by Kaye Umansky
Usually, Plugugly hunted with the rest of the Gaggle. A Gaggle, you should know, consists of seven Goblins who do everything together – eat, fight, and sit around plotting stupid things mainly. But on this particular evening, Plugugly was alone. This was because he’d had a big argument with the others. It had been about hats. More specifically, whose hat was best. Like all Goblin arguments, it had come to nothing, but the general agreement seemed to be that out of all their hats, Plugugly’s was the silliest.
Plugugly was fond of his headgear, which was an old saucepan he’d found in a dump. He thought it was a bit helmet-like and made him look like a knight of old. It didn’t. It just made him look like a Goblin with a saucepan on his head.
Anyway, it all ended with him seizing his hunting bag and stomping out in a fury.
‘Ow!’ the Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt had said, picking himself up. ‘Watch where you’re going!’
‘I is in a hurry,’ Plugugly had snapped. ‘I is goin’ huntin’.’ He waved his bag, which had the Traditional hole in the bottom. (Goblins always persist in cutting that Traditional hole, although they sometimes wonder why they never succeed in catching anything. It is one of their stupidest Traditions, although they have others that come close.)
‘Why? It’s not Tuesday.’
(This is another Tradition. Goblins always hunt on a Tuesday. Everyone knows this, including the prey, which is why they never catch anything and live on stinging nettle soup.)
‘It isn’t?’ said Plugugly doubtfully. He had no calendar and relied on his fingers to count. He often got it wrong.
‘No,’ scoffed the Thing. ‘It’s Friday. The last Friday of the month. The Witches’ Coven Night. Don’t you know anything?’
‘I know I’ll bash you up,’ said Plugugly crossly.
‘Oh, oh, I’m so scared!’ jeered the Thing, and went skipping off, leaving Plugugly to reflect upon his words.
So. It was the last Friday of the month. The Witches would be tied up with their Meeting. That meant there would be no Witches wandering around the Wood, although he’d need to keep an eye out for Trolls. Worth the risk? Probably.
Plugugly made for the Wood. He knew he wouldn’t catch anything with a face, because he never did. Faces tend to have brains behind them. Even really tiny brains belonging to small, dim mice are more than capable of outwitting a Goblin.
But, reckoned Plugugly, there might be toadstools. Or, if he was lucky, some of those red berries you could add to nettle stew. They made it look pretty, although you always felt funny afterwards. Anyway, whatever he got, he would take it back to the cave and scoff it in front of everyone. Without sharing. That’d learn ’em.
The moon was out and the sky was splattered with stars, so it wasn’t too dark under the trees. Nevertheless, Plugugly kept his saucepan pulled well down over his eyes to protect him from low branches. Of course, that meant he couldn’t actually see them, so his passage through the woods was accompanied by a series of loud ringing noises. Clang! Ping! Dong! You could hear him coming a mile away. Lots of little fluffy things sat smugly in their holes, nudging each other and sniggering.
Plugugly hadn’t ventured down into the Wood for some time, so he was very surprised when he came across Sugary Candy’s, sitting slap bang in the middle of a glade. More than surprised. Goblinsmacked. That’s the same as being gobsmacked, but worse, as you will see.
Dazzling light blazed from the window of the beautiful gingerbread house, the glistening sweets shining like jewels in the moonlight. The window was chock-a-block with big, multicoloured jars and mountains of heaped chocolate bars. The shop might be closed, but Spag and Conf knew the value of advertising their wares twenty-four seven and always left the shutters open and the lights on.
Slowly, Plugugly pushed back his saucepan so that he could get a proper eyeful.
Plugugly had only ever eaten sweets once in his life. On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, the Gaggle had attended a fancy dress party at the Great Gobbo’s palace. They had eaten wonderful things there. Jellies. Cakes. Pink wobbly stuff. Brown sticky stuff. Best of all, handfuls of delectable sweets from deep bowls. Oh my, what a night that had been.
The shop window drew Plugugly like a magnet. His feet left the ground, and before he knew it he was standing with his nose glued to the glass, mouth open and drooling, well and truly goblinsmacked.
That was how the Gnome called GNorman found him.
‘What are you doing there, Plugugly?’ enquired GNorman. He was on his way home to supper, a copy of The Daily Miracle tucked under his arm.
Plugugly didn’t even look round.
‘Oi! You!’ shouted GNorman. ‘Plugugly! What are you doing?’
Plugugly gave a faint moan and continued to drool.
‘No point in looking,’ said GNorman. ‘They’re closed.’
Slowly, Plugugly dragged his eyes away. He turned. His eyes were glazed and his mouth hung open. He was slavering really badly.
‘Sweeeteeeeeeez,’ drooled Plugugly.
‘Yes, I know,’ said GNorman impatiently.
‘Sweeeeeeteeeeeeeezzzzzzz . . .’
‘That’s right, sweets, that’s what they sell.’
‘Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .’
Plugugly was obviously stuck in a groove. His brains were jammed. GNorman picked up a fallen branch and hit him on the saucepan very hard.
CLAAAANG!
‘Ow,’ said Plugugly crossly. ‘Dat hurt.’
‘Had to be done,’ said GNorman. ‘You should thank me. I asked you what you’re doing here in the Wood, where you’re not supposed to be?’
‘Nothin’. Just lookin’.’
‘There’s no point. They’re closed. The door’s got a magic padlock on it. And you can’t break the window, if that’s what you’re thinking. Everyone’s tried, it’s hopeless.’
‘Bet I can,’ said Plugugly.
‘Go on then. Let’s see you do it.’
Plugugly marched back some way from the shop, lowered his head and ran full tilt at the window. He collided with it, rebounded and fell flat on his back.
BOING!
‘See?’ said GNorman. ‘Not even a little crack.’
‘But I want sweeeeeties,’ moaned Plugugly. He sat up, clutched his head and rocked to and fro. ‘I want dem. I do, I do, I do!’
‘Well, you’ll have to pay for them like everyone else,’ said GNorman. ‘Come back when they’re open, and bring lots of money.’
‘But I hasn’t got no money!’
‘So get a job and earn some.’
‘What job?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Look in the paper.’
‘But I can’t read de paper.’
‘How pathetic,’ sighed GNorman. ‘I don’t know, can’t even read the paper. You Goblins are hopeless . . .’
His voice suddenly cut off. That was because Plugugly’s hand was around his neck.
Plugugly’s Gaggle lived in a damp cave on the lower slopes of the Misty Mountains known as Goblin Territory. Their names were Hog, Lardo, Slopbucket, Stinkwart, Eyesore and Sproggit. They didn’t like living where they did – it was a desolate place, full of rocks, rain and rubbish. But sadly, they were stuck there. A long time ago they had fallen foul of a Wizard who had banished them there for ever as a punishment, so there wasn’t anything they could do about it. No matter how far they hiked, in the end they always ended up back in the cave, so they never bothered going far.
They were sitting around in sullen silence, wishing there was something to eat, when the boulder that served as a front door came crashing back and Plugugly burst in and announced, with great triumph, ‘I has got a Gnome!’
He had too. Poor little GNorman was tucked tightly under his arm, legs wiggling.
‘Can we eat it?’ asked Eyesore hopefully.
‘You can eat it,’ said Plugugly, adding, ‘Dat’s up to you. But I isn’t. I is goin’ to eat . . . sweeeeeteeeez!’
There was a united gasp. Sweeties? What wa
s this?
‘Where you gonna get sweeties from?’ enquired Hog. ‘There ain’t no sweetie trees round ’ere last time I looked.’
‘Ah,’ said Plugugly, ‘I know. But I has seen somethin’ very excitin’! Dere’s a new shop! Down in de Wood! Dere’s lots o’ sweeties! Big jars of ’em! Like what we had at de Great Gobbo’s party dat time, but better! I saw dem!’
‘Liar,’ said Stinkwart. ‘There ain’t no sweet shop in the Wood.’
‘Dere is!’ insisted Plugugly. ‘If you doesn’t believe me, ask him.’
He set GNorman on a small rock. The rest of the Gaggle crowded round.
‘Look what you’ve done to my paper,’ said GNorman crossly, trying to straighten out the creases. ‘Do you have to be so rough?’
‘Tell dem,’ said Plugugly, giving him a poke. ‘Tell dem about de new shop.’
‘All right, all right. There’s a new shop. It’s called Sugary Candy’s. The Yetis own it. It sells overpriced sweets. Can I go now?’
‘Oh no,’ said Plugugly. ‘You isn’t goin’ nowhere. I has got plans for you.’
‘What?’ asked GNorman, a bit alarmed. ‘You can’t eat me, I don’t taste nice.’
‘Niver does nettle soup, but we eats that,’ remarked Slopbucket.
‘We isn’t eatin’ de Gnome,’ said Plugugly firmly. ‘Dat’s not de plan.’
‘What is, then?’ piped up Lardo.
‘Ah,’ said Plugugly. All eyes were upon him. He was enjoying the attention. ‘Ah. Well, see, I bin finkin’. Dere’s dis sweetie shop, right? An’ we likes sweeties, right? So I was finkin’ we can get some money, see, and den – we can go to de new shop an’ buy some!’
‘Oh yeah?’ That was young Sproggit, sounding highly sarcastic. ‘Oh yeah? And where we gonna get money from? Livin’ round ’ere? Ain’t no banks to rob, is there? ’Cept mud banks!’
Everyone howled with laughter at the thought of a bank in Goblin Territory.
‘I know dat,’ said Plugugly. ‘I know dere isn’t no banks. And dere isn’t no buried treasure an’ nobody never gives us no pocket money. And nobody’s nan’s due for a visit. So dat only leaves one fing. We has got to get a job.’
A silence fell.
‘A job?’ said Eyesore after a bit. ‘You mean – like, work?’
‘Dat’s right,’ said Plugugly. ‘We does a job an’ dey gives us money. Dat’s how it works, right, Gnome?’
‘What job?’ asked Eyesore.
‘Ah. Dat’s where de Gnome comes in.’
Everyone stared at GNorman.
‘He’s already in,’ observed Stinkwart. ‘You brought him, under yer arm, just now.’
‘No, no. I know he’s in. He’s in de cave, I know dat. What I mean is, he can read out de jobs in de paper.’
‘I don’t see why I should,’ snapped GNorman. ‘I’m not a reading machine, you know. You can’t put a penny in the slot and make me read.’
‘We can poke you wiv a sharp stick and make you blub like a babby though,’ said Lardo, and everyone sniggered.
‘Ain’t no banks to rob round ’ere,’ said young Sproggit, in the hopes of regaining the comedy crown, but his time was gone and he was ignored.
‘Go on, Gnome,’ said Plugugly.
‘That’s what I’d like,’ said GNorman. ‘I’d like to go on ’ome.’
Everybody else was trying to be funny, so he thought he might as well. Sadly, his little play on words fell on stony ground. Goblin humour is very basic. Witty Gnomish puns go over their heads. The sort of thing that makes a Goblin laugh is someone falling over a cliff.
‘Get readin’,’ said Plugugly. ‘Or else.’
GNorman sighed. It seemed there was no getting out of it. He sat down cross-legged, took a pair of spectacles from his pocket, hooked the ends around his pointy ears and said firmly, ‘Sit. You have to sit when you’re being read to.’
Obediently, the Goblins sat. GNorman opened the paper to the Situations Vacant page. The Goblins watched his every move. This reading business was a complete mystery to them. They were in awe.
‘Right,’ said GNorman. ‘Here goes. TREE FELLERS WANTED. APPLY AT WOOD YARD.’
‘Dat’s no good,’ said Plugugly. ‘Dey only want tree, an’ dere’s seven of us. What else?’
‘MILKMAIDS WANTED. IF COLD HANDS, DO NOT APPLY.’
‘None of us are called Hans,’ remarked Slopbucket. ‘Does that mean we can apply?’
‘None of us are milkmaids, though,’ said Stinkwart doubtfully.
‘Funny name for a milkmaid, ain’t it? Hans?’ reflected Hog. ‘They’re usually called Betty.’
GNorman was getting tired of all this.
‘It’s Cold Hands! Not called Hans. They want milkmaids with hands that are not cold.’
‘Not called what?’ said Hog, confused.
‘Anyway,’ said Plugugly, ‘anyway, we is not girls an’ cows doesn’t like us. Carry on.’
‘GARDENERS WANTED AT PALACE. APPLY KING FUTTOUT.’
‘We ain’t workin’ for King Futtout,’ cried Lardo. ‘Remember when he chased us outa his orchard that time? Like them apples belonged to ’im, or summink?’
‘They did,’ pointed out Stinkwart. ‘It was his orchard.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Lardo. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘Carry on,’ said Plugugly to GNorman. ‘We isn’t gardenin’ for royalty, dey doesn’t like us. What else?’
‘VAMPIRE WANTS HEADLESS HORSEMAN. MUST HAVE FULL COACH DRIVING LICENCE.’
‘Nope. Can’t drive coaches, got heads, and Vampires . . .’
‘Don’t like you, yes, I thought that might be the case,’ said GNorman wearily, adding, ‘You’re being very fussy, you know.’
‘Go on,’ insisted Plugugly. ‘What else?’
‘Not much. This is the last one. WANTED. LIVE-IN NANNY FOR NEW BABY BOY. APPLY MR AND MRS STONKING, STONKING TOWERS. BIG BAG OF GOLD FOR THE RIGHT PERSON.’
There was a long silence. After a bit, Sproggit asked what they were all thinking, ‘What’s all that about then?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Stonkings
The Goblins know nothing about the Stonkings. Not being privy to the gossip grapevine in Witchway Wood, they are never up to date with the news. It will be down to GNorman to bring them up to speed.
It is the following day. Right now, the Stonkings are sitting on the stout reinforced balcony of their big flashy house. The house sits atop a hill overlooking Witchway Wood. In the distance are the Misty Mountains. They have an enviable view. Down below, there is a big garden with big sunshades, a big ornamental fountain and a big barbecue with an ox-spit. There is also a garage containing a great, big, shiny red motorbike because the Stonkings are keen bikers.
They are also Giants. Did I mention that?
Bigsy Stonking has his shirt off and is enjoying the rays of morning sun, which glint off the gold medallions nestling in his chest hair, the gold rings on his fingers, the gold chains around his wrists, the gold hoops in his ears and the single, big gold ring through his nose.
His wife, Largette, is wearing a heavily stained pink bathrobe and a massive pair of sunglasses. She has her hair in curlers and is painting her toenails red. It would be an idyllic scene if it weren’t for the sound of angry roaring coming from somewhere inside.
‘THIS IS THE LIFE, EH, PETAL?’ thundered Bigsy. Giant speech has to be written in capital letters, because it is VERY LOUD.
‘IT WOULD BE,’ agreed Largette, ‘IF BABY PHILPOT WOULD JUST GIVE IT A REST FOR TWO MINUTES. TALK ABOUT STRESS. LOOK AT THE MESS I’M MAKING OF MY NAILS.’
‘RELAX, PETAL. STICK COTTON WOOL IN YER EARS. I DO.’
‘I’VE GOT NO TIME TO MYSELF AT ALL. I LIKE TO LOOK NICE, BIGSY.’
‘I KNOW YOU DO, PETAL.’
‘I HAVEN’T EVEN HAD TIME TO TAKE MY CURLERS OUT.’
‘I KNOW, I KNOW.’
‘LISTEN TO HIM, BIGSY. HE NEVER STOPS. HE WANTS FEEDING AGAIN.’
I shou
ld explain that the Stonkings have only just moved into this very large, flashy remote house. The house has to be large, flashy and remote for these reasons:
1. They are Giants.
2. They are seriously rich and can afford to throw their money around.
3. They have a brand new baby boy who does nothing but ROAR.
Let me tell you a bit about Giants in general. Never confuse Giants with Ogres. They are quite different. Bigsy and Largette Stonking do not have two heads. Well, they do, but not two each. They do not rampage around in seven league boots, waving clubs with nails in. They don’t kick down mountains or juggle sheep. They’re not that big, or that bothered. Even if they were, they wouldn’t have found the time, not with the new baby, who is very demanding.
No, Ogres they are not. But that isn’t to say they aren’t big. I mean, really big. To put it into perspective, you would probably come up to Bigsy’s knee. The Stonkings would have trouble fitting into your house. Unless you live in a cathedral.
Most Giants live somewhere they call The Big Country, a long way from Witchway Wood. There is only one town in The Big Country. Predictably, it is called Giant Town. Almost all Giants live there, mainly because it has a Giant supermarket called Vasto’s which always has special offers.
Giants tend not to travel much. This is because everything in The Big Country is the right size for them – big. Nowhere else in the world caters for them properly. Everywhere is too small and everything is horribly fiddly. There are very few houses they can comfortably fit in. Only really rich Giants settle elsewhere, mainly because they can. They can afford to have new, big furniture made and get big food imported from home.
Bigsy Stonking can afford it. He has plenty of cash to throw around. His family owns Vasto’s.
To tell the truth, there was another reason why the Stonkings moved, apart from wanting to show off. Neither of them liked their mothers-in-law. Largette didn’t like Bigsy’s mother, and Bigsy didn’t like Largette’s. Neither of the mothers liked their son-in-law, daughter-in-law or each other, so it was all very fraught at family barbecues. This is how it went, when they talked about moving.
