Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Really?’ Plugugly swished his skirt. He wished he had a mirror.

  ‘You can’t just look like a nanny, though,’ remarked Stinkwart, still put out about the poor reception of his stick. ‘You gotta talk like a nanny. Bet you can’t do that.’

  ‘Why, you rude, naughty little boy!’ trilled Plugugly in a falsetto voice. ‘Anudder word from you, and I is puttin’ you straight to bed widdout any supper!’

  The Goblins cracked up at this. They rolled around the floor, clutching their stomachs and sobbing with mirth, all except Stinkwart. It was so funny, hearing Plugugly talk like that.

  ‘Say somethin’ else, Plug!’ begged Sproggit. ‘Go on, say somethin’ else!’

  ‘All good children got to wash der hands before teatime!’ Plugugly advised them, and was rewarded with another blast of merriment. It wasn’t often he got the chance to shine.

  ‘Do anuvver one, Plug!’ urged Hog, wiping his eyes.

  Plugugly reached into his basket, pulled out the big glass bottle and waved it around.

  ‘Line up an’ take your medicine like good little children!’ Vigorously, he shook the bottle and waited for more laughter. There was a bit, but not much.

  ‘Come along, come along!’ he tried again. ‘Everybody in line!’

  Silence.

  ‘That’s not so good,’ said Stinkwart. ‘The bottle don’t slosh. You can tell there’s nuffin’ in it.’

  ‘Dat’s right,’ said Plugugly. ‘It is empty. I know dat. But it won’t be on de day. We’ll fill it wiv baby medicine.’

  ‘We ain’t got any medicine,’ pointed out Lardo.

  ‘So we’ll use pretend medicine. Like – like –’ Plugugly cast his eyes around, looking for inspiration. They fell upon the rusty bucket of nettle soup by the front boulder. It contained the Goblins’ food for the day. ‘Like nettle soup.’

  ‘Pretend medicine won’t work, though, will it?’ said Stinkwart triumphantly. ‘They’ll know you’re not a real nanny if the medicine don’t work. They’ll know that right away. Think you’re so clever. Givin’ out pretend medicine, ha.’

  ‘It might work,’ said Plugugly crossly. Stinkwart was really getting on his nerves.

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  ‘Well, dat’s all you know, Stinkwart. You fink nannies ’ave big sticks. You don’t know nuffin’ about nuffin’. Anyway, I’m de nanny an’ I know best, so shut up.’

  ‘You needs a name,’ observed Lardo. ‘Whatcha gonna call yerself?’

  Plugugly reflected. It was a good point. He needed a lady name. A nannyish name. Nanny Plugugly didn’t have the right ring.

  ‘I fink,’ he said finally, a bit shyly, ‘I fink I would make a good Susan.’

  The Goblins considered this.

  ‘Try it,’ advised Lardo. ‘We’ll tell you. Go on, be Susan.’

  ‘Good mornin’,’ trilled Plugugly, and dropped a little curtsey. ‘I is Nanny Susan an’ I has come to look after your little babby. Is dat de dear little feller? Wot a beauty. I do believe he has your eyes. Pass ’im to me, ’e needs windin’.’

  The Goblins stared in amazement.

  ‘Cor!’ said Hog. ‘That’s good, that is. ’Ow d’you know all this stuff, Plug?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Plugugly. He was as surprised as the rest of them. ‘Seems to come natural, like. I musta bin a nanny in unudder life.’

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Lardo. ‘Plug’ll be the nanny. And the rest of us can take it easy an’ wait for ’im to bring ’ome the bag o’ gold.’

  ‘Suits me,’ snarled Stinkwart. ‘ ’Long as ’e’s not in the cave, suits me.’

  Plugugly lost his temper then, and there was a bit of a fight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Three Visits

  Pongwiffy had three visits lined up, so she took the Broom. It hadn’t been flown for ages and it went a bit mad. Both she and Hugo were decidedly windblown when they arrived at the red-spattered studio of Vincent Van Ghoul.

  Convincing Vincent to provide the posters was easy. Pongwiffy had hardly started outlining the idea before he was racing around excitedly, laying out brushes and jars of red paint and outlining his creative vision.

  ‘I thought perhaps – um – you might use another colour?’ ventured Pongwiffy. ‘Like, one that isn’t red? Just for a change?’

  ‘I am an artist,’ said Vincent stiffly. ‘I think you can leave the artistic decisions to me.’

  He seemed a bit put out, so Pongwiffy didn’t stay to argue. She had a busy day ahead. Next stop, royalty.

  King Futtout was in his shed, admiring his lovely gardens through the small window. He had a kettle brewing on a small stove. The heady scent of cut grass wafted in. He’d been out mowing his velvet lawn all morning, and was sitting down for a well-earned rest.

  The King liked it in his shed. He had got it kitted out very comfortably, with an old throne, a tin of custard creams, a bowl of home-grown tomatoes and a pile of old What Coach? magazines. He spent all his spare time there, mainly to get away from his wife and daughter who both nagged him a lot. Futtout was a small, weak, droopy sort of king, who wasn’t very good at standing up for himself. Sometimes his loving family even followed him down to the shed and stood over him while he wrote out large cheques.

  Not this morning, though. This morning they had gone shopping, and a peaceful time lay ahead. Or so he thought.

  The door crashed open and, to his horror, a Witch came marching in, bringing with her a very familiar smell that instantly filled the shed, quite cancelling out the scent of grass. On her hat sat a small Hamster, casually polishing its nails.

  ‘Oh,’ mumbled King Futtout miserably. ‘It’s you, Pongwiffy.’

  It should be mentioned here that King Futtout has had dealings with Pongwiffy in the past. There had been a nasty kidnapping incident involving her, the Hamster and Princess Honeydimple. Ankles had been bitten. Hair had been hacked. Harsh words had been exchanged. It had cost him money. He remembered it well.

  ‘I want a word with you, Futtout,’ announced Pongwiffy. ‘They said I’d find you skulking down here.’

  ‘Erm?’ bleated King Futtout plaintively. ‘Erm . . . quite what . . . ? What can I . . . ? Erm . . . do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Pongwiffy breezily. ‘Witches don’t need appointments. Mind out the way, I need to sit down. Oooh. Tomatoes. I’ll have one of them.’

  She pushed past King Futtout, helped herself to a tomato and threw herself into the old throne. King Futtout eyed her uneasily. He never got visits from Witches unless they wanted something.

  ‘So,’ said Pongwiffy cheerily, biting into the tomato. A squirt of juice shot out, narrowly missing his eye. ‘How’s the kinging going? Keeping you busy, are they?’

  ‘Well, yes. I do have . . . erm . . . royal things to be getting on with,’ said King Futtout nervously.

  ‘Well, this won’t take long. I’ve just come from Vincent Van Ghoul and I’m on my way to Scott Sinister, so I won’t hang about. I just popped in to tell you that we’re having a Sports Day called an O’Lumpicks and we need a big, flat space to hold it in.’

  ‘Stadium,’ said Hugo.

  ‘That’s right, stadium. And the only place is your garden, Futtout.’

  King Futtout’s jaw dropped. A Sports Day? In his garden?

  ‘We’ll need to shift a few things,’ went on Pongwiffy. ‘The rose bushes will have to go for a start, and the statues. Oh, and we’ll need somewhere to store our costumes and flag for the Grand Opening Parade.’ Her eyes flicked around the shed. ‘This’ll do, when it’s cleared out.’

  ‘Impossible!’ The King’s voice came out in a high-pitched little squeak. ‘I really cannot agree to this. This is taking things too far. The gardens are private property, you know.’

  ‘And very nice they are too. Which is why you won’t want an invasion of purple-toothed snails. Or big, mad space moles. Or Ninja locusts.’

  Pongwiffy withdrew her Wand from her pocket and finge
red it thoughtfully. The colour drained from King Futtout’s face.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said.

  ‘You know I would,’ said Pongwiffy cheerfully, adding, ‘But I won’t need to, will I? You won’t want it getting round that the King refuses to support a fun-filled sporting event that will benefit all the community. Besides, it’s all arranged. The posters’ll be up on the trees tomorrow. And The Daily Miracle’s doing a piece.’

  ‘When?’ croaked King Futtout, through numb lips. ‘When is this – event – to be?’

  ‘In three weeks’ time. Everyone’s got to get into training and there’s all kinds of things to organise. You’ll have plenty of time to get the shed cleared out. We’ll send a party of Familiars to start chopping stuff down and marking up the lawn nearer the time.’ Pongwiffy stood up. ‘Well, that’s it. I’m off. I’ve got a film star to visit. Nice tomato, by the way. I’ll take a couple more for the journey. Oh, one last thing. You’re the judge. So you’ll need to come up with some medals.’

  ‘Medals?’

  ‘Yep. Gold, silver and bronze. We’ll need loads, so I’d get cracking on that.’

  And with that, she was off, leaving poor King Futtout stunned.

  ‘I hope you noticed I didn’t take any biscuits,’ remarked Pongwiffy to Hugo, as they flew over the trees. ‘That’s because I’m starting to eat well. I think it’s making a difference, you know. I’m already feeling a lot perkier than I was.’

  They had been flying for quite some time. They were heading for Scott Sinister’s holiday retreat – a rather smart castle that lay on the other side of Witchway Wood. It was surrounded by a high wall to keep out intruders. However, it had a big iron gate with bars, through which the curious could catch a glimpse of the blue, coffin-shaped swimming pool which took up most of the courtyard.

  This is probably a good moment to tell you a few things about Scott Sinister. Scott is a rich, famous star of stage and screen. He has appeared in a great many horror films, including The Rampaging Mummy, in which he played the evil daddy, and Return of the Avenging Killer Poodles, which broke box office records. He has an on/off girlfriend called Lulu Lamarre, who Pongwiffy loathes. His career took a nasty dip at one point, but now he is back on top of his game, with a new film in the offing and a lucrative job on spellovision, advertising dental products. He is currently enjoying a short rest before filming starts. He is greatly adored by Pongwiffy, who cuts out pictures of him from magazines and drags him into any of her schemes that require a celebrity. He doesn’t enjoy her attentions, but knows better than to turn her down. She is, after all, his number one fan – and number one fans should never be crossed, especially if they are Witches.

  So there you have it. That’s Scott. And his peace is about to be shattered.

  He was lying in his purple silk hammock by the side of the pool. On a small table, set within easy reach, was a bottle of champagne, a single glass and a large bunch of grapes. His eyes were closed and he was just on the brink of a nice little snooze, when a dry voice said, ‘So sorry to disturb you, sir. You have a visitor, I’m afraid.’

  The voice belonged to the butler, a tall Skeleton in a tailcoat whose name, strangely, was Tubbs.

  ‘Wha— ?’ said Scott, struggling to open his eyes against the sun.

  ‘He said you’ve got a visitor,’ chirped a second voice. A shadow fell across his face, and he became aware of a horribly familiar smell. ‘Surprise! Wakey-wakey, Scott, it’s meeee!’

  Scott fumbled for his sunglasses, set them on his nose and struggled upright, hoping it was a nightmare. It wasn’t, though.

  ‘Oh,’ he said heavily. ‘Pongwiffy.’

  ‘Got it in one!’

  There she was, beaming down at him. As always, her wretched Hamster sat on her hat.

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she went on. ‘Thought I’d drop by. Just a social call. Have a little chat. Any chance of a cuppa?’ She stared pointedly at Tubbs, who was hovering disapprovingly in the background, folding up towels and straightening grapes.

  ‘I’m just about to go out,’ lied Scott. ‘I have an appointment with my director.’

  ‘Good job I caught you, then. It’s milk, five sugars.’ Hugo gave a little cough. ‘No, actually, skip the sugar. And the milk. And the tea. I’ll have a large mug of hot water, shaken not stirred. Got to think about the new me. Off you go, butler, Mr Sinister and I have things to discuss.’

  ‘We do?’ groaned Scott as Tubbs stalked off into the castle.

  ‘We do. I’ve got a small favour to ask.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. We’re organising a big Sports Day, here in Witchway Wood. Everybody’ll be joining in, it’s very inclusive. We’re calling it the O’Lumpick Games and we need you to do the commentating and give out the medals at the end. Oh, and you won’t get paid because it’s a Noble Cause.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Everybody’s going to be on their best behaviour, because it’s Sport. There won’t be any fighting. So, that’s all sorted.’

  ‘Look,’ said Scott desperately. ‘Look, I’m really busy, I’m not sure I can fit it in.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can, you know,’ said Pongwiffy mildly, helping herself to grapes.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand . . .’

  ‘No.’ Pongwiffy cut him off. ‘You don’t understand. This is a great opportunity. This is big. There’ll be crowds from far and wide. It’s going to be spellovised. The world will be watching. And there you’ll be, in close-up, doing what you do best. Think of the exposure!’

  Scott thought about this. Publicity was certainly a good thing. And filming wouldn’t be starting for another few weeks.

  ‘You’re sure it won’t end up with a fight?’ he said.

  ‘Certainly not. The very idea. Have some of Scott’s grapes, Hugo, they’re lovely.’

  ‘It’s just that things involving you usually do.’

  ‘Ah, but this is Sport. It’s different.’

  She was right. It was.

  Scott gave in.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Plugugly Gets a Job

  Plugugly stood gasping on the top doorstep of Stonking Towers. It was the biggest house he had ever seen. He glanced back at the distant gates, which seemed miles away. The rest of the Gaggle were back there, where he’d left them. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they would be watching. It was up to him now.

  Plugugly patted his bonnet and straightened his apron, staring up at the mighty front door. He felt nervous. Not only was everything really big, but there was a terrible roaring noise coming from somewhere within. It sounded like a wild animal. Maybe a lion, or one of those big grey wrinkled things with hosepipe noses. What were they called? Plugugly didn’t know.

  There was a huge brass knocker hanging above his head. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach it.

  BOY-OY-OY-OY-OING!

  The echoing crash made his ears ring. There was a short pause, then the sound of approaching footsteps. Loud footsteps. The huge door opened – and Plugugly found himself face to face with his first ever Giantess.

  Actually, it was more face to knee. The Giantess’s face loomed over him from a great height. She wore a grubby pink dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers. Her hair was in curlers and there were bags under her eyes. Her lipstick looked like it had been applied during an earthquake. By the looks of her, she hadn’t been sleeping well.

  ‘YES?’ boomed the Giantess from on high. ‘CAN I HELP YOU?’

  It was all rather unsettling, but it has to be said that Plugugly rose to the occasion. A vision flashed into his head of him and the rest of the Gaggle sitting in the cave surrounded by sweet mountains. He had to keep his nerve and hold on to the dream.

  ‘Good mornin’,’ he trilled in his nanny voice. He bobbed a little curtsey. ‘I is Nanny Susan an’ I has come about de job.’

  He wasn’t prepared for the Giantess’s reaction. Her eyes widened and she gave a gasp of excitement.

>   ‘BIGSY!’ she bellowed over her shoulder. ‘GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW! WE’VE GOT ONE!’

  An answering distant bellow came from somewhere inside. Plugugly couldn’t make out the words, though, because of that awful background roaring. Whatever could it be?

  ‘You mean – I got de job?’ asked Plugugly. He didn’t think it would be that easy.

  ‘OF COURSE’. The Giantess turned back to him. Her big face was wreathed in smiles. ‘YOU DO LIKE BABIES, DON’T YOU?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Plugugly. ‘Oh yes, I likes dem. Dat’s cos I is a nanny. I has got de clothes an’ de basket an’ everyfin’.’

  ‘SO I SEE.’

  ‘Know what else I got?’

  ‘WELL – NO. DO TELL ME.’

  ‘Medicine,’ said Plugugly proudly. He took the bottle from his apron pocket and gave it a vigorous shake. Liquid sloshed about inside.

  The Goblins had made a real effort with the pretend medicine. It consisted of nettle soup with crushed berries to give it a nice pink colour and a few handfuls of mud to thicken it up.

  ‘MY WORD,’ said the Giantess clearly impressed. ‘YOU ARE PREPARED. WELL, DO COME IN, NANNY SUSAN. COME AND MEET MY HUSBAND, HE’S UP SEEING TO THE BABY.’

  ‘AH,’ nodded Plugugly understandingly. ‘Tryin’ ter get it to sleep, eh? Must be difficult, wiv dat ’orrible noise goin’ on. Wot is dat noise, by de way?’

  ‘AH,’ said the Giantess. Her smile wobbled and she bit her lip. ‘AH. NOW, I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT MENTION THAT . . .’

  Time now to meet Baby Philpot. We’ve heard him quite a bit, but haven’t yet seen him in the flesh. Prepare yourself.

  The Stonkings had thrown money at Philpot’s nursery. It was right at the top of the house. It was painted blue, with a border of charging elephants that matched the curtains. Big, clanking mobiles hung from the ceiling, mostly rhinos, hippos and other large, galumphing animals. Arranged on shelves was a huge collection of soft toys – again, following the big animal theme.

  Philpot’s crib was in the middle of the room. It was large and lovely, all draped in blue. It had ribbons and frills and was set on wooden rockers specially designed to gently lull the baby to sleep. It was the most expensive crib in the Giant Baby Catalogue – probably the whole world. It was a shame that it didn’t come with a money back guarantee, because it certainly wasn’t having any effect on Philpot.