down even more, as well as getting dark it was damp. A thin, depressing drizzle was slowly turning the scrubby slopes of the Lower Misty Mountains into a mudslide.
Plugugly turned up his collar, thrust his hands into his pockets and trudged off down the slope. He needed to be alone for a while, to get over his disappointment. Actually, he wasn’t sure he would ever get over it.
Why did things never work out right for Goblins? Why did other people get all the brains and all the luck? Why was it always somebody else who found a mysterious ring or Magic lamp or lucky stone or something and got three wishes? Why? Why, for instance, couldn’t he have a pet, like that nice little dog? At least it would be company. And he could take it for walks and train it to bite Sproggit, who was really getting on his nerves these days.
