by Kaye Umansky
Of course, the truth would come out eventually. Plugugly couldn’t keep Philpot under wraps for ever. But hopefully, by then he would have his bag of gold and would be a safe distance away.
He heaved Philpot off his back and set him on the floor by the stairs, which led steeply down to the hall. There was no rail or baby gate. It was a silly place to leave a baby, but Plugugly’s Nanny Susan side wasn’t working so well. His true Goblin nature had kicked in. He was thinking about gold and sweets.
He reached into his apron pocket, took out a gigantic dummy and plugged it into Philpot’s mouth.
‘Wait dere, Baby Philpot,’ instructed Plugugly. ‘Nanny’ll be right back. Will you be good?’
Philpot regarded him solemnly, removed the dummy and said very clearly, ‘ ’ES.’
Talk about advanced development! He had only been up an hour, but already he could say another word.
‘Ahhh,’ said Plugugly fondly. ‘Dere’s Nanny’s clever boy.’
Philpot casually replaced his own dummy and sucked contentedly.
Plugugly straightened his bonnet, adjusted his skirts, opened the bedroom door and went in.
Bigsy and Largette’s gigantic bed was strewn with clothing. They were busily folding garments and stuffing them into a large motorbike pannier. Both of them were wearing leather jackets, boots and helmets. Largette was wearing a lot of red lipstick. Bigsy had all his gold chains on and was sporting goggles. The floor was awash with Largette’s shoes. Hopefully, Plugugly looked around for the bag of gold.
‘AH,’ said Largette. ‘I’M GLAD WE CAUGHT YOU, NANNY SUSAN. WE’RE GOING AWAY FOR A FEW DAYS. JUST A LITTLE BREAK. BIGSY’S TAKING ME BACK TO GIANT TOWN TO VISIT MUM.’
‘Oh,’ said Plugugly politely. ‘Right. What about Baby Philpot? Is you thinkin’ of takin’ him?’
‘NAH,’ said Bigsy. ‘NOT ON THE BIKE. GOTTA BE RESPONSIBLE.’
‘WE THOUGHT HE’D BE BETTER OFF HERE WITH YOU,’ explained Largette. ‘IT’D SPOIL HIS ROUTINE IF WE TOOK HIM. HE MIGHT START ROARING AGAIN. THEN WHAT WOULD WE DO?’
This may seem odd to us, the Stonkings proposing to whoosh off for the weekend leaving their baby behind. But they are Giants. Giants aren’t bothered about babies until they become toddlers. It’s tough, but that’s the way it is.
‘SO WILL THAT BE ALL RIGHT WITH YOU?’ asked Largette.
‘Oh yes. Dat’s all right.’
‘YOU’RE A TREASURE. SAY ’BYE TO BABY PHILPOT. LOTS OF KISSES FROM MUMMY AND DADDY. NOW THEN. DID I PACK MY PINK HEELS?’
And that was it. Plugugly left the room. It was only when he got outside that he remembered about the gold. He was about to go back and mention it, when he suddenly realised something.
Philpot was gone! He had been propped up against the wall, sucking his dummy, and now he wasn’t there!
Plugugly’s jaw dropped. Oh no!
Could he have toppled over and fallen down the stairs? Surely that would have made a big crash? Not necessarily. Not if he rolled down. But he might have bumped his precious huge head on the banisters . . .
Heart in his mouth, Plugugly approached the top of the stairs and looked down.
Philpot was indeed downstairs. He hadn’t fallen, though. He had crawled.
Right now, he was halfway across the tiled hallway, be-nappied big bottom in the air, heading for the front door. Considering he was on his hands and knees, he had a fair turn of speed.
Greatly relieved, Plugugly picked up his skirts and hurried down to rescue him.
So. Baby Philpot has reached the next important stage. He is mobile. This will be even more difficult.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
One Day To Go
It was the day before the O’Lumpicks. All over Witchway Wood, the teams of dedicated athletes were getting in those final, critical hours of practice. Even before the sun rose, the place was awash with grim-faced joggers. Every glade was commandeered by determined-looking weightlifters. Everywhere you looked, there were sack racers and egg-and-spooners and high jumpers and relay teams clutching batons.
Every so often, from somewhere in the Wood, there would come a resounding, faraway crash. That was Macabre, practising Tossing the Caber. Even the Trolls had declined to enter for that event, because whatever a Caber was, tossing it sounded dangerous. Macabre was the sole competitor, so she was certain of winning a gold medal. The trouble was, tossing a large, sharpened tree trunk was proving surprisingly tricky. It still landed on her own foot more often than she would like. But Macabre had her pride. She didn’t want to make a complete fool of herself. Anyway, the exercise was doing her good.
Three whole weeks of healthy eating and vigorous activity had transformed the residents of the Wood. Mind you, they had paid the price. There were strained muscles, scabby knees and sprained ankles in evidence. There was quite a bit of under-the-breath moaning. Yes, all the teams were highly excited about the O’Lumpicks and determined to do their very best and win all the medals whilst remaining suitably humble and unfailingly polite to fellow competitors, which was in the rules. But getting fit had been hard. The noble athletes were getting a bit fed up with it now. They were looking forward to when it was all over and they could go back to normal. Slob around on the sofa with a big Bog Bar and a bag of Hoppy Jumpers, boasting loudly about their sporting achievements. Of course, nobody admitted this. It didn’t go with the O’Lumpick spirit.
Everyone was practising intermingling too, because the rules stated that it was compulsory. This was proving a strain. Instead of ignoring each other, there were tight-lipped smiles and polite little waves and the odd courtly bow. The Ghoulish relay team politely gave way for a clutch of jogging Skeletons. A sprinting Vampire offered the twins a sip of his water. Instead of laughing in his face, they said thank you and waited until he had run off before spitting it out behind a bush.
Egg and Spoon athletes stood aside for Sack athletes, even though their instinct was to trip them up. A weightlifting Zombie put down his rock and gallantly came to Sharkadder’s aid. (She insisted on wearing high heels when practising for the Sack Race and kept skewering herself into the ground.) Bendyshanks gave a passing Banshee one of her apples. It looked a bit wormy, but it was still quite nice of her. There was even the occasional insincere cry of ‘Good luck!’ or ‘May the best team win!’
As well as all the sporting activity, there were lots of other things going on. Finishing touches were being added to flags. Parade costumes were being tried on. Shorts were being washed and ironed. The spellovision crew noisily staked out King Futtout’s gardens, deciding where they should set up their equipment and accidentally setting fire to his shed, which caused a bit of drama.
In the Wizards’ Clubhouse, Ronald was in his room in the process of sneakily glueing an egg into a spoon. Despite all that practice, he was still hopeless. Cheating was the only way to win. This was shocking, of course. He should have read the rules on the entry form. Although even if he had, I’m sorry to say he still would have done it.
King Futtout was in his treasury, also up to his armpits in glue. He was attempting to stick some of Honeydimple’s red hair ribbons on to a number of gold, silver and copper coins that he hoped would do for the medals he’d been ordered to provide. Earlier in the day, Queen Beryl and Princess Honeydimple had taken the royal coach and departed in a furious cloud of dust, leaving him on his own. Honeydimple would make a fuss about the ribbons when she got back, but right now he was past caring.
Scott Sinister stood before a full-length mirror, practising his commentary.
‘So! Here they come, the Witches’ team
With vibrant costumes all a-gleam.
The fittest Witches in the land.
Stand up and give them a big hand.
I have to say they look so fine
I’m giving them an extra line
And a half.
And now, behold the Troll brigade
Who round the ground do now parade . . .’
Yes. It was
all go in Witchway Wood – and nobody was busier than Pongwiffy. There were so many last-minute things to do.
She began by inspecting the stadium.
King Futtout’s lovely gardens had been . . . well, transformed isn’t quite the word. Ruined, more like. There was a newly built podium at one end, where the gazebo used to be. Miles of tangled bunting was suspended between the few trees that hadn’t been chopped down. Rows of chairs were set around the edges, where the crowds from far and wide would sit. The lawn was a riot of wiggly, wobbly white lines. In one corner, two rickety poles had been set up next to a sign declaring High Jump. An area had been set aside for the Weightlifting. Several rocks of varying size and weight lay in a dangerous pile, ready to be hefted. Bushes had been uprooted and left in a careless pile behind the King’s slightly charred shed, which was being used to store the Witches’ Parade costumes.
After three weeks of ferocious sewing machine activity, Sharkadder had finally unveiled her handiwork. The costumes consisted of thirteen flowing cloaks in a wide variety of clashing colours. Each cloak had a sparkling hem, because she had gone seriously mad with glitter. Each had a matching pointy hat with a tassel and a matching pair of shorts. Sharkadder was thrilled with her efforts. Nobody else was quite so sure, but they didn’t like to say so.
She spotted Pongwiffy running around setting out more chairs and made her come in and try on her costume. To Pongwiffy’s horror, it was all white. The hat stood tall, white and pointy, not at all like the battered, floppy, comfortable one she always wore. The shorts looked ridiculous.
‘White?’ said Pongwiffy, staring down. ‘WHITE?’
‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Sharkadder, sounding hurt. ‘I made yours especially nice, as you’re leading the Parade. I wanted you to look your best. I thought you’d like it.’
‘But white. It’s just not me. Don’t you have anything in dirt?’
‘There’s no such colour as dirt.’
‘What d’you call my cardigan, then?’
‘I’d call it disgusting. But if you really want to spoil the Parade and let everyone down after I’ve spent all this time . . .’
‘No, no. Keep your hair on. I suppose I’ll get used to it. Anyway, I can’t stop, I’ve got a million things to do. I don’t suppose you want to help arrange the chairs? Or set out the programmes? Or anything?’
‘I can’t. I’ve got to hang up the costumes, then put in a few more hours’ practice with the sack. You want me to win, don’t you?’
‘Nggh,’ said Pongwiffy, which could have meant anything.
And off she went, leaving Sharkadder to pick up the offending cloak, hat and matching shorts from the floor.
And so the day wore on, until the sun dropped below the horizon and the stars came out. At that point, everyone went home to eat a last healthy supper, do a few last exercises, then fall exhaustedly into bed for a last, sensible early night. Tomorrow was the Witchway Wood O’Lumpick Games. They had put in the effort, and tomorrow they would find out whether it had been worth it. But now, they could do no more.
‘Phew!’ sighed Pongwiffy. She was in Number One, Dump Edge, lying flat on her sofa with a cold flannel on her head and her feet up. ‘What a day. I can’t be bothered to do exercises.’
‘Got to exercise,’ scolded Hugo. He was over in the corner with a tiny set of dumb-bells. As far as he was concerned, the Weightlifting medal was in the bag. ‘Every night, every mornink. Like me. Last chance, tomorrow ze Big Day.’
‘But I’m not competing. What’s the point?’
‘Duzzn’t matter. You vant to stay fit, ya? So do exercises.’
‘No. Leave me alone. I’ll just have supper and turn in.’
‘OK,’ sighed Hugo with a little shrug. ‘You ze boss. I get you nice bowl of radishes.’
‘What, the ones Sharkadder sent round? The ones in lime jelly with a dollop of mustard on the top?’
‘Ya.’
‘Is that all there is?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Well, I don’t want them. I’m fed up with vegetables, particularly Sharkadder’s. What I want is a big, greasy bowl of skunk stew. There, I’ve said it. And don’t bother to tell me off because I don’t care.’
Pongwiffy pulled a cushion over her face and lapsed into silence.
‘Mistress?’ said Hugo.
‘What?’
‘Sumsink ze matter?’
‘Yes,’ growled Pongwiffy, her voice muffled because of the cushion. ‘As a matter of fact, there is. I’m fed up with the O’Lumpicks. In fact, I wish I’d never suggested them. I thought they’d be fun. That’s what you said. But I haven’t had any fun at all so far. It’s been all work, work, work. And horrible food.’
‘But zat good for you. Hard work, healthy food.’
‘Yes, well, you can have too much of a good thing.’
‘But is vorking! Look how much you change. Better colour. Not so creaky. I look at you now, I don’t see old Pongviffy. I see new.’
‘Old or new, I still ended up running the whole thing by myself. I’m worn out. Too much to do and no one to help.’
‘Vot about ze Sports Committee?’
‘What Sports Committee? They’re all too busy practising for their event. They’ve gone all competitive. All they care about is winning medals.’
‘Vell, ya. Athletes got to take Sport seriously,’ said Hugo, flexing his tiny, iron-hard muscles.
‘So I gather. You Familiars haven’t exactly pitched in lately, have you? Even Greymatter’s given up pretending to help. She just handed me a million lists and went off to practise the stupid Relay. And Sharky just leaps away in her sack whenever she sees me, then sends round more horrible food to poison me. I’m the only one not in anything, so it’s left to me to organise where the coaches will park and where the crowds from far and wide will sit and where Scott’s going to stand. And find him a megaphone, and put a glass of water on his podium. And decide where the Rhythm Boys and the television crew will set up and explain to Futtout how to judge. It’s all too much and I’m sick of it. You’d think someone would say thank you, but no one ever does.’
‘I do,’ said Hugo kindly. ‘I say sank you.’
‘Yes, but you’re my Familiar. You’ve got to.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Hugo. ‘You get to lead ze Grand Opening Parade, remember? Get to hold ze flag. Big honour.’
‘Well, yes, I know that. And I was quite keen to start with. Until I saw my costume.’
‘Vot it like?’
‘White. I think Sharky hates me.’
‘No, she don’t,’ soothed Hugo. ‘You vant to know secret?’
‘Yes. What?’
‘She got Scott to make up special poem. For you. He goink to say nice sings. He goink to sank you for ’elping to make ze day so vunderful. He goink to read it out at ze end. You take special bow. Everybody give you big clap. Big close-up on ze spellovision.’
‘Really?’ Pongwiffy removed the pillow from her face.
‘Ya. I hear zis from Dudley. He say not to tell you. Is s’posed to be surprise.’
‘A special poem, eh?’ Pongwiffy cheered up a bit. ‘Well, that’s different. Perhaps I’ll get presented with an organiser medal. I wonder if anyone’s organised that? If I’d known earlier, I’d have done it myself.’ She gave a huge yawn. ‘Oh well, too late now. I’m going to bed. Have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. It’s starting at ten, but the coaches will begin arriving long before that. I have to be there to greet Scott and put Futtout in place and make sure everything’s ready.’
‘You vant I get up, give you breakfast?’
‘Would that be radishes in jelly, by any chance?’
‘Funny you should say zat.’
Pongwiffy gave a heavy sigh. What she really fancied was a big, greasy fry-up, followed by one of Hugo’s home-made cakes. But those days were long gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Philpot Walks!
Time now to catch up on developments at
Stonking Towers.
Several days have passed since Philpot’s loving parents roared off into the blue. For Giant babies, particularly an advanced one who has been prematurely weaned on unsuitable solids, even one day is a long time. The phrase ‘My! How he’s grown!’ in no way does him justice.
Philpot hasn’t just grown. He has expanded, like the universe. He has shot up, spread, widened, heightened, broadened and thoroughly enlarged. The crib cannot hold him. The pram cannot hold him.
Philpot is HUGE. He now towers over Plugugly, who has long given up trying to carry him. So it’s just as well that he can now walk. Well, lurch. It’s not so much walking as unsteady lurching, interspersed with intervals of mad, staggery running.
He can talk too. Not just DIN DIN, and NO and ’GAIN and ’ES. He can say WANT GO WALKIES. He can say MORE MEDSIN PEES TANK OO. He refers to him- self as ’POT, which is cute. He can say ’POT LOVE NANA SU-SU, which makes Plugugly almost weep with pleasure.
Mind you, it’s no picnic. Keeping Philpot happy is a full-time job. Because his crib is too small, he now sleeps in Plugugly’s bed with Plugugly, which is horrible. Plugugly spends all night hanging over the edge while Philpot blissfully slumbers on. During the day, Philpot is wildly energetic. His diet needs a lot of working off. He is constantly on the go, falling downstairs and bumping his head, crying a bit and needing to be soothed. Then off again to run full tilt at the front door and get poked in the eye by the door knob.
Somehow, though, Plugugly is coping. He plays peek-a-boo, which makes Philpot laugh. He feeds him and baths him. He can be strict too. If Philpot really misbehaves, he has to sit on the naughty step.
Plugugly has taken to going for long walks in the Wood with Philpot toddling happily along beside him, reined in by a piece of string attached to his nappy with a safety pin. Plugugly doesn’t really enjoy these walks, because he’s so exhausted he can hardly keep his eyes open. But walking is the only way to wear Philpot out. Philpot always goes to sleep on the way back, and has to be dragged up the steps and through the front door by his feet. Plugugly tiptoes away, leaving him snoozing on the doormat in the hall. It’s the only time he can catch forty winks for himself.
