by Kaye Umansky
Largette:
I’M TELLING YOU NOW, I’M NOT HAVING YOUR MUM INTERFERING, BIGSY. NOT WHEN OUR BABY ARRIVES. SHE WAS BAD ENOUGH AT OUR WEDDING.
Bigsy:
I KNOW, PETAL, I KNOW.
Largette:
SHE WAS RUDE ABOUT MUM’S HAT.
Bigsy:
I KNOW. (A pause.) YOUR MUM WAS RUDE ABOUT ’ERS FIRST, THOUGH.
Largette:
THAT’S BECAUSE IT WAS HORRIBLE. ANYWAY, I’M NOT HAVING HER COMING ROUND BEING BOSSY AND TELLING US WHAT TO DO. I WANT TO MOVE FAR AWAY, BIGSY. I WANT A BIG HOUSE ON TOP OF A HILL. SOMEWHERE QUIET. JUST US, WITH A NURSERY FOR OUR NEW BABY.
Bigsy:
AND YOU SHALL ’AVE ONE, PETAL. BIGSY’LL BUY YOU ONE.
He was as good as his word. He purchased the big house on top of the hill, bought big flash furniture and big flash sunshades and the barbecue and everything they needed to make life comfortable. And then Baby Philpot arrived.
The Stonkings weren’t prepared for Philpot.
You should know something about Giant babies. When they are first born, they are surprisingly small. Bigger than a human baby, of course, but still quite small. Their lungs are big, though, so they roar really loudly. They do this for three weeks. That’s all they do – roar, drink milk, eliminate milk and roar again. They never sleep.
Baby Philpot was just like all Giant babies – angry. He never, ever stopped roaring. Not ever. He was permanently purple in the face. He never smiled. He never slept. Just roared.
He was doing it now.
‘IT’S YOUR TURN TO GIVE HIM HIS MILK,’ said Largette. ‘MY NAILS ARE STILL WET.’
‘IN A MINUTE,’ said Bigsy.
‘WELL, GO ON THEN.’
‘I WILL, I WILL. IT’S JUST THAT ’E NEVER SEEMS TO WANT IT.’
‘HE’S A BABY, BIGSY. HE’S GOT TO HAVE MILK, IT SAYS SO IN THE BABY MANUAL. NOTHING BUT MILK FOR THE FIRST THREE WEEKS. THREE BUCKETS A DAY, THAT’S WHAT HE’S SUPPOSED TO HAVE.’
‘BUT HE SPITS IT BACK IN YER FACE! I CAN’T GET IT DOWN ’IM.’
‘WELL, YOU’LL HAVE TO TRY. IT’S YOUR TURN,’ said Largette crossly.
‘YEAH, YEAH, ALL RIGHT.’
‘GO ON THEN.’
‘I’M GOING, I’M GOING.’
‘PUT HIM IN HIS PRAM, TAKE HIM FOR A WALK. HE MIGHT NOD OFF.’
‘OH YEAH. SINCE WHEN HAS HE NODDED OFF?’
‘NEVER,’ admitted Largette with a sigh. There was a heavy silence.
‘BIGSY?’ said Largette.
‘WHAT?’
‘I’M TIRED OF BABY PHILPOT. DOES THAT MAKE ME A BAD MOTHER?’
‘WELL – YEAH,’ said Bigsy. ‘BUT THAT’S NORMAL, AIN’T IT? DON’T BEAT YERSELF UP.’
He was right. Giants don’t make the best parents. Well, not for the first three weeks, when their babies are small, sleepless and permanently furious.
But that stage only lasts for three weeks, thank goodness. When Giant babies are exactly three weeks old, they produce their first tooth and immediately go on to solids. (That means food that you can chew as opposed to drink.) They stop roaring then, and just eat. They eat continuously, and that makes them grow. And I mean grow. They become walking, talking toddlers in a matter of days. Then they thump about and say cute things and become much more agreeable. Their parents start liking them then.
‘I JUST HOPE THERE’S A GOOD RESPONSE TO THE ADVERT,’ went on Largette.
‘THERE WILL BE, YOU’LL SEE.’
‘BECAUSE I NEED HELP, BIGSY. I CAN’T DO IT ALL.’
‘I KNOW, PETAL. AND YOU WON’T ’AVE TO, NOT WHEN YOU GOT THE NANNY.’
Bigsy stuffed cotton wool back in his ears, closed his eyes and thought wistfully about the big, flashy red motorbike that he never got to ride now he was a father. Largette gave a little sniff, and despondently eyed her toenails.
Inside the house, the baby roared.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Sports Committee
Right,’ said Pongwiffy briskly. ‘Let’s get started. You fetch the fungus sponge, Sharky, and somebody put the kettle on.’
It was the first meeting of the Sports Committee. There were eight of them squashed around the table in Sharkadder’s kitchen – four Witches and four Familiars. Pongwiffy, Sharkadder, Greymatter and Macabre accompanied by Hugo, Dudley, Speks and Rory, who stood outside with his head through the window.
‘I didn’t make a sponge,’ said Sharkadder. ‘We’re not supposed to be eating cake, are we? If we’re getting fit?’
‘You didn’t make a sponge?’ Pongwiffy was aghast. Sharkadder’s fungus sponge was famed far and wide for its delectable deliciousness.
‘No. But there’s good news. I have prepared a delicious bowl of healthy fruit and vegetables, which we can nibble on.’
‘What sort of fruit and vegetables?’
‘Sliced lemons tossed with sprouts.’
‘Mmm,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Well, maybe later, if we’re desperate. Ready with your pen, Greymatter? You have to write everything down. Write Witchway Wood O’ Lumpick Games in big black letters.’
‘Olympic,’ said Hugo tiredly.
‘First, we’ve got to write down a list of what games we’re having. There’s got to be a running game, a jumping game, a game where you throw things, a game where you lift things and a relay race at the end. Write it down. Now, moving on . . .’
‘Wait a minute there!’ That was Macabre, who had only got on the Sports Committee because she threatened Pongwiffy with violence. ‘Ye cannay decide just like that!’
‘Yes, we can,’ argued Pongwiffy. ‘We’re the experts here, me and Hugo. Hugo’s done a Sports Day. He’s done a whole O’Lumpick, haven’t you, Hugo?’
‘Olympic.’
‘Stop correcting me, I like O’Lumpick better. Anyway, that’s what you do on a Sports Day. Run, jump, throw things . . .’
‘I have a question about running, Pong,’ said Sharkadder, sticking her hand up. ‘Where do we run? In a circle? In a straight line? Over a cliff? Do we all run at the same time? If we trip up, can we start again? Where do we stop? Who says? How do we know? Does everyone have to wear shorts? Can we wear high heels if we like?’
‘That’s a hundred questions,’ said Pongwiffy irritably. ‘We’ll be here all day and all night if we ask a hundred questions about everything. This meeting is just to get things started. We’ll sort out the details later.’
‘Bad idea,’ argued Greymatter, who was frantically scribbling away with her tongue out. ‘Sharkadder’s quite right. We have to do things properly right from the start.’
‘No, we don’t,’ insisted Pongwiffy. ‘All we need right now is a broad plan of action. Details are boring, details can wait.’
‘No, they can’t . . .’
Let’s just break off a minute and examine the Sports Committee while they’re arguing.
Pongwiffy and Hugo had enjoyed selecting the Sports Committee. They had held auditions, and asked everyone to make a small speech about why they wanted to be on it. Everyone was keen, apart from Sourmuddle who announced that they could do what they liked as long as she got her picture in the paper.
Everyone else turned up to audition. Some of the speeches were rather good, and it’s a shame we don’t have time to hear them. In the end, Pongwiffy chose Sharkadder because she was her best friend, Greymatter for her writing skills, and Macabre because she had to (the threat of violence, remember?). The ones who weren’t chosen – Gaga, Ratsnappy, Bendyshanks, Sludgegooey, Scrofula, Bonidle and the twins – were terribly disappointed and more than a little resentful, but there was little they could do but trail off home and wait to be told what would happen next.
‘Look,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘It’s my idea and we’re doing things my way.’
‘Ah’ll tell ye what we’re gonnay do,’ said Macabre, whose blood was up. She thumped the table with her fist. ‘We’re gonnay write doon suggestions. We’re all gonnay ha’ a say, that’s fair. Like, Ah want Tossin’ the Ca
ber.’
‘And what is that?’ enquired Pongwiffy through politely gritted teeth.
‘It’s where ye take a Caber an’ toss it.’
‘And what is a Caber? Can we buy one? Do you know of any Caber shops?’
‘Ah think a sharpened tree’ll do the trick. Write it doon, Greymatter.’
‘You know, I rather like the idea of the Egg and Spoon,’ observed Greymatter, pausing in her scribbling. ‘It’s a jolly sort of race, isn’t it? All that tripping up and losing your egg. It’s hilarious. I mean, this is the O’Lumpick Games. Games implies enjoyment. It’s meant to be fun.’
‘I thought Sport was meant to be taken seriously,’ remarked Sharkadder.
‘So it’ll be a funny Egg and Spoon Race which we take seriously.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Pongwiffy, who quite liked the idea of a seriously funny Egg and Spoon Race. ‘Write it down.’
‘Don’t forget Veightlifting,’ put in Hugo. He flexed his little furry muscles. ‘I sink I vin zat, no contest.’
Across the table, Dudley exploded into helpless laughter.
‘Don’t be rude, Dudley,’ Sharkadder reprimanded him. ‘He’s a guest in our house.’
‘Shouldn’t there be a Sack Race?’ enquired Speks.
‘There has to be a High Jump . . .’
‘And what about a Three-Legged Race? There has to be one of those . . .’
Everyone was shouting at the top of their voices at once.
‘All right, all right, that’s enough!’ shouted Pongwiffy. ‘Caber Tossing, Egg and Spoon, Sack Race, Three-Legged, Weightlifting, High Jump and Relay. That’s seven Games. Should be plenty, there won’t be time for any more.’
‘How will it work, though?’ mused Greymatter. ‘Everybody can’t enter for everything. It’d be chaos.’
‘Explain, Hugo,’ said Pongwiffy vaguely. She wasn’t sure herself how it would work.
‘Is simple,’ explained Hugo. ‘Vun from each team enter each event.’
‘So how do we decide who does what?’ persisted Greymatter, who had a tidy mind and liked to get things straight. ‘In the Witches’ team, I mean? Suppose everyone wants to be in the same thing?’
‘We’ll get Sourmuddle to make a ruling,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Everybody has to go along with her decision. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Nobody else had better Toss the Caber, that’s all Ah know,’ said Macabre. ‘Ah thought of it and Ah’m tossin’ it. Or things’ll get nasty.’
‘No, they won’t,’ said Pongwiffy sternly. ‘Nastiness doesn’t go with the spirit of the O’Lumpicks. We’re a team. We have to support each other and pretend we don’t care, even if we do. Now, let’s move on. We’ve got to think about publicity. Hugo and I thought of asking Vincent Van Ghoul to do some posters.’
‘I don’t know,’ demurred Greymatter. ‘All that red. Does it give the right message, do you think? It’s a Sports Day, not a gore fest on a battlefield.’
‘He’s cheap, though,’ pointed out Pongwiffy. She was right. He was. ‘I’ll pop along and see him tomorrow.’
‘What about telling the King we’re holding it in his garden?’ enquired Sharkadder. ‘Who’s doing that?’
‘I am,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I’ll go along after I’ve seen Vincent.’
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Who’ll be the judge?’
‘Hmm.’ Pongwiffy frowned. She hadn’t thought about that.
‘Got to have judge,’ chipped in Hugo firmly. ‘Say who vin vot.’
‘He means who wins what,’ translated Pongwiffy.
‘Ya. Zat vot I say.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ sneered Dudley. ‘You can’t talk proper, we all knows that.’ Sharkadder gave him a sharp tap on the tail, and he subsided.
‘He’s right, though,’ went on Pongwiffy. ‘Come on, everyone, think. Who’s going to be the judge? Although, actually, I wouldn’t mind. Perhaps I’ll compete and be a judge as well. Then I’ll be certain to get a gold medal.’
‘You can’t do zat,’ chipped in Hugo. ‘Zat not sporting. Has to be somebody who not in it.’
‘Sourmuddle could be the judge,’ suggested Sharkadder. ‘Then all of us Witches will get gold medals.’
Hugo gave a heavy sigh.
‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘Look, I keep tellink you . . .’
‘We know, we know,’ interrupted Pongwiffy. ‘It’s got to be fair, we know. It’s just that it takes a bit of getting used to. Like eating greens instead of cake.’
‘Talking of that, do have a delicious lemon sprout,’ said Sharkadder. There was a little pause while she passed them round. Everybody took one. Even Dudley, who was a cat and didn’t like them. Rory took two. The Familiars were taking the healthy eating thing as seriously as anybody.
‘So who do we get to judge?’ said Pongwiffy, crunching noisily.
‘Vot about ze King?’ piped up Hugo. ‘He not competink, right? Give him sumpsink to do.’
‘Hugo,’ said Pongwiffy, ‘you are a little genius. Futtout can be the judge. He’ll be thrilled. Right, I think that’s everything for now. I shall visit Scott to tell him he’ll be commentating and giving out the medals. I expect I’ll be gone some time. We’re old friends, Scott and me, he’s sure to offer me refreshments. I expect I’ll get something to eat at the palace too. Cake with royal icing, I expect.’ Hugo gave her a little poke. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, forgot. Got to be healthy. I’ll order salad.’
‘You, you, it’s all aboot you,’ complained Macabre. ‘What are the rest of us doing while you’re off visiting artists and kings and film stars?’
‘Greymatter can write out the list of Games. And design the entry forms. We’ll need lots of those, we’re sure to have millions of competitors. And she can hammer out the rules too, as she’s so keen on detail. And contact The Daily Miracle and the spellovision people.’
‘What about me?’ asked Sharkadder. ‘I want an important job, because I’m your best friend, remember.’
‘You can start designing the costumes for the Grand Parade. And you can come up with the team flag, Macabre.’
‘Suppose Ah don’t want tay do the flag?’ protested Macabre. ‘Suppose Ah want tay do something else?’
‘Tough. You wanted to be on this committee, so commit.’
‘Ah’ll give you commitment! Ah’ll commit mah fist to your nose . . .’
‘Anyone for another sprout?’ put in Sharkadder brightly.
Nobody was.
CHAPTER NINE
Nanny Plugugly
The Goblins sat in a circle in the cave, surveying the results of their latest hunting trip. Well, let’s be clear. Not so much a hunting trip as a stealing trip. It had taken them all day, but now they were back with their spoils.
The spoils consisted of six items. These were: a large blue spotty frock (stolen by Lardo from a washing line); a straw bonnet with flowers on it (snatched from a little old lady’s head by Sproggit); a white starched apron (snipped by Eyesore from the waist of a tearful milkmaid); a wicker basket (wrenched from the hand of a small girl by the gallant Slopbucket); a big glass medicine bottle with a screw top (found by Hog in a skip); and lastly, a stick.
The stick was Stinkwart’s contribution. He hadn’t been paying attention when GNorman was explaining what a nanny should have in order to look like a nanny. He had wandered around in a daze all day and finally decided on a stick rather than come back with nothing.
‘You done good,’ said Plugugly approvingly. ‘It’s all good. ’Cept for the stick.’
Stinkwart looked mutinous and muttered something.
‘Wot?’ said Plugugly. ‘Wot did you say?’
‘He said wot’s wrong with a stick,’ interpreted Sproggit.
‘Everythin’,’ said Plugugly firmly. ‘Nannies don’t have sticks. Did de Gnome say anythin’ about nannies havin’ sticks? No.’
Stinkwart muttered something else.
‘Wot?’
‘He said the Gnom
e didn’t say nuffin’ about them not ’avin’ sticks,’ said Sproggit.
‘He didn’t say nuffin’ about dem not ’avin’ tractors, or – or telescopes, or – or – or – accordions, did ’e?’ cried Plugugly. ‘That’s daft, that is. We gotta fink about wot nannies do ’ave, dat makes ’em nannyish. A frock, an apron, a bonnet, a basket an’ a big bottle o’ baby medicine, dat’s wot de Gnome said. Not a stick. It’d frighten de little baby, walkin’ in wavin’ a great big stick.’
‘Ah, shut up,’ said Stinkwart, and went into a deep sulk.
‘The thing is,’ said Lardo suddenly, ‘the thing is, we can’t all be nannies, can we? We ain’t got enough nanny fings.’
‘You’re right, Lardo,’ agreed Plugugly. ‘Dere’s only one of everythin’. Dat means only one of us can be de nanny. An’ you know wot? I fink it should be me.’
‘I don’t see why,’ growled Stinkwart. ‘You didn’t get none o’ the nanny stuff.’
‘Dat’s ’cos I was getting’ rid of de Gnome,’ cried Plugugly. ‘I ’ad to take de Gnome back, didn’t I? I done more dan my fair share! I found de sweetie shop. Anyway –’ his eye fell on the voluminous blue spotted frock, ‘anyway, I fink dat frock’ll fit me best. I fink it’s my size.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Stinkwart.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Try it on, then.’
‘I will,’ said Plugugly. ‘Shut yer eyes. No peekin’ ’til I say.’
Everyone obediently closed their eyes. There followed several minutes of rustling noises. Then . . .
‘All right,’ said Plugugly. ‘You can look now.’
Six pairs of Goblin eyes opened – and six Goblin jaws hit the floor.
‘Ooooooh,’ breathed Hog. ‘Get you, Plug!’
Plugugly was transformed. The frock fitted him perfectly. So did the flowery bonnet, tied under his chin with a large bow. The apron gave him a motherly, capable air, and the basket added a charming touch.
‘ ’ Ow do I look?’ simpered Plugugly, and patted his bonnet.
‘I ’ardly knows you wivvout yer saucepan,’ admitted Lardo.
‘I ’ave to say the bonnet suits you,’ agreed Eyesore. ‘An’ the dress is your colour an’ all.’
