Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Heeeeeellllllllp! Let me ouuuuuuuuuuut . . .’

  ‘Ah, sufferin’ cowpats, us’ll be charitable,’ decided Burl. ‘Righty-ho, Gervaise. In yer own time.’

  Slowly, the cart creaked up the slope. When they reached the front boulder, Gervaise clopped to a halt. Unhurriedly, Burl removed his straw hat, scratched his head, replaced his hat, cleared his throat, removed the straw from his mouth and said, ‘ ’Ello?’

  ‘At last!’ cried the unseen owner of the voice. Up close, it sounded rich, but wobbly. Anybody but spellovisionless Burl would have recognised it instantly, despite the wobble. ‘Oh, at last you’re here! Where have you been?’

  ‘Oi been to market,’ Burl told him, after a bit of thought. ‘But it were cancelled. Ar.’

  ‘What? You’re not the search party?’ wailed the voice. You could hear the hysteria bubbling away just below the surface.

  ‘Nope,’ agreed Burl. ‘Don’t reckon Oi am.’

  There came the sound of muffled voices conferring. Then: ‘Did you just say you’ve been to market?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Ar,’ agreed Burl.

  ‘Meaning . . . it’s Saturday?’

  ‘Ar.’

  ‘What time on Saturday?’ asked the voice urgently.

  ‘Eight o’ the clock,’ guessed Burl, looking up at the sky in wise-old-farmer fashion.

  ‘Eight o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Nope. Evenin’.’

  ‘Eight o’clock Saturday evening? Then it’s started!’ cried the voice, wild now. ‘Whoever you are, listen carefully. My name is Sheridan Haggard. You will have heard of me. I am the famous spellovision newsreader and I have been trapped in this cave for a night and a day. I am due to present an award at a very important event, which has already started. My car has been stolen. And I will personally mangle whoever is responsible, I tell you that. Oh yes. I’ll take him by the throat and I’ll . . .’

  The voice, which was rising in pitch, suddenly broke off. There was a bit of mumbling. Then it resumed. It was clear that the owner was barely under control.

  ‘Forgive me if I sound a little strange. My brain has gone missing, owing to a combination of starvation, dehydration, claustrophobia and a surfeit of rodent sayings. Just get me to a camera and I’ll be fine. You will be rewarded. I can promise you that.’

  Burl Bacon looked around at his baskets of unsold eggs. A reward would certainly come in handy.

  ‘Ar. Fair enough,’ he agreed, and reached for a length of rope he kept in the cart for just such an emergency as this.

  It was the work of minutes – fifty of them, to be precise – to lasso the boulder, attach the other end to the cart and get Gervaise to do the donkey work. As soon as the boulder was dragged to one side, a skeletal figure came staggering out into the moonlight, supported by a short, hairy Thing.

  ‘My oh my,’ said Burl, staring at the bony one in mild surprise. ‘You ’ave been in there for a long time.’

  Neither of the ex-prisoners said a word. The Thing helped the trembling Skeleton to the back of the cart. Unresisting, the Skeleton climbed in and folded itself into a narrow space between the baskets of eggs. The Thing came round to the front.

  ‘Shove over,’ it ordered shortly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said, shove over. Got to get boss back to civilisation. All right back there, boss? Relax. We’ll make it yet.’

  ‘Now, ’old your ’orses,’ objected Burl. He pointed an indignant finger at Sheridan, ‘He never said nothin’ about needin’ a lift. He said if Oi got him out o’ the cave Oi’d get a reward. He said . . .’

  The Thing jumped on to the driver’s seat, snatched the reins and gave Burl a brisk shove. To his surprise and annoyance, Burl suddenly found himself sitting in a clump of thistles, watching his own cart go swaying off into the distance, pulled by his own donkey.

  He removed his straw hat and threw it into the dirt.

  ‘Darn it,’ said Burl. ‘Ar.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Best Song

  In Witchway Hall, the Witches sat in their dressing room watching the proceedings out front. The atmosphere was very tense. Soon, it would be their turn – and the nerves were really beginning to kick in. There was a lot of nail biting and compulsive peppermint sucking. There was nervous twiddling and fiddling with instruments. There was mass sweating and much complaining about the heat.

  ‘My lipstick is melting,’ complained Sharkadder. Tonight she was a vision in mauve. Mauve feather in mauve hair, mauve cheeks, mauve eyelids, mauve gown, mauve fingernails, mauve lipstick. She couldn’t move for mauve.

  On the monitor, four smarmy-looking Vampires in elegant evening dress were bowing low, having just finished a polished rendition of ‘That’s a Very Nice Neck, By Heck!’, performed in close harmony. Their supporters were cheering loudly, but it wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea. A large section of the audience had shown complete indifference and talked throughout.

  ‘Very professional,’ admitted Sourmuddle. ‘You’ve got to give credit where it’s due.’

  ‘I have reservations about the lyrics, though,’ remarked Greymatter. ‘Too much gore by half. Non-Vampires won’t go for it.’

  ‘I must say the standard in general is higher than I expected,’ admitted Sourmuddle grudgingly. ‘The Mummies were good. And the Ghouls.’

  ‘I think the Familiars are far and away the best so far,’ put in Scrofula. ‘They were my favourites, anyway. I was really proud of my Barry. He sang his little heart out, did you notice?’

  ‘An’ ma Rory,’ added Macabre. ‘Had me in tears, he did. When he sang his wee solo.’ She blew her nose loudly.

  ‘They certainly gave it their all,’ agreed Sludgegooey. ‘Except for Dudley, who looked rather cross, I thought.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ratsnappy, ‘we’ll have our work cut out to beat them. It was a good little song your Hugo came up with, Pongwiffy.’

  ‘I know,’ said Pongwiffy. She had mixed feelings about Hugo’s song. On the one hand, she was proud that he’d written it. On the other, she could have done without the competition. ‘Of course, I taught him everything he knows,’ she added.

  ‘It’ll be embarrassing, though, won’t it?’ fretted Bendyshanks. ‘If the Familiars win. Imagine. They’ll get all those prizes and go on holiday. We’ll never live it down. Steve’ll be insufferable.’

  There came a chorus of agreement. It would indeed be humiliating if the Familiars won.

  On screen, it was now the turn of a lone, slightly mangy Werewolf with patched dungarees and a banjo. Sweating heavily and showing the whites of his eyes, he perched on a stool in the middle of the stage and checked his tuning. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose.

  ‘Look at him,’ sniffed Scrofula. ‘He’s going for the sympathy vote.’

  ‘It’s us next, Ag,’ quivered Bagaggle.

  ‘I know, Bag,’ quavered Agglebag.

  And they reached for each other’s hands and squeezed them tight.

  It appeared that the Werewolf had forgotten the words to the first verse. The audience started an unsympathetic slow handclap.

  There came a bang on the door and a Gnome stuck its head round.

  ‘You’re next, ladies. Everybody ready?’

  ‘We’re on!’ gasped Sharkadder. ‘Help!’

  Nobody made a move. They were all rooted to the spot with fear. Even Sourmuddle choked on her throat lozenge.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ said Pongwiffy, always good in an emergency. She picked up her guitar and marched to the door. ‘Deep breaths. We know we’re good. Let’s blow them away!’

  ‘How are you doin’, boss?’ called the Thing over its shoulder. They were crawling along beneath the trees at a snail’s pace.

  ‘It’s uncomfortable,’ complained Sheridan, rattling around miserably. ‘I’m not used to this uncouth form of transport. And it’s slow. Can’t you get that animal to move any faster? We’ll never get there at thi
s rate. Oh, if only we had the limo . . .’

  At exactly that moment, something rather unexpected happened. There came a droning noise from behind, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Tyres screeched, a horn blared, there were the sounds of loud howls and demented barking – and around the bend came the limousine, with Plugugly hunched over the wheel, wearing a large pair of pink plastic comedy sunglasses with attached false moustache.

  The rest of the Goblins hung on for dear life as they cornered on two wheels. Slopbucket was holding a bunch of balloons. Eyesore was wearing a Stetson. Lardo was clutching a goldfish in a plastic bag. Sproggit had a straw donkey in one hand and a stick of rock in the other. Stinkwart was wearing a beret and had a string of garlic wrapped around his neck. Hog was eating an enormous ice cream and offering licks to Fang the Wonder Hound, who had his head stuck out of the sunroof. Dozens of takeaway pizza boxes littered the back shelf, along with fishing rods, a set of golf clubs, a couple of tennis rackets, a large straw sombrero and a novelty ashtray inscribed A present from Sludgehaven.

  Gervaise reared, plunged and lurched to one side as the limousine, horn still blaring, flashed by with only centimetres to spare and zoomed off into the distance. The cart’s off-side wheel trembled on the verge of the ditch, then miraculously righted itself. Gervaise took a few tottery steps towards the middle of the track, then stopped, breathing heavily.

  There was a pause – then Sheridan’s irate skull popped up from between the egg baskets. (Amazingly, they had all remained steady and none of the eggs was smashed.)

  ‘My limo!’ he shrieked. ‘Did you see that? Goblins, driving my limo! And they’ve got Ribsy!’ He pointed with a trembling digit. ‘Follow that car!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  More Contest

  Ladies and gentlemen, time now for the next song – “Banga Langa Bing Bong Boo!”, performed by – The Singing Witches!’

  Vincent Van Ghoul moved in for a close-up as the curtain rose on the Witchway Coven, all neatly in place, looking terrified but determined to give it their best shot.

  It was a very different outfit from the rowdy rabble who had turned up at Witchway Hall that first night for a bit of a sing-song and a laugh. Nobody was messing about now. Sourmuddle ran a tight ship. She was in this contest to win. She sat bolt upright at the piano, sleeves rolled up, cracking her knuckles. It was clear she meant business.

  She nodded at Greymatter, who poked Bonidle with a stick. Bonidle jerked awake, caught Sourmuddle’s glare and started to tap an erratic beat on the drum. Sourmuddle played an interesting little twiddly bit on the piano, followed by a series of chunky chords played over an old-fashioned honky-tonk left hand.

  At this point, Gaga, the official backing dancer, erupted from the wings and began wildly cavorting about. She had given a lot of thought to her stage costume. It consisted of yellow wellingtons and a grass hula skirt, teamed with a warm red jumper with a hole in the sleeve and a badly knitted frog on the back. A diving helmet was her chosen headgear. She looked – well, interesting.

  Gradually, in response to glares from Sourmuddle, the rest of the instruments came in. Ratsnappy’s reedy recorder. The twins’ scratchy violins. Macabre’s overwhelming bagpipes. Then the backing singers.

  ‘Ooby dooby doo,’ crooned Bendyshanks, Sludgegooey and Scrofula, breaking into the synchronised shuffle routine they had worked out earlier. ‘Do wap, do wap!’

  It was a long introduction. Pongwiffy and Sharkadder grew visibly more tense as they waited for their big moment while Vincent ducked around them with his camera and the Tree Demon clonked them on the head with his microphone. Pongwiffy looked grouchy and miserable and appeared to be threatening the Tree Demon out of the corner of her mouth. Sharkadder, in contrast, went in for ear-to-ear smiling, so they didn’t match very well.

  But none of this mattered when they began to sing. It didn’t matter that Pongwiffy sounded like a walrus in distress or that, on occasion, Sharkadder’s shrill soprano wobbled out of orbit and off into another space and time. What mattered was the song.

  The audience loved it.

  ‘Well, here’s a little ditty

  We’re sure you’ll want to sing . . .’

  began Pongwiffy. In the auditorium, there was an instant stir of interest. Everyone sat up, ears pricked.

  ‘It isn’t very witty

  And it doesn’t mean a thing . . .’

  warbled Sharkadder. Several people in the front row leapt to their feet and waved their arms in the air.

  ‘But we know you’re gonna love it,

  Of that we have no doubt . . .’

  honked Pongwiffy. People were clapping along in time to the rhythm now. Feet were tapping. A couple of Fiends began dancing madly in the aisle.

  ‘ ’Cos once it’s lodged inside your head

  You’ll never get it out!’

  contributed Sharkadder. ‘Oooooooooooh . . .’ they both went, along with the backing singers. Then:

  ‘Banga-langa binga-linga bonga-longa,

  bing, bong, boo . . .’

  And the place went crazy! This was what the audience had come for. Oh yes. Forget the ballads and the clever stuff. What everyone wanted was a daft, jolly song with meaningless words that you could pick up in two minutes flat. Something that was easy to stomp your feet along with, or scrub your toenails to when you were lying in hot, soapy water. Something that made you feel happy. Something that put a soppy grin on your face. That’s what they had come for. And that was exactly what they got.

  There was a riot when the song finally reached its triumphant end.

  ‘Witches! Witches!’ chanted the audience, stamping their feet. ‘Encore! Encore!’

  ‘I think they liked it,’ said Pongwiffy to Sharkadder out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I think they did,’ agreed Sharkadder, grinning and bowing low.

  ‘More!’ raved the audience. ‘More! More! More!’

  They weren’t allowed more, though. One go at your song, that’s all you got. To loud boos, Ali Pali hurried onstage, signalled for the curtain to be brought down, then began to explain the rules yet again. This was a contest. Each act performed the song once, and once only. There were still two acts to go – the Wizards and the Zombies. Then, and only then, could the specially selected juries cast their votes. So if the Witches could kindly get offstage and everyone could take their seats again, perhaps things could move on. At this point, a Gnome scuttled up and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Correction,’ amended Ali, speaking directly to camera. ‘There is only one more act. The Zombies have withdrawn because they’ve all got sore throats.’

  ‘Sore at losing, more like!’ heckled Pongwiffy, from behind the curtain. Zombie supporters in the audience blushed and hung their heads. They knew it was true.

  The Wizards, however, were made of sterner stuff. Under the leadership of Dave the Druid, they had worked hard on their song. There was no way they would step back and let the Witches win without a fight. ‘The Long and Winding Beard’ would be given an airing, like it or not. (Ronald, of course, was particularly keen, because he had written the words.)

  Wisely, the Wizards didn’t bother with instruments. Their strength was in song. They concentrated on the vocals. Dave the Druid had done a good job. He had set Ronald’s words to music. Over the past two weeks, he had made the Wizards struggle out of their armchairs and practise scales and do breathing exercises. He had taken them walking and stopped them eating too many sausages. He had divided everyone up into basses and tenors and falsettos and explained all about harmony. He had worked on pitch, tone and timing. He was a stickler for diction too. Every word was crisp and clear. End consonants were particularly emphasised.

  ‘The longga andda windingg beardda,’

  sang the Wizards.

  ‘Is alwayss in the jammm,

  It’ss often fullll of toastttt

  And egggg and bitss of hammmm.

  I’ll never shave it offf,

  For
that’s the way I ammmmm . . .’

  The Witches stood in the wings, listening.

  ‘They’re quite good,’ decided Sourmuddle, adding mysteriously, ‘though I’ve never been one for male-voice choirs since I got bitten by one.’

  ‘They’re very good, actually,’ sighed Sharkadder. ‘Ronald wrote the words, you know. Talent runs in our family, as well as beauty.’

  ‘They’re not a patch on us, though,’ said Pongwiffy, oozing confidence, now her bit was all over. ‘We’ll win. I’ll bet my Wand on it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ fretted Sharkadder.

  ‘Beyond any shadow of doubt,’ said Pongwiffy firmly. She hugged her guitar. ‘A song like that? And talent like ours? No question.’

  At this point, let’s just pop back and see how the car chase is coming along.

  Dramatic incidents don’t happen much in the life of a cart-pulling donkey, and Gervaise had decided to get into the spirit of things. Right now, he was galloping after the limo at an alarming rate, with the Thing fighting to hang on to the reins. Sheridan Haggard was poised precariously on the swaying cart, a basket of eggs in each hand.

  ‘Wot’s ’appenin’?’ bellowed Plugugly, wrenching the steering wheel hard left and missing the ditch by half an air molecule. ‘Who’s dat chasin’ us?’

  They zoomed round a corner and past a holly tree. All Slopbucket’s balloons burst in a flurry of sharp pops. Fang the Wonder Hound was barking crazily and attempting to wriggle out through the sunroof. Several twigs and low-lying branches were lodged in his rib cage. The wind whistled through his bones.

  ‘I can’t see!’ screeched Eyesore. ‘There’s egg all over the back window!’

  ‘Oh no!’ wailed Sproggit. ‘Flyin’ chickens!’