Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘WELL, HE CERTAINLY SEEMS HAPPY,’ said Largette. ‘YOU’RE DOING A WONDERFUL JOB.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I JUST POPPED IN TO SAY BIGSY AND ME ARE POPPING OUT FOR A LITTLE SPIN ON THE BIKE. IF THAT’S ALL RIGHT WITH YOU.’

  ‘Dat’s all right.’

  ‘I’LL LEAVE YOU TO IT, THEN.’ Respectfully, Largette tiptoed out.

  Philpot was properly asleep now. Plugugly stood up, staggered across and heaved him into his crib, which sagged under the weight. It really was getting much too small. Philpot spilled over the sides. Even with his head rammed hard against the top end, his feet stuck out a mile.

  This is all wrong, of course. Philpot should be growing a bit, but not this much. He is only one week old. By rights, there are another two weeks to go before he cuts his first tooth and starts shooting up. But Philpot is different. Instead of milk, he has been living on nettle soup, which has had the effect of vastly accelerating his growth rate.

  Actually, soup is no longer the right word. Soup implies something liquid, something sloshy. But over the last few days, the Goblins have been experimenting with the pretend medicine formula. They have been adding all kinds of stuff to the bucket. Grass, twigs, gravel, leaves, quicksand, toadstools, anything they can find. The resultant mess is now so thick that it is more like cake than medicine. Plugugly has abandoned the bottle and feeds it to Philpot out of a bowl, with a spoon.

  So. Philpot is now on solids. And boy, does he love them.

  If you put a finger in Philpot’s mouth and felt his gums – inadvisable, by the way – you wouldn’t find just one tooth. You would find loads! All his teeth are coming through at the same time, much too early. Amazingly, this isn’t hurting him at all. Philpot loves the fact that his teeth are coming through because he can use them to masticate his medicine.

  Love is blind. Plugugly is vaguely aware that Philpot is getting very big, but he pushes any anxious thoughts to one side. After all, Philpot is happy now and Plugugly likes to see him happy. What harm can it do, spoiling him a bit?

  Philpot lay crammed into his crib, sucking his thumb, deep in the world of nod.

  ‘Rock-a-bye Philpot, in de tea pot,’ crooned Plugugly tunelessly. The rockers creaked alarmingly under Philpot’s weight. ‘When you wakes up, I’ll give you yer pretend medicine; when yer pretend medicine’s gone we’ll la lala la . . .’

  ‘MEDSIN!’ muttered Philpot happily.

  It was his first proper word.

  The rest of the Gaggle were restless. The days were going by, and there was still no sign of any gold. They were getting bored of traipsing to and fro with buckets of baby food too. Instead of the whole Gaggle going, they were now taking it in turns.

  Today, it was Eyesore’s turn. He came marching back into the cave and threw the empty bucket into a corner.

  ‘Still no bag o’ gold, then,’ said Hog.

  ‘No,’ said Eyesore shortly. ‘ ’ E just filled the bowl an’ went. I asked ’im, but ’e said ’e’d gimme a black eye if I mentioned it again.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s bin a week,’ said Lardo. ‘ ’Ow many days in a week?’

  Nobody knew. Sproggit suggested ten, but he was only guessing.

  ‘Well, all I know is, it’s been a long time,’ went on Hog. ‘ ’Ow much longer we gotta wait? I wants to go shoppin’ fer sweeties now.’

  The Goblins had been talking a lot about shopping for sweets. They had long, argumentative discussions about Sugary Candy’s and what it would be like. Plugugly’s description of its glories had whetted their appetites and given their brains something to chew on. They desperately wanted to go and see it for themselves, but didn’t dare because there was a lot of activity in Witchway Wood at the moment. The Witches in particular seemed to be doing a lot of running around, and as we know, Witches and Goblins don’t get on. So the Gaggle had to restrict themselves to imagining. Goblins have limited imaginations, so the conversations tended to be samey.

  ‘Sweeties,’ said Sproggit dreamily. ‘Rows an’ rows o’ great big jars, Plug said. Imagine.’

  ‘I hope there’s red ones,’ said Lardo, drooling. ‘I loves red ones.’

  ‘An’ green ones,’ said Slopbucket. ‘An’ yeller ones. An’ blue ones. An’ orange ones. An’ pink ones an’ purple ones an’ brown ones an’ grey ones an’ . . .’

  ‘That’s enough colours,’ said Stinkwart, adding, ‘An’ you don’t get grey sweets.’

  ‘How do you know? You gets all kinda colours.’ Slopbucket went off into his drone again. ‘Grey ones an’ green ones an’ yeller ones an’ blue ones an’ orange ones an’ pink ones an’ purple ones an’ brown ones an’ pink ones an . . .’

  ‘You said pink twice,’ pointed out Hog.

  ‘Ah, but that’s ’cos there’s two jars of ’em.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ argued Stinkwart.

  ‘Niver do you, so shut up,’ said Slopbucket.

  There was a little pause.

  ‘Someone should go an’ fill the medicine bucket for tomorrer,’ said Eyesore.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hog. ‘Someone should.’

  Nobody stirred.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Getting Closer

  Nobody was late to the full Coven Meeting. All thirteen chairs were occupied. There were no sweets to be seen either. Instead, everyone had brought along neat little plastic containers packed with celery, carrot sticks and apples. Even better, no one was complaining of aches and pains. Sallow faces and tooth problems belonged in the past. Everyone looked fitter and sat straighter. Clearly, the new regime was beginning to work.

  ‘Right!’ shouted Sourmuddle, rapping her Wand on the table. ‘Attention, everyone. First, I want an update from the Sports Committee. Make it quick, though, I’m on the Ali Pali Show in half an hour. Speak up, Pongwiffy. Is everything on track?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘All the entry forms are in and I’m taking a team of Familiars along to sort out the stadium.’

  ‘What’s happening about our flag?’ chipped in Bendyshanks.

  ‘Ah’m workin’ on it,’ said Macabre. ‘Ah’m thinking big banner. Moon, stars, an’ thirteen Witches flying across on Broomsticks. The Winning Witches written on it in big letters.’

  ‘Sounds good, we’ll leave it to you,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘So now it’s all down to talking athletics. We have to decide who does what.’

  There was a hum of excitement. This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

  ‘Pass me the list,’ ordered Sourmuddle. ‘I’m Grandwitch, I decide. Right. Who wants to do the Three-Legged Race?’

  ‘Me and Ag!’ shouted Bagaggle, before anyone could open their mouths. ‘We’ve been practising, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have, Bag,’ agreed Agglebag.

  Indeed they had. They had taken to doing everything with their ankles roped together. They even slept like it. Difficult in the mornings, when they forgot and got up on opposite sides of the bed.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Moving on. Egg and Spoon.’

  ‘Me!’ came a number of voices. Pongwiffy was loudest of all. She fancied her chances at the Egg and Spoon.

  ‘Sludgegooey,’ said Sourmuddle decisively. ‘You’re covered in egg stains anyway, so it won’t matter if you fall over when you’re practising. You’d better not drop it on the day, though.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Sludgegooey smugly. ‘I’ll win for the Witches, you’ll see.’

  ‘You’d better. Right. Weightlifting.’

  ‘Um –’ began Pongwiffy, too late again.

  ‘Me!’ shouted Ratsnappy. ‘It’s got to be me, Sourmuddle. I’ve been doing press-ups with Vernon. I’m getting these huge muscles in my arms, see? Look how they’re stretching my cardigan.’

  ‘All right. Ratsnappy’s our weightlifter. Next, High Jump.’

  ‘Er –’ said Pongwiffy, but was overshadowed. Gaga had leapt from her chair and was bouncing around, wild with excitement.

  �
�Yes, all right, Gaga, you can do it, calm down,’ said Sourmuddle, and Gaga leapt twice over the table before collapsing in a corner, overcome with happiness.

  ‘Who wants to do the Sack Race?’ went on Sourmuddle.

  ‘I do,’ attempted Pongwiffy, but was silenced by Sharkadder’s sharp elbow in her ribs.

  ‘I rather fancy that,’ said Sharkadder.

  ‘Fine. Tossing the Caber next. I take it that’ll be you, Macabre?’

  ‘It will,’ said Macabre, adding threateningly, ‘or Ah’ll want tay know the reason why.’

  ‘Hey, listen –’ cut in Pongwiffy again, but no one was listening.

  ‘That leaves four for the Relay,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Greymatter, Bonidle, Bendyshanks and Scrofula. That’s it, all decided.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ shouted Pongwiffy. ‘What am I doing? You’ve missed me out.’

  ‘Have I? Oh well. Tough.’

  ‘But that’s not fair! The O’Lumpicks were my idea and I’m doing most of the organising and now you’re saying I can’t compete?’

  ‘So? I’m not competing, am I?’

  ‘But you don’t want to!’ cried Pongwiffy crossly. ‘All you want to do is go on spello and take all the credit.’

  ‘Yes? So?’

  ‘So I want to be in them! I should be in them, shouldn’t I?’

  Pongwiffy appealed to the assembled company, who shrugged and looked away. What did they care if Pongwiffy wasn’t in them? They were.

  ‘Sharky?’ she said piteously. ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ Surely her best friend would be on her side?

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Get over it. I’m sorry, Pong, but you said yourself that Sourmuddle’s decision is final. Now, I’ve brought my tape measure with me and I need to take everyone’s measurements for the costumes. So if you’d all line up . . .’

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ bellowed Pongwiffy. ‘I’ve been doing all the healthy eating and exercising and stuff. If I don’t get to be in them, I’m going on strike and there won’t be an O’Lumpicks, so there. Unless someone else wants to do all the donkey work. Any volunteers?’

  Nobody put a hand up. Sourmuddle went into a huddle with Snoop.

  ‘You see?’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sourmuddle suddenly. ‘You can be in them.’

  ‘I can? Doing what?’

  ‘You can lead the Grand Opening Parade. You can have the honour of holding the flag. That’s an important job, isn’t it?’

  Pongwiffy thought about this. Actually, it was. Participating in the Games would have been good, of course – but to be there up front, the first one in, holding the flag and leading the Parade – well, that was special. She could imagine the cheers.

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Really. You’re the official Flag Holder.’

  ‘You won’t change your mind at the last moment?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘All right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘In that case – all right.’

  ‘Good old Pong,’ sang Sharkadder. ‘My Flag Holding Friend. I’ll make sure your costume is the most vibrant of all.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Pongwiffy. She cheered up, though, and even allowed herself to be measured.

  ‘The paper hasn’t arrived again, Futtout,’ said Queen Beryl. ‘I haven’t seen it for days. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in the Wood.’

  ‘Really, dearest? Deary me.’

  It was the following morning, and once again the royal family were gathered at the breakfast table. King Futtout was having a soft boiled egg, Queen Beryl had strong coffee and dry toast and Honeydimple had jam doughnuts with hot fudge sauce and pink sprinkles.

  ‘Write and complain, Futtout. Insist that they sack the paper boy.’

  ‘I will,’ promised King Futtout. He wouldn’t, of course. He had cancelled the paper. He didn’t want Queen Beryl to read the headlines, oh dear me no.

  ‘Futtout!’ rapped Queen Beryl suddenly. She had gone very stiff and her eyes were trained on the garden. ‘What is this I see through the window?’

  King Futtout’s watery gaze followed her pointing finger. He gave a little start.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Erm – oh.’

  Slap bang in the middle of the lawn, under a spreading chestnut tree, was an unmistakable figure. Pongwiffy with a clipboard, surrounded by her working party of Familiars, all armed to the teeth with a number of businesslike tools.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ demanded Queen Beryl. ‘And why has she brought that raggle-taggle band of – creatures? That great hairy thing with the horns! And all those evil-looking cats? And that hideous bald vulture!’

  ‘Erm – pets, possibly?’

  ‘Thum petth,’ said Honeydimple, through a mouthful of doughnut. ‘Don’t be thilly, Daddy.’

  ‘They’ve got axes, Futtout! Axes and buckets of whitewash! And spades, and ladders! And a great long piece of string with tacky little flags on! Why, Futtout?’

  ‘I really have no idea, dearest,’ squeaked King Futtout, bashing weakly at his egg.

  ‘Surely they can’t be going ahead with that appalling O’Lumpick idea! It’s an outrage! After sending that letter.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Bash, bash, bash.

  ‘You did send the letter, Futtout?’

  ‘Erm. Yes.’ King Futtout gave a little cough. ‘Yes, most definitely.’

  ‘No you didn’t, Daddy,’ said Honeydimple. ‘You hid it under the cushion, I thaw you.’

  ‘Futtout!’ thundered Queen Beryl. ‘Go out there now and tell her to go away. And take those dreadful creatures with her. There’s a snake. Uggh!’

  ‘But I still haven’t –’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘But my egg –’

  ‘Do it!’

  Trembling, King Futtout abandoned breakfast and went off to do it.

  Over on the lawn, Pongwiffy was issuing instructions. All the Familiars were present and correct apart from Snoop (back home keeping the Broom company), Filth (band rehearsal) and Bonidle’s Sloth (excused on account of sleep. When it came to practical activities, it was more trouble than it was worth).

  ‘Right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Steve, you’re in charge of marking out the running tracks. Just dive in the bucket of whitewash and crawl along. Straight, mind. Try not to wriggle too much.’

  ‘How many lines?’ asked Steve.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Lots. Keep going until you run out of lawn. You Bats, you can start hanging up the bunting. Barry can help with that.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Barry. ‘Bit of a headache, overdid the exercise. I’d sooner not fly.’

  ‘Then make a start digging up those rose bushes, they’re in the way. You Cats can help. Don’t look like that, CopiCat and IdentiKit, we’re all pulling our weight. Rory and Vernon, you can start dismantling the gazebo – oh. Here’s Futtout, come to help. Dudley, give him an axe.’

  Poor King Futtout came trailing up, looking terrified.

  ‘Erm – my wife,’ he mumbled. Dudley tried to hand him an axe, and he backed away.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘My wife is not too – erm – pleased. Not too – you know – keen.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the whole idea, really. This – erm – O’Lumpicks business.’

  ‘Well, she should be keen. Very keen indeed. Everybody else is. Haven’t you been watching spellovision?’

  ‘No,’ confessed King Futtout. They didn’t have a spellovision set in the palace. The King would have liked one, but was overruled by Queen Beryl on the grounds that people might enjoy it.

  ‘Well, it’s wall-to-wall O’Lumpick coverage. The whole Wood’s O’Lumpick crazy. The whole world’s O’Lumpick crazy! Do you want it going out on the news that you’ve refused permission to use your grounds? At this late stage? There’ll be riots.’

  King Futtout bit his lip. Which was he more scared of? Millions of rioting sports enthusiasts or Queen
Beryl?

  ‘What is going on here?’ The sharp voice rang out from behind them. Queen Beryl came marching across the lawn, almost tripping over Steve, who had obediently coated himself in whitewash and was carefully wriggling out his first line. ‘I demand an explanation!’

  ‘Ask him,’ said Pongwiffy cheerfully, pointing at King Futtout. ‘He knows. Oi! You Bats! Mind out with that bunting, you’re getting it all tangled! Not in that tree, you idiots, that tree’s coming down! I dunno, Bats, Vultures, who’d work with ’em, eh?’

  ‘Futtout! Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something?’ demanded Queen Beryl.

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ agreed Pongwiffy. ‘No room for slackers. Go and get your shed cleared out, Futtout. My friend needs it to store the costumes. Get Beryl here to help, she looks like she could do with the exercise. I can’t stay chatting. Got things to do, places to go, people to see. Hugo, stay here and take over. I’m off to visit Scott. I’m calling for Sharky, she’s coming with me. She says she needs a break from the sewing machine. By Scott I am referring to Scott Sinister, the famous film star, you know, a personal friend of mine. A proper celebrity.’ She gave Queen Beryl a withering glare. ‘He does what he’s told.’

  And off she went, leaving the royal couple to row amongst themselves. Well, Queen Beryl rowed. King Futtout just stood there and hung his head. I suppose we should feel sorry for him, but he is so very wet.

  On the other side of Witchway Wood, Scott Sinister sat in his study, tongue out, madly scribbling on a piece of paper with a quill pen.

  Once again he had been bullied into cooperating with Witches, which in the past had been disastrous. But maybe, this time, everything might turn out all right. After all, the O’Lumpicks were different. It was Sport. Everyone was supposed to play fair and be good losers if they didn’t win. It wasn’t all bad.

  And of course, Pongwiffy was right. Think of the publicity! Scott was a professional. His many fans would be watching, both in the flesh and on spellovision, desperate for a glimpse of their hero. They would be hanging on his every word.

  Scott was determined to do a good job. In fact, in a flash of inspiration, he had come up with a rather novel idea. Introducing the various competing teams in poetry, no less. Nobody had told him which teams were actually competing, but he thought he’d have a bash anyway and see how he got on.