by Kaye Umansky
Right now, it was shuddering violently and crashing to and fro on its rockers like a ship in a storm at sea. Its inmate was beside himself.
Baby Philpot was purple in the face. Drenched with sweat. Arms flailing, back arched. Eyes screwed up, hands clenched into fists. Mouth a gummy red O, and enough noise issuing from it to unplug drains.
Lying in the corner was a gigantic baby bottle, leaking milk on to the floor. Philpot had just hurled it at his father in a fit of pique. All around the cot lay the evidence of his unsettled state of mind – a torn blanket, a gnawed pillow and a cuddly gorilla with a chunk out of its leg.
Now, you know about Giant babies. You know that they are appalling for the first three weeks, when they do nothing but roar, vomit, thrash their arms and go purple. You know that they never ever sleep, as sleep would be a waste of good thrashing and roaring time. What you don’t know is why. This is why.
They hate milk!
Yes. That is why Giant babies are so miserable. Milk disagrees with them. They don’t like the taste and it gives them tummyache. So they sick it up, which means that they are always ravenously hungry. If only people would stop feeding them milk, they’d be just fine. But grown-up Giants can be a bit slow and haven’t worked that out. By the time the babies have developed enough basic speech to explain the problem, they’ve forgotten they ever had it, so the traditional way of feeding babies – with milk – carries on to the next generation.
It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.
So there was Philpot, bellowing his hatred of milk to the world. Bigsy was cowering by the door, fingering a lump on his head and flinching at the barrage of sound.
The nursery door opened, and in came Largette, followed by Plugugly.
‘THERE HE IS,’ said Largette, pointing. ‘THAT’S PHILPOT. OUR SON. THIS IS NANNY SUSAN, BIGSY. SHE’S COME ABOUT THE JOB.’
‘Oh my,’ said Plugugly. ‘Dat is one unhappy baby. Someone should pick him up.’
‘THEY SHOULD,’ agreed Largette, not moving.
‘DON’T LOOK AT ME,’ said Bigsy. ‘LITTLE SO-AND-SO JUST CHUCKED ’IS BOTTLE AT ME.’
Neither of them seemed keen. Both of them were casting hopeful sideways glances at the new nanny. This was the moment, then. The moment that Plugugly needed to demonstrate his credentials.
He picked up his skirts and marched to the crib. He stood on tiptoe, and peered over.
‘RRRRRRRRRAAAAAARRRRRrrrrr . . . ?’
The roar trailed off as Baby Philpot suddenly registered a new face in baby world. A face he had never seen before. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but it had a big, bulbous nose and was topped with a funny hat with pretty flowers. This was different. Who was this stranger staring down at him? Philpot said, ‘ga?’
‘Aaaah,’ said Plugugly. ‘Wot a fine big feller. I do believe he has your eyes. Dere, dere, never fear, Nanny’s here.’
‘I’M AFRAID HE CAN BE A BIT OF A HANDFUL,’ admitted Largette. ‘LIKE I SAY, HE ROARS ALL THE TIME. WE DON’T KNOW WHY, THOUGH, DO WE, BIGSY?’
‘NOT A CLUE,’ admitted Bigsy. ‘PERHAPS NANNY SUSAN CAN TELL US?’
Plugugly didn’t have a clue either. But it wouldn’t do to say so. He was supposed to be an expert. Why did babies cry? He cast around for inspiration. His eyes alighted on the gigantic baby bottle.
‘What is you feedin’ him?’ asked Plugugly.
‘MILK,’ said Largette firmly. ‘NOTHING BUT MILK FOR THE FIRST THREE WEEKS. UNTIL HE CUTS HIS FIRST TOOTH.’
‘SO WHAT D’YOU THINK, NANNY SUSAN?’ rumbled Bigsy. ‘WHY’S HE CRYIN’?’
‘I is finkin’ he has got de tummyache,’ announced Plugugly. It was the only thing that came into his head.
‘REALLY?’ Bigsy turned to Largette. ‘HEAR THAT, PETAL? NANNY SUSAN THINKS PHILPOT’S GOT TUMMYACHE.’
‘I does,’ agreed Plugugly. ‘But dat’s all right, ’cos I has got dis baby medicine.’
With a flourish, he produced the bottle. He gave it a proper businesslike shake. The contents sloshed about, making a very satisfactory noise. Then Plugugly began unscrewing the cap. The Stonkings watched in fascination. So did Philpot. For a moment. Then he lost interest and opened his mouth to roar again.
‘HAVE YOU GOT A MEASURING SPOON?’ enquired Largette.
‘No,’ admitted Plugugly. Darn! A spoon. He hadn’t thought of that. Was he about to be rumbled?
‘SO HOW DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH TO GIVE HIM?’
‘He’s a big baby,’ said Plugugly. ‘So he is needin’ a big dose.’
And with no more ado, he crossed his fingers for luck and upended the bottle into Philpot’s gaping mouth.
The roar that had just been about to burst forth turned into a choke as the mixture of crushed berries, boiled stinging nettles, rust and mud swilled into Philpot’s mouth and spilled over, running down the sides and soaking the mattress. There was such a lot of it, he was forced to swallow.
And then – a miracle happened. To everyone’s amazement, Philpot licked his lips. A big, goofy smile spread across his moon-like face. His fists unclenched and slowly, his purple cheeks faded to pale pink.
‘GA,’ said Philpot approvingly.
‘OH MY,’ gasped Largette. ‘SEE THAT, BIGSY? HE’S SMILING! THE MEDICINE’S MADE HIM BETTER!’
He was – and it had! Nobody was more surprised than Plugugly. From now on, he must trust his nanny instincts. They were good.
‘WELL, LOOK AT THAT!’ marvelled Bigsy. ‘SHE PUT ’ER FINGER RIGHT ON THE PROBLEM.’
‘Yes,’ said Plugugly. ‘I did. Now, I fink you should go away and leave him to me. We needs to bond.’
‘OH,’ said Largette. ‘ALL RIGHT. SHOULD WE VISIT?’
‘Not too often,’ said Plugugly firmly. ‘Just leave ’im to me. It’s best. I’m de nanny now.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Interesting News
Well, strike me sideways with great big green balls of fire!’ spluttered Dave the Druid, dropping his fork with a clatter. Half a sausage rolled across the table and landed in the lap of Gerald the Just, who looked annoyed.
‘Is that a request, or something you’ve seen in the paper?’ enquired Frank the Foreteller, helping himself to a dollop of mustard.
‘I don’t believe it! They’ve come up with some batty ideas, but this one takes the cake!’
‘Who have?’ asked a disembodied voice from an empty chair. This was Alf the Invisible, who preferred to take his reversing pills after eating.
‘The Witches. Shush, I’m reading.’
The Wizards were in the dining room of the Clubhouse, eating breakfast. Breakfast mostly consisted of greasy sausages, and plenty of them. There was bacon and eggs and black pudding as well, but greasy sausages were the most popular, followed by endless rounds of toast and jam, all washed down with copious amounts of sugary tea.
There were seven Wizards, and six had beards. (You’ll have to take my word about Alf the Invisible’s beard. I know you can’t see it right now, but I assure you he has one.) The only Wizard without the traditional chin shrubbery was Sharkadder’s nephew, Ronald the Magnificent. He was trying very hard to grow one, but never quite managed it. Being the youngest and least important, he sat at the far end of the table near the door, in the draught.
‘I don’t see why you should have the paper,’ said Fred the Flameraiser irritably. ‘It’s always you who reads it first.’
‘That’s because I’m the one who goes all the way down to the front door and picks it up off the mat,’ explained Dave the Druid. ‘I bend down to get it, don’t I?’
‘That seems reasonable to me,’ said Gerald the Just. ‘Dave makes the effort, so it’s only fair he should read it first.’
‘Well, at leasht read ush out a bit,’ piped up the Venerable Harold the Hoodwinker, dunking a sausage into his tea. He was the oldest Wizard and liked his food soggy, because his teeth were missing. ‘What doesh it shay about Witchesh?’
‘They’re organising some sort of sporting co
ntest.’
‘Sport?’ exclaimed Frank the Foreteller. ‘You mean – running around?’
‘That sort of thing,’ nodded Dave the Druid. ‘The O’Lumpick Games, they’re calling it. Open to everybody. They’re to be held in the palace grounds. They’re inviting teams to apply. All welcome, it says.’
‘Good grief!’ scoffed Frank the Foreteller, spooning jam on to his toast. ‘What a thoroughly unpleasant idea.’
‘Just imagine,’ said Fred the Flameraiser, who had shredded up his napkin, made a little pile on his plate and was now in the process of setting fire to it with a candle. ‘Running around Futtout’s garden with a load of common riff-raff.’
‘Quite sho,’ nodded the Venerable Harold, dunking a fried egg. ‘Why would one want to do that, I wonder?’
‘It says here to get fit,’ said Dave the Druid. ‘And to intermingle.’
A chorus of braying chortles greeted this. Fitness wasn’t high on the Wizards’ agenda. The only exercise they got was shuffling between the table and the armchair. Apart from Dave the Druid, who had a daily bend down to pick up The Daily Miracle, and Ronald the Magnificent, who always did the weekly sweet run down to Sugary Candy’s. As for intermingling – well! That was beyond the pale.
‘It says that there are medals to be won,’ added Dave. ‘And it’s going to be spellovised.’
‘Good,’ said Alf the Invisible. ‘We can sit and watch in our armchairs and sneer. It’s ridiculous, and we’re certainly not getting involved.’
And then a lone voice piped up from the far end of the table.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ronald. ‘It might be . . . fun?’
There fell a heavy silence. It was the pause before the storm.
‘Fun?’ Frank the Foreteller thundered. ‘What has fun to do with Wizardry? Are you mad? What d’you think, everyone? Is he mad? I think he’s mad . . .’
Poor Ronald. He gets severely picked on at this point, and it’s quite painful. It only stops when Dave the Druid starts reading out an advertisement for a new type of sweet called Wizard Wobblers. And then only because they want him to go and get some.
All over Witchway Wood, the various factions were opening The Daily Miracle and reading about the proposed O’Lumpick Games.
It should be explained here that the Wood is home to a wide variety of clans. Witches, Skeletons, Trolls, Zombies, Banshees, Gnomes, Fiends, Bogeymen, Vampires, Ghosts, Ghouls – they all live there, keeping themselves to themselves, doing their own thing and only mixing under duress. As well as the main clans, a number of odd individuals live there too. The Thing in the Moonmad T-shirt; a bad-tempered Tree Demon; a couple of bandaged Mummies called Xotindis and Xstufitu; the Werewolf from the sweet shop queue – it’s amazing how heavily populated the Wood is. Of course, being a magical sort of place, it manages to accommodate everybody who chooses to live there whilst still remaining essentially wood-like. Quite how this works is a mystery. But it does.
Of all the reactions to the news, none was quite so volatile as that displayed at King Futtout’s breakfast table. Queen Beryl was the first to read the headlines, because she insisted on having the paper first.
‘Futtout!’ she snapped, causing her husband to choke on his Kingios.
‘Yes, dearest?’ bleated King Futtout, as soon as he recovered his breath.
‘What is this I am reading on the front page?’
‘Urm – I really don’t know, dearest. Something interesting, is it?’
‘Have you consented to something called the O’Lumpick Games to be held in the palace grounds? Without consulting me?’
‘Ah,’ quavered King Futtout. ‘Ah. I was going to mention that.’
‘I want more ithe-cream,’ announced Princess Honeydimple suddenly. She spoke with an annoying put-on lisp. She sat between her parents on a little golden chair with a pink cushion. She had long, curly yellow hair and big blue eyes. She wore a white frilly frock and white satin slippers. She was horribly spoiled and allowed to eat ice-cream for breakfast, which, as everybody knows, is not a good thing.
‘In a moment, darling,’ said Queen Beryl. ‘I’m talking to your father. Explain yourself, Futtout.’
‘It happened while you were out,’ twittered poor Futtout. ‘I wasn’t expecting her, she just barged into the shed, you see, and . . .’
‘Who barged into the shed?’
‘Erm. Her. You know. The Witch. Pongwiffy.’
‘Oh, poo!’ snarled Princess Honeydimple. ‘Her! Thee cut my hair off!’
Honeydimple was telling the truth. Pongwiffy had indeed cut off a hank of her hair. She had needed princess hair as a vital ingredient for a spell. It had happened some time ago, but Honeydimple was the type to bear grudges.
‘What,’ thundered Queen Beryl, ‘were you thinking of, Futtout? Entertaining that appalling creature in your shed? After what she and that dreadful Hamster did to Honeydimple?’
‘Yeth,’ chipped in Honeydimple. ‘How could you, Daddy?’
‘I wasn’t entertaining her, she just came in making demands and threatening me . . .’
‘Threatening you? How did she threaten you, pray?’
‘She was talking about – about purple space snails and – erm – ginger locusts. She took her Wand out, you see, I had no choice in the matter . . .’
‘You are the King!’ roared Queen Beryl. ‘Kings always have a choice. I will not have it, Futtout. I will not have that mad woman commandeering the palace gardens for some dreadful sporting event. Even if she is a Witch!’
‘That’th right,’ chipped in Honeydimple. ‘You tell him, Mummy.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see how we can stop her, dearest. She was very insistent . . .’
‘Nonsense! You will write immediately and tell her you’ve changed your mind. The very idea!’
‘But –’
‘You heard me.’
‘But –’
‘Straight after breakfast, Futtout. You will get pen and paper and write her a very stiff letter which I will dictate. And that will be the end of the matter.’
So King Futtout wrote a stiff letter to Pongwiffy, which Queen Beryl dictated. He put it in an envelope, stamped it with the royal seal and affixed to it a first-class stamp.
He didn’t post it, though.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Minding the Baby
Dere, dere,’ crooned Plugugly, bending over the crib. ‘Oo’s a good little baby, den? Oo’s Nanny’s treasure-poo?’
Philpot waggled his chunky arms and kicked his fat, dimpled legs. He was beaming. Plugugly reached in and tickled his fat, pink tummy. Philpot thrashed about in delight, giggling.
‘Oo’s a little sugar plum? Oo’s Nanny’s lovely boy? Baby Philpot, dat’s who! Dat’s you, dat is.’
‘TEE HEE!’ laughed Philpot, clearly loving it. ‘TEE HEE!’ And he threw out his arms to be picked up, whacking Plugugly eye-wateringly hard on the nose.
‘Aaaah,’ drooled Plugugly, not minding at all. ‘Duz ’oo want a cuddle? Duz ’oo? Den ’oo shall ’ave one. Up ’oo comes. Oooh!’ He staggered back, legs buckling as he took Philpot’s considerable weight. ‘Whoopsie daisy! You is gettin’ a heavy boy!’
‘GA!’ said Philpot, playfully biting Plugugly’s ear with rock-hard gums. Plugugly didn’t mind that either. He jiggled Philpot up and down.
‘Is ’oo hungry? Is de bottle empty? Den let’s go for our walkies. Is ’oo ready for walkies? Is ’oo? Is ’oo?’
Philpot kicked him joyfully in the tummy, and he didn’t even flinch.
Let’s catch up a bit on what has been going on.
It is Plugugly’s third day as Nanny Susan, and you will be surprised to hear that things are going brilliantly. Plugugly has found his calling.
The Stonkings have given him his own room, next door to the nursery. It has a proper bed in it! Sleeping in a bed is a revelation. Plugugly lives in a cave with six other Goblins. The sleeping arrangements consist of slumping on top of each other in a pile,
like hamsters. Plugugly is usually at the bottom, getting punctured by sharp stones and even sharper Goblin elbows, so having his own bed is luxury indeed.
He gets proper meals too! They arrive three times a day on a tray outside his door. He can even choose what he wants. There are always three courses. Plugugly has decided that he likes pudding best. He has jam pudding for starters, treacle pudding for the main course, and chocolate pudding for pudding. Presumably, the Stonkings employ a cook, although Plugugly never sees her (or him). He never visits the kitchens. He spends all his time up in the nursery with Baby Philpot. He feeds him, winds him, sings to him and plays peek-a-boo with him. He even copes with the nappy side of things, although we won’t go into that because this is not a horror story.
Philpot has stopped roaring. He is a very happy baby now. He does nothing but beam at Plugugly, who he loves dearly. Yes, that’s right. You heard. Philpot loves Plugugly. Or, rather, he loves Nanny Susan. In particular, Philpot loves the thing that Nanny Susan provides: the medicine. He refuses all offers of milk now. Milk is a thing of the past. Philpot currently lives entirely on nettle soup, which he drinks full-time from his huge baby bottle. He can’t get enough of it. What’s more, he is thriving on it. Instead of roaring, he gurgles. He smiles. He sleeps like an angel. He is a changed character.
You may be wondering how Plugugly is keeping up with the supply and demand. Well, every day, he wraps Philpot up warm, heaves him downstairs (with difficulty, for he is a very big baby) and puts him in his pram. Then together, they set off down the long flight of steps to collect the day’s supply of nettle soup. This is provided by the rest of the Gaggle, who wait by the gates with a bucket. Plugugly simply refills the giant baby bottle and gives it to Philpot, who grabs it, sucks madly and is once again content.
