by Kaye Umansky
‘But you jumped the queue. She did, didn’t she?’ The Werewolf appealed to onlookers, but was met with a lot of blank stares. Everyone was tired of his faddy ways and would be glad to see the back of him. Besides, Grandwitch Sourmuddle versus a Werewolf? No contest.
‘She’s allowed,’ called Bendyshanks from the back. ‘She’s Grandwitch Sourmuddle and she can do what she likes.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Sourmuddle. ‘I can. Is that you, Bendyshanks? Come on up to the front, you can be next.’
‘Can I bring Ratsnappy and Sludgegooey with me?’
‘Are they there too? Yes, come on up, Witches go first. Anyone want to argue with that? No? Good. All right, Mr Yeti, I’ll take the Swampswallows, but they’d better be good.’
The queue sighed resignedly as Bendyshanks, Sludgegooey and Ratsnappy pushed their way to the front, looking smug.
‘Well I never!’ sulked the Werewolf, then caught Sourmuddle’s eye and went quiet.
‘I’m glad I saw you three,’ went on Sourmuddle, as Spag began shaking squashy orange balls into a set of weighing scales. ‘I’m changing tonight’s arrangements. We’re not flying to Crag Hill, we’ll have the Meeting in Witchway Hall.’
The Witches always held their Meetings on Crag Hill, unless really bad weather conditions prevented it. Well, they did until the last few weeks. Up until then they flew to Crag Hill even if there were storms brewing or blizzards threatened. But lately, they hadn’t been so keen. It was just such an effort, dusting the Brooms off and getting ready with the extra vest and looking for the umbrella when you could be lying around scoffing sweets in front of the spellovision. Nobody could be bothered. An excuse could always be found.
‘So what’s the excuse?’ asked Bendyshanks. ‘Is it a good one?’
‘My Broom’s not well. Nasty case of stiffbristle. I’ve got it soaking in a bucket of warm water.’
‘Stiffbristle’s catching, isn’t it?’ asked Ratsnappy, vaguely alarmed. ‘I’d better check on mine. I haven’t taken it out of the cupboard in ages. I heard it banging on the door a few days ago but I was in the middle of a takeaway curry and couldn’t be bothered to get up.’
‘You don’t have to get up, though, do you? To open your Broom closet,’ said Sludgegooey. ‘You can just lean across from your chair.’
‘I wasn’t in my chair. I was in bed,’ explained Ratsnappy. ‘I have all my takeaways in bed.’
‘So what you’re saying is, you don’t do any exercise at all?’
‘Nope. Vernon does it for me. I make him do ten press-ups every night and every morning. I feel ever so much better after watching him.’
‘So why are you doing your own shopping, then?’ enquired Sludgegooey.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t trust him with that. He’d come back with the wrong things. He’s only a Rat, you can’t let him make those kind of decisions. Especially about sweets. I like to choose my own. I’m going to have some of those Swampswallows, like you, Sourmuddle.’
‘An excellent choice,’ said Sourmuddle, snatching an enormous paper bag from Spag and thrusting it into Snoop’s little red arms. ‘Here. Don’t drop ’em. I take it they’re on the house, as usual?’
Spag swallowed. This went against everything he stood for. But this was Grandwitch Sourmuddle, who did as she liked.
‘Yeah. I guess so.’
‘Very kind, much appreciated. Now. What else do I fancy, I wonder . . . ?’
It was at this point that Hugo arrived, swinging a tiny wicker basket. He joined the back of the queue, behind the Vampire.
‘Hello,’ said the Vampire in hollow tones. His name was Vincent Van Ghoul, and he always wore a beret and a smock with red paint splashes because he was a bit of an artist in his spare time.
‘ ’Ello,’ said Hugo.
‘Taking a while,’ said Vincent, sucking his teeth. ‘Long queue.’
‘Ya,’ said Hugo. Hamsters and Vampires having little in common, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Still working for Pongwiffy, then?’ asked Vincent.
‘Oh, ya.’
‘Haven’t seen her around lately. Nothing wrong, I hope? Stiff neck? If she’s got a stiff neck, I could pop round and take a look. I’m good with necks.’
‘No, no, neck not stiff. Problem is vot she put down it. Too much rubbish food.’
‘She shouldn’t mix colours. Tell her to eat red things. That’s my advice.’
‘OK.’
‘Strawberries. Beetroot. Tomatoes are good.’
‘OK.’
‘Only red.’
‘OK.’
The queue shuffled forward a bit. Sourmuddle, Snoop, Sludgegooey, Bendyshanks and Ratsnappy pushed their triumphant way back along the line, loaded down with paper bags. Sourmuddle paused and stared down at Hugo.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Hugo. Where is your mistress?’
‘Back in ze hovel, lyink down,’ said Hugo. ‘She not feelink so good.’
‘Well, tell her I expect to see her at the Meeting tonight. She’s missed three in a row.’
‘Ya, well, she not feelink . . .’
‘I don’t want to hear excuses. Tell her to be there. Midnight sharp. And spread the word amongst the Familiars. All your Witches are to attend. There’s been too much bunking off recently.’
‘OK,’ said Hugo. And the queue shuffled forward.
CHAPTER FOUR
Late
Despite Sourmuddle’s warning about punctuality, almost everyone was late to the Meeting. At midnight sharp, thirteen chairs were drawn up to the long trestle table in Witchway Hall, but only three were occupied.
Sourmuddle sat at the top end, looking grim. Arranged before her was a register, her Wand and a half empty bag of Swampswallows. Snoop was crouched on the back of her chair, holding a large watch and making tutting noises.
At the far end of the table sat Witches Agglebag and Bagaggle, the identical twins, with their Familiars on their laps. They were two Siamese cats called IdentiKit and CopiCat, and they were exceedingly snooty, although no one knew why as all they seemed to do was sit around posing and demanding cream. The twins had a large bag of Bat Splatz which they were sharing between them with a lot of rustling and whispered consultation.
‘Midnight,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Coming,’ said Agglebag.
‘But slowly,’ added Bagaggle.
‘We called in for Greymatter, but she’s watching spellovision and eating chips with chocolate sauce.’
‘Sharkadder’s trying to hide her spots. She’s had another outbreak.’
‘We passed Bendyshanks coming back from the dentist.’
‘And Ratsnappy, lying down halfway up the hill.’
‘Scrofula and Bonidle’ll be late. Scrofula’s pushing Bonidle in a wheelbarrow.’
‘We don’t know about Macabre. Rory’s refusing to let her ride. He says she’s got too heavy . . .’
‘Enough!’ shouted Sourmuddle. ‘I said midnight sharp, not breakfast time tomorrow!’
The door swung open to reveal Ratsnappy, bent double and gasping. She tottered in and flung herself into the nearest chair. She was accompanied by Vernon, who was small and sulky and looked like he’d had quite enough of doing his mistress’s press-ups for her.
‘Can’t speak,’ wheezed Ratsnappy, pulling a grubby hanky from her pocket along with a load of sweet wrappings and mopping her brow. ‘Can’t breathe. Got a stitch.’
She was closely followed by Bendyshanks, who had a bandage tied around her face and was groaning loudly. Then came a little group – Sludgegooey (with clicking knee), Gaga (chewing enthusiastically on a mouthful of bubblegum) and Macabre, who stood with arms akimbo and fiercely announced, ‘Mutiny in the ranks! Ah had tay walk! Rory refused tay carry me, can ye believe!’
All four had their Familiars with them. Bendyshanks had Slithering Steve draped around her neck. Sludgegooey had Filth, who for once wasn’t rehearsing. Gaga, as always, was surrounded
by a little swarm of Bats. They zoomed excitedly around her head, neatly avoiding the sticky pink bubbles she kept blowing. Macabre’s Haggis, Rory, remained outside, cropping the grass and sulking. He was large, shaggy and ginger, with two sharp horns. His orange fringe hung low over his eyes. He was fed up because Macabre had just given him an earful.
‘Sit down and be quick about it!’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘You all get triple black marks for lateness.’
‘I couldn’t help it, it’s my tooth,’ moaned Bendyshanks.
‘Anyway, we’re not last,’ pointed out Sludgegooey. ‘Bonidle and Scrofula are still at Sugary Candy’s. They’ve run out of sweets.’
‘Well, they’re no having any o’ mine,’ said Macabre, firmly patting her bulging sporran. Her chair creaked ominously as she sat down. She had put on a bit of weight recently, as Rory would tell you. Well, all the Witches had. Their tummies were very much in evidence.
‘I thought it closed at midnight,’ said Sourmuddle.
‘It does. They’re trying to break in. Well, Scrofula’s throwing bricks at the window. Bonidle’s snoring in the wheelbarrow. I think they’ll be a while.’
‘No, we won’t,’ said a voice. ‘We’re here, so there.’
Witch Scrofula stood in the doorway, panting heavily, holding the handles of a rickety wheelbarrow containing Bonidle and her Familiar, who was a Sloth. He didn’t have a name because Bonidle couldn’t be bothered to give him one. Both were snoring loudly.
‘You each get triple black marks,’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘No, fourple. Make a note, Snoop.’
‘But I was wheeling Bonidle,’ protested Scrofula.
‘Fiveple black marks. For answering back.’
‘No luck breaking the window, then?’ enquired Sludgegooey.
‘No,’ sighed Scrofula. ‘Waste of time, wasn’t it, Barry?’
The Vulture perched on the rim of the barrow nodded sadly. This was Barry, Scrofula’s Familiar. He was moulting again, and not feeling too well.
‘Ah could have told ye that,’ said Macabre. ‘Magically reinforced glass, ah reckon. Tried it mahself, with a batterin’ ram. Everybody’s tried it. It’s unbreakable.’
‘Yes, well, we know that now,’ snapped Scrofula crossly. She upturned the barrow and decanted Bonidle and the Sloth on to the floor. Neither woke up.
‘Prop her up in a chair,’ ordered Sourmuddle. ‘This is a formal meeting.’
The twins jumped up and helped Scrofula hoist Bonidle into a chair. She just slumped there, with her eyes closed. Then her hand slowly rose and floated towards the twins’ bag of Bat Splatz.
‘Get off,’ said Agglebag, snatching it away. ‘Buy your own and stop sleep stealing.’
‘So who’s left to come?’ enquired Sourmuddle.
‘Greymatter – arrrgh! Sharkadder – arrrgh! – and Pongwiffy,’ groaned Bendyshanks, clutching her jaw. ‘Arrrgh!’ she added, just in case anyone was in any doubt about her pain.
‘We’ll start without them,’ decided Sourmuddle. ‘I want to get away early. My Broom’s sick, I need to change its water. And I have to call in for a takeaway. We don’t have time to cook, do we, Snoop? Too busy nursing poor Stumpy. Are we all ready? Hail, Witches!’
‘Hail!’ came the response. There came a sudden, sharp rattling on the roof as a small cloud released a barrage of hailstones before scooting off in a northerly direction. This always happens at the start of Coven Meetings.
‘Right,’ continued Sourmuddle. ‘First things first. Whose turn was it to bring the sandwiches?’
‘Greymatter’s, but she isn’t here,’ came the chorus.
‘Oh. Well, we’ll start with News. Anyone got any new spells they’d care to share with us?’
There was a lot of shrugging, followed by rustling as the Witches reached for more sweets. The twins huddled over their bag, keeping a sharp eye on Bonidle. Nobody wanted to share anything, that was clear. Crazed by sugar, Gaga was swinging from the rafters, in pink bubble heaven.
‘Here comes Greymatter,’ said Bendyshanks. ‘Don’t forget to give her some black marks. Arrrgh!’
‘I don’t deserve black marks,’ said Greymatter, marching in briskly and shaking hailstones from her hat. She had a piece of paper in one hand and a pencil was tucked behind her ear. Her Familiar – an Owl named Speks – sat on her shoulder.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘You’re late.’
‘Ah, but that’s because I was composing a poem about chips.’
Everyone looked impressed. Greymatter was the clever one. She knew a lot of long words and wrote poetry. She was good at crosswords too.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Macabre. She reached into her sporran, selected a sweet and popped it in her mouth. ‘Anyone like Porridge Balls?’
‘I do,’ said Scrofula hopefully.
‘Aye, they’re lovely, aren’t they?’ said Macabre, and meanly put them away.
‘Read us your poem, then, Greymatter, and we can get on with the News,’ ordered Sourmuddle.
‘Ode To Chips,’ said Greymatter. ‘Ahem. Chips, chips, I really love chips, more than ships, whips, parsnips, tulips, paperclips or pillowslips. Especially with dips.’
A little silence fell.
‘That’s not as good as your usual ones,’ remarked Scrofula eventually. ‘It’s just a list of words with ‘ips’ at the end.’
‘Yes, well, I haven’t felt in a creative mood recently,’ said Greymatter. ‘You have to feel serene and settled to write poetry. My brain isn’t working as well as it should be. I haven’t been sleeping.’
‘That’s because you eat chocolate-covered chips in bed,’ said Scrofula.
‘You’re right,’ admitted Greymatter. ‘I do. And very lovely they are too. By the way, I couldn’t be bothered to make sandwiches, but I’ve brought along a bag of Gloopy Guzzlers. Anyone want one?’
Everyone did.
Witch Sharkadder came hurrying along the moonlit track that led to Witchway Hall. She was late because she had been trying to disguise the latest nasty crop of sweet-induced spots that had exploded on to her face. She had run the gamut of all her make-up, but nothing did the trick, so she had resorted to wearing a black net veil and a large pair of dark sunglasses. It wasn’t a good look, particularly with her pointy hat. Her long, sharp nose stuck out, straining at the veil. It was only a matter of time before it bored a hole through.
Dead Eye Dudley, her cat Familiar, came loping along in her wake. He was large, battered and piratical-looking with one glaring yellow eye and a permanent sneer.
‘Come on, Duddles,’ trilled Sharkadder. ‘Don’t hang about. We’re very late, you know.’
She rounded the bend and came across Hugo sitting on a tiny log, swinging his little legs and looking resigned.
‘Oh,’ said Sharkadder. ‘It’s you. Where’s Pong?’
Hugo pointed to a nearby bush. It was shaking a bit, and there were groaning noises coming from it.
‘She’s turned into a bush?’ enquired Sharkadder. It wasn’t such an odd question. Witches often turn themselves into things, just to see what it feels like. It could be anything – a jar of pickles, an old sofa, a scarecrow, a knitted hat. A bush wasn’t so strange.
‘No,’ said Hugo. ‘She behind it. She poorly.’
He looked past Sharkadder, spotted Dudley and pulled a rude face.
‘I’ll scupper ye,’ growled Dudley. ‘I’ll hoist ye from the main brace, see if I don’t. By yer tiddly little knees.’
Hugo and Dudley didn’t get on.
‘Shush, Dudley, this isn’t the time,’ scolded Sharkadder. ‘Pong? Are you all right?’
There was a pause. The bush trembled again and Pongwiffy came crawling out from behind it, looking green.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sharkadder. ‘You do look rough.’
‘I feel rough,’ said Pongwiffy, climbing to her feet and reeling about, clutching her stomach. ‘I’ve never felt so rough in my life.’
‘Something you’ve eaten?’
>
‘Everything I’ve eaten.’
‘Told you,’ said Hugo. ‘Shouldn’t have eated all zose Hoppy Jumpers. Told you.’
‘I know you did, Hugo, and you were right. I should have listened.’
‘I could have told you about Hoppy Jumpers,’ said Sharkadder. ‘They thump around in all the sloshy stuff you’ve eaten, don’t they? Sort of squishing it down. Squish, splosh, sloppity squish . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Pongwiffy, going even greener. ‘They do. But I’d like you to stop talking about it now. Why are you wearing that?’ She pointed to Sharkadder’s veil.
‘A slight rash,’ mumbled Sharkadder.
‘It’s worse than that, isn’t it? The tip of your nose has bored through. It’s covered in pimples.’
‘I know,’ admitted poor Sharkadder wretchedly.
‘It’s like a knobbly parsnip. A raw, lumpy parsnip with . . .’
‘I know, I know. I haven’t been out for a week. I’ve been too embarrassed to answer the door.’
‘I’m aware of that. I came round. I expect you heard me shouting.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Pong. I just didn’t want anyone to see me. Even you.’
‘I’m not surprised, I’ve never seen anything like it. That’s some nose, that is. Have you been sandpapering it?’
‘No! Look, are you coming, because we’re late for the Meeting.’
‘I’m coming,’ said Pongwiffy grimly. ‘Sick as I am, I’m coming.’
‘Well, come on then.’
‘You go on. I’ll be there in a minute. Something I need to do . . .’
Looking green again, Pongwiffy dived behind her bush.
When she finally emerged, Hugo was still sitting on the log. He was watching something. Silhouetted against the moon, a lone squirrel was running around the branches of a tree. It twirled and leapt and swung and somersaulted, chittering happily to itself.
‘See zat?’ said Hugo. ‘Zat vun fit squirrel. He run, he jump, plenty exercise, eat healthy nuts, ’ave fun.’
